Within the Fianna Fáil party, since 1970, there had inevitably been a tendency among members to see themselves as either Lynch or Haughey supporters. Given that I had been nominated to the Senate by Jack Lynch in 1969 I considered it my duty to support Jack Lynch and his political leadership. At the same time I liked Charles J. Haughey personally, admired many of his policy initiatives, and had experienced the benefits of Haughey’s decisive style in an organisational context.
Following Haughey’s return to the Front Bench of the party in opposition, and as a Minister in 1977, even from my rather restricted sideline position I could see that, should Jack Lynch choose to retire, it was inevitable that he would be succeeded by Charles J.
I held this view on the basis of my knowledge and experience of how Haughey cultivated the members of the parliamentary party which would form the leadership electorate. Although George Colley could clearly be Lynch’s – and probably the media’s – choice for the succession, Colley could not be the parliamentary party choice.
When told by a Lynch/Colley confidant towards the end of 1979 that the leadership contest was imminent, and that Colley would be elected, my sceptical comment that I hoped they had “the votes counted” seemed to be read immediately as an act of disloyalty rather than realism.
Although proved right by events, I had no reason to expect that the change of leadership would do anything other than reduce my contact with the Party hierarchy, given that all the people who had encouraged my involvement from 1973 onwards had been Lynch or Colley loyalists.
In an entry of just over three pages on the lined yellowing paper of a spiral bound students notebook, its front cover printed strikingly in a rich pink proclaiming itself as “a Wiggins Teape Product, Pirilux, Item No. 4348”, is an account dated 21/6/80 of the 10.20 a.m. telephone call on 5 May 1980 (my 41st birthday) from the Taoiseach’s Office which gave me the appointment at 11.30 a.m. at which Charles J. Haughey asked me to become the General Secretary of Fianna Fáil.
Readers thus far should be able to imagine how much that invitation meant to me, given my previous experience of the Party’s Mount Street Headquarters and my regard for my great friend and former General Secretary, Tommy Mullins.
The account of 21 June carries something of that excitement, and reading it almost takes my breath away. Rarely can parts of my idealism have been so directly expressed. Even I must smile when I see that one aim of my record at that time was to introduce the outline of a book I planned to publish as quickly as possible following the announcement of my new appointment. What a change it might have been for Fianna Fáil to have a General Secretary with the mindset of a French Socialist Party Secretary General.
That it didn’t come about was my decision, a refusal of the invitation which had been left under consideration, at another meeting with the Taoiseach on 30th September. Once again I made a choice which seemed safe and correct for myself and for my family.
I probably knew, when making that decision, that it meant an end to my active involvement in Irish domestic politics and also meant that I would, in future, be reluctant to seek government or Party support for other career appointments. I would become less and less visible.
Justin’s going to boarding school in 1979 created a pattern of routines and responsibilities which would demand a great deal of the family’s energies and emotions in the next seven years.
Although regular telephone calls worked well and Justin became a good correspondent, often providing letters in clear, descriptive and amusing prose, I took on myself a personal mission to be present in York whenever it seemed appropriate that a parent should be there, for school performances, development discussions, and so on. I became an expert on routes from Monkstown to York by car, plane, or boat and rail, depending on the season and fare prices.
One of my favourite but more complicated routes meant taking a morning mailboat from Dun Laoghaire, the London train as far as Chester, and then on by local trains to York via Manchester. You would get a lot of reading done on such trips and the constantly changing trans-Pennine landscape was always fascinating, offering as it did vivid illustrations of the transition from industrial revolution to post-industrial society.
At the start of one of the early trips to York, when it was vital that I get to Bootham for a Saturday afternoon discussion of Justin’s progress, I found myself waiting to board the mailboat in an unexpectedly long queue packed under the sloping roof of Dun Laoghaire’s Carlisle Pier. It seemed precariously close to departure time, and my part of the queue had come to a standstill on the quay parallel to the boat at a point about 50 yards short of the gangway.
Something told me that the boat was full and that I could not expect to get on board from where I was. Almost simultaneously, I heard the start of a loudspeaker announcement asking remaining travellers to wait for a subsequent sailing. I stepped out of the queue and walked the remaining 50 yards, mounting the gangplank and proceeding inside the ship looking neither to right nor to left as if on an important high-level mission. Without breaking my stride I went down the first stairs I came to, entered the nearest gentlemen’s lavatory and locked myself in. I was breathless, perspiring and shaking and could not relax until the sounds and juddering of the ship confirmed that I was safely on the way to Holyhead.
I have always felt that experience of boarding the mailboat told me how the Jews of the Old Testament must have felt when crossing the Red Sea. Perhaps the miracle that had blessed me was due to the black leather cap I wore at that time, my beard, my short blue gaberdine coat and my overnight bag; all possibly giving me the authoritative image of a mechanic called to an engine-room emergency.
My own explanation was to place myself in the category of those extraordinary survivors who quite inexplicably have emerged unscathed from concentration camps or from other man-made or natural catastrophes. There seem to be times when some people literally become invisible. No one in the queue had noticed, and the officials and officers at each end of the gangplank saw nothing, as the father who had to visit his son followed his personal imperative.
Neville Keery 