CHAPTER 44
Jim had just emerged into the arrivals hall at Heathrow Airport when he heard the familiar Irish accent.
"Jim. Welcome to London. In fact, welcome home. Was it a good flight, Jim?"
"Restful."
"No more bags? Are the paintings in there? You're lucky with the weather - very unseasonal. Even Dublin was warm." Tom chatted nonstop. Jim listened and followed Tom. "The beard is coming along nicely, Jim..... I hired a car.....I flew in from Dublin last night....... stayed the night at a hotel in Windsor and I booked you there also..... close to London, but not in it if you get my meaning........and I left Mrs O'Casey in charge of the shop, so I did.......she's OK for weeks if I give her a cut of the takings."
Jim remembered the hotel in Windsor. It was where Margaret had first expressed misgivings about his going into politics. After check-in, he looked around his room.
"Like it was yesterday..... bed too high.......bath big enough for ducks to swim in......pink soap..........and what's this?.....His and Hers white dressing gowns. Dear me, mother, how typically British and quaint."
He lay horizontally on the bed for a while staring at a pink light shade. "I suppose you'd like the colour scheme, Margaret. For the feminine touch it deserves a higher score than Amsterdam. Personally, though, I would recommend a total revamp."
Tom had told him not to rush "Have a shower, Jim, take a nap. No rush. Got to take it easy. I'll wait."
He showered, used the toilet, checked the growth of hair on his face in the mirror, cleaned his teeth, checked them in the same mirror. "I've told you not to do that, but you never learn." Then he changed into a pair of crumpled, long trousers and a long sleeved shirt and went downstairs where Tom was drinking Guinness and working through a pile of newspapers. He glanced up.
“Hah! Smart enough to take tea with the Queen, Jim.”
"Only the Tudors wore as much clothing as this for afternoon tea."
"Sure you'll get used to it. Beer?"
The barman took an order and they went to a corner table by the window overlooking the street, but if Tom thought it was going to be an hour of relaxation, he was wrong. Jim had plans and the formal manner - the one Tom had first encountered in the hospital - had returned.
"I have a few phone calls to make, Tom - not many - a few friends and contacts. First, though, we need to decide how best you can help me and how I can help you. There can be no written contracts, only mutual trust. Misplaced trust of others was a weakness but I'm willing to try it once more.
“This is my proposal. First, there are things I need to do towards providing evidence for the accusations I made in Parliament. This could take time. Days? Weeks? I really cannot be sure. If it looks like taking much longer then we'll need to decide what to do. But to begin we will meet two friends of mine who have been working with me to gather the evidence........"
Tom interrupted, grinning. "And are they getting anywhere, Jim? But I'm so pleased to hear that. I really thought you were just sat out there hiding and doing nothing. This is more like the Jim Smith I used to admire."
"We will meet them on Saturday. In secret."
"Jim," Tom interrupted again. "Trust me. Just let me help. If there's a story at the end of it you want written then tell me. If not, I'll just keep everything to myself. Meanwhile, I'm here to help - in any way I can."
Jim nodded. "I don't want press and media descending on us in droves. Our location must remain a secret and no mention will be made of restarting the old campaign until we are ready. Then we will need a few appropriate words and phrases to release. That's your job. Media management was something I'd never thought about before."
"Ah. 'tis something I also learned about - the hard way- but from the other side."
"Then," Jim went on, "I need some urgent help on another matter - the truth behind those photographs of me. Nice, juicy bits of unearthing from a freelance investigative journalist that the tabloid responsible will, whether they want to or not, have to publish just to satisfy the mentality of their loyal, scandal-loving readers. Track down Polly if you can, Tom. Get her story - nearly four years after the biggest thing that had ever happened in her life - lovely stuff for the entertainment of some. She might even give you names of those behind it. That would be useful."
"OK," said Tom with a smile.
"Also," Jim went on, “I need to see my wife." He took a mouthful of his beer and looked out the window. "I can't foresee the outcome to that just yet. But it is a very private matter. I will have no control over what my wife may decide to do or say afterwards. Similarly, I can not anticipate what my own feelings will be. It's something we'll have to play by ear for the time being.
"But as for what you write, how you write it and who you sell it to, that's your choice. Just choose the right publication. You negotiate your own financial arrangements because that is your private matter. Whatever deal you strike is of no concern of mine. But, what I am saying Tom, is that I am offering you exclusive rights to report on the reasons for my leaving the UK and my return and hopefully the evidence - the evidence I lacked at the time."
"And the paintings, Jim?"
"Leave that with me for a day or so. I might try to arrange a small exhibition somewhere. What do you think?"
"Small? Well, I suppose an unknown artist has to start somewhere. But may I make one other personal suggestion, Jim. And please don't get me wrong because you know my feelings on the subject. But, well, for the benefit of the public it might be better if you adopted a smart, clean-shaven approach. You, more than anyone, know what the press is like. Think about it. Compare a picture of a bearded recluse trying to recover a seedy political reputation with a smart, bronzed, handsome-looking brute, an ex politician and captain of industry and now an international artist of some repute. You know which will win hands down in the eyes of the image conscious public, don’t you?"
Jim's smile, or what counted as one, appeared. His teeth showed and the grey hair on his face moved upwards and outwards towards his ears and eyes. "Ah, my image consultant as well as my press agent, I see."
"And also a good and trustworthy friend, Jim."
"I hope so. But the beard stays, OK? I'm comfortable with it and that's what matters. And there's no need of a haircut either. I'll might just tie it back a bit - for the sake of appearances. Though perhaps I could use a new suit."
"And may I suggest a couple of mobile phones - numbers only known to you and me? Why don’t we venture into the town to see if we can find an outfitters, suitable for an English gentleman? And two phones. After a decent lunch that is. When did you last eat?"
"Two days ago," said Jim.