How to hang the picture ... I had just received from dear Charles, petticoated.com' s senior puzzlist, a wonderful birthday gift - a portrait of one of my distinguished ancestors, the Scots heroine Flora MacDonald. Born in 1722, as a woman in her early 20s she conducted Bonnie Prince Charlie, after his defeat by 'Butcher' Cumberland at the Battle of Culloden, over to safety on Skye. Discovery during the flight would have meant certain death - in the aftermath of that terrible battle countless Scots were murdered by the English invaders as it was.
She did spend two years in the Tower of London, and, after her release, married in 1750. Flora and her husband emigrated to the American Colonies (North Carolina), where more drama awaited her. Her husband fought with distinction on the revolutionary side in the War of Independence, and then the couple returned to Scotland for the last ten years of Flora's life.
Flora MacDonald 1722 - 1790
She looked down on me rather disapprovingly. I may not be
a heroine at the level of danger that she represented, but I have been successful
in the business world, and I thought I deserved a little better.I straightened
the frame a little, but she still seemed rather cold and distant.
As a last resort, I moved the picture to a position over my polished oak drinks cabinet, where I keep a selection of single malt whiskies for visiting dignitaries. At last her complection seemed to glow a little, and her expression relaxed, as if she were, at least, trying to smile. I poured myself a glass of Caol Ila, added some distilled water, and raised a toast in her honour.
The picture was painted when Flora was in her 30s perhaps ... whereas I am now in my 60s. Given that she was born in 1722, does that make her older than me, or younger than me? When I was a child that question would torment my youthful philosophical brain for hours. I still haven't really solved it.
I must digress for a moment. Recently there has been a political scandal in Britain of which our American cousins may be unaware. The Tory shadow minister Boris Johnson, who is also editor of the conservative magazine 'The Spectator', was found to be having an illicit love affair with one of the magazine's staff, Petronella Wyatt, and not being entirely frank about it.
Readers may recall that Boris is a good friend of mine, and we often dine together. In the Gossip report in the 2003 Summer issue I subtly gave the game away:
And no, nothing has been changed. I sometimes correct errors in spelling and punctuation, but I have never changed the text of any of the pages on this site. Keen readers should remember this passage, and of course I was interviewed in the 'Guardian' about the veiled hint (for the first and only time, the 'Telegraph' would have nothing to do with me!)
Anyway, in about the middle of December I received a phone call from the United States. It was Fox News, asking if I could fly over as soon as possible for a live-to-air interview with that very pleasant young man, Sean Hannity. Of course I agreed, because I had to fly to America urgently for another reason - of which more later.
I know that my many male readers will not really understand this, but the previous president, Mr William Jefferson Clinton, is extremely attractive to women. His eyes and smile have something of the sense of danger and outright mischief that women love. And there have been worse Democrats in the last thirty years - much worse. For these reasons, even I was willing to forgive him a lot.
Imagine my horror then when I found myself seated in the studio next to that common little guttersnipe Matt Drudge, in order to discuss scandal-exposure in the electronic media. I should have been warned, and I still can't quite forgive Sean for doing that to me. I made the best of it, and then spent an excellent night in the Pierre Hotel on Fifth Avenue.
Next morning I ordered the 'Traditional English Breakfast' which turned out to be pancakes (sorry, 'flapjacks') and hash brown potatoes. Hasn't anybody in this strange country ever heard of Scotch kippers, lamb's fry, and black pudding? Apparently not.
Now for the main reason behind my transatlantic visit. Readers, especially American readers, will have noticed that the Christmas Annual is late this year. Normally the magazine would be distributed by the trucking company which is an integral part of the petticoated.com world-wide empire, PDQ Transit Incorporated.
You must have seen our trucks rolling at high speed along the freeways and turnpikes of the American continent ...
As a last resort, I moved the picture to a position over my polished oak drinks cabinet, where I keep a selection of single malt whiskies for visiting dignitaries. At last her complection seemed to glow a little, and her expression relaxed, as if she were, at least, trying to smile. I poured myself a glass of Caol Ila, added some distilled water, and raised a toast in her honour.
The picture was painted when Flora was in her 30s perhaps ... whereas I am now in my 60s. Given that she was born in 1722, does that make her older than me, or younger than me? When I was a child that question would torment my youthful philosophical brain for hours. I still haven't really solved it.
I must digress for a moment. Recently there has been a political scandal in Britain of which our American cousins may be unaware. The Tory shadow minister Boris Johnson, who is also editor of the conservative magazine 'The Spectator', was found to be having an illicit love affair with one of the magazine's staff, Petronella Wyatt, and not being entirely frank about it.
Readers may recall that Boris is a good friend of mine, and we often dine together. In the Gossip report in the 2003 Summer issue I subtly gave the game away:
And no, nothing has been changed. I sometimes correct errors in spelling and punctuation, but I have never changed the text of any of the pages on this site. Keen readers should remember this passage, and of course I was interviewed in the 'Guardian' about the veiled hint (for the first and only time, the 'Telegraph' would have nothing to do with me!)
Anyway, in about the middle of December I received a phone call from the United States. It was Fox News, asking if I could fly over as soon as possible for a live-to-air interview with that very pleasant young man, Sean Hannity. Of course I agreed, because I had to fly to America urgently for another reason - of which more later.
I know that my many male readers will not really understand this, but the previous president, Mr William Jefferson Clinton, is extremely attractive to women. His eyes and smile have something of the sense of danger and outright mischief that women love. And there have been worse Democrats in the last thirty years - much worse. For these reasons, even I was willing to forgive him a lot.
Imagine my horror then when I found myself seated in the studio next to that common little guttersnipe Matt Drudge, in order to discuss scandal-exposure in the electronic media. I should have been warned, and I still can't quite forgive Sean for doing that to me. I made the best of it, and then spent an excellent night in the Pierre Hotel on Fifth Avenue.
Next morning I ordered the 'Traditional English Breakfast' which turned out to be pancakes (sorry, 'flapjacks') and hash brown potatoes. Hasn't anybody in this strange country ever heard of Scotch kippers, lamb's fry, and black pudding? Apparently not.
Now for the main reason behind my transatlantic visit. Readers, especially American readers, will have noticed that the Christmas Annual is late this year. Normally the magazine would be distributed by the trucking company which is an integral part of the petticoated.com world-wide empire, PDQ Transit Incorporated.
You must have seen our trucks rolling at high speed along the freeways and turnpikes of the American continent ...
However, at this moment they weren't rolling anywhere.
The pallets stacked high with magazines were still waiting on petticoated.com's
Chicago loading dock. There had been a wildcat strike of PDQ Transit's
truck drivers for some quite trivial reason: however, I should note here
that the grotesque Maureen Dowd in the 'New York Times' had, before the
presidential election, identified me as one of Mr. Bush's 'closest
British confidantes' (which is not true; our dinner at Buckingham Palace
was the only time that I have ever met him). I strongly suspected that
the strike was really a payback generated by the rancour following Mr Bush's
victory.
I rang the Teamsters' Union, and was finally connected with some brash and ill-educated underling who treated me in the most insolent manner:
"You're that MacDonald dame, huh? When are you smart-ass limeys gonna understand that you haven't had any power in this country since, like, about 230 years ago? Who the hell do you think you are? If I say that your truck jockeys are on strike, then they're on strike baby, end of conversation.
"And one more thing: don't think that that dimwit orangutan buddy of yours in the White House is gonna help ya; he's got no power here in the Teamsters' office. That's what's called the system of checks and balances, and you, and that horse-faced old crabapple you call the queen over there, had better start getting used to it."
I hung up in disgust. I still had one hope of getting those trucks out on the road, an 'ace in the hole' so to speak - my old friend, my erstwhile sparring partner from the early 1960s, in the swashbuckling days when the Petticoat Publishing empire was first spreading its wings over the Atlantic, Mr James Riddle Hoffa.
There have been persistent rumours throughout the last 35 years of Mr Hoffa's untimely death, under somewhat shady circumstances. I can now reveal that these rumours are false. He is still alive, but his survival is a well-kept secret - a secret which has been made possible by Jim's considerable power and influence over the United States Congress, not to mention the American judiciary.
He lives at an old people's private estate in the green hills of New Hampshire - sometimes called 'the granite state', an appellation which is peculiarly appropriate under the circumstances. The estate is little-known, and very well guarded - it exists to make comfortable and well-tended the retirement years of citizens who, in their working lives, have generally been described as 'colourful'. I will say no more than that.
The estate has a small sign at its beautifully wrought iron gates, The Deerfield Residence for the Aged. Amongst the cognisenti it is referred to as 'The Gray House': a play on words which refers to both the tonsorial colouring of the residents, and to their still-considerable influence as almost an arm of government, but not an arm which is entirely pristine.
An appointment was arranged, and the guard waved me through the gates. Nothing is visible from the road, but a driveway winds through a beautiful grove of firs until, Rebecca-like, the glorious old pile, once the summer 'cottage' of one of the greatest millionaires of America's gilded age, comes into view.
My rented car was parked by an maroon-clad chauffeur, watched with keen interest by a corpulent and elderly man, leaning on a polished black walking stick, whose hard, lined features would not have looked out of place in one of the 'Godfather' films.
An efficient and attractive nurse led me down a series of deeply and richly carpeted passageways, to an elegant sitting room. I sat down and waited, and after a quarter of an hour or so a figure wearing a dressing gown and gripping a walking frame appeared, making his way slowly down the passage assisted by the nurse who had escorted me.
It's always sad to see a man of great strength and fearlessness reduced to the circumstances of old age, but as one wag remarked, it is probably better than the alternative. From a distance Jim's shoulders still looked strong, and his face seemed as hard and unyielding as ever.
When we finally stood face-to-face however, he relaxed, and allowed himself a broad smile. "Susie! Is that really you?"
I held out my hand. "Hello Jim. It's been a long time."
"What are doin' up here at the Gray House? You haven't come to see me, have you?"
"You bet I have, Jim. I know I've said over the years that I'd come and visit ... I thought that it was about time I did."
The nurse helped Jim into a comfortable armchair, and he slowly looked me up and down.
"You're lookin' good, but I don't know about the world. Hell, I'm a Republican from way back, but the guy who's president now ... I've seen livelier specimens in a formalin jar! I mean the guy's expression never changes; what'd they do, have him stuffed or somethin'?"
Jimmy leaned slowly back in his armchair, and his eyes melted into a faraway look, as he thought back over the decades ... "At least the Kennedys had brains ... well, at least Bobby did, the sunofabitch. All his brother had was a cheesy smile.
"Still - I guess Bush is better than that other guy. Christ, it was only last month, and now I can't remember his name. That's what happens when you get old. Anyway, the day after the election the other guy goes into a pub in Boston and walks up to the bar, and the barman says, 'Why the long face, bud?'
"That was a joke, Susie. You useta like my jokes in the old days. Anyway, how's business?"
I tried to relax, but the worry of getting our trucks moving was preying on me. "Business is good, Jim. I have the second largest business in Britain which has been started and run by a woman. But there's - "
"Susie, do ya still see that union dame who used to be such a thorn in your shapely side? She was older than I am. Maybe she ain't with us anymore."
"Hectorina Gribble is still with us, and she has not retired. She never intends to retire."
"You're kidding me! I wish we had her in this country. She was the toughest negotiator I've ever seen. And coming from me, that's saying something."
"Jim, I'm happy to stay as long as you like and talk about old times. But I have to be up front with you. I need a favour. That's part of the reason for my visit."
"Anything you like Sue, just ask. When I talk, don't think people have stopped listenin'. I still carry plenty of weight."
I explained about the wildcat strike, that there was no defensible reason for it, and giving particular emphasis to the offensive and boorish way in which I had been spoken to by that wet-behind-the-ears Teamsters apparatchik.
Slowly, James leaned forward. "What was his name?" he whispered, his brow darkening, and for a moment I saw again the glower which had struck fear into so many powerful men, right up to the Oval Office itself.
"I can't quite remember, Jim, I was so shocked at the time. But it was one of those odd American names. I think it was Randy Somethingorother."
Jim's face relaxed again, and he leaned back in his armchair. "Sue, the grounds here are beautiful. There's an avenue out there of all the trees mentioned in Shakespeare - sorta thing that would interest you. Why not take a stroll?" He pressed a button on his wristband. "I got a little phone call to make anyway."
The grounds were beautiful. There was a summer house in a shaded clearing, and even a private picture theatre - relics from the days of the grand house's original inhabitants. When I returned, one of the staff asked if I would like to dine privately with Mr Hoffa, and I was informed that an excellent wine cellar, one of the best in America, would be at my disposal.
I couldn't resist, and the Scottish smoked salmon really was from its supposed country of origin. I was about to tuck in to a piping hot lobster bisque when a nurse entered, holding a portable phone receiver, and whispered, "A telephone call for you, Miss MacDonald."
"It couldn't be for me ... nobody knows I'm here." I looked over at Jim, and he gave me a smiling, conspiratorial wink.
"I'll take it." I took the receiver and spoke ... "Hello?"
"Hello ... hello?" began a quaking voice. "Is that Miss Susan MacDonald? It's Randy Wazinski here. I am just ringing to offer you my humblest apologies ... it appears that a dreadful mistake has been made. I wish to make it quite clear that this was not my mistake ... on the contrary, a very junior underling was responsible, who will find himself in my office on the receiving end of a severe reprimand ... "
I could almost see the rivulets of oily sweat trickling down his forehead.
"Of course, this ridiculous strike has now been called off. It should never have been called in the first place. You trucks are being loaded in double-quick time as I speak ... I myself will conduct a thorough investigation into how this situation began, and send you a full report if you wish. Once again, my deepest apologies for any inconvenience to you."
"There will be no need to send me a copy of the report. Thank you for informing me ... you are most kind," I said with just a hint of ironic sarcasm. I hung up.
"Jim - I can't thank you enough. I knew that you were the only person in the world who would be able to help me with this."
"Any time, Susan. But don't go yet. You know what these old people's places are like, even the luxury ones. I haven't enjoyed myself this much in years."
"I'm not going. I - " And then my cell phone started playing 'Land of Hope and Glory.' Alexander Graham Bell has a lot to answer for.
"Miss MacDonald, it's Charles here! The strike is over! It was suddenly called off; nobody knows how, or why, but our trucks are moving again! Turn on the television; it's all over CNN and the BBC News!
"Hold onMiss MacDonald - I think I've got a crossed line here. Just hold for a moment ..."
I waited, and eventually Charles was able to speak again. But of course I already knew the whole story.
"Charles - We'll talk when I'm back in Grimsby. Thanks for calling. I must go now."
We were sipping port and feeling supremely satisfied as night drew in. Jim had arranged for me to be driven back to my motel, because I would never find my way in the dark.
"Susie, drop in again sometime. You're like a ray of sunshine, and I'm 91 you know. I mightn't be around for much longer."
"I will Jim. I come to America a couple of times a year for business, or television appearances. I'll make sure I set aside an extra few days."
"Thanks."
I stood, and we shook hands again, and said au revoir. It had been a fascinating reunion.
I rang the Teamsters' Union, and was finally connected with some brash and ill-educated underling who treated me in the most insolent manner:
"You're that MacDonald dame, huh? When are you smart-ass limeys gonna understand that you haven't had any power in this country since, like, about 230 years ago? Who the hell do you think you are? If I say that your truck jockeys are on strike, then they're on strike baby, end of conversation.
"And one more thing: don't think that that dimwit orangutan buddy of yours in the White House is gonna help ya; he's got no power here in the Teamsters' office. That's what's called the system of checks and balances, and you, and that horse-faced old crabapple you call the queen over there, had better start getting used to it."
I hung up in disgust. I still had one hope of getting those trucks out on the road, an 'ace in the hole' so to speak - my old friend, my erstwhile sparring partner from the early 1960s, in the swashbuckling days when the Petticoat Publishing empire was first spreading its wings over the Atlantic, Mr James Riddle Hoffa.
There have been persistent rumours throughout the last 35 years of Mr Hoffa's untimely death, under somewhat shady circumstances. I can now reveal that these rumours are false. He is still alive, but his survival is a well-kept secret - a secret which has been made possible by Jim's considerable power and influence over the United States Congress, not to mention the American judiciary.
He lives at an old people's private estate in the green hills of New Hampshire - sometimes called 'the granite state', an appellation which is peculiarly appropriate under the circumstances. The estate is little-known, and very well guarded - it exists to make comfortable and well-tended the retirement years of citizens who, in their working lives, have generally been described as 'colourful'. I will say no more than that.
The estate has a small sign at its beautifully wrought iron gates, The Deerfield Residence for the Aged. Amongst the cognisenti it is referred to as 'The Gray House': a play on words which refers to both the tonsorial colouring of the residents, and to their still-considerable influence as almost an arm of government, but not an arm which is entirely pristine.
An appointment was arranged, and the guard waved me through the gates. Nothing is visible from the road, but a driveway winds through a beautiful grove of firs until, Rebecca-like, the glorious old pile, once the summer 'cottage' of one of the greatest millionaires of America's gilded age, comes into view.
My rented car was parked by an maroon-clad chauffeur, watched with keen interest by a corpulent and elderly man, leaning on a polished black walking stick, whose hard, lined features would not have looked out of place in one of the 'Godfather' films.
An efficient and attractive nurse led me down a series of deeply and richly carpeted passageways, to an elegant sitting room. I sat down and waited, and after a quarter of an hour or so a figure wearing a dressing gown and gripping a walking frame appeared, making his way slowly down the passage assisted by the nurse who had escorted me.
It's always sad to see a man of great strength and fearlessness reduced to the circumstances of old age, but as one wag remarked, it is probably better than the alternative. From a distance Jim's shoulders still looked strong, and his face seemed as hard and unyielding as ever.
When we finally stood face-to-face however, he relaxed, and allowed himself a broad smile. "Susie! Is that really you?"
I held out my hand. "Hello Jim. It's been a long time."
"What are doin' up here at the Gray House? You haven't come to see me, have you?"
"You bet I have, Jim. I know I've said over the years that I'd come and visit ... I thought that it was about time I did."
The nurse helped Jim into a comfortable armchair, and he slowly looked me up and down.
"You're lookin' good, but I don't know about the world. Hell, I'm a Republican from way back, but the guy who's president now ... I've seen livelier specimens in a formalin jar! I mean the guy's expression never changes; what'd they do, have him stuffed or somethin'?"
Jimmy leaned slowly back in his armchair, and his eyes melted into a faraway look, as he thought back over the decades ... "At least the Kennedys had brains ... well, at least Bobby did, the sunofabitch. All his brother had was a cheesy smile.
"Still - I guess Bush is better than that other guy. Christ, it was only last month, and now I can't remember his name. That's what happens when you get old. Anyway, the day after the election the other guy goes into a pub in Boston and walks up to the bar, and the barman says, 'Why the long face, bud?'
"That was a joke, Susie. You useta like my jokes in the old days. Anyway, how's business?"
I tried to relax, but the worry of getting our trucks moving was preying on me. "Business is good, Jim. I have the second largest business in Britain which has been started and run by a woman. But there's - "
"Susie, do ya still see that union dame who used to be such a thorn in your shapely side? She was older than I am. Maybe she ain't with us anymore."
"Hectorina Gribble is still with us, and she has not retired. She never intends to retire."
"You're kidding me! I wish we had her in this country. She was the toughest negotiator I've ever seen. And coming from me, that's saying something."
"Jim, I'm happy to stay as long as you like and talk about old times. But I have to be up front with you. I need a favour. That's part of the reason for my visit."
"Anything you like Sue, just ask. When I talk, don't think people have stopped listenin'. I still carry plenty of weight."
I explained about the wildcat strike, that there was no defensible reason for it, and giving particular emphasis to the offensive and boorish way in which I had been spoken to by that wet-behind-the-ears Teamsters apparatchik.
Slowly, James leaned forward. "What was his name?" he whispered, his brow darkening, and for a moment I saw again the glower which had struck fear into so many powerful men, right up to the Oval Office itself.
"I can't quite remember, Jim, I was so shocked at the time. But it was one of those odd American names. I think it was Randy Somethingorother."
Jim's face relaxed again, and he leaned back in his armchair. "Sue, the grounds here are beautiful. There's an avenue out there of all the trees mentioned in Shakespeare - sorta thing that would interest you. Why not take a stroll?" He pressed a button on his wristband. "I got a little phone call to make anyway."
The grounds were beautiful. There was a summer house in a shaded clearing, and even a private picture theatre - relics from the days of the grand house's original inhabitants. When I returned, one of the staff asked if I would like to dine privately with Mr Hoffa, and I was informed that an excellent wine cellar, one of the best in America, would be at my disposal.
I couldn't resist, and the Scottish smoked salmon really was from its supposed country of origin. I was about to tuck in to a piping hot lobster bisque when a nurse entered, holding a portable phone receiver, and whispered, "A telephone call for you, Miss MacDonald."
"It couldn't be for me ... nobody knows I'm here." I looked over at Jim, and he gave me a smiling, conspiratorial wink.
"I'll take it." I took the receiver and spoke ... "Hello?"
"Hello ... hello?" began a quaking voice. "Is that Miss Susan MacDonald? It's Randy Wazinski here. I am just ringing to offer you my humblest apologies ... it appears that a dreadful mistake has been made. I wish to make it quite clear that this was not my mistake ... on the contrary, a very junior underling was responsible, who will find himself in my office on the receiving end of a severe reprimand ... "
I could almost see the rivulets of oily sweat trickling down his forehead.
"Of course, this ridiculous strike has now been called off. It should never have been called in the first place. You trucks are being loaded in double-quick time as I speak ... I myself will conduct a thorough investigation into how this situation began, and send you a full report if you wish. Once again, my deepest apologies for any inconvenience to you."
"There will be no need to send me a copy of the report. Thank you for informing me ... you are most kind," I said with just a hint of ironic sarcasm. I hung up.
"Jim - I can't thank you enough. I knew that you were the only person in the world who would be able to help me with this."
"Any time, Susan. But don't go yet. You know what these old people's places are like, even the luxury ones. I haven't enjoyed myself this much in years."
"I'm not going. I - " And then my cell phone started playing 'Land of Hope and Glory.' Alexander Graham Bell has a lot to answer for.
"Miss MacDonald, it's Charles here! The strike is over! It was suddenly called off; nobody knows how, or why, but our trucks are moving again! Turn on the television; it's all over CNN and the BBC News!
"Hold onMiss MacDonald - I think I've got a crossed line here. Just hold for a moment ..."
I waited, and eventually Charles was able to speak again. But of course I already knew the whole story.
"Charles - We'll talk when I'm back in Grimsby. Thanks for calling. I must go now."
* * * * *
We were sipping port and feeling supremely satisfied as night drew in. Jim had arranged for me to be driven back to my motel, because I would never find my way in the dark.
"Susie, drop in again sometime. You're like a ray of sunshine, and I'm 91 you know. I mightn't be around for much longer."
"I will Jim. I come to America a couple of times a year for business, or television appearances. I'll make sure I set aside an extra few days."
"Thanks."
I stood, and we shook hands again, and said au revoir. It had been a fascinating reunion.
* * * * *
Back in my mezzanine office in Grimsby. I straightened the
picture. "Julie Anne, why is this portrait always a bit skew wiff whenever
I return to the office?"
"I don't know, Miss MacDonald. The door of the drinks cupboard is always ajar too."
"Don't be ridiculous; how could it be? I have the only key to the office - and to the whisky cupboard."
I set the portrait straight, and Flora gazed down at me with silent, serene innocence.
"Is Charles around? I would like to see him at once."
"I'll send him up immediately, Miss MacDonald."
Charles arrived. "Sit down Charles. You rang me on my mobile phone to tell me the strike was over. You said you had a crossed line. What was that all about?"
"It was very strange. You can sometimes receive other conversations on those things. But this mentioned you. We have those 'Your call may be recorded. . . ' thingys here at the Works now, so I have the whole thing on tape."
Charles brought me the tape machine, and started the tape:
"PDQ Transit you say? Yeah, I just saw it on television too. Just seeing those big Macks whisks me back to those distant days, when every truck, so eagerly scored by the bored kids in the family auto’s back seat, was driven by a union man paying his dues to the great Jimmy Hoffa. Don't know what in hell they carried - some magazine, I think.
"But Jimmy Hoffa - now there was a man! - king of the union bosses, and macho man to face down Gary Cooper in High Noon! At that time he was president of the Teamsters’ Union, and a fabled, tough guy negotiator in the legit world, as well as an associate of – uh – ‘team leaders’ let’s say, in another, more shadowy, world. A world of dark overcoats and low brim hats, all worn by men with expressionless faces, and bearing vivid nicknames like Anthony "Tony pro" Provenzano … and Marco "Cauliflower" Montmorenzi. Men who habitually exhibited tell-tale bulges in their jackets, not like George Dubya Dumb-Ass did on TV, at the rear, but more around the area of the breast pocket...
"So we were all more than a little bit surprised when snippets began to appear in the gossip columns about Jimmy’s 'romance' with that medical science lecturer woman, Susan — … hmm, truth to tell I can't quite recall her full name off the top of my head, it'll come to me in a minute, but you read quite a bit about her in the pages of the heavy political journals in the 60s. Yeah, sorta ‘the new woman of tomorrow; bright, hard-headed, ambitious, highly educated…’ You know what I mean. Just the copy for that crazy time.
"My, my, wasn't it just blown up into the 'Brief Encounter' of its day, with Jimmy increasingly being spotted at some of New York's most intellectual eateries in place of those Brit. railway refreshment rooms with Susan whats-her-name? Dammit, I know it was one of those ‘ethnic’ names they call ’em now - …Cam— or Mac—, yes, I think that was it, Mac…Macarrone, Susan Macarrone. Yeah, I think that was it - I remember on the odd occasion when we were out on the town we 'd spot them, and we'd wink and make witty jokes about Susan ‘Bluestocking’ Macarrone … Yeah, yeah, I'm almost sure it was Macarrone…
"Well anyhow, it was clear to most Jimmy-watchers (and there were plenty of them, some more respectable than others) that Jimmy was becoming besotted with his cool and classy companion. Although of modest education himself, Jimmy took a delight in showing people of substantial education that he was their intellectual equal, or better. And it's got to be said he was quick on the uptake. Susan must have been one of the few females in his wide experience who could really command his respect in argument or debate - and on all subjects from the arts, to politics, to show business - or what you will - and it showed! Gossip columnists would describe how, in the small hours of the morning, he'd throw his head back, and spread his arms, and exclaim, "Have it your way baby, but I ain't never been wrong about nothing yet!" Then the two of them would melt away into the night. To somewhere more private I'd guess, somewhere where even gossip columnists didn't intrude…
"Of course, it couldn't last. Opinions differ about the reason for their parting but on that fateful night when Jimmy’s table for two at the Lobster Pot was short of one elegant, shapely occupant, the columnists were unanimous in their frenzy of excitement — Jimmy had been stood up!
"Well, talk about ‘Brief Encounter’! It was more like that other movie, ‘Desperately Seeking Susan’, as Jimmy enlisted his not inconsiderable resources in the search for his missing soul mate. It was to no avail. Her engagements and commitments had been cancelled and it was widely believed that she'd left the country and returned to her home in – … You know, come to think of it, I don't believe her home was in Italy - I know her name was associated with her country of origin - Hey, she wasn't an English girl was she? No, I guess not.
"Now, I've got to say that when someone meets an untimely end in the USA they just can't let it lie – finished – done with. No sir, you got Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe, and a whole army of other stiffs bobbin' up all over the place, and it was just the same with Jimmy – sightings in Detroit, sightings in Denver, sightings in – you name it!
"Well, the record says that Jimmy disappeared in '75 in mighty suspicious circumstances, and was presumed legally dead in 1983. That's good enough for me! So how come you're telling me these stories about Jimmy being still alive, and - am I hearing this right - dating his dear old soulmate Susan again?
"God dammit, if Jimmy Hoffa is on this planet today he's 91 years old! What's he doing here? Driving a PDQ Transit truck for a living? It's for sure he ain't living on social security, or clinching deals in smoke-filled rooms. Bet your bottom dollar the FBI have frozen every cent of his ill-gotten gains; and come to think of it Jimmy wouldn't recognise those no-smoking, sanitized, air-conditioned conference chambers that all the boys sit in these days, sipping goddam de-ionised rainwater.
"And there's another thing. I like to think I'm as much of a gentleman as the next man and I wouldn't dream of speculating about a lady’s age - but, sure as hell Sweet Sue ain't sweet sixteen no more! … Susan…It's a pretty name - don’t you think so? I wonder what her take on all this would be? Hey, she was a woman of education and letters, and she could spill the beans big time. Maybe she did, maybe there's a manuscript or a diary in some remote attic in that home-town of hers. . .
"Susan Macarrone... No that wasn't it - I'm almost certain it was a name you'd associate with the country of her birth. I guess I could revisit one or two of our old haunts and check it out but it'll come to me, I never forget a name! I'll let you know. Anyway, I've got to be going now. I'm trying to organise our holidays for next year…Got a hankering to visit Scotland… that's up your way isn't it? - where they have all those tartans and clans and stuff? Y'know, like McGregor…and MacDonald…and MacDonald . . .
"Gee for some reason that name rings a Vegas slot machine of bells in this worn-out old brain of mine. Can’t think why. Anyway I gotta go. . ."
I pressed the Stop button. "Thank you for the crosswords, Charles. They were well up to your usual standard. And I love the portrait of Flora MacDonald, although I'm not sure what shenanagans she gets up to when I'm not here."
Charles laughed. "You're welcome. I think she's happier here than in that dusty old antique shop in Edinburgh."
"Just one more thing, Charles. Please erase this tape. It concerns matters which are private, and there is no reason for the company to keep a record of that conversation."
"I think I understand. Consider it done." Charles picked up the tape and left.
Time for another Caol Ila - if there was enough left in the bottle.
Table of Contents
"I don't know, Miss MacDonald. The door of the drinks cupboard is always ajar too."
"Don't be ridiculous; how could it be? I have the only key to the office - and to the whisky cupboard."
I set the portrait straight, and Flora gazed down at me with silent, serene innocence.
"Is Charles around? I would like to see him at once."
"I'll send him up immediately, Miss MacDonald."
Charles arrived. "Sit down Charles. You rang me on my mobile phone to tell me the strike was over. You said you had a crossed line. What was that all about?"
"It was very strange. You can sometimes receive other conversations on those things. But this mentioned you. We have those 'Your call may be recorded. . . ' thingys here at the Works now, so I have the whole thing on tape."
Charles brought me the tape machine, and started the tape:
"PDQ Transit you say? Yeah, I just saw it on television too. Just seeing those big Macks whisks me back to those distant days, when every truck, so eagerly scored by the bored kids in the family auto’s back seat, was driven by a union man paying his dues to the great Jimmy Hoffa. Don't know what in hell they carried - some magazine, I think.
"But Jimmy Hoffa - now there was a man! - king of the union bosses, and macho man to face down Gary Cooper in High Noon! At that time he was president of the Teamsters’ Union, and a fabled, tough guy negotiator in the legit world, as well as an associate of – uh – ‘team leaders’ let’s say, in another, more shadowy, world. A world of dark overcoats and low brim hats, all worn by men with expressionless faces, and bearing vivid nicknames like Anthony "Tony pro" Provenzano … and Marco "Cauliflower" Montmorenzi. Men who habitually exhibited tell-tale bulges in their jackets, not like George Dubya Dumb-Ass did on TV, at the rear, but more around the area of the breast pocket...
"So we were all more than a little bit surprised when snippets began to appear in the gossip columns about Jimmy’s 'romance' with that medical science lecturer woman, Susan — … hmm, truth to tell I can't quite recall her full name off the top of my head, it'll come to me in a minute, but you read quite a bit about her in the pages of the heavy political journals in the 60s. Yeah, sorta ‘the new woman of tomorrow; bright, hard-headed, ambitious, highly educated…’ You know what I mean. Just the copy for that crazy time.
"My, my, wasn't it just blown up into the 'Brief Encounter' of its day, with Jimmy increasingly being spotted at some of New York's most intellectual eateries in place of those Brit. railway refreshment rooms with Susan whats-her-name? Dammit, I know it was one of those ‘ethnic’ names they call ’em now - …Cam— or Mac—, yes, I think that was it, Mac…Macarrone, Susan Macarrone. Yeah, I think that was it - I remember on the odd occasion when we were out on the town we 'd spot them, and we'd wink and make witty jokes about Susan ‘Bluestocking’ Macarrone … Yeah, yeah, I'm almost sure it was Macarrone…
"Well anyhow, it was clear to most Jimmy-watchers (and there were plenty of them, some more respectable than others) that Jimmy was becoming besotted with his cool and classy companion. Although of modest education himself, Jimmy took a delight in showing people of substantial education that he was their intellectual equal, or better. And it's got to be said he was quick on the uptake. Susan must have been one of the few females in his wide experience who could really command his respect in argument or debate - and on all subjects from the arts, to politics, to show business - or what you will - and it showed! Gossip columnists would describe how, in the small hours of the morning, he'd throw his head back, and spread his arms, and exclaim, "Have it your way baby, but I ain't never been wrong about nothing yet!" Then the two of them would melt away into the night. To somewhere more private I'd guess, somewhere where even gossip columnists didn't intrude…
"Of course, it couldn't last. Opinions differ about the reason for their parting but on that fateful night when Jimmy’s table for two at the Lobster Pot was short of one elegant, shapely occupant, the columnists were unanimous in their frenzy of excitement — Jimmy had been stood up!
"Well, talk about ‘Brief Encounter’! It was more like that other movie, ‘Desperately Seeking Susan’, as Jimmy enlisted his not inconsiderable resources in the search for his missing soul mate. It was to no avail. Her engagements and commitments had been cancelled and it was widely believed that she'd left the country and returned to her home in – … You know, come to think of it, I don't believe her home was in Italy - I know her name was associated with her country of origin - Hey, she wasn't an English girl was she? No, I guess not.
"Now, I've got to say that when someone meets an untimely end in the USA they just can't let it lie – finished – done with. No sir, you got Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe, and a whole army of other stiffs bobbin' up all over the place, and it was just the same with Jimmy – sightings in Detroit, sightings in Denver, sightings in – you name it!
"Well, the record says that Jimmy disappeared in '75 in mighty suspicious circumstances, and was presumed legally dead in 1983. That's good enough for me! So how come you're telling me these stories about Jimmy being still alive, and - am I hearing this right - dating his dear old soulmate Susan again?
"God dammit, if Jimmy Hoffa is on this planet today he's 91 years old! What's he doing here? Driving a PDQ Transit truck for a living? It's for sure he ain't living on social security, or clinching deals in smoke-filled rooms. Bet your bottom dollar the FBI have frozen every cent of his ill-gotten gains; and come to think of it Jimmy wouldn't recognise those no-smoking, sanitized, air-conditioned conference chambers that all the boys sit in these days, sipping goddam de-ionised rainwater.
"And there's another thing. I like to think I'm as much of a gentleman as the next man and I wouldn't dream of speculating about a lady’s age - but, sure as hell Sweet Sue ain't sweet sixteen no more! … Susan…It's a pretty name - don’t you think so? I wonder what her take on all this would be? Hey, she was a woman of education and letters, and she could spill the beans big time. Maybe she did, maybe there's a manuscript or a diary in some remote attic in that home-town of hers. . .
"Susan Macarrone... No that wasn't it - I'm almost certain it was a name you'd associate with the country of her birth. I guess I could revisit one or two of our old haunts and check it out but it'll come to me, I never forget a name! I'll let you know. Anyway, I've got to be going now. I'm trying to organise our holidays for next year…Got a hankering to visit Scotland… that's up your way isn't it? - where they have all those tartans and clans and stuff? Y'know, like McGregor…and MacDonald…and MacDonald . . .
"Gee for some reason that name rings a Vegas slot machine of bells in this worn-out old brain of mine. Can’t think why. Anyway I gotta go. . ."
I pressed the Stop button. "Thank you for the crosswords, Charles. They were well up to your usual standard. And I love the portrait of Flora MacDonald, although I'm not sure what shenanagans she gets up to when I'm not here."
Charles laughed. "You're welcome. I think she's happier here than in that dusty old antique shop in Edinburgh."
"Just one more thing, Charles. Please erase this tape. It concerns matters which are private, and there is no reason for the company to keep a record of that conversation."
"I think I understand. Consider it done." Charles picked up the tape and left.
Time for another Caol Ila - if there was enough left in the bottle.
Table of Contents