An Irishman’s Diary on approaching Charles Haughey for a loan

I should have been given a part. As the only man on the planet who borrowed money from Charles J Haughey, I warranted some sort of role in the television drama. It happened in Paris, Charlie’s favourite city after Donnycarney. As diplomatic correspondent for this newspaper half a century or so ago, I travelled around Europe with the then taoiseach, Jack Lynch, and his minster for finance, Charles J, covering their lobbying campaign of European leaders in an effort to gain entry into what was then known as the Common Market. It was no easy task. As the official website of the EU Representation in Ireland so niftily puts it: “Ireland’s agricultural based economy was choked by its dependence on the UK market and the country suffered from poverty, mass unemployment and emigration.” (Plus ça change .) Sometime in the early 1960s they called on the president of France, the formidable Charles de Gaulle. The general, who had remote ancestral links with Co Down, had a fondness for Ireland and came here for a long holiday once. He was inclined to favour the Irish application for membership but Ireland could not enter the market unless the United Kingdom was admitted at the same time. But de Gaulle was resolutely opposed to the UK’s application. Let the Brits in, he told the Irish duo, and they will only set out to wreck everything. It would be another decade before Ireland – and the UK – were granted membership.

Cash

It was on that visit to Paris when I had to approach Haughey for a loan. I was running out of cash. In those days mere journalists did not rise to credit cards and a hole in the wall was simply an unsightly aperture. After the meeting with de Gaulle we all returned to the Irish Embassy for refreshments. “Any chance Minister you could lend me 50 dollars until we get back to Dublin?” I asked. “No problem,” says he, and peels off 50 greenbacks from his wallet. At the time Ireland and Britain shared a common currency, sterling. It was a period of erratic currency fluctuations but the almighty dollar was steady. As I was about to depart with gratitude the minister for finance grabbed me by the shoulder. “By the way,” he said, “when we get back home I want that stuff back in dollars. None of your auld sterling or anything like that.”

Radio programme

It was not my only encounter with Haughey. Jack Lynch sacked him in 1970 in advance of the Arms Trial at which he was accused and acquitted of attempting to import arms illegally into the state (for use by the IRA). Lynch brought him back into the cabinet in 1977 as minister for health and social welfare. At the time I was head of news in RTÉ and it was decided to seek an interview with him for the

This Week

radio programme. Unlike some other ministers, Haughey did not aggressively seek publicity and was inclined to give interviews only when he felt he had something worthwhile to say. But after seven years in the political wilderness he obviously felt his profile needed a reburnish and agreed to the request. The editor of the programme along with the presenter (the late Gerry Barry) met him in Government Buildings. They intended to start the interview with a question about how he and Lynch had mended their fences.

The minister promptly switched from cordial welcoming to bullying mode. No. No. No questions about the Arms Trial or any of that auld s***e – that was all in the past. Gerry and his editor said they could not accept any restrictions. They left the minister’s office and contacted me at Donnybrook; such was the aura of brooding menace around Haughey they felt they could not accept his invitation to use the phone in his office but went outside to a public telephone box. I advised them to tell the minister that his first major interview as a member of the new cabinet would be seen as having no credibility if the question was not put and answered. Back they went and, forever the pragmatist, Haughey took the point without further argument and the interview went ahead.

Some years later, when he was taoiseach, I received a phone call from one of the coterie of hangers-on who surrounded him (and were indulged by him). The caller said he had it on the highest authority that my days as head of news were numbered because of the things we were broadcasting about the government and the taoiseach.

‘That sort of thing’

A few days later I got a call from the man himself. “I’m told one of my so-called friends rang you the other night,” he said. “You know I had nothing to do with it. The fellow who rang you was not acting on my behalf or with my knowledge. You know what he’s like — when he gets a few drinks he goes overboard. I’m sorry about the whole thing.”

As it happened the Sunday following he came into the newsroom to do an interview for the This Week programme. As I accompanied him and advisers to the radio studio he pulled me aside and reiterated his apology: "You know me long enough to know I would have nothing to do with that sort of thing."