FRANCIS EVERS died from a terminal illness at Villajoyosa, near Alicante, Spain, last December 19th. Born (out of wedlock) in Upper Leeson Street, Dublin, in the mid 1930s, he spent his youth in an orphanage and an industrial school. Undoubtedly these early experiences left their lasting psychological impact, for Francis spent most of his life abroad.
In the 1950s he was conscripted in England to do national service, and just missed out on being sent to Aden. After England he set off for Australia, where he planned to study medicine instead he was offered a job with the Rupert Murdoch papers in Sydney, for which he worked as a theatre critic. Often, to meet deadlines, he typed up articles while airborne on inter city flights. An appointment with Mr Murdoch himself had a time limit of two minutes Francis came to public prominence by his defence of the controversial design for Sydney Opera House.
Francis returned to Europe to live in Paris, where he was a correspondent covering the Vietnam peace negotiations. He also acted as Paris correspondent for many other newspapers and news agencies, including The Irish Times and he broadcast for RTE. There was a romantic ambience about his apartment at 29 Rue Dauphine, accessible by a spiral staircase he was hospitable in dressing gown, slippers, and with Gaulois in hand, whatever the hour!
He became a close associate of Samuel Beckett. Both men had corresponded for many years previously, and the Beckett correspondence now forms part of Francis's estate. Francis had a keen interest in rugby and watched many international matches in the company of Beckett. However, he kept his friendship with the writer to himself. Later he sold his Paris apartment and moved to Alicante. This was his final domicile, where he spent leisurely times by the sea in the company of his companion, Angeles, although still maintaining an apartment in Dublin.
An avid book lover, Francis would rather lead a frugal existence than not to have a good book by his side. Subjects such as metaphysics, politics and literature were discussed into the small hours, sustained by bottomless pots of tea. Conversation among friends was far more important to him than going out on the town.
At a memorial service and Mass for Francis held in Clontarf recently, it was remarked that he had a unique network of friends. Yet he was so discreet about them, that we ourselves did not realise we were part of a collective group of people from the arts, music and literature. He preserved his integrity in a way that is difficult in a city like Dublin. To have known him was certainly an enriching experience. We will miss those marathon nocturnal conversations, and his impromptu visits to Ireland.