Rain, Steam, And Speed
Chapter One
"By Yon Bonnie Banks And By Yon Bonnie Braes"
Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Irish Free State, June 1936.
On this fine summer's evening, as was often their wont these days, when Tom returned home to Idrone Terrace in Blackrock, after a long day spent in the offices of the Independent on Talbot Street in Dublin, Sybil and he were sitting contentedly together in the shade of the old damson tree down at the far end of the long, narrow, rear garden. Even at this distance from the sea, the raucous cries of the constantly wheeling seagulls and the sound of the waves breaking hard on the shore below the railway line on the other side of the house were clearly audible to the both of them.
On the whole, life was good; exceedingly so, with both Tom and Sybil still as deeply in love as they had been when they married, contented in their respective positions, he at the Independent and she at the Rotunda, and now with four happy, healthy children, the eldest two, Danny and Saiorse, growing up fast, with young Bobby aged nine, not far behind.
"And?" asked Tom with the most indulgent of smiles he could muster.
"And nothing! Other than mentioning her by name, Danny didn't say another word about her," said Sybil breezily. "Honestly, young man, you're more trouble than your two brothers were at your age put together". She smiled indulgently at the little boy now seated on her lap. Young, fair haired Dermot Branson, the latest, and by Tom and Sybil's mutual agreement, the last addition to their family, aged three years old, grinned back at her and then promptly reached for one of the gooseberries which his mother had been topping and tailing and were lying in a bowl on the wicker table beside her.
"Darling, you won't like it. It's sharp and sour".
Unfamiliar with either word, and so completely undeterred by his mother's gentle warning, but also someone who knew his own mind, young Dermot took not the slightest notice, instead crammed the small green fruit into his mouth and began to chew with gusto. A moment later, he spat out the remains of the half chewed gooseberry in disgust and began to wail his discontent.
"There now. What did I tell you?" asked Sybil. "Nasty gooseberry!" She hugged the little boy to her, wiping away his tears and cleaning his mouth and chin with the edge of her apron. "He's so like you, Tom".
"How so?"
"He won't ever take no for an answer!"
Tom laughed.
"You think so, for sure?"
"Believe me, darling, after being married to you for seventeen years, I know so!"
"So, what's her name then?" asked Tom, his eyes sparkling.
"Lady Isabel. Or was it Isabella? Either way, it stuck in my mind because of Matthew's mother".
"Lady Isabel?" Tom sounded mystified.
"I think Danny was being facetious; I suspect it was his way of telling Rob that she's rather too full of airs and graces".
"Oh! You mean like you, milady?"
Sybil laughed and dug him hard in the ribs.
"No, not at all like me!"
"Isabella, eh?" Tom mused. "Then perhaps she's Spanish. Or maybe even Portuguese!" He chuckled with obvious delight.
"Either way, Danny's far too young to have a sweetheart".
"Too young? Darlin', in case you've forgotten, he's sixteen years old. By the time I was his age I'd had several sweethearts, for sure. Not that Ma approved ,of course. Ah, Clontarf in those days was full of colleens with broken hearts, all vying for my favour. Let me see now. There was Mary Mooney - she was the daughter of the local draper. And then there was Jenny Hanlon. Her Da kept a bar on Clontarf Road. And then there was Maggie Byrne, and Josephine Kelly. Why, I'd quite forgotten about her".
"And she you, no doubt!"
Tom laughed while Sybil rolled her eyes in obvious disbelief. She had heard of Mary Mooney and Jenny Hanlon but the other names meant nothing to her at all. Knowing Tom as she did, she thought that there was every chance that he had made the rest of them up out of pure devilment.
"Oh, please! Spare me the lengthy list of all your past amours and conquests, Mr. Branson".
Tom grinned.
"Actually, it wasn't that lengthy. There were only the two: Mary McGuire and Jenny Hanlon. I'll let you into a secret, Sybil. After that awful business with my cousin Maeve, I was quite shy for sure".
Sybil smiled and gently squeezed his arm.
"That's hardly surprising".
For a moment they sat together in silence.
"And there's something else that isn't surprising too," said Tom.
"Oh, what's that?"
"That Danny should have found himself a sweet heart!"
Sybil smiled.
"No, I suppose not. He's grown into a very handsome and winning young man".
"Ah, just like his father, to be sure!" sighed Tom. He chuckled.
"You're very full of yourself this evening, Mr. Branson!"
"What man wouldn't be when he has you for his wife?" Tom bestowed an affectionate kiss on her cheek.
"Flatterer!"
"No, just the honest truth me darlin'! So, Isabella then?"
Sybil nodded her head.
"Apparently. I heard Danny make mention of her to Robert when he was on the telephone to him a few days ago. He said that he was seeing her next week".
"Next week? Listening in, to a private conversation, for sure. Who do you think you are? The Garda?"
"I wasn't listening in. I just merely happened to overhear what he was saying. After all, the telephone is down there on the table in the hall. I was upstairs on the landing sorting out the sheets with Alice and …
"You listened in!" laughed Tom.
"Have it your own way!" Sybil rolled her eyes again.
"I will, for sure. So, he's seeing her next week?"
"Yes"
"Really?"
"I've just said so, haven't I? In any case, you don't sound very surprised. Has Danny said anything about her during one of your lengthy Da and son chats out there in the garage?" Sybil nodded towards the back wall of the garden.
"To me?" Tom sounded surprised.
"Yes, that's what I asked you".
"No, not at all. Why, did you think he might?" Shaking his head, Tom stood up; thrust both his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat. "Well, I suppose I'd better go and take another look at that article on Mussolini and Abyssinia. I can't believe that Hoare and Laval could have been so ruddy deceitful. From what Matthew told me the last time we spoke, he's bloody furious about it all. I know too that Friedrich and Edith are very worried ... about what Herr Hitler's latest antics may mean for Austria ... as well as for themselves".
"You don't think they'll have to leave Austria do you?"
"Maybe".
"Tom, darling, things can't be that serious, surely?"
"I'm afraid they are; even though a very great number of people, including many here in Ireland, prefer to turn a blind eye to what's going on in Europe and don't want to own up to the very real possibility that in the not too distant future there's every chance of there being another war with Germany".
"What about us?"
"Oh, have no fear, darlin', whatever happens, Ireland will stay neutral. De Valera will see to that".
"And Edith?"
"Love, you and I both know that for Edith, nothing, not even Rosenberg is as important to her as Friedrich and their two boys. If anything threatens their safety. she'll see to it that they all leave Austria before any harm comes their way".
"But where on earth would they go?"
"Switzerland probably. I remember Friedrich telling me he had property there. In fact, not far from Geneva. Or maybe even France. There's the château they have on the banks of the Loire. But it hasn't come to that".
"Not yet".
"No, no yet".
"But you think it very well might".
"Yes, darlin', it might," said Tom sadly.
Inwardly, Sybil shuddered at what the future might bring; wondered how she herself would feel if, along with their four children, she and Tom suddenly had to flee Ireland, uprooted from everyone and everything they knew, forced to leave their home and their friends for an uncertain future in a foreign country. Kurt, Edith's youngest, born early in 1933, was almost the very same age as Dermot. With that thought in mind, impetuously Sybil hugged the little boy to her in a sudden and fierce embrace.
"So, what with that jumped up feckin' little corporal on the rampage in Germany, occupying the Rhineland, and now the Italians under Mussolini making mischief by invading Abyssinia, the League of Nations has been made to look absolutely impotent. By the way, Matthew said he would do his very best to see if he could arrange a meeting for me with Haile Selassie when next we're over in England. He met him you know, when he gave that speech to the League in Geneva just last month".
Sybil smiled and nodded her head. Even after all these years, it was a constant source of wonderment to her how Tom always managed to be so very well informed on a whole host of subjects, be it what was taking place here in Ireland, or else further afield in Europe, or even America.
"The exiled emperor?"
"Yes, that's right. Apparently, he's coming to live in England, although I don't think that's yet common knowledge, so keep it to yourself. Anyway, I suppose I'd better go and make a start for sure". Tom yawned. "Mind you, I could really do with an early night".
"Darling, you try and do too much. What you need is a holiday".
"Do I now?"
"Yes. You know you do".
"Maybe".
"No maybe about it. Anyway before you go, tell me something. Does the name Douglas mean anything to you?" Sybil looked up at him, shading her eyes from the glare of the setting sun.
"Douglas?"
"Tom!"
"What?"
"You're doing it again!"
"Doing what?"
"Repeating everything I say".
"No I'm not".
"Yes, you are".
"So, Douglas did you say?" asked Tom cautiously and with a shame-faced grin.
"Yes".
"No. Why should it?"
"Probably not, no. But, in her letter, the one that arrived here this morning, Mary made mention of the fact that Matthew's apparently got himself a new chum, a Mr. Douglas. She heard Matthew talking about him to Robert in the Library at Downton but then, when she asked who he was, Matthew suddenly clammed up and became very mysterious".
"Really?"
"Yes, really. And that's the second time you've said that as well. Anyway, Mary has this private notion that after the rough time she had giving birth to little Emily, by way of recompense Matthew's planning to surprise her with a second honeymoon, this time in Scotland. She's terribly excited about it".
"Scotland?" echoed Tom.
"Tom!"
"But why on earth Scotland?"
Sybil relented and now proceeded to explain.
"Well you know how Mary loves the Highlands, almost as much as did darling Papa. Anyway, Mary thinks this Mr. Douglas must be the same man who was the agent for the Banchory Estate; you know, where Matthew and Mary went to that house party, the year before last, and then there was all the ensuing fuss when Matthew refused to go shooting; said he done with it after what he went through in the war".
Tom nodded. He had never been able to understand the pleasure members of the English aristocracy took in blasting defenceless game birds out of the sky with a battery of shotguns. So he was both admiring and fully understanding of his English brother-in-law's unshakable decision not to take any further part in such a so-called sport.
Tom 's brows puckered. He frowned.
"But surely ... after what happened, Matthew doesn't want to go back there?"
"No, but while they were staying there, while all the others went shooting, they went out for a drive, and came across the most delightfully secluded hotel".
"If Matthew was driving I'm rather surprised they managed to see anything at all except a blur of passing scenery".
Matthew's love of speed was legendary; it had already got him into several close scrapes round and about Downton, most memorably when many years ago, following Robert's birth, he narrowly averted running full tilt into a snorting traction engine pulling a load of heavy timber somewhere over near West Fell Scar.
"No doubt but it was you who taught him to drive, remember?"
"Yes, well ..."
"No, yes well, about it. I don't think Mary's ever quite forgiven you".
"Anyway, neither of them could remember the name of the hotel when they were telling us about it all but the setting was rather splendid, next to a waterfall. Mary seems to recall Matthew telling the factor - the agent - about it when they got back to the house. She thinks his name was Douglas. She's of the mind that Matthew's been in touch with this Mr. Douglas to find out what was the name of the hotel. And, what's more, it's quite near Balmoral".
"Balmoral, eh? Sorry!" Tom chuckled.
"Well the Banchory estate is very beautiful and being so close to Balmoral, I expect Mary is hoping very much to catch a glimpse of the ghastly Mrs. Simpson!" Sybil laughed.
"I doubt she'll do that. From what I hear tell, the king and Mrs. Simpson spend most of their time down at Fort Belvedere in Surrey. Besides which no-one in England or for that matter in Scotland is supposed to know anything at all about their romance and, if it wasn't for your mother's friends in America telling your Mama, neither would you!"
Billiards Room, Downton Abbey, England, later that same evening.
"Cracking shot! Bravo! Well played! You're becoming very good at this, Rob. One day soon and you'll be giving your Uncle Tom a run for his money".
Robert laughed.
"Oh, I don't know about that, father".
"Would you like another brandy?"
Aged fifteen, Robert hesitated; eyed the brandy decanter proffered by his father with some trepidation.
"Thank you, father but ... what would Mama say?"
"A couple of small snifters at your age won't do you any harm. Far better that you learn how to drink in moderation. Besides, what your Mama doesn't know about ..."
"Then, rather!"
"Good man!" Matthew gave his eldest son a conspiratorial wink and promptly refilled the pair of glasses.
"Cheers!"
"Cheers!"
There now followed a moment's companionable silence when neither of them spoke, broken at last by Robert.
"Papa, may I ask you something?"
"Of course. Fire away old chap".
"It's ... personal".
"Oh, well. That's more your Uncle Tom's department rather than mine, don't you know!"
Robert grinned; knowing full well that his father was far more worldly wise than he pretended to be and that his seeming diffidence masked an innate goodness and a kindly nature. Never once, whether on the estate or down in the village, had he heard anyone speak ill of his father. Both tenants and villagers alike knew how approachable his father was and how, over the last fifteen or so years, especially since grand papa died back in '31, the new earl of Grantham had devoted himself to placing the Downton Abbey estate on a secure financial footing. Robert knew too, ever since he had been old enough to take an interest in such people, how highly his father was regarded by those diplomats and politicians who singly or with their wives in tow came here to stay at Downton as house guests of his parents.
"Well, Uncle Tom's not here to ask him and anyway it's not what you think".
"There's a relief. So what ..."
"Is Mama ..."
"Is Mama what?"
"Well, is she quite herself?"
"As far as I'm aware, yes. Why? Whatever makes you ask that?"
"Well, she seems to be in a very good mood. She certainly was earlier this evening at dinner".
"Was she? I can't say that I noticed particularly. Then again, I suppose I was thinking rather more about the repairs due to the roofs of that row of cottages down in the village opposite the parish church".
Robert smiled; trust his father not to have noticed.
"And then yesterday afternoon, when I was going upstairs to fetch my cricket bat for a round of practice with Simon, I heard her singing as she crossed the gallery".
"Blimey! Singing? In public? Why the last time I heard your mother doing anything like that ... it was during the Great War". Matthew laid down his cue on the edge of the table as an image formed in his mind of both himself and poor William, Private Mason as he then was, God rest him, coming back from the Western Front here to Downton in 1916 to find, with Edith seated at the piano, Mary in full voice, entertaining the troops in the Music Room. A lifetime ago. Robert's voice broke in upon his thoughts.
"Mind you, it was what she was singing that surprised me most".
"Good God, it wasn't one of the ditties on those postcards you and Simon brought back from Scarborough last year, was it?" Even though he was obviously speaking in jest and that they were here in the Billiards Room, on the far side of the house, and so, hopefully, away from prying ears at keyholes, Robert noticed that his father had lowered his voice considerably and was speaking in a hushed tone.
"No, father. Nothing like that".
Robert flushed at the memory his father's words had evoked.
That handful of saucy seaside postcards which he and Simon had purchased surreptitiously when they were in Scarborough staying with a school friend last July and had then hidden in the bottom of the old washstand in the disused day nursery here at Downton, intending to show them to Danny when the Bransons came over for their customary stay in the summer had caused him and his brother no end of trouble. Quite how it was that they had then come to be found lying on the table in the hall by one of the housemaids, Robert never found out. He thought that creep Barrow might have had a hand in it but of course he couldn't prove it. Of course, predictably, Mama had been horrified.
Standing, embarrassed, in front of the fireplace in the Library, with their hands held meekly behind their backs, the two boys had been subjected to one of their mother's famous tirades. It was almost as if between them he and Simon had somehow contrived to bring down the British Empire.
"... and this, of course, is what comes of sending the boys to a school here, in Yorkshire. If you'd listened to me and sent them away to Harrow like their grandfather as I asked you to, then none of this ..."
"Mary, boys will be boys, wherever they go to school".
"Is that all you can say? Honestly Matthew, at times you can be so middle class!"
"What then?"
Robert looked nonplussed.
"I don't quite follow ..."
"What was Mama singing?"
"That Scottish tune, the one she likes so much ... By Yon something or other".
"By Yon Bonnie Banks And By Yon Bonnie Braes".
"Yes, that was it".
"Now why on earth would she be singing that?"
Robert shrugged.
"Search me!"
Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, slightly earlier that same evening.
When he left Sybil, Tom went straight back up to the house but then, making sure he wasn't being observed, either by Saiorse who was somewhere about or by Bobby who was listening to Radio Athlone in the kitchen, instead of going up to his study, Tom went along the tiled hallway, out of the front door, and down the steps. Outside the gate he turned to his left, walked down Idrone Terrace, turned left up Bath Place, and then left again onto the dirt track that ran along behind the terrace of houses.
A short walk brought Tom to the rear gate of his own garden and where, over the wall, unobserved by her, he could hear Sybil still chatting away to little Dermot. Crossing quietly to the other side of the track, Tom made his way over to the brick outbuilding which doubled both as a garage for the family motor, a maroon and black Morris Eight and which Tom kept so highly polished that it positively gleamed, and a workshop for himself, and where he stored his beloved motor bike, although at the moment, that was conspicuous by its absence. Still keeping out of sight, going in through the rear of outbuilding, Tom heard the clatter of something metallic, followed by a loudly mouthed expletive:
"Feckin hell!"
Hearing the door open and then the sound of approaching footsteps, dressed in dirty, grey overalls and wearing a pair of black hobnailed boots, his face smeared with oil, Danny slid out from beneath the Morris where he had been working on one of the drum brakes.
"Sorry, Da!"
"Oh don't mind me!" Tom waved him into silence. "It's your Ma who doesn't approve of swearing. How are you getting on?"
"I'm not".
"Do you want me to take a look?" asked Tom unbuttoning his waistcoat and rolling up his sleeves.
"If you don't mind?"
"Mind? Of course I don't mind for sure. Or are you forgetting that I was once a chauffeur for your grandpapa?"
Danny smiled. The oft told story of his beloved Da's courting of Ma when she was Lady Sybil Crawley, the third and youngest daughter of the earl and countess of Grantham, and when Da was but the family's chauffeur, had long since passed into the annals of Branson family history.
Danny nodded.
"No, I haven't forgotten for sure".
It was almost as if Da had been reading his thoughts.
"Your Ma and I did much of our courting in a place very much like this. You know - the old garage at Downton".
Again Danny nodded, smiled happily as he watched his father take in the familiar surroundings; in particular, the wooden work bench with its neatly ordered assortment of tools. Saw his father's eyes alight on the framed photograph hanging on the brick wall above and which showed a man in uniform sitting astride a powerful motorbike, a Brough Superior SS100.
"Your Aunt Edith met him you know, when she was out in the Near East".
"Yes, I remember you telling me".
"It was kind of him to send me that photograph".
"Yes, it was".
"Such a bloody waste; I mean, to die like that, after all he'd been through".
Danny nodded; knew that his father had been a great admirer of T. E. Lawrence, better known to one and all as "Lawrence of Arabia" and who had been killed in a motorbike accident the previous year, when he swerved to avoid two boys skylarking about on their bicycles on a quiet country lane in Dorset, over in England.
Danny now eyed his father's clothes.
"What?"
"Hadn't you'd better wait while I'll fetch you a clean pair of overalls? You know what Ma will say if you don't put them on!"
Tom grinned and nodded his head.
"Do your own bloody washing, Mr. Branson! Very well. If you must".
"It's you I'm thinking of Da!"
"I don't know why your Ma makes such a fuss. A little bit of grease never hurt anyone," grumbled his father good naturedly.
"I suppose it's something to do with her being a matron at the hospital. Cleanliness is next to godliness or some such tommyrot!"
"Before you do, there's something that we need to discuss".
"Oh. What's that for sure?" asked Danny nervously.
"Lady Isabella?"
"What about her?"
"The other evening, Ma overheard you make mention of her, when you were on the telephone to Rob".
"Cripes! That's rather torn it!" Tom smiled. If his nephew Rob had acquired a fine command of Irish invective from his cousin, then in return Danny had picked up a goodly smattering of colloquial English.
"Not necessarily. Ma thinks she's an aristocratic young lady!"
Danny grinned.
"Does she now? Well, I suppose, in a way she is. Although at eighty two, she can hardly be described as young for sure!"
His father chuckled.
"Well, don't say anything unless you have to but if your Ma asks you, just play along. Let her believe what she will. I'll be telephoning Uncle Matthew from the office tomorrow to confirm all the arrangements. And now I also need to warn him that your Aunt Mary thinks he's planning on taking her on a second honeymoon to Scotland".
"Scotland?"
"Oh, don't you start for sure".
"Start what?"
"Never mind. Your aunt overheard Uncle Matthew talking to Rob about Mr. Douglas".
"Mr. Douglas? Who on earth's he?"
Tom grinned.
"Well, son, your Aunt Mary thinks he's the land agent for a large estate up in Scotland. The thing is, you and I both know that he isn't".
"I don't quite understand ..."
"Yes, you do. Think about it. Lady Isabella, Douglas ..."
A moment later, the penny dropped, and Danny's still cherubic features spread into the widest of grins.
"Poor Aunt Mary!"
Tom smiled.
"I rather think it will be a case of poor Uncle Matthew when Aunt Mary finds out that Mr. Douglas doesn't even exist and that your uncle has no intention whatsoever of taking her to Scotland!"
"Crikey!"
Tom nodded.
"Crikey for sure!"
Author's Note:
The title of this story is that of a famous painting by the English artist J. M. W. Turner (1775-1851) while the title of the chapter is the first line of the well-known traditional Scottish song, The Bonnie Banks o' Loch Lomond.
Samuel Hoare was the British Foreign Secretary and Pierre Laval the Prime Minister of France. In December 1935 they had proposed, in secret, a partition of Abyssinia which would have given the Italian dictator Benito Mussolini what he wanted and have turned the country into an Italian colony. While this was never actually put into effect, in the long run it made no difference, as the Italians invaded and then occupied Abyssinia in May 1936.
In a speech, considered by many to be among the most stirring ever made in the twentieth century, Haile Selassie (1892-1975) Emperor of Abyssinia (Ethiopia) did indeed make an impassioned plea for help for his beleaguered country before the assembled members of the League of Nations in Geneva in May 1936.
At this time, while newspapers in both America and Europe reported what was going on, the British press adhered strictly to a self-imposed news blackout regarding the on-going romance between Edward VIII and Mrs. Simpson. Not until December 1936 did the story of their affair become public knowledge in Great Britain.
At the time of the story, Radio Athlone, the successor to 2RN, was the name of the Irish Free State's only radio station.
Mystery still shrouds the death of T. E Lawrence in May 1935. While it may have been just a tragic accident, there are those who believe it was something rather more sinister.