Chapter Four

Of Trams, Horses, And Motors

Maison des Colombes, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.

Of course, in life, chance plays its part in so many things.

As indeed it did today, here in St. Paul where, at last, if only briefly, the rain had now stopped.

For, this particular lunchtime, had it not been the case that Alec and Simon had an appointment to keep down at the Gare de Cagnes to meet someone off the train from Nice, and had Maysonet's two sons, Jules and Pierre, not taken themselves off unexpectedly up into Vence, to look at some old timbers which they had heard about on le téléphone arabe and might, they thought, just prove suitable for re-roofing the ruined colombier behind the house, there would have been someone in when accompanied by Alphonse, Maysonet decided to pay his unexpected call.

Not, of course, that he had to stop off at the Maison des Colombes at all.

But call here, he did.

Having learned earlier in the day from both Jules and Pierre that the hornets' nests had been disposed of safely, wending his way home from a convivial drink or two taken in the Bar Nicolas, on the spur of the moment, Maysonet decided to call in at the Maison des Colombes in order to collect his leather bag of carpenter's tools. This so that he could finally fix the broken lock on the door at the rear of Madame Tanet's place. In return for which act of generosity he hoped Héloise would be exceedingly grateful, and so thereafter be able to while away a pleasant afternoon spent in her company.

It was Maysonet's firm belief that the decidedly buxom, shapely, Madame Héloise Tanet needed a man about the place.

And not just any man.

The individual Maysonet had in mind to fill this august role was himself.

Of course there had been a man in the Tanet household once before: Monsieur Henri. But, sad to relate, one night having had too much to drink, the daft bugger had been stupid enough to step in front of a tram in Nice.

The damage to the front of the tramcar had been minimal.

That to the reckless Henri, rather more extensive.

In fact, fatal.

As well as disrupting the tram service along the entire line for the whole of the evening, and to the decided inconvenience of the travelling public.


Now although it caused a great deal of comment at the time, in the form of wagging tongues, Héloise made arrangements to have the unfortunate Henri interred down there in Nice. For as she said to several mourners at the veillée funèbre, there was no point wasting good money on bringing the idiot's corpse all the way back up here to St. Paul, just so that Henri could be buried in the local cemetery.

It was, continued Héloise, warming to her task and waxing lyrical, probably on account of one too many glasses of wine, her considered opinion that dear, dead Henri would be just as comfortable, as well as proving cheaper, laid to rest in the Cimetière du Château in Nice, from where there was an exceedingly fine view out over the ocean. Not, of course, that the hapless Henri would be in a position to appreciate it but no matter; Héloise would enjoy the prospect for the both of them. That would be when she went down into Nice to see her dressmaker.

But then, only if time permitted.

And dress fittings so often overran.

And if they did not, then the weather might prove inclement, to risk a walk up to the cemetery.

And the bus service back here to St. Paul was also inconvenient.

So with all of this, in the three years that had elapsed since the fatal encounter between Henri and the tramcar, Héloise had still not managed to enjoy the unrivalled view from the Cimetière du Château.


La Rosière, near Nantes, Brittany, France, autumn 1949.

Early evening.

A faint mist rising, coiling, smoke like, from off the softly flowing grey waters of the river.

The smell of damp earth, leaf mould, and of wood smoke that made Edith think instantly of distant Downton.

Above her head a handful of brown, withered leaves spiralled down.

And, for the very first time this year, there was, thought Edith, a distinct chill in the air.

In all likelihood therefore, an early autumn beckoned.

"And?" she asked as, with their relationship long since having resumed its customary intimacy and rhythm, here at La Rosière, arm in arm, she and Kurt were strolling slowly back towards the château, along the north bank of the Loire.

"Dearest Mama?" Kurt slipped his arm about her still slender waist, while Edith rested her head comfortingly against his shoulder. These days, Kurt was several inches taller than she. Just as darling Max had been ... No, don't think of what might have been. Be thankful for what you had. What, you still have. Here beside you.

"My darling boy, when we were all down there in Biarritz staying at the Zhdanovs' villa, I know that you told me on the beach ... ... that you were a man grown ... And if you don't want to talk about it, then I promise you that I won't press you any further ... But ... I think ... there are things to tell me, are there not? For example, the letter which arrived here only this morning? Why, after you'd read it, your father said he hadn't seen you so happy in ages. And, neither for that matter, my darling, have I".

Kurt blushed.

"Darling Mama, I don't know what to say. Except that I've been so utterly beastly. Towards you and to Papa. And I'm so very, very sorry. I shouldn't have ..."

"Hush now, my darling. That's all forgotten. All the same, both your father and I could not help but notice the postmark. May I presume it was from ..." Edith turned her head.

Kurt looked down fondly at his mother; now gave her the most dazzling of smiles.

"Hannah ... yes".


Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.

By the time Tom and Mary reached the top of the cliffs, he remarking, as he had done once before to Sybil, that the distance seemed to be greater than he remembered it to be, and came once more in sight of the house, of their unexpected visitor down there to the cove there was no sign.

None whatsoever.

This in itself was strange, said Tom, who at Mary's insistence had, leaning against a stone wall, paused to recover his breath. On the face of it, even allowing for their own relatively slow rate of progress, there was nowhere the man could possibly have gone; not in the space of time which had elapsed since they first saw him and then reached the top of the cliffs where they were now standing. As from this point to the ha-ha, that marked where the garden of the house began, there was open country. Nothing more than a treeless, flat expanse of sheep cropped turf.

But thereafter, as they set off again, all thought of the unknown man was quickly forgotten, as from a distance they were hailed by Danny and his two eldest walking back to the house from the old stables. Evidently, Dermot had done as he had been asked and passed on his mother's message that Danny, Daniel and Tomás should be timely in their return. Although of Dermot and Emily there was no immediate sign.


"Hello, Aunt Mary! Why, yous be looking grand, for sure!" laughed Danny. Dressed in an open necked check shirt, oil stained overalls, and wearing a pair of heavy, hobnailed boots he darted forward and bestowed a kiss on his aunt's ivory cheek. For some reason, his infectious bonhomie cheered Mary enormously; lifted her spirits, as indeed did his next comment. "Our Dermot tells me that yous be wanting to ride out tomorrow?"
"If you can spare the time".

"For my favourite aunt? I will, to be sure!"

"A little less of the Irish blarney, if you please, Mr. Branson!" laughed Mary. But, for all that, secretly, she was very grateful indeed for her much loved nephew's promise to go out riding with her the following day.

"Boys?" Danny nodded his head towards Mary but, instead of moving forward to greet her, seemingly tongue-tied, Daniel and Tomás said nothing, now hurriedly pulled off their caps, and bowed gravely from the waist.

Danny cleared his throat.

"Go on with the pair of yous! They be thinkin' you're Queen Mary!"

"T'at's the person, not the ship!" whispered Tom with a devilish grin.

"And is that really supposed to make me feel any better? Do I look over eighty? Tom, don't you dare answer that!" laughed Mary. "Now boys, come here the both of you and walk with me back to the house". Smiling, Mary promptly held out her hands; saw Daniel and Tomás eye each other nervously. "It's all right, whatever you may have been told, I don't bite!"

Slowly Daniel and Tomás did as they had been asked; now fell in beside their great aunt, each taking one of her outstretched hands. A moment later Mary wished she hadn't made the offer; like those of their father, the boys' hands were stained with motor oil. However, not for nothing was Mary a Crawley and that twice over. In a display of stoicism - she had learned the word from Matthew with his love of all things Classical - Mary said nothing; merely walked on across the grass, holding her two great nephews firmly by both of their oily, dirty hands.


As they reached the front steps of the house, Mary promptly letting go of Daniel and Tomás's oil-stained hands, horn blaring, scattering a gaggle of squawking geese, a black motor emerged swiftly out from beneath the canopy of the trees lining the drive leading up to the house from the off road.

Danny grinned.

"Ah! Here's Claire. Back from her rounds. She's just like Ma. Loves to drive fast, for sure!"

"Yes, so I can see!"

And so it proved to be.

In a splatter of flying gravel, Dr. Claire Branson drew her battered Riley to a stop in front of the house, where, shortly afterwards, there followed yet a further round of greetings.


"Hello, Lady Grantham!"
"Claire, darling! Lady Grantham? You must call me Aunt Mary".

As the women kissed each other politely on the cheek, the two young boys who had been sitting inside on the back seat of the car now clambered out. The first was young Rober' while the second ...

Even if Mary had not known who he was, there was no mistaking who young Josef's father had been.

He was the absolute image of darling Max.


In the unlikely event of anyone ever chancing to ask her to describe it to them later, Mary would have said that the scene presently unfolding before her resembled nothing short of a madhouse; although, of the late and unlamented first Mrs. Rochester there was no immediate sign. But then, given all the circumstances, that was hardly surprising. For this was not some dusty, long forgotten garret, at the top of Thornfield Hall. This was the old kitchen of Skerries House.

And the "inmates" of this particular institution were all children.

Juvenile delinquents, thought Mary.

Or else, perhaps, escapees from a chimpanzees' tea party.

But then, from what she remembered of such a gathering, albeit faintly - perhaps Edith and rather more importantly Sybil might yet recall it - which, along with their nanny, Mary and her two sisters had watched, when the three of them had been children, at the zoo up in London, long before the Great War, a lifetime ago, during the reign of Queen Victoria, the chimpanzees had been far better behaved.


Save for Dermot and Emily - whom, Mary assumed, must still be looking at the horses down in the stables, they were all here, below stairs, or as Sybil insisted calling it downstairs - in the old kitchen of the house, where under the watchful eyes of Tom and Sybil, along with those of both Danny and Claire, the younger children in the Branson household were all having their tea.

Watchful eyes?

Hardly.

From what Mary also remembered of childhood teatimes taken in the day nursery at Downton, dear old Nanny had been possessed of watchful eyes. As well as another pair seemingly in the back of her head. Nothing ever got past Nanny. And, never, for an instant would Mary or her sisters have ever been allowed to behave as these children were doing so now. Eating, chattering, and laughing. But even Mary could see that all of them were undeniably happy; as well they might be. Danny and Claire were both doting parents and it was obvious that the children adored their grandparents, Tom and Sybil, with whom they shared the easiest of relationships. While a boisterous handful, Danny's three boys were an undeniably handsome, young trio; in which respect they took after both their father and paternal grandfather. Rober', the youngest, named for dearest Bobby killed in the air raid on Dublin's Northside back in May 1941, was the image of the uncle he had never known.

And seated here at the long scrubbed, deal table, opposite Tom and Sybil's youngest, Ailis, there was someone else who also very much resembled another member of the family who, like Bobby, had died during the war. Six year old Josef who in both his looks and colouring was so like his late father that, thought Mary with a heartfelt, stifled sigh, he could have been darling Max come back to life.


Maison des Colombes, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.

Maysonet let himself into the house.

Indeed, he was rather surprised that he had to do so; was then equally surprised to find no-one here. Neither of the two young Englishmen, nor his own sons. But a quick reconnoitre proved that both the house and the cleared garden were indeed empty. Back inside, with Alphonse trotting ahead of him, Maysonet set off up the spiral stone staircase to the attic room where he had left his bag of carpenter's tools.


Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.

"Yes, I agree. Together, they are rather a handful!" nodded Claire with a grin, looking fondly at the four young boys and Ailis seated at the long table. She placed her hands demurely across her belly. "I do so very much hope that this next one's a girl. It will help to even things up a bit round here! Even Danny agrees with that!" She laughed. So too did Sybil.

"When do you think you are due? I imagine late next spring?"

"Yes, all being well".

"Don't worry, it will be. By the way, Tom and I are absolutely delighted".

Impulsively, Sybil hugged Claire to her, someone of whom over the past few years, she had come to love very much; this made easier by the fact that the marriage between Danny and Claire was so obviously a happy one. Sadly, Sybil had had virtually no opportunity to become properly acquainted with Danny's first wife, Carmen, given the fact that they were living in far distant Madeira and paid but one visit here to Ireland; that, during the Emergency, in the aftermath of the death of darling Bobby. And then, shortly after that, Carmen herself had died, tragically, in a forest fire, sacrificing herself in order to save the lives of her three young sons.

Bringing with him his three motherless boys, a heartbroken Danny had returned to Ireland and for a very long while, Tom and Sybil had thought that he would never remarry. Then, following the tragedy of Max's death, Danny and Claire had begun writing to each other; a lengthy correspondence, leading finally to their engagement, and then to their marriage. So with Danny and Claire living here at Skerries, Sybil was determined to make up for lost time.

A moment later and she had turned to Mary.

"Another grandchild. All being well, that will make eight! Nine including dear little Josef. Isn't it wonderful news?"

"Yes, well, of course".

Like her late father, Mary was never very good at discussing medical matters with anyone; certainly not the business of having children, especially with someone she did not know that well. What made it infinitely worse was that, as with Sybil, Claire, like her fellow members of the medical profession, seemed quite blasé about all manner of such things. Had no qualms whatsoever about discussing openly what they regarded as of a daily occurrence. For her part, Mary considered that a discrete veil should be drawn over such matters and not have them spoken of in public; even among members of one's own immediate family.


"No, Rober'!" The little boy looked up questioningly at his stepmother, and then almost immediately across at his Da standing on the other side of the room, for some form of enlightenment as to what it was that he had done wrong.

"Son, yous don't put honey on your soldiers and then dip them in your boiled eggs!" remonstrated Danny.

"But, Da it tastes grand, for sure!"

"Grand, maybe. But yous just don't do that!"

Over by the stove, standing with their arms around each other's waists, Tom and Sybil exchanged amused glances, recalling that when he had been about the same age as Rober' was now Danny had done something very similar, involving a tin of sardines and a jar of marmalade.

"Ouch! That hurt, for sure!" yelled Tomás.

"Daniel Branson! A fork is for eating with, not stabbing your brother!" This from Claire, who now promptly took possession of the offending item of cutlery from out of the startled grasp of her eldest stepson.

"Ma!" cried Tomás, now making a dramatic show of rubbing his injured thigh, on which but the tiniest of red marks were now faintly to be seen.

"I think you'll live," said Claire, clearly unconcerned.

"He started it, Ma! He said I was a feckin' ..." This from Daniel.

"I don't want to hear what it was he called you!"

Daniel glared angrily at Tomás while Ailis, assuming an air of prim superiority, decided now was the opportune moment for her to to make her own contribution to the evening's proceedings.

"He did, Claire. Tomás said Daniel was a fe ..." she began.
"Yes, thank you, young lady. We don't need your two-penneth worth!" admonished Sybil. Beside her, Tom grinned at his daughter; put his forefinger to his lips.

"Yes, Ma".

Realising she herself was now the object of unwanted attention, Ailis blushed. Clammed up immediately and instead resumed eating her boiled eggs and soldiers while unseen, Tomás stuck out his tongue at her.

"See what he .." began Daniel.

"I didn't ..." wailed Tomás, now assuming, had he known what it was, an expression of righteous indignation. Not of course that he did, but, contrived all the same to look as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

"Yes, yous did, for sure!"

"No, I didn't!" Once more unseen, Tomás promptly stuck out his tongue again, this time at his elder brother.

"Daniel, darling, even if he did, you're older than he is".

"Only by two years!"
"Whether it's one year or two, that doesn't make a blind bit of difference. Now, as I just told you, you're older than Tomás, so you should know better than to behave like that! Especially when we have guests. What ever will your Great Aunt Mary be thinking? I'll tell you. She'll be thinking you are very badly behaved indeed, that's what!"

That's an understatement, thought Mary.

"And, no, darling, I'm not saying you did start it," added Claire hastily, seeing Tomás scowl.

"I didn't, Ma! Honest!"

"Yes yous did! Yous said I was a feck ..." began Daniel.

"Feck yousel'!"
"Not another word! From of either of yous!" warned Danny. "Otherwise, your Great Aunt Mary will be very displeased! And both of yous knows what that will mean, for sure!" Unseen by the two boys, Danny winked broadly at his aunt.

At this startling pronouncement on the part of their Da, Daniel and Tomás now exchanged horrified glances. Grandpa Tom had told them that Great Aunt Mary was very beautiful. Which indeed was the case. Maybe, just maybe, she was like Morganna le Fay at the court of King Arthur in the stories Grandpa had read to them at bedtime. Very beautiful but also ... a sorceress, possessed of great magical powers. With this thought in mind, each of the two boys hastily put a forefinger to their lips, the pair of them, then and there assuming the angelic expressions reserved for a pair of Botticelli cherubs.

Here in the kitchen it was now as if a switch had been thrown or a button pressed; that by some miracle, the whole family had been transported suddenly into the quiet and contemplation of a Trappist order of monks. For there descended instantaneously upon the entire proceedings, so complete and utter a silence that had it been dropped the proverbial pin would now have been heard. Outside, and purely coincidentally, caused only by the sun disappearing momentarily behind a bank of cloud, the sky now suddenly darkened. The effect all this produced here within the old kitchen could not have been more dramatic; served only to enhance Great Aunt Mary's reputation among the younger generation at Skerries as someone, with whom it was very unwise to trifle and whom one only risked annoying at one's peril.

Mary wondered what they had been saying about her, what with Danny's two eldest doffing their caps and bowing. And now this. Considered that she wouldn't be at all surprised if they hadn't been told she was a witch; singularly unaware, of course, of just how close to the truth this in fact was. Now whether or not this had some part to play in what happened next, no-one, not even Mary herself could have said.


Maison des Colombes, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.

Up the stone steps, pausing frequently for breath went old Maysonet, Alphonse scampering ahead of him so much so that as the old builder rounded one spiral, all he glimpsed was the hind quarters and the tail of Alphonse as the dog trotted on up the steps. And then, finally, at the doorway to the attic, which he remembered the Englishman who was the artist intended using as a studio, Maysonet finally caught up with Alphonse on the threshold of the room where the dog was sitting whining piteously.

"Qu'est ce que c'est, mon vieux?"

There before them was the attic room, the atelier lit by its cracked sky light - the broken glass of which still had to be replaced - and with its timbers, the beams, purlins, and rafters, all smelling strongly of wood preservative. Save for a large easel and stool, as well as the paraphernalia associated with an artist - sheets of paper, rolls of canvas, jars of brushes and pencils, rags, a palette, and a wooden box containing tubes of paints - the attic it was empty. As if the Englishman had just stepped outside for a quick cigarette.

Dust motes danced in the shaft of sunlight streaming in through the cracked glass of the casement.

The attic was empty.

Or was it?

Then, somewhere, in the silent atelier, a floorboard creaked.

A moment later, all thought of his bag of tools, la veuve Tanet, even his earlier shortness of breath now forgotten, Maysonet turned and, with Alphonse, his tail between his legs, fled back down the staircase whence they had just come.


Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.

Pudding had been rhubarb and custard which, Ailis announced proudly to the assembled company she had helped Colleen and Nora make. A short while later, in front of all of the children seated here at the kitchen table, along with rosy cheeks and happy, smiling faces, there were empty plates aplenty; the children desperate to be allowed down from the table and allowed to go outside and play before it was time for bed.

Empty plates aplenty?

Well, almost.

For, despite Ailis's undoubted skills as a cook, the stewed rhubarb had not found favour with one member of the family: young Josef who, throughout the entire meal had been noticeably far less boisterous than the rest of them and who, to be frank, appeared somewhat overawed by his more exuberant half brothers. If no-one else had noticed this fact, and it seemed that they had not, it had not escaped the attention of Mary.

"Please, Ma?"

"No, Daniel, not until everyone else has finished. Josef's still eating".

"Come on Joe! We want to go down to the treehouse!"

"Yes, come on, slowcoach!"

Josef glowered at Daniel and then glared at Tomás; all the while continuing to toy slowly with the bowl of rhubarb and custard with his spoon.

And then, something totally unexpected happened.

To the amazement of everyone here present, forgetting her own present woes, Mary did something she would never have expected to do. Would not have done with her own grandchildren. She walked forward and knelt down on the flagstones beside Josef's chair. A sudden hush descended and, spellbound, everyone waited to see what would happen next.

"Now, young man, did you know that your father and I were the greatest friends?"
Josef slowly shook his head; looked towards his mother for confirmation of this startling new fact.

"Yes, darling, your Papa and Aunt Mary were very good friends". Claire smiled; nodded her head.

Josef now looked back at Mary.

"So, tonight, before you go to sleep, would you like me to sit with you, and tell you what I remember about him?"
"Yes, please," whispered Josef, softly.

Mary smiled.

"Then, that's agreed. I will. But first things first. I know that your father would have wanted you to grow up big and strong. And that means ..." Mary nodded her head towards Josef's bowl. "If I help you, will you eat all of it up?" Josef nodded and, watched by Mary, picked up his spoon and at last began to eat.

Overhearing this exchange, Claire had to smile.

By common assent, even among the family, Aunt Mary was not the most approachable of people. Equally, too, some things are best left unspoken about, until the need comes for the telling of them, as with Aunt Mary's promise to recount to Josef her recollections of his father, Max. But that of all those here present, it should be the usually aloof, disdainful Mary Crawley who seemingly, saving Claire herself, alone understood that the way to win the trust of the little boy was to talk to him about his Papa was quite unexpected. As a result, Claire found herself feeling very kindly disposed towards the Countess of Grantham.

While Claire was reflecting on this strange turn of events, Daniel and Tomás, now once again the best of friends, exchanged knowing glances. Perhaps, after all, despite all they had heard, Great Aunt Mary was not as bad as they had first imagined her to be. Maybe, as Da had said, her bark was much worse than her bite. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry and so it might be for the best, at least for the time being, if they didn't do what they had planned to do later this evening: sneak into her room and apple-pie her bed. After all, Heaven knows what she then might do.

Probably turn the both of them into a pair of toads.


Gare de Cagnes, Cagnes sur Mer, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.

"Father! Is it really you?"

"Well, let me wash the cinders out of my hair and the grime from off my face and then we'll both be sure. Yes, indeed".

Holding out his hand to Simon, Matthew nodded at his son; glanced curtly at Alec who for once found himself uncharacteristically lost for words. The circumstances under which they were meeting were ... irregular. This apart, just how did one address a member of the British aristocracy? He tried to remember what it was Simon had said. And for the life of him, now found that he couldn't remember one single bloody word of what he had been told.

Not that Alec really cared.

As a Communist, he would quite happily consign all members of the aristocracy, British or French, to the pages of history. Not that he subscribed to the Russian solution to the problems inherent in society, readily conceding first Lenin, and now Stalin, to be a murderous pair of bastards. That what they had created there in Soviet Russia was no better than what had gone before. Indeed, in many ways, it was far, far worse. But, for Simon's sake, Alec wanted this meeting between Simon and his father to work. After all, this was the first direct contact Simon would have had with a member of his immediate family since he had left Downton back in the spring of 1944.

Simon studiously ignored his father's outstretched hand.

"Why have you come ... your telegram said very little".
Matthew let his ignored hand drop.

"That's the way of it with telegrams. Brevity's the name of the game". The earl of Grantham contrived a dry laugh. "I had ... I have ... business in ..."
"Geneva? Yes, that much I gathered".
"Yes, Geneva. The League ..."
"And if you hadn't, then I don't suppose you would even have bothered ..."

"Simon, I haven't come all this way for us to have an argument".

"Just why have you come?"

"I would have thought that was obvious".

"So bloody obvious that I can't see it?" Simon turned his back on his father; stood staring out of the window at the falling rain.

"Simon, please ... You're my son. I care what happens to you".

"Do you? Do you really?"
"Yes, of course".

From where he was standing, Alec could see, even if Matthew could not, the tears starting in Simon's eyes. Alec now did his best to pour oil on troubled waters. Rested his hands firmly on Simon's shoulders.

"Si, will you look at me, please".

Simon shook his head.

"No," he said brokenly.

"And so ... does your mother," added Matthew quietly. Some things are best left unspoken ... Scarce were the words out of his mouth, before Matthew realised he should have kept his piece.

Shrugging off Alec's hands, Simon spun about.

"I wondered when we would get around to Mama. Is that why you've come here? Because she sent you?"

"Simon, that remark does you no credit at all. That's not the way things are between Mama and I. No, your mother didn't send me. She doesn't even know I'm here".

"I'll never forgive her for what she did. Do you hear me? Never! Have you any idea what Alec went through there in prison?"

"I've a mild notion, yes. In fact, as it happens, rather more than that".

But for the moment, Simon wasn't listening.

"Even though he was innocent of what he was accused, Alec pleaded guilty as charged ... to spare me!"

That was something which Matthew hadn't known. He glanced briefly at Alec. Contrived a weak smile.

"I see ..."

"What you just said ..."

"Hm?"

"What mild notion?"

"Now is neither the time or the place to go into that". Matthew turned; now addressed himself to Alec. "Trust me, Mr. Foster, when I say that I do understand what you must have gone through. In fact, far more than either of you could possibly imagine. I'll tell you ... both of you ... all about that. But not now. To be perfectly frank, I'm dog tired ... These last few days ... I suppose it must be all the travelling. I half hoped ..."
"Hoped what?" asked Simon.

"That you might offer me a bed for the night. Or else tell me the whereabouts of the nearest decent hotel. I have to return to ... Geneva in a couple of days".

"Well, I don't know about ..." began Simon.
"Yes, of course, we'd be delighted," cut in Alec briskly. "After all, Si', you've said it yourself often enough".
"Said what?"
"That the local hotel's bloody awful".

Of course, Simon had said no such thing.

"Here, let me". Alec bent down and picked up Matthew's case.

"Thank you".

"Then, the car's this way ..."


Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.

"And just where might the two of you have been?" asked Sybil, now seeing Dermot and Emily both quietly crossing the hall below her. Hearing her voice, the two of them stopped dead in their tracks. That they had been holding hands had also not gone unnoticed by Sybil.

"Oh, Ma!" exclaimed Dermot looking about and now catching sight of his mother as she made her way down the main staircase of the house.
"Yes, that's me. How observant of you! Emily, darling, your mother's upstairs, changing for dinner".
"Dinner?" asked Dermot. As well he might. After all, they never sat down to dinner at Skerries. Supper, yes ... but dinner? "Changing for dinner?" Dermot sounded incredulous.

"Darling, the quickness of your mind never ceases to amaze me! Yes, that's what I just said. Changing for dinner". Sybil turned swiftly to Emily. "Your Mama was asking for you. I told her Dermot had telephoned the house from the stables and that both of you were on your way back here. Is that understood?" Sybil smiled.

"Oh, yes. Er, thank you!". Clearly relieved, Emily squeezed past her aunt and hurried on upstairs while, at the foot of the staircase, Dermot thrust his hands into his pockets and turned on his heel.

"Dermot!"

"Ma?"
"I want a word with you ..."


Good advice is so often ignored ...


Old Stables, Skerries House, later that same evening.

As Emily made her way across the cobbled yard of the old stables where, unbeknown to her, years ago, Uncle Tom and Aunt Sybil had first laid eyes on each other as children, to where the light was shining, her path was made certain not only by the lamp lit window, but by the fact this was where Dermot and she had come earlier today, to see both the horses and Danny's workshop. That Emily herself rode was something Dermot hadn't known. In fact, much to the disappointment of their mother, of Dermot's four Crawley cousins only Emily had shown any interest in both horses and in learning how to ride.

Having seen the horses, two bays and a chestnut - Dermot said as far as he was concerned all three were simply brown - and then the workshop, on learning that Dermot didn't know how to ride, Emily promised to rectify this glaring omission in his education. This on the understanding that while she and Mama were staying here at Skerries, he taught Emily how to drive.

And, said Dermot, he would teach her other things too.

"Such as?"

"The difference between an Austin, a Morris, and a Riley".

"Anything else Mr. Know-it-all?"

"Ah, now that would be telling, for sure!"


It was already beginning to grow foggy, just as Uncle Tom had said it might, this during dinner which had proved a somewhat fraught affair. To tell the truth, Emily was glad to be out of the house what with Mama still clearly upset over this business of Papa and some French countess, as well as Simon; about whom these days no-one ever seemed to speak at all.

Emily lifted the latch and let herself into the workshop.

Jacket and tie cast aside, there was Dermot - Derry as he had told her he preferred to be called - in waistcoat and trousers, his sleeves rolled up, leaning against the side of the motor, looking at a newspaper. Hearing the latch, he turned, and, when he saw who it was, he smiled.

"You look very fine".

Emily smiled.

Dermot straightened; laid aside the newspaper.

"It's very late. Won't your mother worry?"

The air tingled.

Emily shook her head.

"She's far too busy talking with Uncle ... I mean with your Da and Ma, about Papa and Simon, to care where I am".

Again the same strangeness in the air.

Almost as if ...

Dermot smiled.

"I like Uncle Matthew. Your brother Simon ... Now, he's the one that nobody ever speaks about?"

Emily nodded.

"He's living in France ... with his chum".

"You mean he's queer".

"What?"

"A homosexual".

Emily blushed.

"I don't know anything about that".

Dermot had the good grace to realise he had trespassed on sacred ground.

"Perhaps not. But as for your mother, she's a ..."
"Oh, Mama's all right".

"For sure," Dermot said softly, unable to keep his voice free from sarcasm.

"No, really she is. It's just her manner. Speaking of mothers, what did your Ma have to say to you, before dinner?"

"She wanted to warn me".

"Warn you? About what?"

"About ... us".

"And is there an us?" asked Emily.

Derry closed the gap between them.

"I think there might be. And, so do yous. After all, isn't that why you're here with me now? To find out?"

"Perhaps".

"Grand! So, let's see if I can make yous certain that there is".

"And just how do you intend doing that?"

"Like this ..."


"So, where shall we go?"

"There's a place I know, where I go when I want to be alone. It's not far".

Derry held out his hand to her.

"Are you nervous?"
"No. Why should I be?"


Villa Artemis, above Menton, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.

Matthew was aghast at what it was that Alice now proposed.

"I couldn't possibly".

"For my sake, mon cher, I ask that you reconsider".


Skerries Cove, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.

Here in the cave, down on the beach, by the flickering embers of the fire, as the waves broke on the strand, bathed in the glow of firelight, Derry rose above her. Her legs clasped together about his back, Emily drew him in, further, deeper still.


When the unexpected explosion rent the night air, they had fallen asleep. Were lying in each other's arms on the improvised bed of bracken; the thunderous noise of the detonation serving to jolt them out of their sated slumber, back to the cold harshness of reality.

"Jaysus! What the feck ..." Tousled haired and wide eyed, Dermot sat bolt upright. Saw beyond the mouth of the cave, the drifting, ethereal wall of fog illuminated in a sudden starburst of light.

Emily, likewise awoken in alarm, also sat up, her arms clasped about her bare breasts.

"Derry, what is it? What's happening?"

Another explosion now followed.

Then hard on its heels, a third.

"Feckin' hell! It's rockets!"

Stark naked, Dermot scrambled hastily to his feet; turned up the wick of the lantern.

"Rockets?"

While he struggled hurriedly into his clothes, Dermot sought to explain.

"Distress rockets. A ship must have run aground off the cove in the fog!"

"Heavens!"
"It's happened before ... that's how I know. Look, one of us must stay here. The other will have to go back to the stables and telephone the house. That is if the line from there is working. Sometimes it isn't. If so, then on up to the house. Either way, tell Da and Ma. Get them to call for help. Let the harbour master in Kinsale know what's happened. By rights it should be me to go but I know the shoals and the tides".

"Then that settles it. I'll go". Emily began pulling on her clothes.

"Yous?" Dermot looked back at her from the mouth of the cave.
"Yes, me. As you say, you know all about the ... What was it again?"
"The shoals and tides. For sure".

"Then it makes sense that you stay, and I go".

Dermot looked again at the fog swirling beyond the entrance of the cave.

"Darlin', it's t'ick as one of Ma's stews, for sure.
At that Emily had to smile. Stories abounded about Aunt Sybil's lack of cooking skills; indeed, they had become very much a part of Crawley family history.

"And?"

For a moment, Dermot was dumbfounded. His cousin Emily was proving to be very different to the handful of local girls he had come to know hereabouts after the Bransons had left Dublin for the wilds of County Cork. But, for all her admitted inexperience in matters sexual - not that she was a virgin, as Emily had freely admitted to him earlier - his English cousin had proved an enthusiastic partner in what they had done down here in the cave.

"What I mean is ... will yous be all right, for sure ... on your own?"

"Will you?"
"For sure!"

"Well then ..."

"But aren't yous nervous?"
"Of what? A little fog? No, not in the slightest".

"Do yous think yous can find the path?"

"Can I find the path?" Emily repeated; her tone mocking, so much so but for the fact there was no malice in her, it could have been her mother speaking. Having finished dressing, a moment later, she had risen to her feet, crossed the floor of the cavern, and come to stand beside him at the mouth of the cave.

"Well, can yous?"
"Derry Branson, aren't you forgetting something?"

"Forgettin' somethin'? Am I, for sure?" He grinned.
"Yes, you are". She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

"What?"

"I'm a Crawley".

"Take the lantern, for sure".

Emily shook her head.

"And leave you all alone in the dark? I'll be just grand!"

He followed her outside to see her go, both of them ducking down under the low mouth of the cave, something which had helped kept its existence known only to Dermot.

A moment later, having kissed him once again, alone, Emily set off resolutely through the drifting fog, back along the sands, in search of the narrow, steep path which led upwards to the top of the cliffs and Skerries House.

Author's Note:

le téléphone arabe - the grapevine.

In 1949, Queen Mary, the widow of George V, was 82.

Mrs. Rochester - see Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte.

The Emergency - the name by which the Second World War was known in neutral Ireland.

veillée funèbre - wake.

La veuve - widow.

For Tom and Sybil's childhood encounter at Skerries House, see Home Is Where The Heart Is.Chapter Three