A/N: Well, this next chapter is rather overdue - but to make up for it, it's split into two parts. The next part will be up tomorrow or the day after. I've renamed the story as I've strayed from my original premise and I'd grown to hate the name anyway :-) Hopefully those of you who wanted more of Sybil and Tom's life in Manchester won't be disappointed ! So thanks in advance to everyone who is still reading !


Manchester, June, 1922

Tom closed the door to his daughter's bedroom softly and sighed. Niamh was finally drifting off to sleep after a tantrum that had lasted over an hour. Somehow, he just didn't have Sybil's way with her when she got like this. His wife was fond of saying that he and his small daughter were already far too alike - two stags locking antlers, butting each other, neither prepared to give an inch. Tonight it had been about brushing her teeth. He had come home at half past six to find her still up, being entertained by Doris (who should have gone home hours ago) and Irene, nurserymaid sent over from Downton. Doris had heated up dinner for him whilst Irene had bathed her and put her in her nightdress, ready for Daddy to put her to bed. Then Doris and Irene had left and it had all gone downhill from there.

Sybil was in hospital and had been there for the last three weeks, waiting impatiently for their second child to make an appearance. After the drama of Niamh's arrival, she had decided that she wanted to give birth in the Manchester hospital where she had been working, looked after by people she knew and trusted. The obstetrician wanted her on bed rest for the last month of her pregnancy and he wanted her in hospital. So far, she was mercifully free of any sign of the toxaemia that had caused her to fit soon after her daughter's birth. She had been very lucky; whilst the two doctors in the room had stood watching in horror, the quick-thinking nurse had turned her on her side so that she did not swallow her tongue and choke. No one was taking any chances this time.

A month in hospital was going to make life difficult. Doris only ever had sole charge of Niamh for a few hours in the morning or the afternoon, depending on Sybil's shift. She'd been adamant that they could not expect their long suffering maid-of-all-work to take on the role of nurserymaid and to see to the rest of the housework, not to mention that they gave Doris every Sunday and alternate Saturday afternoons off. Cora had offered to pay for a nurse for Niamh, but Sybil was reluctant to leave her daughter with a stranger. This left them in something of a quandary. In the end, the problem resolved itself as soon as Tom gave the news to his mother. Mrs Branson had missed her granddaughter's birth and had not seen Niamh until she was nearly two months old, something she did not want to happen again. Then, two days before she was due to catch the boat, she tripped on her way down to her coal cellar and broke her ankle. There was simply no way she could make the trip over, let alone look after an active two year old all day. It meant they were forced to accept her parents' offer for the duration of Sybil's hospital stay.

The change in routine unsettled Niamh. Thankfully she had taken to Irene so that when Tom was at work, she was quite content to spend all day with her. But come the evening, Tom's reappearance would somehow remind her of her mother's absence and she would become fractious. The hospital did not allow children to visit, so it would be at least a month before she saw her mother again. To a little girl, this was a lifetime.

Sybil was just as bad - she missed Niamh and Tom terribly and was by now bored of lying in bed all day with nothing to do. Tom was allowed to visit on Wednesday and Sunday evenings, and Sunday afternoon. He found himself fulfilling demands for newspapers, books, even some long-abandoned embroidery that had been brought from Downton once and left to languish in an old suitcase - anything that would take her mind off why she was here. She was the only mother in the ward on bed rest, so she found the faces around her shifting and changing as women came in to give birth and left a few days later. Once new arrivals heard of why she was there they tended to avoid her, passing the end of her bed on the way to the bathroom with no more than a distant smile, as if the bad luck that had struck her last pregnancy had followed her and surrounded her bed like a miasma. Occasionally friends who were still working would pop down to spend their tea breaks with her and tell her the gossip from her ward. She had even been graced by a visit from Matron herself. Sybil had the feeling that Matron had never quite forgiven her for being married in the first place and had been unimpressed with a pregnancy after only working there for a year. But most of all, Matron had made her feel as if she were a disappointment; she had been given a chance, and she had wasted it. She'd broached coming back to work after the baby was weaned, but Matron was non-committal, giving her nothing more than a "we'll have to see, Mrs Branson".


Meanwhile, Tom held the fort at home. Irene was staying at a boarding house nearby, which meant that most mornings getting Niamh up and fed fell to him, before getting himself to work. It was a tense time in Ireland; the general election loomed and faced with their vote being split, the opposing factions of Sinn Fein had formed an uneasy pact. Working out the ramifications of this meant long hours in the office for Tom, following bulletins, chasing up contacts in the Dial, trying to unravel the complexities so they could be laid out for the British reading public to understand. Facts are sacred, his editor was fond of saying, but in these times of shifting allegiances and unholy alliances facts, at least ones that could be relied upon, were scarce.

And then Niamh had not wanted to clean her teeth. He tried to remain calm and reasonable, but the child had behaved as if he was asking her to suck on hot coals. A streak of stubbornness would not let her go to bed with her teeth uncleaned. After struggling with him for ten minutes she had worked herself up to such a pitch that the toothbrush was forgotten and all she could do was tattoo her little feet on the tiles in frustration and wail for her mother. She refused to be comforted, wresting herself from his grasp when he tried to hold her, screaming if he held her too tightly, until all he could do was sit on the side of the bath and watch her exhaust herself. Her distress made his throat tighten and he ached for Sybil even more. Only when she had eventually cried herself out did she allow him to put her to bed and pull the blankets up to her chin. She was still whimpering as he kissed her goodnight, shutting the door behind him. He was wrung out.

He contemplated going downstairs and pouring himself a whiskey, but mindful of Niamh's state, he decided to do the final edits to his piece on the election. He needed to be in a good frame of mind, as tomorrow brought with it the arrival of the Crawleys. Sybil's parents were coming to pay a visit and her mother was intent on staying in Manchester until after the baby was born.

He couldn't deny that he wouldn't be pleased to see her. He'd told Sybil he would welcome her family with open arms, a promise that had become increasingly easy to keep as far as his mother-in-law was concerned. She might be a Countess, but when she visited them in Manchester she came first and foremost as Sybil's Mama. She took them as she found them - there were no patronising comments about the furniture, the food or the lack of staff. Whenever Cora visited their home, she seemed genuinely pleased to see her daughter and granddaughter and she didn't seem to give a fig about her surroundings. Her lady's maid might mutter and look askance at being told to pack day dresses and only two hats, but Cora ignored her. Indeed, she began to take a quiet enjoyment in shocking Thompson by casually letting her know she'd been helping her daughter by drying dishes. When she'd allowed her granddaughter to wipe her sticky fingers all over her cream crepe de chine, she'd thought Thompson was going to have a seizure right there in the Plaza suite of the Midland Hotel. She found the thought rather thrilling.

Robert, on the other hand, was a different proposition. The Earl of Grantham was the Earl of Grantham, whether he was at Downton or a suburban Manchester villa. Indeed, he seemed to fill their rooms and managed to make the house feel small and cramped. It was obvious that Robert felt this too, as he was unable to be comfortable there. He would drink his tea and be entertained by his granddaughter, but he would never fully relax.

Tomorrow they would go straight to the hospital in the afternoon, then they would come and see their granddaughter before Robert would go home and Cora would return to the Midland Hotel. He knew Sybil would be pleased to see her parents, but he couldn't help feeling a little resentful that the Earl and Countess had gaily commandeered some of his precious visiting hours.

He was half dressed the next morning when he heard the sound of Niamh crying. Whatever had upset her yesterday was obviously not forgotten. In stocking feet and with his shirt tails hanging out, he pushed the door of her bedroom ajar to find her sitting up in bed, tears freely falling and her face pink with effort. When she saw him, she lifted her arms, wailing for Sybil. He knew how she felt. But he was evidently an acceptable substitute this morning as she quietened when he scooped her out of bed and held her tight.

"Mama…."

He kissed the top of her head.

"Sshhh, darling, I know you want Mummy. I do too. But she has to stay in the hospital till she has the baby."

'Why ?"

"So the doctors and nurses can look after her."

"Mama poorly," she said, wiping her eyes.

"Yes, love, she's poorly, but when she's had the baby, she'll be better and then she and the baby will come home." God willing, he couldn't help himself saying under his breath.

She frowned at him. Niamh knew about babies. Aunt Mary had a baby and whenever they were at Downton, Mama wanted to hold him.

"Baby come home ?"

"Yes, that's right."

"No."

Tom looked at her, a little surprised.

"Yes, love. The baby's coming home with Mummy. Then they'll be your little brother or sister, remember ?"

"No baby. Mama."

Tom stared at his daughter. They'd been very careful about telling Niamh what was going on as Sybil's stomach expanded, letting her feel the baby moving and explaining that soon it would come out and she would have a brother or sister. Somewhere along the line they had missed the fact that Niamh had not understood that her sibling would live here, with her. Knowing that he was storing up trouble for himself later, he nevertheless decided to let it go for the moment. He was not in the mood for another tantrum.

"Mummy will be home soon, darling," he promised. "Now, let's go and have some breakfast, eh ? What do you want ?"

As he'd hoped, the prospect of food made Niamh forget all about the addition to the family.

"Soldiers !"

"All right, then, I'll make you some soldiers then Daddy will have to finish getting dressed before Irene comes. And Granny and Grandpapa are coming later."

"Isis ?"

He carried her out onto the landing and started down the stairs.

"No, Isis is staying at home."

"Why ?"

"Because she doesn't like cars."

"Why ?"

He sighed.

"Do you want jam or marmite on your soldiers ?"


Irene arrived as Niamh was finishing her breakfast. She greeted her by waving a jammy finger of bread, then dropping it, jam side down, on the floor. Tom couldn't help but smile at her confusion as she stared at the mess on the tiles, then up at him, as if asking for an explanation.

"Well, you shouldn't wave your breakfast around, should you ?" he said, eyebrows raised significantly. Niamh pointed at the escaped soldier.

"Fell down," she said by way of an explanation.

"With a bit of help from you, little one"

"Never mind, Mr Branson, I'll sort it out and clean her up," Irene had already grabbed a cloth and was bearing down on her charge with determined efficiency.

He managed an hour of work whilst Irene dressed Niamh and got her ready for Mass. Father and daughter strolled to St Bernadette's, where they were the immediate centre of attention for the small group of women waiting by the lych gate. The whole congregation knew Sybil was in the hospital and were convinced that without his wife, Tom and his child must be starving. He had spent the last three weeks fending off well meaning supper invitations and taking home small gifts of home cooking. Even Father Ignatius had insisted he bring Niamh round for tea one Sunday, something he couldn't very well avoid. It was a peculiar afternoon - himself, two Irish parish priests and a small child. In the end he had enjoyed it much more than he thought - it was a rare chance to talk about the news from home with people for whom it meant something. He let Niamh eat too much cake and she fell asleep in his arms, lulled by the soft Irish voices around her. He could almost fancy himself back in Dublin.

His parents-in-law arrived at half past two in the afternoon, whilst Niamh was still having her nap. Tom opened the door to them.

"Lord Grantham, Lady Grantham," he said, the wary smile that greeted them dropping when he saw Pratt behind them with a large hamper.

"Hello Tom," Cora gave him a warm smile, "Pratt, please take the hamper through to Mr Branson's kitchen."

"It's very good of you, Lady Grantham, but I can still feed my own family," he said tersely as he stood aside to let Pratt carry the hamper though.

Cora followed her chauffeur into the hall and let Robert close the door behind her.

"Mrs Patmore wanted to send some of Sybil's favourites for when she comes home," she said evenly. "She knows she won't have any time for cooking after the baby is born. There's a cake and her favourite biscuits, as well as some pies she can just put in the oven. I believe she put some of the jam that Niamh likes so much in there as well. And there's some strawberries from the estate. Sybil does love her strawberries."

Tom felt his cheeks flush and gave his mother-in-law a small, contrite nod.

"Please thank Mrs Patmore for her kindness, Lady Grantham. Sybil will appreciate it, I'm sure. We both will," he added, after catching Robert's eye.

"Good. Now how about some tea ? Lord Grantham and I are parched after the hospital."

Tea with his in-laws with neither Sybil nor Niamh to distract them was always an uncomfortable affair. Her parents seemed relieved to have seen her, but after they had discussed their visit and reassured him that she was as well as could be expected for someone so near to giving birth, the conversation became increasingly two-sided, Robert preferring to let his gaze wander to his surroundings, casually inspecting the packed rows of rather tatty cloth bound books in the bookcases on either side of the fireplace and frowning when he spotted an occasional leather-bound volume that Sybil had obviously liberated from the library at Downton. Tom was too anxious and too used to it to be offended.

When Niamh came down from her nap, the adults turned their attention to her with relief. Tom had to give Robert his due - he was obviously uncomfortable with his daughter's husband, but he loved his granddaughter, being more than happy to have her sat in his lap pulling at the buttons on his suit. Tom could see why Sybil loved her father. He might be the perfect product of his time, but he liked children and he very much liked being a father. It was the one thing he and Robert had in common.

Before too long though, Robert was glancing at the modern-looking bakelite clock on their mantelpiece and announcing it was time for him to get his train. Pratt would take him to the station - he raised his eyes in surprise when Cora vetoed his suggestion of taking her back to the hotel on the way. She would stay with Niamh and Tom until Tom came back from seeing Sybil this evening. Pratt could go and join Thompson at the hotel; she would telephone when she wanted him to pick her up.


Sybil was restless that evening. Her back was aching, she couldn't get comfortable no matter how hard she tried; she insisted on getting off the bed and walking up and down, despite the protests of the staff nurse who seemed to think she was making the ward look untidy. Tom gave her a fearsome look that sent her scurrying back to her pile of patient notes.

"Do you think its starting ?" he asked.

"I don't know," she replied. "The thing is, I was so ….. unwell… last time, I can't really remember anything before waking up two days after she was born. So it's a bit like having a baby for the first time."

"But…"

"I don't have a headache," she reassured him, " and they are checking my urine three times a day now. There's no sign of what happened before."

"They will let me know, won't they ? When it starts ?"

"Actually," she said, a guilty look on her face, "they'll telephone Mama at the hotel."

"What ?"

"Then she'll telephone you."

"Sybil - "

"Don't be angry, darling. It simply makes more sense," she pleaded. "Mama will know where you are - whether you are at home, or at the office. And she can come and collect you in the car, save you trying to get a tram or having to find a taxi."

He shoved his hands in his pockets, his mouth set in a hard line and his nostrils flaring.

"Sometimes it seems like your parents have to involve themselves in everything," he muttered.

"Tom, please, don't be like that." Sybil closed her eyes and grimaced as the ache in her back became almost unbearable. "I just want you to be here before they take me into the delivery room. But I want Mama here too."

He tipped his head on one side and sighed, a gesture of capitulation.

"Alright. If that is what you want, then I won't complain."

"Thank you." She meant it.

Cora could tell that he was not reassured by his visit when he came home. Niamh was already in bed and his mother-in-law was sat with a book and a cup of tea in the sitting room, just as if she were in the rather grander surroundings of the drawing room at Downton. She looked up and smiled when she heard the front door being firmly closed.

"How was Sybil tonight ?"

"Uncomfortable and restless. I don't think it will be long now. I remember her being like this before….." he trailed off, subconsciously feeling that mentioning that evening would resurrect it, allowing history to repeat itself. Cora leant over and placed a gentle hand on his arm.

"She's in good hands, Tom, better hands than she was before. These people know her, they know her history and she trusts them. We have to put our faith in that. Matron said that they will take special care of her."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Matron ? You spoke to Matron ?"

Cora nodded, bemused at his surprise.

"Yes, she and Mr Graham came to talk to Robert and I after we'd seen Sybil this afternoon."

Once again, Tom had the unpleasant sensation of being excluded from his own life.

"I haven't seen Matron since Sybil went in." Admittedly, Mr Graham, the obstetrician, had been more forthcoming, but he'd still only spoken to him twice.

"Oh ? Well, she was very reassuring. I know it helped it put Robert's mind at rest."

Tom found himself thinking he didn't really care what Robert's mind was doing.

"Oh well, that's good to know," he muttered, not quite managing to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

Cora folded her hands over her book and looked at him as he threw himself down in the chair opposite her.

"I know this is hard for you, Tom. Really I do. But worrying about something that might never happen is not going to help. Sybil needs you to be strong."

She followed his gaze and found he was staring one of the small collections of photos on the mantlepiece. It was of the two of them, taken at Matthew and Mary's wedding. Sybil looked so proud, she thought, although whether of her husband or of herself, she couldn't be sure. She had already noted the fact that none of the photos in the sitting room pre-dated Sybil's time in Ireland. She gathered her book and her cardigan and stood up.

"I really must go back to the hotel. Thompson will think I've been abducted by white slave-traders. She's got a rather over-active imagination.

He offered her a tired grin, struggled out of the chair and went into the hall to telephone for Pratt Cora waited for him to help her on with her coat.

"Go to bed, Tom. Get some sleep. If you're right, then you're going to need it."


Part two up shortly !