Although Sybil was delighted by the prospect of a honeymoon, the trip Tom arranged turned out not to exactly what she had envisioned. They traveled by train from Dublin to Galway and then on to Limerick. On the third morning in Limerick, Sybil awoke to find a note next to her pillow: I've gone to cover a meeting. I hope to return this afternoon. Tom. Gone to cover a meeting? But where? And on their honeymoon? Sybil was annoyed that he would do such a thing but it was a wet and dreary day and she supposed she didn't mind terribly sitting by a fire with a book. When he hadn't returned by tea, though, she began to pace the room and had worked herself into such a state that she didn't hear the key in the door.
"Did you have a nice day, milady?" Tom asked as he entered.
"A nice day? Are you mad? Where have you been?"
"I was at a meeting. I hope you found the note I left."
"Yes, I found your note. How dare you, really? It's bad enough that you left me for an entire day on our honeymoon, but you didn't even have the courage, or the courtesy, to tell me beforehand. I hope you have a better explanation than I've gone to cover a meeting."
"I didn't want you to worry, Sybil."
"Did you honestly believe that I wouldn't worry simply because you left note? You didn't even say where the meeting was. Why anything could have happened to you and I would have never known. Please, explain yourself."
Tom tugged at his necktie and unfastened his collar. His nerves were frayed, first by the contentious meeting and second because he had been stopped by a constable of the Royal Irish Constabulary on his return to Limerick; fortunately, he had torn the pages of writing from his notebook and shoved them deep within a hidden pocket so that, while the RIC man was suspicious, he found no evidence of journalistic or IRA leanings and Tom was let go. "Damn the British," he cursed under his breath when he was a distance from the constable, remembering belatedly that a British wife was waiting for him at that moment. Of course, he should have known that Sybil would be nearly sick with worry and that it would have been better to tell her the truth before he left that morning. What did he expect?
"Would you like the long explanation or the short one?"
"I would like the complete explanation, please. And start at the beginning."
"We're in Limerick, in County Limerick. County Clare, which is just the adjacent county, is the seat of much of the unrest. Many people believe that the guerrilla war, when it begins, will begin in County Clare. When the paper, which it will not surprise you to learn is a nationalist, Catholic paper, learned I would be spending a few days in Limerick, they asked if I might cover a political meeting in Clonlara, several kilometers from here. I agreed, and that's where I've been."
"And how was the meeting?"
My God, he could have kissed her. Of course she would understand; she loved politics and meetings and the idea that there were people in the world working toward change. How could he have been such a fool as to not tell her the truth?
"The meeting was…in many ways it was like the count in Ripon years ago. It was loud and agitated and the people are angry. They've been under the thumb of the British too long and they're tired of waiting for whatever reforms the government's always promising. When the Dáil issued its Message to the Free Nations of the World, that there is an "existing state of war, between Ireland and England," these are the people they're speaking for – and to."
He omitted from his story that there direct calls for violence toward the RIC and that he had been stopped by one of the same less than an hour earlier.
"I understand your work is dangerous, Tom. And I understand how important it is to you. But you must not simply disappear. I can't help but worry, but you must at least allow me to know where you are going and to say a proper good-bye when you leave."
In case I don't come back, he thought, but this he kept to himself.
After their honeymoon, Tom continued his routine of long days and sometimes longer nights, covering meetings and rallies across Dublin and elsewhere in Ireland, including the first attack against the Dublin Metropolitan Police in June, interviewing the members of the Dáil, and writing at length de Valera travels to America.
"I don't understand why he's gone to America when Ireland needs him so," Sybil said one evening.
"Mmm, that's interesting," Tom responded, not looking up from his writing.
"Tom! You weren't listening to me at all! I said, I don't understand why de Valera had gone to America when he is so needed here in Ireland."
Tom blushed.
"Oh. Well he's gone to America to seek official recognition of Ireland as a proper country, separate from the United Kingdom, and also to seek funds for the Irish government."
"I don't think you've written that," she responded, and he realized she was reading the article he had written for that morning's paper.
Although many men would have been angry for a wife to find fault with their work, he realized instead that he had a valuable resource in this woman who wanted to know all there was to know of life. He was that evening preparing to interview Eoin MacNeill, the Minister of Industries and decided to seek Sybil's opinion on the questions he planned to ask.
"Ask him if there aren't any women in the movement."
When he jotted this question into his notebook he had no way of knowing that this single question, asked at the end of the interview, would so greatly affect his and Sybil's life in Dublin.
"Dr. Kathleen Lynn's one of the best we've got," Minister MacNeill responded. "One of the first women doctors in Ireland. Graduated from the Royal University with degrees in medicine, surgery and obstetrics. Joined the women's suffrage movement before the Great War and was the chief medical officer during the Easter Rising. She was imprisoned in Kilmainham Gaol for her part in the rising. She's still active in politics, but mostly now she's devoted to her hospital. Saint Ultan's. She only founded it earlier this year, and hires only women to work there. Doctors, nurses, secretaries, it doesn't matter. Only women. You ought to interview her."
Tom thanked the minister profusely and could barely concentrate on the story for which he had interviewed MacNeill. It was not his finest work, he was afraid, but he was so eager to tell Sybil of this Dr. Lynn that he didn't mind whatever corrections his editor would hand him in the morning.
He tried to remember everything Mr. MacNeill had told him of this remarkable woman when he relayed the story to Sybil at home but he shouldn't have worried. Sybil heard only that Dr. Lynn was a suffragette and ran a hospital that employed strictly women. She was smitten.
"Do you think she would hire me, Tom?" she asked cautiously.
Despite her repeated efforts to find a position as a nurse, Sybil still had nothing. She began to feel that she understood how Gwen had felt those many years ago when office after office turned her away when they saw she worked as a housemaid. In this case, it was not her occupation, but factors even more immutable that conspired against Sybil: she was British and she was not Catholic and that was as much as any of her interviewers thus far had cared to know.
"I'm to interview her tomorrow. I'll see if I can't learn a bit more about the type of women she hires."
Dr. Lynn was a warm and friendly woman and, as she admitted to him, she was flattered by Tom's enthusiasm for her work. As the interview drew to a close, he decided to take a chance and ask about Sybil's chances of landing a position at St. Ultan's.
"Are you still seeking nurses for your hospital, Dr. Lynn?"
"It's difficult to find well trained nurses in these times. Do you know someone?"
"Honestly, I do. My wife is a nurse. She was a nurse in England during the Great War, but she hasn't been able to find a position since we've moved to Dublin."
"I have to say, Mr. Branson, that it seems rather unusual. A qualified nurse with war experience and she can't find a position in Dublin? Does she have any letters of reference?"
"She does, yes. I should mention that she is British, though, and, uh, Protestant."
"That explains it then. Tell her to visit me at the hospital tomorrow. She should come early, and she should be prepared to wait, in case I'm tied up when she arrives. She can accompany me on my rounds and if she is truly qualified – and if she is still interested – then I'll hire her. Mind you, nursing doesn't pay well anyway, and we're a charity hospital, so the pay won't be much."
"I'll leave those discussions to the two of you, but believe me that this is not about money. She wants to be a nurse to help people."
"It's very unusual for a married woman to work, Mr. Branson. But I sense you're fully supportive of her aspirations?"
He told her then of their story, how Sybil had been – still was – the daughter of an earl and how their friendship evolved from a shared interest in politics and women's rights. He told her how Sybil had trained as a nurse during the war, and learned to make a bed and a kettle of tea before leaving for nursing college. He told her how she'd convinced her parents to transform their great house into a convalescent home and how she'd continued to work as a nurse their and at the hospital until the last man left. He continued with how they'd left Yorkshire in April and of their life in Dublin. Dr. Lynn was intrigued.
"Please ask her to come to me first thing tomorrow. I shall look forward to meeting such a remarkable young woman."
Sybil squealed like a small child and threw her arms around Tom's neck, nearly knocking him over, when he told her of his conversation with Dr. Lynn. She did not sleep that night, but tossed and turned in anticipation with what the next day might bring. She hurried Tom through coffee in the morning until finally he decided further delays were impossible and led her, hand-in-hand to the brand new hospital on Charlemont Street. It wasn't yet eight o'clock.
"Will you be able to find your way home from here?" he asked, unsure whether she had followed the maze of streets they had taken to arrive at their destination.
"It might be best if you come for me after you're done today."
"Do you really think you'll be here until I'm finished?"
"I do, yes."
Sybil's confidence was not misplaced. Dr. Lynn had been so impressed by the story Mr. Branson told the day before that she'd decided if his wife was half the nurse he'd made her out to be she would hire her that morning. Reading over the letters of reference Sybil presented, it was clear he had not oversold her.
"Did you really remove the bullets and flak yourself, Mrs. Branson?"
"I did, yes. There were so many men, you see, that sometimes the doctors weren't available to perform the routine tasks, and the things that could be done without anesthesia."
Dr. Lynn nodded; she could well imagine that the smaller, country hospitals had been ill-equipped to handle the men pouring in fresh from battle.
"And you've assisted with amputations, as well?"
"Yes, Dr. Lynn. Plenty of them."
"Well this is an infant hospital, mothers and babies only, so I don't imagine that you'll be called upon to assist with or perform such tasks here. Still, if you've proven your worth in a wartime hospital, and clearly you have, I shall be happy to have you on my staff. I can pay you £35 per annum, which I know is sounds terribly small, but we are a charity hospital. As a concession to your previous experience and your status as a married woman, I can at least offer you Saturdays and Sundays free and can allow you work only 12 hours the other days."
"I know I won't earn much as a nurse. I've read the pamphlet called 'A Plea for Irish Nurses by one of them' and I'm aware of the efforts of the Irish Nurses' Union. I believe what you are offering me is more than fair and I'm grateful for the offer."
What Sybil said was true. Staff nurses in Dublin were often paid as little as £30 for an entire year's work and expected to work 80 or more hours each week with only a single day off each month. (This while Ireland's men struck to secure a 44 hour week and the typical typist or clerk earned £200 per annum!) The salary Dr. Lynn offered Sybil was not only above this average, but she would work only 60 hours each week and have her entire weekend free each week.
"I'm pleased to hear it, Nurse Branson. It appears you have brought your nursing habit with you, so I'll give you a few minutes to change and then be much obliged if you'll accompany me on my rounds this morning."
Sybil had never seen such sickly infants and found it as difficult to listen to the raspy cries as it had been to listen to the anguished screams of the maimed. She was astonished to learn that most of the mothers could not read; many of them, already with half a dozen páiste at home were younger than she was. Tuberculosis, diphtheria, parasitic disease, and cholera were rampant to say nothing of the malnutrition that seemed to underlie ever condition.
"You wouldn't believe it, Tom," Sybil said as they walked home that evening. "Some of the babies are so sick they can hardly cry and their mothers, too. And these women, why most of them can only sign an X where they should sign their name."
He would believe it, of course. This was the life his mother had fought to save herself and then her children from and the life he had escaped. How easily he might have been married to just such a woman, how easily his own child might have been a case for a charity hospital.
"It's a different life here, Sybil. But I'm pleased you've found a position. I assume the terms are agreeable?"
He nearly froze when she told him the terms. He knew women were paid less than men but he never expected she would make an eighth of what he made. He was grateful that they truly could live without her income, for £35 would hardly cover two months' expenses. He had also not expected her to work such long hours. Although he was glad for her to something to occupy her days and her mind, it had never occurred to him that she wouldn't also be able to keep house or prepare dinner. If she was truly to work 12 hours days, though, such tasks would be impossible.
"Have you given any thought to how we might attend to the housekeeping duties, milady?" he asked gently, using his old way of addressing her as he did in his lightest moods or when he sought to deflect potential anger. There was no sense beginning with an argument.
"I haven't, no. I suppose we could hire a girl, couldn't we?"
Tom blanched. He had worked for years to escape the grind of service and the idea of becoming an employer made his hair stand on yet.
"Hire a girl? I've only just left service and now I'm to take a maid?"
"Do you have a better idea?"
"And where would the money come from?"
"We have enough, Tom. My father was more generous than we expected, as was the newspaper. You know this isn't about the money."
What Sybil said was true. This wasn't about the money. They could pay a girl one-third of Sybil's per annum salary and all parties would think it a fair deal, more than fair, really. Tom just didn't like the idea of eating the soup some poor girl slaved to make for a pittance of a wage, even if it would be a very fair pittance of a wage. Still, as they prepared cold sandwiches for dinner, he realized unless he wanted two slices of bread and bit of cheese as his evening meal each night, he didn't have much choice.
"I'll speak with my mother tomorrow. She may know of a girl."
Although Mrs. Branson would have learned eventually that Sybil was working as a nurse, and that her son and daughter-in-law therefore required light help during the week, Tom regretted telling her so soon after Sybil accepted her position.
"She's only just started. Why doesn't she give her notice? After all, it is unusual for a woman to continue working after she's married. She should look after you – and eventually your children."
Nothing she had seen or heard since Tom and Sybil arrived from England convinced her that they weren't two of the most foolish young people she'd ever known. Still, and despite her instincts otherwise, she agreed to pass on the names of potential girls who could come a few days a week to do light cleaning, a bit of washing, and the cooking.
This was not the life Tom envisioned, not exactly, but as he met Sybil at the doors of St. Ultan's most every night, she wore the look of happy exhaustion that had so become her during the war, laced her fingers through his, and chattered happily – even when the subject was dark – as they walked home together. It was a far sight better than waiting in a garage in the hopes she might appear to say nothing that he had promised to devote himself to her happiness, and this she seemed to have found in spades.
Author's note: I must acknowledge two invaluable resources for this chapter.
Margaret Huxley: Pioneer of Scientific Nursing in Ireland downloaded from the Royal College of Nursing website and available at http:/ www. rcn. org. uk/_data/assets/file/0005/298472/Margaret_Huxley_ch_6_BoN. rtf (spaces added so my url wouldn't be removed!) provided extremely detailed information on the state of Irish nursing at the time of the War of Independence.
Seven Women of the Labour Movement 1916 Written and researched by Sinéad McCoole and available at http:/ www. labour. ie/download/pdf/seven_women_of_the_labour_movement 1916. pdf set me on the trail of the remarkable Dr. Kathleen Lynn.