Chapter Twenty Nine
Misere Mei Deus
When Tom had told Sybil that something had come up over on Aungier Street, in a manner of speaking, so indeed it had; that in itself was true enough. Even at this early stage of his journalistic career, Tom's contacts were both many and varied. Earlier that same morning, indeed at the very last minute, after he had already covered the demonstration down on the quays about which he had heard previously, Tom had learned of a clandestine meeting being organised by a group of members of the Irish Transport and General Workers' Union. In this instance, Tom's contact had been William O'Brien, the leading figure in the Union, the Irish Labour Party, and the Trade Union Congress.
This particular meeting had been called to discuss the innovative idea of doing something rather more than just simply continuing to demonstrate against the daily unloading down on the quays of munitions and supplies destined for use by the British Army. What was now under active consideration was a proposal which, if implemented, would result in completely preventing the offloading of any cargo intended for the British military. Efforts were presently under way to try and gauge the likely level of support for such a course of action as was currently being debated. If put into effect, this would involve the total boycott of any vessel berthing alongside the quays in the city which was known to be, or was found to be, carrying any merchandise destined for the use of the army. Those at the meeting were hopeful that if such a widespread boycott could be agreed and arranged, that many railway workers could also be persuaded to join in as well so as to make what was envisaged even more effective.
However, Tom's own coverage of the secret meeting, held in an upstairs back room at the Swan public house on Aungier Street and with the full agreement of its publican John O'Reilly, explained only in part the real reason for his late arrival at the Shelbourne. Anyone who knew Dublin, as well as Tom undoubtedly did, would have told you that Aungier Street lay close to St. Stephen's Green, was in fact slightly to the north-west, and was not very far either from the Shelbourne Hotel. So, if it had been only just the matter of Tom covering the meeting, which in any case was concluded within an hour or so, a brisk walk from Aungier Street over to St. Stephen's Green would have taken someone of his age and physical fitness twenty minutes, perhaps somewhat less to complete; certainly no longer.
Of course, Sybil had naturally taken Tom's comment at face value. After all, why would she do anything else? She had every faith in him, knew that he had the makings of a very fine journalist, that he was well respected by both his editor and his colleagues as someone who was single-minded in the pursuit of his enquiries and who would in his articles report things as they were, without fear or favour. It was obvious to Sybil that, all things being equal, Tom could be sure of going far in his newly chosen profession. Admittedly somewhat reluctantly, Sybil was also slowly coming to terms with the fact of Tom being unable, or even, on occasions, perhaps unwilling, at times both, to discuss some of the people with whom he met, the places he went to, and some of the awful things which he, as a journalist, was called upon to cover. Nevertheless, she had come to respect that Tom had what he, with a wry, lop-sided grin, a smile, and a chuckle, chose laughingly to refer to as "his journalistic diplomatic secrets".
Having covered the protest down on the quays, Tom slipped back into his offices on Talbot Street to type up some copy. That done, shortly thereafter, he made his way down out of the building, and set off on his way over to cover the meeting in the Swan public house in Aungier Street.
Quite by chance, at the nearby junction between Talbot Street and Marlborough Street, he encountered a group of twenty or so young boys all in the uniform of the Palestrina Choir on their way to the Catholic Pro-Cathedral which stood nearby. As a young boy, Tom had sung in the chapel of his boarding school: Blackrock College, in Williamstown, not far from the shores of Dublin Bay. After his parents had died, there had been talk of sending him to the Christian Brothers' College in Cork, but when his Uncle Jacob had found out that the school was Catholic, as well as the cost of the fees, the idea had been dropped.
Like Sybil, Tom was not someone who had a great deal of faith in ordered religion. He had a faith of sorts, but not that much in Christianity, more especially after the death of his parents, on account of what he had suffered as a young boy. After all, who had looked out for him then?
Whether or not it was the sight of the boys of the Palestrina Choir, or the fact that his mother had seen that he had been brought up as a Catholic, Tom felt he owed it to her, if to no-one else, least of all to himself, to make some form of peace with his Maker, to wash the slate clean, and now seemed the most appropriate time to do so; given the fact that in marrying Sybil Crawley, he was very shortly to embark upon perhaps the greatest adventure of his life. So, maybe that was what put him in mind of doing something which, if Tom was honest with no-one else except himself, he should have done a very long time ago; of going to Confession. As to whether he could go through with it given what he had to ... well that was a different matter entirely.
It was while he was pondering exactly what he should do, that Tom's feet slowed and he came to an abrupt stop almost in exactly the same spot in the middle of the O'Connell Bridge beneath the ornate lamp post where he and Sybil had kissed so passionately a matter of but a few days earlier. Resting his elbows on the stone balustrade of the bridge, completely oblivious to all other passers-by, wholly lost in thought, Tom gazed down into the grey, slow flowing waters of the Liffey for what seemed an age, although it could, in reality, have been no more than a few minutes.
Eventually, his mind at last made up, Tom stood up, turned abruptly on his heel, and in so doing almost collided with a man carrying a heavy knapsack on his back walking southwards across the bridge.
"Sorry, that was my fault entirely. I should have looked where I was going" apologised Tom shamefaced.
"No matter. There's no harm done" said the other man, his gruffness belying his words. He nodded, calmly re-adjusted the weight of his knapsack, and, without further ado, strode off purposefully towards the southern end of the O'Connell Bridge. And that was it. Both men went on their separate ways. And, thus it was, although neither of them was destined ever to know it, that Jerry Donnelly and Tom Branson met for the first and last time in their lives.
Later...
St. Audoen's, on the south side of the Liffey, was the oldest parish church in Dublin, but it was to the more recently built Catholic church of the same name that stood close by that Tom now wended his purposeful way. It was odd, but he had not felt this nervous in a long while. He viewed what he was about to do with as much fear and trepidation as what he had done on that never-to-be-forgotten evening, when, finally throwing caution to the four winds, he had audaciously walked into the Drawing Room at Downton Abbey to stand proudly alongside Sybil while she announced to her stunned parents - hastily Tom mentally corrected himself, stunned and outraged, at least as far as her father was concerned - that they were engaged, would marry in Dublin, where they would settle, work, and together, God willing, raise a family.
A short while thereafter and Tom reached his present destination; his own Calvary.
The imposing stone, columned, pedimented, statued bulk of the front of St. Audoen's stood before him. Shouldering his leather satchel, taking a very deep breath, nervously, Tom pushed open the massive wooden door and, his footsteps echoing noisily on the flagstones, walked slowly forward into the body of the church, in search of the priest.
Inside the church, under the roof, beneath the soaring coffered arch of the ceiling, it was both cool and light; a riot of colour. The air was heavy with incense. And there was something else too. A cold, sour, stale smell. Of mould and decay. Tom grimaced. Damp he thought. Or perhaps ... unanswered prayers.
Tom's blue eyes flicked from the massive four pillared ciborium above the High Altar, taking in the ornate wooden pulpit, thence around the white walls, seeing the carved statues of the saints, the fourteen Stations of the Cross. Could he really do this, given what it was he had to confess?
In the silent vastness of the empty, echoing building, soft footfalls sounded somewhere behind him. Wary, immediately on his guard, instantly, Tom spun round on his heel.
"Can I help you, my son?" the white haired black clad priest enquired of him. He had a kindly face, his bright, deep-set eyes almost lost to sight, buried in a sea of deep wrinkles.
"I don't know ... I'm not sure if anyone can" said Tom hesitantly.
The priest looked thoughtfully at him for a moment, intently searching Tom's face.
Tom stood his enquiring gaze.
"I think ... that a very long journey has brought you here my son" said he at length. Then laying a gentle hand on Tom's shoulder, the priest smiled benignly at him
Tom nodded.
It was time.
"Father ... please will you hear my confession?"
