A/N: Be warned, this chapter has quite a lot crammed into it. Thanks to all for the kind support – it certainly makes the writing process worthwhile to know that people continue to enjoy the story. Now, as promised, the bearer of the mean right hook is revealed...
THE WILD ROVER, PART II
Dublin, Christmas Day, 1926
Sybil had been so anxious for another child that the morning sickness came as a welcome validation that her pregnancy was progressing normally. But relief soon gave way to frustration as the nausea seemed more intense, not to mention erratic, this time round. On that first Christmas back in Dublin, she'd almost finished dressing Bobby and Saoirse for morning mass when the first wave blindsided her. Snatching up a basin from the bedside table – the one Tom mercifully placed there "just in case" – she sat on the mattress edge and retched.
Tom hurried their squealing children into his sister's care across the hall and returned moments later with a wet towel. He settled beside her to wait it out, tried to keep her hair out of the sick.
Once she'd coughed and spat the last of it, or at least she'd prayed that to be the case, she came up for air, sweating and shaking as her stomach muscles unwound. "Stop worrying so," she told him, sounding more annoyed than she meant to.
"That's the one thing I'll never do, love. Here..." Placing the damp towel on her cheek, he whispered, "Promise me you're all right."
Reluctant to stir the acrid taste in her mouth, Sybil simply forced a smile and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.
She certainly didn't require much convincing to stay behind from church, nor would she spend Christmas morning alone. Given the excitement expected that day, Cathleen had also been ordered to rest up "not overdo it." Once Sybil felt well enough to wander downstairs, she found her mother-in-law doing precisely the opposite. The older woman was buzzing about like a bee in a Spring garden, organizing pots and pans into a culinary assembly line. She hummed about her work, smiling rather arrogantly Sybil noticed, and nodded towards a waiting cup on the table.
Sybil breathed in the steam. "Oh, peppermint tea, bless you!" After braving a few sips, she waved at the counter. "They'll be after me, you know, letting you get away with this."
"Bah! I can handle them," Cathleen grumbled, swiping up a towel. "And you – you sit right there until you're not green as bad cheese."
Sybil's stomach objected to the comparison and she bolted for the sink.
Cathleen dodged out of the way, let her groan through the last wave before edging in with a glass. "Mind, it's been a long time," she said, "but I don't remember you being quite so out of sorts with Bobby."
She swished out her mouth, blotted her face and neck with water before daring to speak again. "Saoirse was a bit rough, but this one's really throwing me for a loop. Tom's been rather a mother hen about it."
"As well he should be – it's him that put it in there!"
Cathleen had always buttered conversation with sass and Sybil suddenly realized how much she'd missed it. Still, it caught her off guard and, with a hand over her middle, she pinked and smiled.
"It's a good sign," her mother-in-law added, "the sickness being rough. Means you've got a good strong babe in there."
Sybil raised a brow. "If that's the case, I may give birth to an ox."
"I suppose with all your book-learning you don't hold with such superstitions."
"On the contrary. Science gives me a solid foundation, but it's the mothers from whom I learn the most." She managed a few more swallows of tea, hummed gratefully as her stomach seemed to settle. "And since you've done this seven times, I'm apt to trust your judgement."
"Well, trust me when I say you should try a piece of toast," she said, carefully gauging her reaction.
While her nausea had been unpredictable recently, her appetite was anything but, and Sybil eagerly gobbled two pieces of toast, both thickly layered with apple jam. She was licking a dollop from her fingers in a most unladylike fashion when she noticed an open box of photographs on the table. She thought on the stiffly bound albums back at the Abbey, and how rarely they came down from the library shelf. Her own cottage was littered with images of Tom and the children; she couldn't imagine a home without those visual snippets of love.
But photographs were a luxury for Dan and Cathleen Branson and, flipping through the box, Sybil knew that each one must have been worth its weight in gold. There was one of a young Tom, propped against a ragged bolder in front of the old white-washed cottage at Murlough. He was smartly dressed, his fair hair parted neatly to one side, and he sported the faintest hint of that cheeky grin.
"Bobby favors him so much," Sybil said, "but, golly, they could be twins!
Kneading a mound of dough, Cathleen said, "I thought I'd give a few as presents today – I've looked at them all enough and its time they go on to others." She flicked flour onto the rolling board. "Set aside the ones you'd like."
Truth be told, she'd love to have them all. Unlike her, with a veritable museum of relics up at the Abbey, Tom had few mementoes of his own family. She sorted judiciously, though, mostly selecting those with Tom alone. There was one of a younger Dan and Cathleen, which her mother-in-law insisted she take, along with a duplicate of a family portrait taken at Betsey's wedding. Perched on his father's knee, Tom hadn't even graduated to knickers yet and appeared rather miserable in his frilly white gown.
She went on through the box, lofting images for Cathleen to identify, and near the bottom found one of an aging couple that caught her eye. The man, propped comfortably on a high stool, was stocky and fair-haired with a pleasant expression that couldn't be masked even behind a thick mustache. Standing beside him, the woman was swathed in a tight-laced heavy dress pinned to the neck, as dictated by fashions of the day. She was unsmiling, her gaze affixed slightly beyond the camera.
Cathleen glanced over her shoulder. "My parents."
"They made quite the handsome couple," Sybil said.
"It was taken at my wedding." She dusted her hands on her apron and pulled up a chair. "December 17, 1871. Fifty-five years ago last week."
"Tom rather looks like his grandfather."
"Named after him, too. Tom Maguire of County Galway and...has Tommy told you about his grandparents?"
"He said his grandfather Maguire was a sheep farmer and that he spent summers working there as a boy. But he's not mentioned anything particular about them." Sybil smiled. "Well, other than his grandfather having an especially loud voice and that his grandmother made the world's creamiest leek soup."
"Both very true," Cathleen laughed. "But did he tell you about her – how they met?" When Sybil replied that he hadn't, she went on, "Mam was a leanbh díomhaointis. An illegitimate child."
Apparently Tom had left quite a lot in the family cupboard.
"She was the daughter of a housemaid and an Anglo baron…" Cathleen smiled slowly, seeming to enjoy rattling her daughter-in-law with each little jolt. "The Lord Travore owned an estate on Galway Bay. He'd been widower for some time and had three grown sons," she said, "and he wasn't an unkind man, at least not in the way you're thinking. Just lonely..." At this, she winked. "He'd not set his eyes...or anything else on the female staff, until my grandmother."
"Do you really believe that?" Sybil had to ask.
She gave a little shrug. "She died in childbirth a few years later, and the girl – my mother – was taken upstairs and raised as his own. His sons despised her, as did the staff, but he doted on her. When he died, she was put out of the house, with naught to her name but a suitcase and the few bob they'd given her never to come back."
Cathleen always had a flair for storytelling, a calming timbre that wove a deliberate pattern, as if stitching an image. Much like Tom, Sybil thought with a smile. Cathleen's mother was almost to Galway and bawling her eyes out when Tom Maguire wandered up on his way to market. Once she'd blubbered out her situation, he paced about, reluctantly offering to take her in.
"But only for a while, he told her," Cathleen laughed. "Da was a widower himself, with a good farm and a young son at home – that's my older brother Tommy, God rest him – but he wasn't able to manage it all himself. He said she could earn her keep and, once she'd enough travel money and an idea of where she wanted to go, she was free to do so."
"But she never did," Sybil finished for her with a smile. "I suppose you're going to tell me they fell in love."
"If nothing else, they fell into bed, because I was born two years later!" Cathleen went for another cup of tea. "You learn a lot about a man when you live together in a small cottage, wash their socks and everything else, watch them work from sunup to sundown until they sleep on their feet, just to provide for their family. I think my mother realized she'd met a fine man and she grew to love him."
Sybil glanced at the photograph again, this time noticing the way the woman's left hand, its ring a brilliant white in the camera's flash, settled gently on the man's shoulder. "May I have this one?"
"If you like."
"What was her name?"
"Róisín."
"That's lovely."
"I've always regretted not naming one of my own girls after her, but when you're young," she said, "you don't much think about the past."
Sybil smiled, and leaned over to kiss her cheek. "Then perhaps one day you'll have a granddaughter to carry it on."
By mid-morning, the house was exploding with Boyles and Bransons and O'Rourkes and other names that whizzed through Tom's brain as if rattled off by an auctioneer. Each of Michael's brood of eight had arrived (except for twins Patrick and Evie who had, by Divine irony, taken Holy orders and vows with the church) along with corresponding spouses and children. Then there were the families of the two of the Branson brothers, Sean and Andrew, that seemed determined to balance the volume.
Little Bobby, who'd been patted and pinched and passed around to everyone, finally tugged on his father's trousers and declared, "I can't remember everyone, Da!"
"Neither can I!" Tom admitted with a wide-eyed Saoirse planted on his hip. "Just play along like I do!"
Everyone jabbered at once and, packed in as they were, none seemed to notice the dying crumbles of coal in the grates. Instead, ale and laughter were pleasurable substitutes and most of the men had already shed their jackets, even those that had moved their conversations outside.
Young Mickey Boyle, the oldest of Michael's grandchildren and his namesake, had arrived late with his family, but quickly lived up to his reputation. He'd a shock of auburn hair and a frame that suggested he would inherit his grandfather's build, but the similarities stopped there, at least in Sybil's opinion. At seven, he'd just enough bluster to be obnoxious, as he proved when he monopolized the kitchen conversation bragging about the new red enamel bicycle he'd gotten that morning.
"Dad ordered it from Sears Roebuck," he'd told his grandmother, trailing her like a dogged reporter. "It's got fenders and everything, not like Boyle's!"
Betsey loved her grandchildren equally, but patience was another matter and she ordered him outside with a pop of her towel.
A half-hour later, just as the ladies were ready to call dinner preparations complete, he dashed back in, hands cupped to his face and blood leaking between his fingers. Sybil switched into nursing mode, snatching towels and a chunk of ice from the larder.
Betsey, stood aside, hands on her hips, one eye landing at her grandson with a judgmental twitch. "What did you do?"
Mickey screeched as the ice was pressed to his nose. "Ow Auntie Sybil!" Eyes watering, he glared over the blood-soaked towel. "Dufin' Grabby! He hit me...in de dose!"
"Who? Boyle?"
With his Aunt Sybil holding his head in a vise, Mickey's eyes darted this way and that until they narrowed on the doorframe. He pointed a bloodied finger. "Him!"
Sybil's eyes bulged at her son.
Little Boyle, hair mussed and glasses askew, sidled up beside Bobby and patted him on the shoulder. "It's all right – the little shit deserved it."
Deserving or not, Mickey did his level best to paint himself the innocent in front of his parents and grandparents, who cornered him in the kitchen as if he were the one on trial, not his younger cousins who, in his opinion, had conspired against him. After questioning witnesses both young and old, the facts of the case became clear.
In a game of football game on the street, young Mickey had teased Boyle about his inability to properly kick the ball, which he attributed to his cousin's bottle-like spectacles and a rather feminine stance, and that he'd be just as well off to let Bobby take his position. Over the past year Bobby had, with some restraint and no small amount of prayer, learned to ignore such stupid remarks. But Boyle, already harboring a disabling case of younger cousin syndrome, took great offense to Mickey's teasing on both his and Bobby's behalf. This prompted a shoving match between the two, in which the elder cousin easily mangled the younger into a chokehold right in the middle of the street. Before the menfolk could break up the fray, the scuffling pair rolled into Bobby, knocking him down. It was a complete accident, of course, for which Boyle immediately apologized. He crawled over to help his cousin, losing one shoe and a sock to Mickey's grasp.
"That's right, run away to His Lordship!"
By then Bobby had scrambled to his feet and, upon hearing the slur, threw himself towards it and swung.
Crack!
It was, Tom would later confide to Matthew over a pint at the Grantham Arms, one of the best punches I've ever seen. Square in the nose!
But in the present, he and Sybil had more pressing parental matters to attend.
Bobby was rather dumbstruck as he numbly explained the situation to his parents upstairs. Both Tom and Sybil were in an equal state of shock. Their son had never, not once, hit anyone before, nor had he ever showed any inkling toward violence. Watching him now, clutching his reddened hand that was already showing signs of a nasty bruise, his mouth quivering and eyes watering, they realized that the unexpected vitriol of having hit his newfound cousin had utterly frightened the little boy.
Waiting in his parents' stunned silence, Bobby feared the worst. Once Mickey's nose had been plugged with cotton, judgment on him and Boyle was swiftly imparted. The cousins were taken to the back garden and swatted proportionally for their part in the day's disruption and again for their ongoing feud. Bobby'd heard the thwacks and screeches and, while he'd certainly earned his punishments in the past, he'd never been given the belt. Then again, he'd never embarrassed his parents to such a degree as this! And on Christmas of all days! Finally, the floodgates broke, and tears streamed down his cheeks.
"Well, I won't say he didn't deserve it," Tom said, watching his son sniffle. "I saw the way he treated Boyle and his parents should be ashamed of him!" Sybil could hardly disagree, but threw her husband a parental glance that had him backpedaling. "Still, it was no reason to hit him like that."
Bobby swiped at his face with reddened knuckles and nodded gravely.
"So, what should we do with you?" Sybil asked.
The little boy shrugged. "The same as Mickey and Boyle, I suppose."
"Well," Sybil told Tom, "I'll leave you to it then."
Tom felt as if he'd been smacked himself.
She leaned up to kiss his cheek, whispering, "I trust you to do what needs to be done."
What kind of support is that? Tom wondered crossly as she closed the door. He glanced down at his boy, whose upper lip glistened nastily from a runny nose. "All right, now, enough of that," he sighed, snapping out a handkerchief. "My Da always said a man shouldn't snivel on the gallows."
Bobby blew and wiped his nose.
"That was quite a punch you threw."
"I didn't mean to, Da!"
Tom smiled, and gently patted the child's knee as he sat beside him. "Yes you did, once you have a chance to think about it. And it's alright to admit it, as long as you know it was wrong. But I know you didn't mean to curdle his nose like that."
Bobby's hands coiled furiously. "He told me I'm not Irish, that I couldn't be because my Grandpapa's an English earl, but aren't I, Da? Even if we don't live here?"
"Of course you are! In fact," he said, nudging his shoulder, "Remember your Mama's half American, so you're more Irish than anything else!"
That seemed to mollify Bobby somewhat.
But Tom understood the prejudice. He and Sybil had fought it from both sides in Dublin and Yorkshire. With a sigh, he pulled the boy into his lap with a kiss. "But you mustn't ever be ashamed of Grandpapa. Even if you grow up to disagree with him on certain things like your Da…" And God I hope you do, Tom prayed. "…he's a good man, and he loves you very much. And I know your Grandda Branson would have as well. They're both a part of you, and you'll be a better man for it."
Bobby nodded.
"Others may not always see it that way, but telling everyone to sod off isn't the answer, understand?"
"Yes, Da."
"And neither is violence."
And there loomed the nagging issue of the moment.
"Now," Tom sighed. "Seems to me you understand the gravity of what you've done..."
Bobby nodded hopefully.
"But you can't get off Scot free either." Tom had never been good at this aspect of parenting and pondered what might constitute punishment in his boy's mind. "Your Aunt Betsey had quite a selection of deserts," he finally said. Bobby had developed a vicious sweet tooth over the previous year, along with a corresponding waistline, something he and Sybil had been desperately trying to control.
"No desert," he mournfully realized.
"None."
Bobby's shoulders sagged and, as he thought on the pies and pudding and sweets waiting downstairs, briefly considered if he wouldn't prefer the belt.
Between them, Betsey and Cathleen had raised eight boys, enough to understand that peace often came under forced proximity. So the trio of pugilists was shamed to a corner table, the one nearest all the little girls, who giggled and teased over their shoulders. Boyle, of course, was impressed that Bobby escaped on such easy terms and bragged as much to Mickey. Mickey shifted in his seat, bursting to smart off, but the hard chair bottom served as a painful reminder that his pride had taken enough of a beating that day. He simply went back to his mince pie, repeatedly noting how tasty it was.
With desert complete and the dishes cleaned and stashed through a vigorous assembly line, Michael collapsed in his overstuffed chair by the hearth, flanked on one side by Cathleen who hugged a sleepy Saoirse to her lap. The rest of the family gathered round, cheering as he pulled an oblong case from behind his chair. He plucked a fiddle string and twisted a key to tune it.
"Boyle, you little sprat, do you have a recommendation to start?"
The freckled boy plopped down at his grandfather's feet. "The Wind that Shakes the Barley!"
"I think we can manage that," he said, and stamped a few times to start the beat.
Beside his Da, Bobby grinned at the music, his feet tapping along with the notes. Tom hoisted him into the air and navigated through the parlor with a little dance in his step, and settled the boy amongst his cousins on the floor. Michael paused to wiggle the bow in Bobby's tummy, and hurried back to the music.
Tom returned to Sybil, pulling her into his chest, and together they joined the singing, with their hands linked over her middle.
Michael had a seemingly endless repertoire, but no one seemed to tire, and no one would have noticed the door opening, had he not suddenly shifted to a new tune with a grin toward the back of the room.
I'll go home to my parents, confess what I've done
and I'll ask them to pardon their prodigal son.
And, when they've caressed me as oft times before,
I never will play the wild rover no more!
Laughing, Joe gave his cap a dismissive flap. "Away with ya, Michael Boyle! There's naught a prodigal son here, except for our little Tommy!"
Michael lumbered through the parting crowd with a pair of trio of little boys in his wake. Joe glanced at the one he didn't recognize, and then to Tom.
"This must be your boy."
"It is," he proudly replied. "Bobby, this is your Uncle Joe."
"Hello Uncle Joe!"
Joe simply stared at the hand directed toward his knees and, after a moment, knelt down in quiet realization.
Little Boyle broke the silence. "He's blind, Uncle Joe...ow Grampy!" He grimaced up at his grandfather, who'd inflicted a mighty flick on his ear. "Well, he is!"
Joe reached out for the little hand, laughed at the sturdy tug he was granted in return. Then he glanced over at Mickey's shiny red nose and snorted. "What happened to youse?"
Boyle grinned smugly. "Bobby clobbered him."
Joe belted out a laugh that must have been heard on the next street and clapped Tom on the shoulder.
The evening was still young, at least according to Boyle and Branson standards and, from the far side of the room, Andrew barked out a path.
"Make a spot, will ya?" He and a gangly youth – one of his soon-to-be stepsons – were grunting and lugging the cask of Guinness to its place of honor near the hearth.
Sybil had borne witness to this tradition only once before, on her first Christmas in Ireland. The image of Tom and his brothers, along with Michael and his oldest boys, all attempting to drain the barrel, had reminded her at the time of a ravenous lion attacking its prey. She was young and still rather naïve then, but now she stood at the back of the room rolling her eyes with the other women. A few of the older boys, thinking themselves tall enough to blend in, were yanked back by their mothers.
Sybil spied the tankard in Tom's hand. "Remember the last time," she warned him.
"I know my limits," he winked.
"Come on, Tommy!" bellowed Andrew. "Guest of honor up front! Or perhaps Irish ale is a bit strong for ye, brother?" His voice coiled into a warbling English falsetto. "Michael, daaahling, do you have any chardonnay for our little Tommy?"
When Tom pushed forward, tankard aloft, Sybil could only groan.
The women bore the drunken revelry with a saintly patience until round of bawdy tunes banished the men outside. There they mingled with others on the street who'd met a similar fate. Once Michael had introduced him to his neighbors, Little Tommy, already regretting the amount of beer he'd consumed, sank onto the front stoop by Joe. The brothers craned back on their elbows in companionable silence, both blinking up into the cloudless and starry night.
Fishing for any conversation, Tom finally commented on Andrew's impending nuptials. "Eileen seems like a lovely woman. A widow, Mam said."
"Bugger's getting off easy if you ask me," Joe scoffed.
"Easy? Raising another man's children?"
"Grandchildren more like. Did'ya see those lads? They were near grown!" Laughing, he finished the last of his beer.
Tom had gone over to water a nearby shrub when his brother finally spoke again, prefaced by an awkward cough. "I'm sorry, Tommy...about your boy."
It hadn't occurred to him that Joe hadn't heard about Bobby's illness the previous year. He'd assumed his mother or Michael would've spread the word. Then again, Joe had little interaction with his own estranged wife and children – why would he give a damn about his brother's family over in England? But there was a genuine softness in his voice tonight when he asked how Bobby lost his sight.
Tom buttoned his trousers, nearly tripped on an empty flower pot on his way back to the steps. "Meningitis, last year," he said. "He was in hospital for a month." He glanced skyward, blinked back the images of his child – the memories never got easier – thrashing in pain when the neuritis struck. "The blindness...came at the end."
"It must be hard, raising him like that."
"Not as hard as it would be not raising him at all. He lived, and I thank God every day for it."
They said little else as one by one the youngest family members escaped their mothers' skirts and joined the jovial group of men in the street. That included Bobby, who told his cousin Boyle to go on without him and planted himself between his father and uncle. He snuggled contentedly into the crook of his Da's arm.
"Where's your sister?" Tom asked, kissing the crown of his head.
"She and Grammy went to bed."
"Shouldn't you be getting ready yourself?"
"It's Christmas, Da!"
"Speaking of," Joe prodded his nephew, "What did Father Christmas bring?"
Bobby brandished three shiny lures from his pocket.
Joe whistled appreciatively. "So you're a fisherman then?"
"My Grandpapa takes me. We go to his lake or sometimes to the river." The little boy smiled. "Da doesn't like it much, the fishing."
"When he was a boy, he went fishing with us all the time!"
"You used to chase me with the grubs," Tom remembered, and then wiggled a finger in his son's ear. "And they'd stick them in my ears."
The lad squirmed and giggled.
Just as Bobby was begging his uncle to "Tell me more about when Da was little!" Michael weaved up the walk, led by Boyle who was jigging to dodge his grandfather's drunken gait.
"Bobby!" he called. "Grampy says I can stay tonight!"
"And Mickey as well," Michael said, earning a scowl from little Boyle. "As long as there's no fightin' or I'll tan you both. I thought the four of us could have a grand campout in the parlor!"
"Four?" smiled Tom. "What about me?"
Wobbling on his feet, Michael cupped gentle paws over Boyle's ears, swallowed a belch, and winked. "You can t'ank me later."
The rest of the evening blurred beyond midnight. Tom and Joe parted on a note of drunken laughter and, as the rest of the family dispersed, Tom was slapped and hugged so much that he knew he'd be peppered with bruises in the morning. After stumbling upstairs to the first evening of privacy since they'd arrived, he tried to make good on his annual present to Sybil. But for her, his clumsy affections were more comical than effective, as she pointed out when squeezing the front of his trousers.
"Nothing's happening, darling."
"Rome wasn't built in a day, love."
Giggling as his sloppy kisses tickled her neck – it was much like being attacked by an overly affectionate puppy – she simply let him paw and nuzzle at his pleasure, knowing the inevitable would happen. Once he'd uncovered a breast, it did.
Eyes watering, he pulled back, wincing.
"Sick?"
"Other end." He softly cursed the urgent pressure on his bladder and turned toward the door.
Sybil caught him mid-tumble.
"Ugh...I can make it."
"I've already triaged a bloody nose today," she said. "I'm rather not in the mood for stitches."
Swallowing his pride, he accepted her assistance down the hall and, with no small amount of teasing – all's well that aim's well, darling – Sybil steadied him by the toilet. After, he recalled little beyond the tugs and laughter it took to dress and tuck him for bed, and the sight of his wife shedding her clothes in the hue of a solitary lamp. She glanced back, smiled and muttered something about sleeping with a brewery.
Grinning crookedly, Tom blinked, felt the mumble escape his lips as a fuzzy wave pulled him under. "It's been a grand homecoming, hasn't it, love?"
It didn't feel so grand the next morning.
Tom tried to escape the nauseating whiff of kippers by slithering under the covers. But the movement, coupled with separating his tongue from the roof of his mouth, only ignited a pounding in his head. Someone was trying to tug the blanket away, but his fingers were so hungover they wouldn't cooperate in pulling it back. Whimpering against a burst of sun, he rolled a crusted eye at his wife. Glowing arrogantly, Sybil caressed his hair. He waited for the I told you so, but apparently she would spare him that.
"You're alive, I see."
Turning his face into the pillow, he felt a warm kiss on the back of his head and then a hand slide down his back. It landed on his rump with a sharp Pop!
"Ow!"
"And awake as well." She nudged him to roll over.
"You're not going to smack the other side are you?"
"That would be against my own interests, would it not?" Pressing a kiss to his brow, she sang, "I warned you."
There it was.
"Here, take these and get dressed," she said, waving a pair of white pills at his eyeballs.
Bile bubbled in his throat. "I think I'm going to be sick."
"Well, I've had my turn at the toilet this morning, so it's all yours. Just don't dawdle. Michael's letting us borrow the motor – it's our last day and I want our children to see Dublin!"
Age, perhaps? No, that couldn't be it, Tom decided when he finally stumbled downstairs. He'd only half as much as Michael the night before, but his brother-in-law, who trumped him by a full twenty years, seemed chipper as ever. Whistling about in his shirtsleeves, Michael was moving furniture, in some cases repairing it, and righting the festive hell unleashed on his home. Armed with dust cloths and waste bins, Bobby, Boyle and Mickey were buzzing through the rooms in an effort that would make even dear old Mr. Carson proud. Michael winked at Tom, who'd propped for breath against the newel post, and suggested that "a mound of kippers and cabbage will do the trick."
Sybil was wise enough to bring a little sack for the ride that day, but after a bland breakfast and a few good sniffs of cold air, Tom at least began to feel alive as they puttered through the city later that morning.
The Dublin on that St. Stephen's Day of 1926 seemed different even than the one he'd traversed with Michael just two days before. Then, Tom had observed it with a journalistic detachment, making a mental collection of the wounds and pockmarks of civil war. Today, with his little family snug at his side, he spoke proudly of its scars, as if congratulating his homeland on surviving its brush with death. Dublin had returned, bloodied but renewed.
He told his children of Dublin Castle, its turreted tower now bannered with a trifecta of green, orange, and white, and also of St. Patrick's Cathedral, where they stopped to listen to the choir beneath the barrel-vaulted ceiling. On they went around the heart of the city and finally over the Liffey at the O'Connell Bridge and toward Nelson's Pillar.
Tom had alternated carrying one child and then the other up the one hundred and sixty-six steps to the observation porch, where they took in O'Connell Street from a birds eye view. He hoisted Saoirse so she could see above the railing. "It's coming alive again, love," he told Sybil, finding his breath again. "Can you feel it? Like a phoenix from the ashes!"
"In time I suspect most will have forgotten the Union Jack was ever here," she replied.
Tom peered up at the one-armed gent above his head. "I think Admiral Nelson would disagree," he said, holding his cap as a stiff wind threatened to blow it onto the street below.
"Who's Admiral Nelson, Da?" Bobby asked.
"A man who never did a bloody thing for the Irish, lad, except plant his granite ars..." He sputtered under Sybil's disapproving glare. "...legs in the middle of O'Connell Street."
Bobby giggled, pounded his mittened hands together to warm them.
"We can't erase four hundred years of history overnight, Sybil. The British will be felt for a long time to come. But such is our inheritance. All we can do is secure Ireland's future, one step at a time," he said, stretching to give her a kiss. He set his daughter down, clutched his children's hands. "And speaking of steps, who's ready to go down and give that confectioner a try?"
"Me!"
"Me!"
Tom and Sybil opted for a hot cup of coffee, but the little ones attacked their ice cream as if they'd just spent an hour roasting in the sun. After, Tom insisted on a visit to St. Stephen's Green, where they huddled on a bench watching the children throw bits of stale bread at the ducks and geese.
Sybil winced as Saoirse guided her brother through the grass to the lake's edge, a parade of waterfowl waddling around them. "Remind me to give their shoes a good scrubbing. The geese seem to have been rather productive."
Tom fastened a stray button on her overcoat. "This is where you told me we were going to be parents," he said, pressing a warm kiss to her cheek. "I hardly believed it then...it's still rather an amazing thing to see him now. Both of them. Especially here."
"You're far too sentimental for your own good," she teased.
He remembered wondering then, as he often did during the months that followed, what kind of father he would be, how he would provide for a child. They'd muddled through, if not in the most expected of ways. But, he thought as one hand drifted to her middle, we always do.
"Tom?"
"Hmm?"
"I know it's early yet, but I've been thinking...if the baby's a girl, I'd like to name her Róisín."
"After my grandmother?"
Sybil told him about the photograph Cathleen had given her and asked, "Why didn't you tell me about her, about her father, that is?"
He shrugged. "She'd put all that behind her long before I came along and no one ever discussed it."
"Do you think she loved your grandfather?"
"I do," he nodded. "He died when I was a boy, but from what I remember, he was a fair man, and treated her as a partner on the farm. It wasn't an easy life for her, certainly wasn't how she was raised, but in the end, he gave her the freedom to discover self-respect, to understand that she had value beyond meals and children."
"Sounds to me he was rather an extraordinary man for his day."
"Róisín Branson," he repeated after a while. "I think that would be a lovely name."
"Resilient and beautiful. Just like your grandmother."
"And you." He kissed her soundly and pulled back, eyes twinkling. "But what if it's a boy?"
"Percival! Percival Branson."
"I'll hope for a girl, then," Tom chuckled, "if only to keep the poor lad from getting turned inside out the first day of school." The park grew quiet as the afternoon grayed and the children began to stir with idle hands. "I suppose we should go," he eventually sighed, but made no effort to move.
"We've one more stop to make before we go." When he glanced over, Sybil smiled softly. "Rathmines."
As soon as they'd arrived in Ireland as a betrothed couple, Tom had scoured ads for a humble (it would have to be) home in which to begin their lives. Most landlords he'd met weren't keen to negotiate and he'd almost given up that particular day when he'd stumbled into Mr. Murphy's bookstore to escape a passing shower. He and the old man, whose head was rimmed with a tuft of snow white hair, fell into easy banter about books and politics. It was Mr. Murphy's affable curiosity about where Tom hung his cap that started it all.
"I'm up at Inn's Quay at the moment, at my mother's," Tom explained, "but I'm about to be married and I'm looking for a flat in the area." He waved a scrolled newspaper. "Nothing reasonable so far, though."
That raised the older man's brows. "I've an empty space upstairs, if you're interested."
Irish luck had smiled on him that day. The Murphys had once lived above their bookstore, but Mrs. Murphy's arthritic knees had recently forced them into a nearby one-story cottage with their son.
"We've just not advertised yet," he said, "And both Maggie and me don't want just any sort living above our store."
Once he'd set eyes on the space, Tom knew Sybil would love it. It certainly wasn't a large flat, and of the three rooms only the bedroom was fully enclosed. But it had indoor plumbing, clean fixtures in the kitchen, and an attractive view of the convent grounds to the west. He'd haggled out a reasonable price then, which included agreeing to manage the bookstore counter every other Saturday, so Mr. Murphy could spend it with his wife.
Seven years later, though, the musty old bookstore was no more, converted to a pub called The Habit by the son of old their old landlord, who'd regrettably passed on. As Sybil glanced around the bar, she gave a wry smile. "I'm surprised more pubs aren't named such," she told the younger Mr. Murphy. "Seeing as how their contents can become a pattern for some."
"Oh, it's not that at all!" he replied, his eyes twinkling as his father's often did. "It's in honor of the dear sisters across the street!"
By then, Bobby and Saoirse were fidgeting in desperate need of the loo, and Sybil, rather in need of it herself, herded the children toward the back. It was then that Tom braved his past and inquired about the rooms upstairs.
"Not much t' see," Murphy said with a shrug, "But you're welcome to have a look."
It was an odd sensation, wandering into the old space, as if passing through a threshold of time where everything seemed familiar yet different. The rooms had been relegated for storage of plates and glasses and crates and kegs and other assorted boxes all scattered about in a disorganized mess. Still, beneath the dust and clutter were remnants of their life here: the ceiling stain in the kitchen, the patched wall where he'd searched for a rattling pipe, and that lopsided window in the parlor that Sybil fought to fit a curtain for.
As he shuffled into their old bedroom, Tom's feet kicked up dust that sparkled in the tailings of the late afternoon sun. He wandered here and there, marveling at how they'd managed in the confines of such a small space. Neither of them had shared a room since they were children and, at the time, it was a new world for them both. Still, the trio of rooms had once seemed a palace of novelty. And not just their bodies, which they explored with an unparalleled fervor, but in the everyday arguments and laughter as they built a marriage. Closing his eyes, he could almost hear them rambling about – those early days of newlywed domesticity that mingled trial and error.
Anticipation.
His mouth trembled on a smile.
How innocent we both were.
Their first night here had been a revelation and, for him admittedly, a rather clumsy affair. Afterwards, he was glad to have it over with. But Sybil wasn't one to admit failure on anyone's part and had, in her whisperings as the evening waned, promised that it was only a beginning.
And it certainly had been.
Much later that night, he awoke to the unfamiliar sensation of silken limbs shifting in his own, an elbow jabbing his ribs. He smiled tiredly, breathed in the scent of them and reached out in the dark, hands caressing, reassuring himself it wasn't some unfair dream. His mouth went to her neck and as he tugged on her hip, everything, even his soul seemed to prickle awake. She'd rolled into his kisses, half-asleep, and they'd made love again, unburdened from their earlier inhibitions in a dream-like haze. Later, as the amber illumination of streetlamps trickled in, they'd kissed lazily, laughing and nuzzling through the aftershocks. And long after Sybil had fallen asleep again, he'd laid awake, grinning like a fool with her snuggled into him, one leg cast over his hips and her snoring softly in his ear.
Months later, on that night after Drumgoole, he was kept awake by a different kind of love. Tom had never given much thought to pregnancy, had never considered, for instance, that things weren't entirely round or static. Over the months, as he'd watched her grow with their child, Sybil would often press his fingers over hands, arms, feet, knees, both of them laughing as the baby squirmed and shifted. And on that night – what would be their last in Ireland – after Sybil had worried herself into exhaustion, Tom curled behind her, slipped a hand beneath her gown. He felt the reassurance of new life beneath his palm, felt her finally relax in his arms. But he never did, knowing the inferno at Drumgoole had sealed them to an unknown fate.
"Tom?"
A pair of arms encircled him from behind and he turned. "Did they give you trouble?"
"None out of the ordinary, but the fixtures required attention first." Lofting a brow, she said, "Drunk men don't make the best marksmen, you know."
Tom's face went scarlet.
"Fortunately, I found a bottle of vinegar on the shelf. Mr. Murphy also got a lecture on hygiene, free of charge."
"Where..."
"In the kitchen. I found a few things to keep them occupied for the moment." She leaned on tiptoe to kiss him, fingered back a lock of hair from his brow. "You seemed a world away when I came in."
"I was thinking on our last night here, feeling you in my arms, feeling the baby move, and thinking what a damn fool I'd been to throw it all away."
Shaking her head, she kissed him again. "We didn't have much," she reminded him. "But what we had, we didn't lose."
She slipped from his arms and wandered around the room, her eyes roving as his had earlier, searching for the trivial memories that only some stain or chip or dent could bring. Near the window, she toed a patch in the floor.
Tom came over for a look. "I'd forgotten about that," he laughed, remembering himself and the landlord glancing at the bedpost that had punched through the ceiling of the bookstore.
"You told him it was a rotten joist. And he insisted it was too much weight on one side of the bed."
"Well, you were rather rough on the furniture," he said, giving her backside a gentle pat as she moved on.
Glancing around, she asked, "Was it always this small?"
"It didn't seem so at the time, did it? We certainly couldn't have raised a family here, at least not for very long."
"Speaking of," she said, taking his hand, "we should head back. They'll be hungry before long."
Both swept one last glance at their old room before herding their brood. "All right you monkeys, time to go!" Tom said. "Let's put those things back where you found them."
Bobby and Saoirse dutifully replaced the blocks and iron farm animals, grumbled good-naturedly as their parents swatted dust from their bottoms. Each grabbed one of Sybil's hands, peppering her with questions as she led them downstairs: Mama, what's for dinner? Do we have to go home tomorrow? Did you and Da really live here?
We certainly did, thought Tom as their footsteps faded. Taking in a final glance, his eye caught a familiar scrawl on an envelope poking out of an open box of paperwork. It was his own, scratched out in a previous farewell.
10 July 1920
Dear Mr. Murphy,
I apologize for not writing sooner, but I've been preoccupied with Sybil's health. Not long after we arrived here, she was diagnosed with something called toxemia, a condition that put both her and the baby in grave danger. They're both doing well now, and yes, you read correctly – they. Our son, a small lad with healthy lungs and a voracious appetite, was born five days ago. He's named Robert Daniel after his grandfathers, though he's already called Bobby by all in the house. Sybil's completely smitten with him, of course, and who could blame her? He's the spitting image of his father, or so everyone tells me.
No doubt you've heard of my situation with the authorities. It pains me to think I won't be returning to Ireland with my wife and son anytime soon, but as that seems to be the case, I've started settling my affairs there, which brings me to the point of this letter. I've asked my family in Dublin to collect our things from the flat, if you've not pitched them out (and given our sudden departure and the price on my head, I wouldn't blame you if you did). The most important items are our bed and the baby's cot – the former they'll store until we have a place of our own again, and the latter they'll send now.
Tom chuckled, remembering the simple little cot, the one they'd soon be dusting off again. Fashioned by his brothers, it certainly wasn't the ornate piece that had rocked Crawley babies to sleep. Lord and Lady Grantham had eyed it like a rusty animal trap.
We have a few other personal mementos and my mother knows what they are. I've asked that the remainder of the lot be sold to square the last month's rent. She's also been instructed not to take no for an answer, and I warn you, if you wish to argue with her, on your head so be it. I've no wish to leave a debt unpaid, and besides it's the least I can do, given the kindness and generosity you've shown us over this past year. You gave us our first home and from it we take a treasure of memories.
If fate allows and I'm granted a reprieve in the future, we will surely stop by and pay our respects. Until then, Sybil and I (and little Bobby) wish both you and Mrs. Murphy well.
With Kindest Regards,
Tom Branson
Replacing the letter in its envelope, Tom briefly considered stuffing it in his pocket: surely young Mr. Murphy would never miss it. But no, he decided. Their homecoming had turned a page, long-stuck with residue from the past. It's time to let go. He propped it on the windowsill above their old kitchen sink, and smiled as he switched off the light.
Downton Cottage, May 1927
Bursting alive with color, Sybil's front garden was very much a reflection of herself: wild and free, yet practical with an occasional burst of whimsy. It was one reason Tom's office desk faced the window, so he could watch her tinker amongst the daffodils and sweat peas, snapdragons and love-in-the-mist. It could also be distracting, as it was on this particular Spring morning. He'd already pushed aside any thought of completing his work and decided his time was better spent observing his wife.
Spring isn't the only thing blooming, he mused. Now just a few weeks away from the birth of their third child, Sybil seemed more vibrant this time round, glowing even. Especially so today with sunlight cascading down and a light breeze fluttering her lavender dress. Pushing gingerly to her feet, she clutched a batch of flowers with one hand and, returning his smile through the window, cupped the other beneath her stomach.
Might as well sort the mail, Tom thought when she disappeared from view. She'd be there any minute, smelling of fresh dirt and honeysuckle, and then he'd never get anything done. He perused the bills, grumbling about the electric as he always did, pushing those aside for later, and opted to read the letter from his mother. He sliced it open, smiled at her obvious excitement for traveling over at the first of June.
...though I don't understand why Sybil wants you anywhere near her when the baby arrives, Cathleen wrote. A man has no business on that end of things, she insisted, but seemed to grudgingly accept she wouldn't have much choice in the matter. She went on detailing her travel plans, which included a stopover in Liverpool to visit Kieran. And, by the time Sybil drifted in behind him, Tom was wondering aloud if his mother had somehow found new life in her brush with mortality last autumn.
"She doesn't want to miss anything," Sybil told him, setting a fresh vase of daffodils and lavender snips on his desk. Tom's shoulders suddenly stiffened. "Darling, what's the matter?"
Tommy, there's no easy way to share the news – I'd wanted to wait until I saw you, but Michael says otherwise. Three days ago, your brother Joe was found dead at the old quarry near Kimmage...
Tom simply skimmed over the remaining few details, all of which seemed to indict his brother in an attack on the Gardaí earlier that year, and suggested his death had been a retribution.
Sybil draped her arms over his shoulders, pulled him into her to feel the reassurance of the baby between them. "Oh, Tom...darling, I'm so sorry."
"As am I," he said, clearing his throat, "but I've accepted for some time that he would depart this life as he lived it."
She dropped a kiss to his head. "At least you parted on good terms."
There had been no soppy farewell or slap on the back, Tom remembered, just a simple wave of the cap as Joe melted into the dark. "Very much so," he said, pulling her hand over his heart. "We parted as brothers."
A/N2: The chapter title is of course taken from the traditional Irish ballad, "The Wild Rover." Nelson's Pillar was once a prominent landmark on O'Connell Street, but was bombed in 1966 by former members of the IRA; it's now the site of the Dublin Spire.
Up Next: June 1926: The Open Championship, and a little bromance at St. Annes-on-the-Sea. :)
