Chapter Twenty Seven
Homeward Bound
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, summer 1933.
Having returned here to the sunlit terrace from her spot of surreptitious sleuthing in the house, Edith seated herself back beside Friedrich.
"More coffee?" he asked solicitously, reaching for the delicately chased pot with its long, curving, serpentine spout.
"Thank you, yes".
Having re-filled Edith's cup, Friedrich set the silver coffee pot back on the table and smiled.
"There ..."
"And, Sybil?"
"I presume she must still be somewhere inside".
"Oh. I wonder if she ... "
"You wonder if she what ..."
Edith waved her husband into silence. With a rattle, she set her cup down in its saucer.
"No. It doesn't matter. Honestly, those three!" Edith shook her head in mock disbelief; nodded towards the house.
"So, you think Danny, Robert, and our very own young scamp had some hand in what happened last night?"
His wife nodded.
Aware that, even if Saiorse, Simon, and Bobby were intent on watching a pair of lizards darting about on and between the flagstones, they were still within earshot, Edith kept her voice deliberately low.
"No doubt of it whatsoever! Although, what exactly it was I'm not quite certain, but apparently it involved them borrowing one of your fishing rods".
"One of my fishing rods?" Friedrich cocked an enquiring eye, with Edith then proceeding to explain, again in hushed tones, what it was she had observed, first upstairs, and then in the hall. When she had finished the telling of her tale, Friedrich let out a low whistle.
"I see. Well, there's no real harm been done. And, as I told you several times before, darling, boys will be boys. On that score, I have a suggestion to make ..." he said, and just as softly.
Landing Strip, Rózsafa, Hungary, summer 1933, several hours earlier.
Having been forced down in Roumania by the re-occurring problem with the engine, when Wyss and Salvatore took off from the field across the border, at the very last minute, dead ahead of them, they had encountered a haystack. Now, here at Rózsafa, at least in one sense, it appeared as if history was on the point of repeating itself. For, coming straight at them was an armoured car. No doubt a long forgotten relic, left over from the days of the Great War, capable only of slow speeds, it was, nonetheless, a force with which to be reckoned. After all, avoiding a haystack was one thing, but trying to evade an armoured car spraying a lethal hail of bullets, supported by a group of soldiers intent on taking potshots at the Junkers with their rifles, was an entirely different matter.
There simply was no alternative.
This time, take-off would have to be aborted.
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, several hours later.
"Well, what do you think?" asked Friedrich.
"I think it's a lovely idea but don't you think it would be better if you ..."
"If I waited until we have news of the others? Maybe, Perhaps. Yes, I suppose so. But, I thought it would help take their minds off ..."
"Yes, of course ..."
Edith nodded.
If only there were some news.
She eyed the folded morning newspapers brought out here to the table by Kleist.
"I suppose there's nothing in the papers about ..."
Friedrich shook his head.
"No, nothing at all, but then is that so very surprising?"
"No, I suppose not".
Somewhere close to the Hungarian Roumanian border, several hours earlier.
It was with a sudden jolt, and with the noisomness of the nightmare still very much upon him, that Tibor now awoke to find Dévaj licking his face and Micky shaking his arm. By now, Tibor had hoped to have been a great deal further south but, the lorry had been brought to a stand by a puncture, and whilst there was a spare tyre, it would take time to fit. So, with no alternative but to pause in their headlong flight southwards in order to try and effect the necessary repair, a while ago, Tibor had turned the lorry off the road and into a clearing which lay a short distance off the road. There, sheltered by a belt of firs, and so shielded from prying eyes, at least from a cursory glance, with a rudimentary jack made out of stout branches from a fallen fir, the tyre had been changed. It was as well that Tibor had done what he did for, while the lorry was still hidden in the clearing, but a short time later, out on the road, trailing a cloud of dust in their wake, there passed by a detachment of troops loyal to the Regent.
Turning in his seat, and peering through the rear window of the cab, very much to his relief, Tibor saw the group of young soldiers, some dozing as he himself had been, others trying to make the lot of their wounded comrades a little better - a sip of water here, a makeshift pillow re-positioned, but it was unlikely much could be done for any of them until they reached St. Mihály's abbey. It was an isolated spot, well off the beaten track, unlikely to be searched, and the monks there would take care of those too badly wounded to travel any further.
Tibor swallowed hard. It was time they were off again. After all, his nightmare could so easily have been a bloody reality. Indeed, it could still become so, if they did not put sufficient distance between themselves and what had happened back there at Rózsafa.
Glancing at his wristwatch, seeing the time, sparing a passing thought for Matthew, Mary, and Tom, wondering if they had yet reached Austria, a moment later Tibor had reversed the lorry cautiously out of the clearing. Having turned the vehicle about, he set off down the road making for the abbey, thence to Erdőtelek, and so to Lőkösháza, from where, if necessary, those able to do so could then attempt to cross the border by train to safety in Roumania.
Landing Strip, Rózsafa, Hungary, sometime earlier.
Here in the semi enclosed cockpit of the aeroplane, with bullets smacking into the duralumin fuselage and wings like a bike of angry hornets, even if those seated behind them in the passenger cabin were entirely ignorant of the fact, both Wyss and Salvatore were only too well aware that, as when they took off from Roumania for the second time, once again, with the wheels now about to lift clear of the ground, they were, almost at the point of no return. A split second decision had to be made: gamble on being able to climb clear of the armoured car, now broadside on to the Junkers and barring its path: or abort the flight, be taken prisoner by soldiers of the Magyar Királyi Honvédség, the Royal Hungarian Army, and thereafter probably shot as spies.
No contest then.
Wyss opened up the throttle just as wide as he possibly could, at the same time praying that none of the incessant stream of bullets hit the engine, the propeller or, Gott verteidige, any of those on board.
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, several hours later.
After their unexpected encounter with Aunt Edith in the hall, with Max having done as he had been instructed to do by his mother and dutifully replaced his father's fishing rod from whence it had come, along with Danny and Rob, the three boys had wandered back upstairs to Danny's bedroom to decide what they might do this sunny morning. A short while later, having gone back downstairs, outside to the terrace, they found that, just as Uncle Friedrich had said, attracted by the warmth of the morning sunshine the two lizards which, earlier, had disappeared down between a crack in the flagstones, had re-appeared; were once more the subject of much silent watchful scrutiny on the part of Saiorse, Simon, and Bobby. Looking up, seeing the three boys re-emerging from the house, laying aside his newspapers, Friedrich beckoned them over to where he and Edith were still sitting.
"Now," Friedrich said, trying his very best to assume a marked degree of cheerfulness which he did not feel, "when Max was laid up in bed with his knee, I made you all a solemn promise, didn't I?"
Landing Strip, Rózsafa, Hungary, summer 1933.
As bullets began hitting the fuselage of the 'plane, within the passenger cabin, realising that they were under attack, from whom or from what really didn't matter one iota, with Matthew, Mary, and Tom sitting strapped into their seats, there was little they could do to protect themselves; save for Matthew trying his very best to shield Mary with his own body, while Tom hunched forward in his seat, covering his head with his hands. They heard the noise from the engine suddenly increase dramatically; were aware too that they were picking up speed, and a moment later, felt the aeroplane leave the ground.
As the wheels of the Junkers lifted clear of the grass, and with only inches to spare, the aeroplane skimmed over the top of the armoured car. As their quarry soared out of reach, those on the ground could do nothing but stand helplessly and watch as the 'plane climbed up and away into the bright blue yonder, until at last it was no more than a pinprick of silver on the far distant horizon.
Later, somewhere high over Hungary.
During the Great War, late in 1915, as an observer, sitting in the front seat of a B.E.2, Matthew had made several flights over the Western Front; on one occasion narrowly avoiding being shot down, this only thanks to the remarkable skill of his pilot, and about which Mary only learned many years after the event had taken place. Until now, this had been the extent of Matthew's experience of flying; something which he had no wish to repeat. All the same, he and Tom had been heard to say that the then craze for wing walking looked like fun, something which, once Mary had learned Edith had been taught how to fly, gave her nightmares. There forming in Mary's mind the re-occurring image of Matthew and Tom both strapped to the wings of a 'plane piloted by Edith looping the loop high above Downton during the annual Statute Fair, trailing in its wake a long banner emblazoned with the words: The Branson and Crawley Flying Circus.
Of course, neither Mary, nor Tom, had ever flown before and so, for the duration of the flight - however long that would prove to be was open to question - sitting strapped into their seats, confined here within the cramped, noisy passenger cabin of the Junkers, at least to begin with, both of them found the flight to be rather an ordeal.
All the same, there was no denying the fact that here, way up among the clouds, which Mary said reminded her for all the world of clumps and wisps of cotton wool, for the three of them the flight soon became something of an adventure. Nonetheless, had they been aware of the continuing problem with the aeroplane's engine, then they would, undoubtedly, have been even more concerned than they were already. For themselves certainly; but also for those whom they had been forced to leave behind in Hungary. Especially Tibor and young Micky Waldstein, but also for both Manfred and Eva.
However, after the Junkers took off, it had turned to the northwest and flown directly over Rózsafa, the mansion itself by then being a mass of fire and flame. There seemed little chance that any of those left inside could have survived the conflagration and even if they had, the likely fate awaiting those involved in the attempted coup against the Regent was too awful to contemplate. All this apart, the stable block had stood some distance from the main house, and Mary found herself hoping fervently that Patrik and all the other horses stabled there had somehow managed to survive the assault on the kastély.
As the flight progressed, with a vast swathe of Central Europe spread out below them like some gigantic model, encompassing mountains, rivers, plains, towns, villages, railway lines, and roads, but principally the flat, featureless expanse of the Great Hungarian Plain, Matthew observed that it reminded him of a large map which had been displayed on one of the walls of the Geography Room in his public school. At that, for Mary, memory also stirred. Never gifted academically - she left all that sort of thing to Edith - she now recalled that when she had been a very small girl a similar map used to hang in the Day Nursery at Downton. And, it was now, and perhaps for the very first time in her life, that Mary found herself full of admiration for Edith, for having learned how to fly.
For his part, Tom said that the landscape brought to mind the patchwork quilt which, as a boy, he had on his bed in Ma's homely little house in Clontarf. Although he preferred to have his feet firmly planted on terra firma, once the nail biting circumstances of their departure from Rózsafa were behind them, with the Junkers airborne, now, quite to his surprise Tom found that thousands of feet up above the surface of the earth, here among the clouds, he suffered no nausea, which he always did when on board ship. Of course any trip to Downton involved, inevitably, an outward and a return voyage across the Irish Sea - never the calmest of waters upon which to sail - especially if one was prone to sea sickness and, unless the ocean proved kind and was as flat as a millpond, which was rarely ever the case, Tom spent most of any such voyage looking decidedly green, or else retching his guts up over the ship's rail.
'A' Deck, S.S. Canterbury, English Channel, August 1933.
On the Bransons' most recent journey, all the way from Ireland over to Austria, while for once the Irish Sea had been unexpectedly calm, the same could not have been said of the English Channel. The passage from Dover to Calais, which the Bransons and the Crawleys made on board the Southern Railway's single stack steamer, the S.S. Canterbury, had been very rough indeed; the ship pitching and tossing, and poor Tom had suffered accordingly. What had made things infinitely worse, was that Matthew and Mary, both of whom had long heard tales of Tom's lack of sea legs, were now witness to just how bad a seafarer Tom undoubtedly was.
But, while Mary had been solicitous, Matthew who himself was a good seafarer, had been decidedly bemused by the whole business. Having prevailed upon Tom to leave the confines of the First Class Saloon, and take at least one turn around the deck - even Sybil had told Tom that a dose of fresh air might do him some good - a short while later found Matthew and Tom outside on deck, mingling with those other souls brave enough to have ventured topsides.
With the Red Ensign snapping smartly at the stern in the stiff northwest breeze, and a constant cloud of grey smoke flattening from the towering single buff coloured funnel of the steamer, an indication of the strength of the wind, studiously ignoring the sight of the half dozen white painted lifeboats, and with their hands clasped tightly behind their backs, Tom and Matthew strolled towards the bow. Matthew saw, much to his silent amusement, that the Irishman kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead, towards some point in the far distance, visible only, it must be said to Tom alone, and which he himself was convinced marked the welcome sight of the French coast. Only, in fact, it didn't; being of no more substance than a shifting bank of fog.
Having reached the rail overlooking the foredeck, the two men crossed to the starboard side of the ship, turned, and resumed their stroll. And it was while they were slowly, and in Tom"s case, stoically, retracing their steps along the salt bleached boards of 'A' Deck, that Matthew went as far as to say that surely, Tom would feel a great deal better ... if he ate something.
"Look, old chap, what about a cooked breakfast? Sausage, bacon, eggs, toast, pot of tea ... A good meal inside you, why, you'll be as right as rain in no time. You'll see".
"Oh, grand, Matthew!" croaked Tom, and through gritted teeth. "With friends like you, for sure, who needs ..." But Tom never finished what he had been about to say for, at that very moment, encountering an unusually heavy swell, the Canterbury rode hard to starboard, and Matthew's kindly meant suggestion had Tom running for the ship's rail.
A few moments later, with Matthew by his side, Tom stood gazing down morosely at the churning, frothing, grey waters of the English Channel, while his empty stomach heaved its protest, reflecting gloomily that not one of them, not even Sybil, seemed to understand, or have any real sympathy, for his present predicament. In a decidedly self pitying mood, he found himself thinking back to the previous autumn, to one particular Sunday afternoon when Sybil, who at the time had been expecting young Dermot, was sitting quietly at the table in the bay window of their house on Idrone Terrace in Blackrock, writing to Mary; something which, time permitting, she tried to do at least once or twice a month.
Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Irish Free State, October 1932.
Beyond the walls of the snug little house, here on Idrone Terrace the autumn sky had turned a leaden grey and a blustery, cold, north east October wind was driving stinging squalls of salt laden rain hard against the window panes.
In the sitting room, situated at the front of the house, which so overlooked the sea, Sybil paused in her latest letter to Mary; shook her head in disbelief. How time passed! More than six years had elapsed since the occasion of the Crawleys' one and only visit here to date. That had been back in the summer of 1926, shortly after the end of the General Strike when, bringing with them young Robert, Matthew and Mary had come over to Dublin, and stayed at the Shelbourne Hotel. On the surface at least, the visit had seemed to be no more than what, at first glance, anyone else would have taken it to be: namely a family reunion. Nonetheless, although at the time Tom had said nothing to Sybil, through certain contacts of his own, some of which would no doubt have surprised Matthew, Tom had the inkling that all was not quite as it purported to be.
Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, August 1926.
While Ireland, or at least that part of the island which was now called the Free State, had become independent some four years earlier, in March 1922, nonetheless, that hard won independence was imperfect and in some senses it was very much a case of smoke and mirrors. After all, the Free State remained part of the British Empire and, like it or loathe it, members of the Dáil, however unwillingly they might do so, had still to take their Oath of Allegiance to His Majesty King George V, even if it was dressed up as promise of fidelity. Executive authority was also still vested in the King, with the Governor-General of Ireland as his representative, presently James McNeill, whom, Tom had learned, Matthew was to meet with at the Viceregal Lodge in Phoenix Park; even if his English brother-in-law had chosen to say nothing at all about the forthcoming encounter. Unusually for Tom, he felt it unwise to enquire further; this partly out of politeness, but also because to do so might well jeopardise the identities of his own informants.
Then there was the matter of those three deep water ports, namely at Berehaven, Queenstown, and Lough Swilly which, while now situated in the Free State, were retained for the use of the Royal Navy, that there was no Irish merchant marine ... the Free State being entirely dependent upon British shipping for supplying it with all manner of commodities. And so it went on. Given half a chance, Tom had no doubt whatsoever that Great Britain would, given a suitable pretext, be quite prepared to send its troops back into the Free State as had so nearly happened following the assassination of Sir Henry Wilson back in June 1922.
When at last Matthew and Mary duly arrived at Tom and Sybil's terraced house, they had done so in a gleaming, maroon-coloured 3-litre Bentley which had drawn a whoop of delight and an approving whistle from young Danny kneeling in the window seat of this same room, impatiently awaiting the arrival of his uncle, aunt, and, rather more importantly, his cousin Robert. The chauffeur driven motor also drew admiring glances from a handful of the Bransons' neighbours gathered in a knot outside on the pavement, who were aware, if only hazily, that Sybil had some kind of connection to the British aristocracy.
Thereafter, while Tom, Matthew and the two boys - darling little Bobby had only just been born - went upstairs to see Danny's clockwork train set, a clearly proud Sybil took Mary on a whirlwind tour of the house, conducting her eldest sister from room to room as if she was the châtelaine of a mansion akin to Downton Abbey, as opposed to the mistress of a modest terraced house situated in a quiet suburb on the south side of Dublin. While Mary did her best to try and be dutifully impressed with all that she was being shown, her comment that the house was "quaint" - as if it was no more than one of Downton's very own tied cottages - did not go down well with Sybil, even if she did her very best to mask her disappointment that Mary could not find something rather more positive to say.
Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, October 1932.
Sybil glanced across the room at Saiorse who, true to form, ever the tomboy, had adopted a most unladylike pose, lying sprawled on her stomach on the rug in front of the blazing fire, swinging her legs in the air, and revealing her knickers in the process.
At times like these, Sybil despaired of her daughter who she saw was reading Danny's latest copy of the Boy's Own Paper. The cover - which showed the crew of a bi-plane attacking a lorry - gave some indication of the content, which seemed hardly suitable for Saiorse. However, both Tom and Sybil had brought up all of their children to believe that boys and girls were equal, and that they should not be precluded from doing something simply on account of their sex. Even Danny, much to Tom's horror, thanks to the patience of Alice their housemaid, had learned how to sew buttons back onto his shirts, and was rather better at it than his mother.
So, Sybil bit her tongue and made no comment as to the suitability or otherwise of Saiorse's choice of reading material. Meanwhile, watched by both Bobby and Danny, Tom was sitting quietly in his armchair beside the hearth, repairing one of the little clockwork locomotives which Bobby had inherited from Danny who, now aged all of twelve years, or as he insisted, nearly thirteen, had recently professed himself too old for such toys and promptly passed them over to his younger brother.
As Sybil picked up her pen to resume her letter to Mary, a particularly strong gust of wind hit the house, causing the fire to billow smoke into the room. Momentarily, eyes watered, and Tom made a mental note to himself to arrange for Mr. Murphy, the sweep, to call and see if the flue needed cleaning. Sybil paused once more in her writing to look out at the ever worsening weather. She turned her head, again saw Tom and their children; reflected that if some ten years ago he and she had not dared to defy social convention then this scene of cosy domesticity would never have come to pass. Knew too that the good times they had enjoyed far outweighed the bad and that she wouldn't have missed any of it for the world.
Her and Tom's eyes met over the heads of their children.
Tom nodded; he could read her like a book.
"For sure," he said and smiled. "And?"
"And nothing".
"Lost for inspiration then, are ya?"
"No, not at all".
"So what's your news to Mary?"
"Do you really want to know?"
"I really want to know".
But when Sybil then proceeded to read aloud what she had written, Tom found himself wishing he hadn't asked.
For, in her latest long, breezy, chatty letter, Sybil had, in passing, and decidedly tongue-in-cheek, written to Mary that when, as now, they were all at home in Blackrock and the winter gales were rolling in from off the Irish Sea, just looking at the storm wracked waters of Dublin Bay, even from the comfort and safety of their snug little sitting room, made Tom feel seasick. Now, reading out what she had written to Tom, her levity at his misfortune had gone done like the proverbial lead balloon. Tom did not consider his affliction to be a laughing matter. Indeed, far from it. And what was even more galling was that neither Sybil nor the children suffered from sea sickness.
It remained to be seen if the new baby also grew up likewise unaffected by what the French called the mal de mer.
Somewhere high over Hungary, August 1933.
Continuing to find his experience of flying not only novel but, as time went on, far less stressful than he would have ever imagined it to be, turning in his seat and seeing that Mary was still so obviously nervous, Tom tried his very best to make light of their present situation. He winked; smiled broadly at his aristocratic sister-in-law.
"Grand! Once again just like old times, for sure!" Given the noise from the engine, Tom had to all but shout to make himself heard.
"Really?" Seated beside his wife, Matthew's brow furrowed in bewilderment. Mary, too, was equally all uncomprehending.
"Old times?" she echoed with her legs curled up under her and snuggled against her husband for warmth. While the cabin of the Junkers was equipped with a heater, in the rush of their departure from the landing strip at Rózsafa, it had not been turned on. "I don't see how you can say such a thing". Mary was still worrying over what had happened to Tibor and Micky, whether they had made it safely to where they had been bound, and what had become of Manfred and Eva.
Sensing Mary's sombre mood, Tom took no offence.
"For sure, it is".
Then, seeing the continued look of puzzlement on Matthew's face, as well as the befuddlement on Mary's, realising that neither of them understood what he meant, Tom proceeded to explain. With Wyss and Salvatore sitting up front, the backs of their heads visible from time to time through the glass window set into the bulkhead between the passenger cabin and the cockpit, it was very much as it had been when Tom had been chauffeur to the Crawleys, sitting in the front seat, either of the Renault or else that of one of the other motors the family owned, separated from his passengers by a glass screen, driving Robert around on estate business. Or else Cora, Mary, Edith, and Sybil on short trips down into the village, perhaps into Ripon, let alone further afield as and when the Crawleys were paying one of their seemingly never-ending round of social calls or else attending a dinner party.
"I do begin to see what you mean!" laughed Mary. "Oh, what I wouldn't give to be on my way into Ripon now to take afternoon tea in the Cathedral Tea Rooms! A piping hot pot of good English tea, muffins, and a plate of fancies!"
"And, so you shall, my darling, just as soon as we're back in England. Even if I have to drive you there myself!" Matthew patted his wife's knee reassuringly.
"That's if, with Matthew driving, the two of yous ever manage to arrive there in one piece, for sure!" chuckled Tom. Matthew's love of speed when motoring was well known within the family.
All three of them laughed.
Beyond the bulkhead, in the half open cockpit, Wyss and Salvatore exchanged grim glances. They were in the position to see what those seated in the cabin behind them could not. Directly ahead of the Junkers the sky had turned an inky black and flashes of fork and sheet lightning rent the sky. They were flying directly into an enormous thunderstorm and what was worse, according to the gauge on the control panel, the oil pressure was dropping. Whether it was simply a problem with the instrument, only time would tell. All the same, there remained the distinct possibility that a stray bullet had damaged the oil feed. If so, it would only be a matter of time before the engine became starved of oil and if that happened, with the Junkers forced down while they were still over Hungary ...
And then, it began to rain heavily; a cold, freezing, penetrating rain, decidedly uncomfortable for the two men in the half open cockpit, which, turned quickly into a vicious storm of hail.
Wyss and Salvatore knew they dared not risk flying through the storm; that their only chance was to take the 'plane down to a much lower altitude but in so doing they would then expose themselves to being seen by those on the ground. Added to which, while by virtue of the terms of the Treaty of Trianon, the Kingdom of Hungary was not supposed to have any aircraft, there were persistent rumours that, since the Allied Military Mission had been disbanded, restrictions of this nature hitherto placed upon the country were being wantonly disregarded. If so, the unarmed Junkers would be nothing short of a sitting target for any fighter 'plane however obsolete it might in fact be.
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, several hours later.
Max grinned.
"The Riesenrad!"
His father nodded.
"Yes, the Riesenrad. Just so".
Danny and Rob looked blankly at each other. What on earth was that?
"Tell them what it is, Papa!" Max urged, sitting perched on the arm of his father's chair, while his two cousins lounged back against the edge of the dining table.
"The Riesenrad is the highest ferris wheel in the world and is in an amusement park called the Prater in Wien - Vienna. Would you like to go for a ride on it?"
For once, this was something of which Danny had not heard but which, because of the Statute Fair held annually every summer in Downton, Rob had.
"Yes please, Uncle Friedrich.
"Then, you shall. Tomorrow".
"Tomorrow?" Max asked.
"Yes, tomorrow".
His father went on to tell them more about the Riesenrad. There were some thirty or so wooden gondolas ...
"What's a gondola?" Danny asked, evidently mystified.
Friedrich explained that it was a small wooden cabin. Apparently, there were some thirty or so attached to the ferris wheel from which, as it turned, magnificent views were to be had over all of Vienna. There were other amusements on offer in the Prater as well. So, given that there were all manner of things to do and to see in the city, including the wild animals in the Tiergarten, the zoo, close to the Schönbrunn Palace, they would catch the morning train from St. Johann into Vienna and make a day of it; just the four of them.
"May we go and eat cake in the Central Café too, Papa?" Max asked, his eyes bright and shining.
Friedrich smiled and tousled his son's sandy hair.
"Possibly!"
Max grinned.
"That means, yes!" he declared.
His father smiled.
"Very well then, yes. Now, in the meantime, what about us all having a game of cricket?"
Somewhere high over Hungary, a few hours earlier.
In order to avoid the oncoming hailstorm, Wyss had no alternative but to descend from their present altitude of nearly 12,000 feet and to do so swiftly. Turning his head he looked at Salvatore who, alone of the others on board, understood the reason why the 'plane now had to make such a sudden and sharp descent.
"Sich halten!" Wyss yelled.
Behind them in the cabin, Matthew, Mary, and Tom, while unaware of the reason for it, felt the 'plane first veer violently to the left and then that it was now dropping like a proverbial stone.
Seeing the look of alarm registered on the faces of both Mary and Tom, that they were holding onto their seats, their knuckles clenched, Mary with her eyes tight shut and mouthing a silent prayer, Matthew did his very best to try and reassure them.
"Don't worry, something similar once happened to me during the war. Everything will be just fine, you'll see!"
By their expressions he could see that neither Mary nor Tom shared his sense of certainty but, as Matthew had said, so it proved to be.
A short while later, with the Junkers now at 6,000 feet, which was as low as Wyss dared go - any lower and they would seriously be running the risk of meeting before time with der Heilige Petrus - St. Peter - he brought the 'plane level. Glancing at the gauges, all seemed normal, even that showing the level of the oil pressure.
But, appearances are often deceptive.
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, several hours later.
Friedrich would have been the first to admit that unlike Matthew, or for that matter Tom, he was no cricketer and, try as they might, to make it sound otherwise, the boys' reaction to his suggestion had been rather lukewarm. Nonetheless, to have refused Uncle Friedrich's offer outright would have been rude and a churlish thing to do; the more so because of his promise just made to take the three of them into Vienna on the morrow.
"Grand, for sure," said Danny, his voice deadpan.
"Yes, Uncle Friedrich, if you really want to," replied Robert, his tone just as expressionless.
If Friedrich noticed his nephews' distinct lack of enthusiasm, he gave no sign that he had.
"So, then, boys, where's the bat, the ball, and the pads?"
"The last time we played, after we'd finished, Father and Uncle Tom ..." Robert fell silent; stifled a sob. Saw his brother raise his head; look up at him from where Simon was lying stretched out on his tummy on the flagstones of the terrace along with Saiorse and young Bobby, all still watching the pair of tiny lizards. Seeing Robert was upset, Edith rose quickly to her feet and placed an arm about his shoulders. Blinking back his tears, Robert forced a smile. "I suppose ... I suppose they must be down there". he pointed to the lower garden. "In the summerhouse. That's where Father and Uncle Tom left them, after the last time we all played".
"Let's go and see," said Danny, trying to sound rather more enthusiastic than he felt.
Border of the Kingdom of Hungary and the Republic of Austria.
Wyss knew that the distant smudge on the horizon must be Wien so therefore ...
Hurriedly, on a scrap of paper, torn from a pocket book, he wrote, in large letters, the single word:-
Österreich
Now rapped smartly on the glass window in the bulkhead between the cockpit and passenger cabin and held up what he had just written.
Matthew glanced up.
"What's it mean?" Tom asked.
"It means old chap, that we've done it! That down there, is Austria!"
In the cockpit, the elation felt by Wyss and Salvatore that they had crossed the border into Austria quickly evaporated for, once again, the oil pressure was seen to be dropping. And it was clearly not the gauge for the engine began to cough and splutter. Starved of oil, it would soon seize up and the propeller cease to turn. All they could do was pray that enough oil yet remained to prevent that happening, until they could land the Junkers safely as close as maybe to Rosenberg.
Rosenberg, Lower Austria, an hour or so later.
With the game of cricket at last now over, followed by Uncle Friedrich, the three boys were climbing the steps which led up to the terrace from the lower garden when, quite unexpectedly, Max came to a sudden stand. Indeed, so precipitously did he do so that his father all but cannoned into him. Now standing stock still, shading his eyes, Max stood gazing intently at something which had clearly caught his attention.
"What is it, old chap?" asked his father evidently mystified.
"There! Don't you see it?
"Where? See what?" Friedrich glanced about him, clearly perplexed.
Quite unexpectedly, the chance now came for young Max to make use of the phrase that Danny had taught him.
"Thick as a feckin' plank!" Max whispered, more to himself than for anyone else's benefit. All the same, Danny and Rob dissolved into a fit of giggles. Catching sight of his mother looking up at them from where she had been sitting chatting with Saiorse, while Simon and Bobby were still on their knees on the look out for yet more lizards, Max coloured; he hoped fervently that Mama had not heard what he had just said.
"There, Papa! Over there!"
Grabbing hold of his father's arm, Max pointed excitedly, stabbing the forefinger of his left hand up into the cloudless blue of the morning sky, to where, drawing closer and closer, there could be seen a single winged 'plane, silver in colour, trailing in its wake a pall of thick black smoke. To those gathered out here on the terrace, it was obvious that the monoplane was rapidly losing altitude, so that at times it was all but skimming the tops of the distant trees.
The 'plane was even lower now; scarce fifty or so feet from off the ground.
Friedrich shook his head in a mounting disbelief.
"No, surely not. Whoever it is, he can't be intending to try and land down there in the meadow ..."
Hearing the sound of bells, Friedrich glanced towards the green, onion domed spire of the church of St. Florian which stood just beyond the meadow of wild flowers, at the far end of the drive which led up to the house from the road leading down to the station at St. Johann. Ominously, the church bells now began to clang most dolorously. While it was only to announce the celebration of a Low Mass, the discordant, mournful sound of their jangling could not have come at a more inopportune moment.
Everyone, adults and children alike, were now on their feet, staring incredulously at the incoming aeroplane which, as it swept across in front of them, smoke pouring from the engine cowling, was now so low that they could make out the two men seated in the half open cockpit with its crazed windshield and, equally ominously, that both the fuselage and wings were riddled with bullet holes.
Edith's hand flew to her mouth in consternation.
"Oh my God! It's Conrad!"
Moments later, in a series of bumps and short bounces, the 'plane had landed safely in the field; the two men in the cockpit hurriedly clambering out onto the wing, and pulling open the door of the passenger cabin. At the same time, all those on the terrace set off down the steps, making for the meadow, Max, followed closely by both Danny and Robert, leading the way. In their wake came Friedrich, Edith and the other three children, all of them hurrying across the greensward of the meadow with its carpet of wild flowers, towards where the silver coloured monoplane was now at a stand, with a pall of black smoke continuing to pour from its engine.
As the door of the aeroplane's cabin swung open, the very first to emerge was Mary, followed swiftly in turn by Matthew, and then lastly by Tom; all of them looking decidedly dishevelled. Not that that seemed to bother them in the slightest, not even the aristocratic, always immaculately attired Mary, and certainly not those here to meet them. On seeing their parents and father emerging from the cramped cabin of the 'plane, Robert, Simon, Danny, Saiorse, and Bobby let out a collective whoop of delight that that was probably heard in Vienna.
Having been helped down from off the wing by Wyss, as Mary walked slowly forward across the grass, seeing her two boys, she opened wide her arms. Robert and Simon needed no second bidding and ran to meet her. Mary hugged both of them to her tightly; noting at the same time that Simon had one of his arms held fast in a sling.
"What's happened to you?" his mother asked, clearly concerned.
"It's nothing, really, Mama," Simon said dismissively.
"Si' was really, really brave, Mama!" exclaimed Robert. His mother nodded, choosing to ignore Robert's use of the diminutive of Simon's Christian name; something which she normally deplored.
"Were you my darling?"
Simon looked up in astonishment at his mother. Never, could he recall her calling him darling, and if she had, it had not been in public.
"Then, my darling," - there it was again - "you must tell your father and me all about it. But, not now, I think. Later, when we've had a chance to freshen up. Promise me now".
"I promise, Mama," Simon said solemnly.
"Promise you what?" asked Matthew, now also catching sight of Simon's bandaged arm.
"He's going to tell us all about what happened to him, but later. Aren't you, my darling?"
"Er, well, yes, I suppose I am!" Simon grinned, as in turn his father too hugged him tightly.
"Are you really all right, father?" asked Robert, holding out his right hand in formal greeting.
"Come here old chap!" Disregarding Robert's outstretched hand, Matthew pulled his eldest son to him in a bruising bear hug. "Yes, no real harm done, I think. But it was all a damned close run thing!" Matthew chuckled.
"Well, I suppose that's one way of putting it!" laughed Mary.
The two boys exchanged glances; this was not the Mama they had come to know.
Matthew glanced back at the aeroplane; took in the smoke pouring from the engine and the savage peppering of bullet holes. "Good God, it looks like a bloody colander".
Ignoring Matthew's use of language, Mary laughed.
"Yes, I rather suppose it does!"
"What's all this, for sure?" asked Tom hugging his three children to him in the warmest of embraces, while at the same time casting an enquiring eye over Danny's still bandaged head.
"Danny fell and hit his head, out at the Old Tower," explained Saiorse. "Not that it knocked any sense into him, for sure!"
"And I love ya too, sis!" growled Danny.
"I had to go for help," Bobby added and with evident pride.
"I see. Or rather I don't. But yous can tell me all about it back at the house".
Having welcomed both Wyss and Salvatore, being profuse in their thanks for the part they had played in rescuing their loved ones from an uncertain fate, Friedrich and Edith now moved to greet the others whereupon there followed a succession of repeated handshakes, warm embraces, and tears of joy.
"Dearest Tom, we were all so very, very worried".
"So was I, for sure!"
Edith thought Tom sounded somewhat abstracted. She saw he was looking about him; which was perfectly understandable. After all, the one, single person he would have expected to be here to greet him was conspicuous by her absence.
Tom was beginning to worry. Something must have happened, otherwise Sybil would have ...
"Tom, darling ..."
"Where is she? Where's Sybil? What's happened?""
"She's fine, Tom. Nothing's happened. I think she said something about going to the chapel".
"To the chapel, for sure?"
Edith nodded.
"Yes. Kleist will show you the way".
Tom didn't need to be told twice; leaving the children and the others to follow, he set off at a run across the meadow and towards the distant house.
"Darling, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but I lost your hat," said Mary as, arm in arm with Edith, the two of them walked together up the steps leading to the terrace.
"My hat?"
"I mean the one you bought me; in that very fetching shade of mauve".
"Oh, no matter, I can always buy you another".
Over my dead body thought Mary. All the same, she smiled sweetly at Edith.
"I must look a positive fright".
"You don't look any different to me than you usually do".
"How kind of you to say so".
"My pleasure".
"So, do I always look like I've been dragged through a hedge backwards?"
"No, not at all. That wasn't what I meant".
Mary smiled.
"I know you didn't. I'll let you into a secret".
"Which is?"
"What I want most of all ..."
"You said it a moment ago: a long hot bath".
"I did but in a funny old sort of a way, I lied. Because, what I'd really like .. is a nice cup of tea. Do you think ..."
"Of course. I'll tell Kleist directly".
Letting go of her sister's arm, Edith hurried away across the terrace and disappeared inside the house. Behind her, Mary paused; waited for the others to catch her up. She looked about her. If the truth be told, she had always been so very envious of Edith's beautiful home but now ... Lord, how good it was to be back.
Unseen, frightened by all the footsteps, once again the two lizards disappeared from sight down a crack between the flags.
In answer to Tom's question, Kleist had nodded towards the passage leading to the chapel.
"Grand, for sure".
Family Chapel, Rosenberg, Lower Austria.
Even when she was a child Sybil had never been particularly religious. However, when she was deemed old enough to do so, along with her grandmother, parents, and sisters, having been driven down into the village first in the family carriage and later by motor - this was long before Tom became chauffeur at Downton - each and every Sunday morning Sybil had dutifully taken her place in the family pew up in the chancel of St. Mary's parish church. There she knelt to say her prayers, stood to sing a succession of well known hymns - she liked them for their melodies alone - or else sat staring up at the roof, looking at the brightly coloured stained glass window directly opposite where she herself was seated, while up in his pulpit Reverend Travis, or betimes a visiting clergyman, droned on and on about hellfire and damnation.
As she grew older, more and more, Sybil came to question the tenets of her religious faith; this made easier by the fact that they were not that deeply rooted in the first place. Thereafter, as a nurse, having seen with her own eyes the horror and suffering inflicted during the four long years of the Great War, Sybil found herself doubting that God existed at all. How could He and permit so much agony and suffering? Men shot, gassed, blown apart by shells, with hideous wounds, as a result of which some were scarcely even men any more; male in but name only. When she had asked Reverend Travis about where was God in all of this, he had mumbled something unintelligible about a Just War, the Greater Good, and that all the killing and the maiming, dreadful as it undoubtedly was, were all part of God's plan.
Sybil had not been convinced.
Any lingering shreds of religious belief she might yet have still harboured, she had long since discarded; this on account of the bigotry and hatred she had encountered in Ireland both before and after the establishment of the Free State.
Now, on this bright summer's morning, here in the incense ridden, gilded opulence, of the ornate chapel at Rosenberg, on her knees before an altar for the first time in a long while, Sybil begged a God in Whom she did not believe for the life of her husband.
But answer there came none.
The candles guttered.
There must be a draught.
Nothing more than that.
Like all old houses, Rosenberg was privy to them.
Again the candles flickered.
And this time, out of the corner of her eye, Sybil thought she saw ... she knew not what. Clearly a figment of her frayed nerves; either that or else an overwrought imagination. For, when she turned her head, there was nothing to be seen.
The silence was completely unbroken.
Somewhere behind her a door creaked.
Not that Sybil paid it any attention. Prey to draughts, old houses often made noises.
And then, from out of the shadows, there came a lilting Irish voice.
"Now that I'm back ... I find myself wondering how on earth are we going to spend our time?"
With a cry that was heard throughout the house, Sybil turned. A moment later, and she was in Tom's arms.
Author's Note:
The S.S. Canterbury, actually the TSS Canterbury (for Turbine Steel Steamship) was a ferry built in 1929 by the Southern Railway to link the Golden Arrow and la Flèche d'Or expresses running on the prestigious London-Dover-Calais-Paris service. By the time of the story, the steamer accommodated both First and Second Class passengers. There were only six lifeboats because the status of the ship's clientele meant that there were never more than 300-400 passengers.
topsides - the upper part of a ship.
Red Ensign - the flag flown from the stern of a British registered merchant ship.
James McNeill (1869-1938) was the second Governor-General of the Irish Free State.
The B.E.2 was a British built two-seater bi-plane which by late 1915 was proving no match for German fighters such as the new Fokker Eindeckers. No wonder Matthew was nearly shot down!
Tied cottage - a small property belonging to a country estate, at this period often not in the best state of repair.
By this date (1933) the Riesenrad was indeed the world's tallest ferris wheel; others which were larger having been demolished. It would retain this title until 1985 when a taller wheel was erected in Japan.