Chapter Six
Fireside Chat
Their luggage having been taken upstairs for them by two of Ciaran and Aislin's young sons, both fighting for the privilege of carrying "the lady's case". Sybil was shown where she would be sleeping until after she and Tom were married - in Emer's old room, with Tom just across the landing from her in his - no separate bachelor wing here - "but no hanky-panky" either was Tom's mother's genial warning to them both.
Later, shortly after Ciaran, Aislin, and their brood set off in the waggonette and headed back to the farm - Ciaran and the boys had chores to attend to - Donal, Niamh and their family also left - on the tram back into Dublin. They had to leave early on account of the service back into the city being disrupted, because of yet further trouble. Exactly what was left unsaid. Probably, thought Sybil, to spare her feelings. In any event, it would have been impossible to find seats for everyone, around the small table in the kitchen at the back of the house.
After that, with only Emer and Peadar left downstairs, along with Tom and Ma, quietness descended once more upon the small house by the sea. And Sybil had time, at her leisure, to unpack her suitcase, to wash before supper, and to collect her thoughts.
A short while later, found Sybil, simply dressed, sitting quietly on her bed, her hands placed calmly in her lap.
Her thoughts were, predictably, of course, of all that had happened since their arrival here in Ireland … and of Tom. Dear God, how she loved him. Why, he was even dearer to her than life itself. He had only to look at her, to touch her, to smile at her across a crowded room - as he had done downstairs earlier that afternoon, while she was engaged fending off questions from Niall - Ciaran and Aislin's youngest - and she was suffused with desire. Why had she not realised the depth of her feelings for him earlier? If only she had then …
There came a gentle knock at her bedroom door. Jumping up and opening it, Sybil found herself fact to face … with a dapper smiling Tom.
Of course, such a thing would never have happened at Downton. After all, no gentleman would have dared to presume to present himself at the bedroom door of an unmarried lady. And if she were married, the only male of the species that could do such a thing - without risking the lady's reputation - would be her husband. No less a paragon of virtue than Mary herself had lectured Sybil on that particular point of social etiquette … and, as Sybil recalled, at some length.
Tom was freshly scrubbed, his face shining, his hair neatly combed - oh how Sybil longed to run her hands through it - sporting a fresh collar to his shirt and looking once again like the cat which had swallowed the cream.
"Jaysus, but you're beautiful" he said softly. He leaned in for a kiss, to which Sybil responded passionately, her arms about Tom's neck, and with an ardour to match his own. Mindful of Ma's earlier warning, reluctantly, they broke apart. Was Sybil ready, Tom asked jauntily, to go downstairs to supper? He then made a great play of offering Sybil his arm.
"Would you do me the singular honour of accompanying me into dinner, milady" Tom asked with a grin, and in a tone which suggested he was about to escort her into the elegant dining room at Downton.
Sybil laughed, said she was indeed ready, and happily linking arms with him, assured Tom, that the honour was all hers. As they walked the short distance across the narrow landing to the head of the stairs a savoury smell assailed their nostrils.
"That smells delicious" said Sybil.
"Irish stew. I told you earlier, didn't I, that you had a fine nose?" laughed Tom. "Well, don't ever tell her I said so, but not even Mrs. Patmore could beat Ma's cooking".
Of course, they had to separate when negotiating the narrow stairs, but they linked arms again at the foot of the staircase, as Tom escorted Sybil into the kitchen, where Emer and Peadar, who were staying the night with friends in Clontarf, along with Tom's mother, were gathered.
The meal was excellent.
And in spite of, or even perhaps because of the cramped surroundings and the simplicity of the food, Sybil could not recall a more convivial occasion.
Perhaps a comparison with the evening meals she was used to at Downton before the war and then again, with the conflict over and her nursing duties finished was a little unfair. After all, dinner at Downton, whether or not her parents had guests, was always such a grand occasion; a formal affair, in every sense of the word. Of course, Carson would be pompously in attendance, while everyone would be at pains to be on their very best behaviour, dressed in their finest clothes. Sybil's father would hold forth on some subject or other and if there were suitable unattached male guests her mother would be trying to match make, while granny bemoaned what she saw as the latest decline in social standards. The conversation formal and stilted, the ladies withdrawing discretely after the meal had ended to leave the gentleman - usually just her father and Cousin Matthew - to the port and their cigars.
There was none of that here, just a warm welcome, plain simple cooking, with everyone seated round the scrubbed deal table doing their very utmost to draw Sybil into the constant chatter and make her feel part of this happy family.
During supper, it transpired that Ciaran and his wife were expecting all of the family, Tom and Sybil included, out at their farm for a celebratory meal on Sunday, to mark Tom's return, and Sybil's arrival in Ireland. Thereafter, of course, both Tom and Sybil would have much to do. Tom was starting work in earnest at the paper on Monday. As for Sybil, armed with letters of introduction from her time spent at the military nursing school in York, from Dr. Clarkson, and from a matron at the Ripon Camp Military Hospital, where Sybil had worked briefly before Downton became a convalescent home, she had various interviews to attend at several hospitals in Dublin. Moreover, there was the small matter of arranging their wedding.
Later, after supper was over, after the dishes had been cleared away and washed by Emer and by Sybil, Peadar asked Tom if he would like to join him and a couple of his pals down at Murphy's bar. Tom asked Sybil if she minded and when she said she did not, explained that, much as he would dearly loved to take her with him, women were not admitted to bars in Ireland. At that Sybil laughed. It was she said probably for the best that she stayed here with Ma. After all, she had flouted one social convention already that day, by riding on the top of the tram out to Clontarf. Besides which, it would give Sybil an ideal opportunity to get to know Tom's mother better.
"And mind you don't come back drunk" said Sybil, having kissed Tom goodbye on the doorstep.
"Now you pay heed to what she says, Tommy Branson" called Ma from the hallway behind her. "And, if you don't, my lad, you'll be sleeping it off in the coal house!"
Mrs. Branson had confided to Sybil that the late Mr. Branson, a joiner by trade, had done just that on several occasions. Tom had said very little about his father, beyond a passing reference that suggested that he was but recently deceased. If the late Mr. Branson had had a tendency to have been taken in liquor, perhaps Tom felt ashamed, so his reticence to talk about his late father was understandable.
"All right, Ma, I will. Don't fuss!" said Tom, with a broad wink to Sybil. With a lingering backward glance, Tom set off down the front path, hastening to catch up with Emer and Peadar. He reached the gate, blew Sybil a kiss, turned the corner, and was gone.
Feeling slightly deflated, Sybil came inside and shut the front door.
"Never mind dear, he won't be out that long. Not when he has you to come home to," said Mrs. Branson, putting a comforting arm around Sybil's shoulders. "Come, we'll be better off by the fire".
Sybil sat with Mrs. Branson, the one opposite the other, on either side of the fireplace, in the snug front room. A peaceful stillness descended on the lamp lit room. While the fire burned lower and lower, all fell silent, save for the distant ebb and flow of the sea, and the sound of Sybil's calm voice as she told Mrs. Branson simply, and with no trace of conceit, of her life, growing up at Downton. Of her volunteering to serve as a nurse during the war, of how she and Tom had become friends and of how that friendship had burgeoned into love. Sybil left nothing out. She recounted her feelings honestly and openly, at all their various stages. She spoke at length of her parents, and of her sisters, of Mary and Edith".
"Ah, Edith; the middle one. Tom never wrote me much about her in his letters - apart from saying that he had taught her to drive," said Mrs. Branson. "After all, his letters were mostly about you". Here, Sybil blushed furiously, hoping that Mrs. Branson wouldn't notice, or if she did, that she put down Sybil's high colour to the warmth from the rapidly dying fire - which was unlikely since the fire had by now burned down to little more than a few glowing embers. "But he did make several ... references to your eldest sister" .Evidently Mrs. Branson had heard a very great deal about Mary - and from the way she spoke, and the look on Mrs. Branson's face, none of what Tom had written to her about Sybil's eldest sister had been complimentary.
"... and you love young Tommy very much, don't you my dear?"
"He means everything to me," said Sybil.
It seemed passing strange to Sybil, but then, on reflection, not strange at all, that she could be so open with this quiet, soft spoken, grey haired woman. Someone she, yet, scarcely knew. Sybil could never imagine for a moment discussing her feelings for Tom so openly with her own parents.
As for Tom telling her parents of his love for their youngest daughter, as Mary had so aptly once said, Papa was more than likely to call in the police. That, or else arrange a mysterious midnight disappearance of Tom from off the estate. Not that Papa would resort to murder. He was far too honourable to do that. However, come the morning, Tom would undoubtedly simply have vanished from Downton, never to darken the doors of the estate again, his name never to be mentioned except in hushed whispers, appalled in tone - "the nameless Irish chauffeur who had got so far above himself as to think he could marry a daughter of the house". Therefore, it seemed only right to Sybil that she dealt honestly and openly with this kindly woman sitting before her.
"... and I'm very glad to hear it, my dear. After all that he ..." Mrs. Branson paused, shook her head, and wiped away a stray tear.
"Mrs. Branson, why, whatever is the matter?"
"Nothing ... really". The older woman sniffed, held Sybil's gaze and smiled gently at her. "Don't mind me, my dear. It's nothing. I expect it's just the joy of seeing them all together under this roof once again. That hasn't happened ... in a very long time. Scattered to the four winds, all of them ... and Tommy too.
"And ..." here Sybil faltered. How could she ... should she ... phrase the question she wanted to ask? In the end, it seemed best to ask it simply and concern herself afterwards with any offence, which she might have given. "And, Tom's father?"
"He died." was Mrs. Branson's laconic reply. "Now my dear, I expect you must be very tired. Tommy won't be back for a while yet. Here, let me show you to your room".
"There's no need, really, but thank you. Emer showed it me earlier. I can find my own way up".
"Very well, my dear. Then goodnight to you".
"Goodnight"".
Sybil made her way slowly up the narrow staircase, deep in thought. Yet, it was only when she had washed, undressed, turned out the lamp, and settled down in bed for the night in the quiet silence of the simply furnished bedroom, that she realised what it was that had been bothering her. About the photographs she had seen and been shown that afternoon, clustered on the walls, and atop the carved credenza in Mrs. Branson's front room.
There were, to be sure, photographs of the whole family, of Mr. and Mrs. Branson, of Ciaran, Donal, and Emer, even of Tom lounging on the beach at Clontarf, on his own, with Ciaran, with Donal, acting the fool with Emer. And, of course, there was the photograph of Tom standing proudly in his chauffeur's uniform in front of the Renault outside the garage at Downton. Sybil recalled Tom mentioning to her that he had had his photograph taken at Downton by a photographer from a studio in Ripon.
Nevertheless, while there were also photographs of Ciaran, Donal and Emer as children, there was not one, unless Sybil had overlooked it, not even one, that she could recall seeing, of Tom as a young boy. And why, when Mrs. Branson had spoken of her children being scattered to the four winds, had she said, almost, as an afterthought, or so it had seemed to Sybil at the time, "... and Tommy too"?" Moreover, why also when she had been speaking of her late husband's drinking escapades had she referred to him as "Mr. Branson". That after all was his name, but in the context in which she had made the remark, the words "Tom's father" would have seemed rather more appropriate.
Tired out after the long journey, and by all she and Tom had gone through that day, Sybil soon fell asleep. But it was not to be a dreamless sleep, for while she slept, pictures came to her, of the mysterious ivy clad house in the photograph she had found among Tom's papers on the train, of Tom and her back at Downton, then walking arm in arm on the deck of the Munster, of Tom and her in Sackville Street. There were also images of Ciaran, Donal, and Emer, caught, as they must once have been, dark haired children, running carefree across the seastrand at Clontarf.
But of young, fair-haired Tom there was no sign; none whatever.