Chapter Seven
Letters from Home
For Sybil and Tom, the next few weeks passed in an enjoyable haze of welcome activity for both of them, individually and jointly. Tom began work at the offices of the Irish Independent on Talbot Street in the heart of the city, while Sybil dutifully trudged round the hospitals seeking gainful employment.
Of course, from the very outset, the numerous small hospitals long established in every corner of Dublin and run by the religious orders, including the Mater on Eccles Street, which while conveniently situated for Sybil lying as it did on the north side of the city was administered by the Catholic Sisters of Mercy, were, in effect, closed to her. This was because of her Protestant background. That notwithstanding, as Sybil found out very quickly, the growing agitation for independence from Great Britain, the worsening political ferment in Ireland, and the increasing resort to violence on both sides, one to achieve independence, the other to prevent it happening, being English did nothing to help her cause, irrespective of her nursing experience and qualifications.
In fact, as Tom explained to her one evening towards sunset, while they were walking arm in arm along the sea strand at Clontarf after supper, the setting up of the First Dáil or Irish Parliament at the Mansion House in January 1919, but a matter of months before their arrival here in Ireland had exacerbated an already tense stand-off. The Dáil's members had proceeded to re-affirm the declaration of independence made in 1916 and to announce that there was now an "existing state of war, between Ireland and England" and reconstituted the Irish Volunteer force as the Irish Republican Army. While both acts were understandable, they simply added fuel to the flames and outraged the British administration based at Dublin Castle.
As Tom observed, the powder was laid. All that had remained was for someone to light the fuse. And in January 1919 this happened, when almost at the same time that the First Dáil was proclaimed, over in County Tipperary, two members of the Irish Republican Army, shot dead two officers of the Royal Irish Constabulary.
Politics and violence apart, Tom admired Sybil's dogged perseverance to realise her cherished goal of becoming a working woman. His pride in her knew no bounds, when ultimately, her stoical determination paid off, and Sybil secured a position as a nurse at the Coombe Lying-In Hospital founded to serve the sick and poor in the crowded area of the Liberties in the heart of the city. As Tom had told her, the area in which the hospital stood was one of the most deprived in the whole of Dublin.
Despite the exhaustingly long hours at the hospital, which often meant that Sybil came home worn out, her tiredness did not prevent her growing desperately, and understandably, more and more concerned for Tom's safety. Her fears were not fanciful. After all, the Irish Republican Army, angered by what it perceived as criticism of its actions had already threatened to destroy the Independent's printing presses. No doubt, they would think nothing of silencing any journalist who, like Tom, while wanting a free Ireland did not condone violence as a means of achieving it and was prepared to say so vocally and in print.
There was no escaping from the fact that the political situation was growing steadily worse. Outbreaks of bloodshed and brutality were becoming almost a daily occurrence, and Tom found his coverage of what was happening in and around Dublin taking him into increasingly dangerous and unpredictable situations.
Knowing how they too must be worrying, Sybil found time to write home to her parents, to her grandmother, and to her sisters, to let them all know how she and Tom were faring. Whether or not her family wanted to hear about their errant daughter and their erstwhile chauffeur was immaterial to her. Very shortly Tom would not only be her husband - how she longed for that day - but he would also then be her parents' son-in-law and her sisters' brother-in-law. And whether or not they approved of Tom, did not concern Sybil one iota. If they did not, that was their problem and it was something, which they would - here Sybil mentally inserted into her letter to her mother one of Tom's less colourful phrases - "damned well" all just have to get used to.
From the letters that Sybil had had in reply to her own, it was clear that her mother and Mary were, unsurprisingly thought Sybil, far more concerned about her moral reputation than her personal safety. Both had been at pains to point out that as far as was possible in her new life Sybil should ensure she was associating, coming into contact with, and meeting "the right sort of people" - whoever they might be thought Sybil. Her mother had underlined the word "right" twice and with such force that the nib of her pen had all but scoured through the paper. To be fair, Mama readily conceded that "… in your present position, darling, I do understand that this may not always be possible. But, do try, my darling, to remember who you are …"
Mention was made of friends of her parents … a Lord and Lady Tremayne… "who, I know would welcome you with open arms at their place outside Cork … if you decide it is in your best interests to return home to Downton. And of course, my darling, both dear Papa and I would understand entirely if you did. We would not be judgemental and …"
"No, of course not. Not at all" thought Sybil. "And if you think that I believe a word of that, dearest Mama, then you must think I was born as recently as that poor stillborn mite I helped deliver yesterday".
"However" continued her mother, now getting fully into her stride, "your Aunt Rosamund has suggested, and for once I agree with her my darling, that it would be for the best if you then went abroad for several months to recuperate". Mention was then made of Menton on the French Riviera "… popular with invalids". Sybil snorted with disbelief. Menton? Invalids? To recuperate? Recuperate from what exactly? Tom? Why, her mother was making Tom sound like he was some kind of disgusting disease or nasty illness.
Then there came her mother's pièce de résistance. Of course, were Sybil to accept the hospitality of the Tremaynes, she would doubtless find it necessary to re-equip her wardrobe, so that she would be suitably attired. In the particular circumstances, Mama felt sure that Papa "…could be prevailed to upon to have arrangements made for funds to be deposited in your name with the Bank of Ireland on College Green in Dublin, or wherever is most convenient to you, darling".
"Jaysus" thought Sybil, sub consciously employing yet another of Tom's colourful expressions. The whole, damned country is going up in flames about us, Tom's risking his life on a daily basis, and here is Mama worrying about me giving offence to her potential hosts by being inappropriately dressed for dinner!"
Re-reading her mother's letter, Sybil again snorted with contempt. "The right sort of people" indeed! She wondered if she should tell her mother about the young unmarried girl found collapsed in Faithfull Street and brought into the hospital that very morning, in what no doubt Mama would have termed "a delicate condition", but then decided against it. Some things were probably best left unsaid.
That the letters to her from Mama and from Mary also made no mention of Tom did not pass by Sybil unnoticed. In fact, the omission of any mention of Tom spoke volumes. So, thought Sybil, the emotional scars - an appropriate word she felt for a nurse to use - caused by her choice of husband and her departure for Ireland ran that deep, did they? So be it.
Ignoring the patronising offer of hospitality made on behalf of the Tremaynes, Sybil breezily let her mother know that she was very well indeed, was enjoying her nursing immensely, and was lodging in Clontarf with Tom's mother, "... not far from Tom". She then made a point of mentioning Tom by name in the remainder of her letter as many times as was possible.
It was, of course, a matter of opinion as to whether "not far" encompassed "just across the landing and under the same roof". However, by the time the true nature of Sybil's lodgings was divined, she and Tom would be married, and what her snobbish family then thought of her, and of her choice of husband, would be a matter of supreme indifference to both Tom and Sybil.
She had, Sybil informed her mother, "absolutely no intention whatsoever of returning home, except in the fullness of time, and then as Tom's wife". It was then that Sybil remembered a phrase her grandmother had once used to Cousin Isobel, Matthew's mother. Giggling, Sybil mentally added it to her last sentence:-
"And dearest Mama, you can put that in your pipe and smoke it".
As for Mary's continuing haughty stance and indifference to Tom, Sybil would tolerate it no longer. She wondered if some of Mary's open dislike of Tom was in fact aimed at herself. That, in Sybil and Tom, Mary could see, even if she would not admit it to anyone, least of all to herself, what it really meant to marry for love, that the concept was not ethereal and could, and did, actually happen. On the other hand, Mary and Sir Richard were, thought Sybil, entering into marriage not out of love, but out of convenience. To her, the relationship between her elder sister and her fiancé sounded more like a business partnership. No wonder Mary was so piqued.
That said, Sybil had no intention of causing an open breach with her elder sister - she loved her dearly. But knowing that Mary was not in love with Sir Richard, Sybil wrote guilelessly to Mary saying that she must be looking forward to her own wedding, said archly that she hoped Mary and Sir Richard's wedding plans were progressing as well as those of her and Tom. Then in the very next sentence, Sybil innocently enquired as to how Matthew was faring.
At the end of a long day for them both, Sybil and Tom were sitting snugly in the kitchen, in front of the range, she ensconced on his lap with her arms around his neck, her head resting against his comforting, firm shoulder. They had been finalising the details of their wedding. Only three more weeks and she would be Tom's wife! Without comment, Sybil passed Tom her letter to Mary and waited for his reaction. Of course, she knew that there was no love lost between them, but was still convinced that each had a sneaking admiration for the other.
If she had written her letter with the intention of surprising Tom by its content and its tone, then Sybil succeeded. Tom's jaw dropped and his brows shot up. Then he let out a guffaw that reminded her of their arrival in Kingstown. This time though, his laughter would, she felt sure, have been heard right across Dublin. When he had stopped laughing, Tom said that if ever Ma had a problem with rats or mice to make sure to remind him that there would be no need for them to get a cat - Sybil's claws were quite sharp enough.
Grinning, Sybil said that she took Tom's pithy remark as a compliment, reminding Tom that she didn't give a damn' what anyone else thought of her, or indeed, of them.
"And what, milady, would your grandmother make of her youngest granddaughter using words such as that?" asked Tom tickling Sybil under the chin.
"I rather suspect" said Sybil mischievously, "that she would put it down to the fact that I had been consorting unwisely, very unwisely, with someone far beneath my social status". Sybil paused, her voice took on a serious tone, then said softly. "Only, my love that wouldn't be true". Sybil caressed his cheek, with her fingers, with her lips, and then gazed directly into Tom's deep blue eyes. Such a deep blue that she felt she could drown in them. Would readily do so.
"And speaking of granny, Tom …"
Not having heard a word from her father, it had been left, rather surprisingly, to Sybil's grandmother and also, oddly enough, to Edith - possibly as a result of the well-informed opinions of Sir Anthony Strallan - to openly appreciate the worsening situation in Ireland. Both identified the threat that it posed not only to Sybil's safety, but also for Tom working as a journalist.
In fact, Edith was the first of the family, so far, to refer to Tom by his Christian name and not by his surname - something Sybil never forgot. A tacit admission if ever there was one, that Edith if no-one else in the family, realised that Tom was now the most important person in Sybil's life. No longer a servant, not just a surname, but a human being, flesh and blood, someone with feelings, opinions, and thoughts of his own, with whom Sybil had fallen passionately in love and he with her; who fully intended to make her younger sister his wife, whatever her family or society thought about their liaison.
Of course, to granny, Tom was still "Branson", and probably always would be. But neither Sybil, nor indeed Tom took any real exception to that. In fact, Tom said that he rather admired her. "Proud, determined, unashamedly patriotic, and a real pain in the backside" was Tom's critical appraisal of the Dowager Countess.
And, Tom laughed out loud at granny's characteristically engagingly simple solution to the troubles now engulfing Ireland: send a gunboat up the Thames. Quite how the Dowager Countess expected this to resolve anything, when Dublin lay nearly three hundred miles from London and stood not on the Thames, but on the Liffey, on the other side of the Irish Sea, neither Tom nor Sybil could ever quite work out.