Chapter Eight
"And the sunlight clasps the earth"
It was but a couple of days after this exchange that Sybil came home early on the tram from Dublin. Her shifts at the hospital were such that when she reached home Tom was usually, but not invariably, there before her. Today, however, was to prove different. Sybil, after having assisted at a difficult and traumatic breech birth for most of her shift, found herself allowed to leave early, on account not only of her exhaustion, but also because of the very real threat of yet more disruption to the tram service as part of the ongoing troubles.
When, after a thankfully uneventful journey back to Clontarf - these days if the tram stopped running there was no telling how long it might be before the service resumed - she reached home – how Sybil loved the sound of that word - she found the house empty and quiet. Not, given the hour, that she had expected to find Tom in, but Ma, too, unexpectedly was out.
Having let herself in, she hung up her coat and hat in the hall, then walked through into the cosy kitchen. With boiling water from the range, she set about making herself a pot of tea. She sat down and took the weight off her tired feet and, while drinking her freshly brewed tea, Sybil decided that after she had freshened up, the weather being fine, she would, once again, wander down to the beach and take a stroll along the strand.
Over here in Ireland, much to her constant delight, Sybil now found herself thankfully well away from the ever watchful, prying eyes of not only her own family but also from those of the multitude of servants back at Downton Abbey. The opportunity thus afforded to her of being able to do something as carefree and straightforward as taking an un-chaperoned stroll along a bustling city street, or else walking alone along the windswept beach here at Clontarf, was something that she relished; was a constant, untrammeled delight. So during the past few weeks, whenever the opportunity had arisen, she had availed herself of the occasion thus presented to do both, and told Tom just how much pleasure the chance to do so had given her. Tom laughed at her, said he was frankly amazed that someone from Sybil's privileged background could gain so much pleasure from such a simple act as an afternoon stroll along a deserted beach.
At that, Sybil stuck out her tongue at Tom, told him that whatever he might think it was true enough. That if she was extremely fortunate, she might well chance to encounter a handsome young Irishman doing just the same and fall desperately in love with him! Tom's response had been predictably pithy, saying that if wishes were horses, then beggars might ride; it was extremely unlikely that either would happen. After all, he would be at work and, in any case, at the times Sybil chose to go for one of her un-chaperoned strolls along the beach here at Clontarf, the strand was all but deserted – which, of course, was true enough. Sybil pouted, pulled a face, and said in that case, she might well just have to see about changing the times of her shifts at the Coombe.
"As you will," laughed Tom. "But you never know, love, one day you might, just might, get lucky!"
Later that very same day, after strolling along the beach for a while, she had found a convenient rock on which to sit. Having done so, she glanced cautiously about her. Seeing nobody in sight, Sybil rolled up her long skirt to her knees, slipped off her shoes and stockings, sat down, and dangled her feet contentedly in the cold water of the rock pool immediately below the ledge on which she was sitting.
Sybil sighed.
When the mood took her, she was quite an accomplished artist; would have dearly loved to try to paint the scene now before her. Of course, her artistic endeavours had never found much favour, even within her own family. Neither Mary nor Edith had any real interest in art; her mother thought Sybil's sketches "nice", while her father remarked it was such a shame that none of them would ever be good enough to be hung in the main rooms of the Abbey. For her part, the Dowager Countess had observed that if Sybil continued with her "drawings", as she condescendingly termed them, then Granny would begin to suspect that Sybil was hiding a secret much like Mrs. Graham had in Anne Brontë's "The Tenant of Wildfell Hall".
With the sole exception of her sketchbook and pencils, which were in the bottom of her trunk in her bedroom, all of her artist's materials, her easel, her brushes, and paints were still at Downton, all Sybil could do was sit and gaze out to sea, taking in the natural beauty of her immediate surroundings.
A short while later, she felt a pair of strong arms grasp her firmly from behind. Letting out a scream, Sybil began to struggle, and twisted this way and that, then turning, found herself gazing up into a pair of merry, twinkling blue eyes.
"Well, didn't you tell me that you might chance to encounter a handsome young Irishman down here on the beach. And, lucky for you, now you have!" chuckled Tom.
"Tom, darling! But how …"
Tom grinned, leaned in towards her for a lingering kiss.
A short while later they were sitting side by side on the same rock chatting contentedly.
"And in answer to your question" laughed Tom, "I finished the piece I was working on sooner than expected, so I asked Harrington if I could knock off early. You see I'd heard tell that about this time a beautiful young woman might be seen strolling alone, along this very beach. I thought to myself that if I hurried back, I might just happen to meet up with her. I came back to see if I could. And so I have! Satisfied?"
"I'm more than satisfied, but what if my fiancé should ever find out?" giggled Sybil slipping her arms around Tom's neck, drawing his face back down towards her own.
With the memory of that most unexpected encounter, and also what then followed, firmly fixed in the forefront of her mind, smiling to herself, Sybil proceeded to fill a large white china jug with hot water, again from the range, carried it carefully upstairs and set it down on the top of the washstand in her bedroom.
Having shimmied out of her nurse's uniform, down to her underclothes, for the next ten minutes or so, Sybil luxuriated sensuously in washing away the aches and strains of her day spent at the hospital with hot water and perfumed lavender soap. If the truth were told, she tried, and all but succeeded, in imagining that it was Tom's firm hands gently lathering in the soap to her already moist skin. The very thought of him doing such a thing made her body begin to respond in a way she had not thought possible, sent her almost wild with desire…
No, she thought. That for now perforce must stop.
Then she became practical once more. And, having briskly towelled herself dry, Sybil changed into a peacock blue straight-line chemise. Since the end of the war, women's fashions had become much easier to get into ... and out of, which, if one did not have the time, or indeed the services of a lady's maid to call upon to help one change, was of considerable benefit.
So too, was having given up wearing her corset. Sybil knew that Tom knew that she had done so. After all, in some of their more intimate and lengthy passionate embraces - here Sybil blushed at the very thought of Tom's caressing hands upon her - he could not have failed to notice. But, possibly out of shyness (not a trait she normally associated with him) he had, as yet, failed to comment.
Of course, if granny got to hear about it, she would probably have a severe, potentially fatal, touch of the vapours, no doubt attributing the now widespread practice of going un-corseted as yet further proof (if any was necessary) of the continuing inexorable decline in the moral standards of modern youth. And which, her grandmother attributed to unacceptable laxness during the war.
Having combed out, brushed, and put up her long black hair, something which she had become quite proficient at doing, even without Anna being there to assist her, Sybil put on her navy coat and gloves, picked up her serviceable but stylish grey cloche hat with its brightly coloured feather fan, and crossed the landing to the top of the stairs on her way out and bound for the beach. Perhaps it was pure chance, perhaps not, for it was then that she suddenly thought of her book - of Shelley's poems - a slim volume, bound in red Moroccan leather, which she had brought over with her from Downton; ideal reading, Sybil thought, when sitting down on the beach.
The book normally resided on the nightstand beside her bed, but it was not there now. Then she remembered. Of course, last night she'd been reading to Tom from it downstairs in the front parlour and, Tom being Tom, he had asked to borrow it, to copy out her favourite poem titled "Love's Philosophy" to put up above his desk in his bedroom.
Sybil knew the poem off by heart. She adored it, especially the second stanza of the second verse:-
"And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea -
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?"
Sybil thought it unlikely that Tom would have taken the book with him into work. Had he done so, he would, she felt sure, have found himself the butt of all manner of ribald jokes from his male colleagues. So, presumably, the book was in his ... bedroom. Her past straitened upbringing told Sybil that she should not now being doing what she proposed to do - going into a man's bedroom, even if that man was her fiancé. But what possible harm could there be? They would be married in a matter of weeks and Tom was at work. Throwing caution to the winds, Sybil gently pushed open the door.
She saw the book almost immediately. It lay on Tom's desk, or rather what passed for his desk. Nothing like her father's grand mahogany edifice in his library at Downton, Tom's desk was a small scuffed affair, made of pitch pine, and bought second hand for a few pounds from a bankruptcy sale in nearby Raheny.
The desk was littered with papers.
Perhaps littered was unfair; covered was more apt, as Tom was very methodical in his approach to his work, his papers and books neatly ordered, the books, interleaved with copious notes and references. There were, drafts and re-drafts of articles on which Tom was presently working, copies of replies to correspondents in Belfast, Cork, Dublin, Waterford and a whole host of other places in Ireland, some of which Sybil had heard of, others of which she had not. At his office in Talbot Street, Tom had made himself familiar with and begun to use a typewriter. That he was soon very proficient in his use of it came as no surprise to Sybil. After all, Tom was good with all kinds of machinery, which was why he had proved such an excellent chauffeur. But here in Clontarf, he wrote out all his replies in long hand. And as for his other admirable qualities … Sybil smiled ... those were unlikely to appear on any letter he might write seeking a position of employment. Moreover, were, in fact, again she smiled to herself, qualities which she would far rather, even expect, that he kept private, known only to her.
On top of Tom's papers lay her book of Shelley's poems. Picking it up and glancing round Tom's inner sanctum, Sybil, with a lingering sense of regret, made ready to leave the silent, sunlit bedroom. She turned quickly on her heel, and, as she did so, the rag rug lying on the floor in the centre of the room suddenly shifted. Sybil momentarily lost her balance, and reaching out instinctively to steady herself, it was then that she dropped the book. And as the slim volume began its downward descent, so a single sheet of paper fluttered out and fell with it to the floor.
Reaching down, Sybil picked up both her book and the sheet of paper. The paper was thick and of good quality, much like that used by her mother.
Initially, she took it for Tom's copy of the poem, until she realised, it was not Tom's bold hand that leapt up at her from the page, but a woman's delicate, cursive script. That in itself would not have concerned her. After all, Tom corresponded with all manner of people in his day to day work, and it was inevitable that some of them would be women. The letter, for that was what it was, was dated 5th July 1919, a matter of no more than a few days ago, and had been written from Skerries House, County Cork.
However, it was the opening words of salutation that caused her to gasp out aloud.
"My dearest, darling Tommy ..."