Chapter Fourteen

Through Streets Broad And Narrow

Looking back, Tom was to later blame the whole episode on their unforeseen visit to the National Gallery in Merrion Square on the south side of the city; that and his own innate generosity of spirit which had manifested itself in a heartfelt promise, readily made to Sybil shortly after their arrival in Dublin, that when they both had the time to do so, he would be very honoured to show her some of the sights of his adopted city.

The opportunity for Tom to make good his promise came unexpectedly the week before they were married, when on a fine summer's morning in late June 1919, Sybil took the tram from Clontarf down into the heart of the bustling city of Dublin where she was to meet Tom for lunch.

Over the last couple of days she had worked several extra shifts at the Coombe to help cover for a fellow nurse whose mother was dangerously ill and now the same nurse was working what would have otherwise been Sybil's day shift by way of recompense. Tom had gone into work earlier in the day, having arranged beforehand with Sybil that he would meet her off the tram beneath Nelson's Pillar and that they would then go for a bite to eat at Bewleys.

Although she managed to secure a seat on the open upper deck of the tramcar without any undue difficulty, by the time Sybil reached her destination, both up top and down below, the clattering green and white tram was filled virtually to capacity, so much so that she failed to notice the young man clad in a cloth cap and nondescript workman's clothing sat but two seats behind her.

With a wry smile, Sybil spared a brief thought for her eldest sister Mary who no doubt would have been absolutely horrified to find her youngest sister ensconced in such close quarters with the general hoi polloi. Sybil could hear her now:
"Sybil, darling, it simply isn't done. Whatever will you do next? Marry the family chauffeur?"

"Well, Mary, as it so happens ... yes!"

Sybil smiled inwardly to herself as the tram clanged and rattled on its way into the heart of Dublin

However, given the stifling heat of summer and the press of bodies, even Sybil was very glad when at last she descended the curving narrow staircase down to the lower deck and climbed down off the tram close to Nelson's Pillar, as indeed did the cloth capped young man who had been sitting close behind her.

And, standing beneath the soaring Doric column surmounted by its figure of Lord Nelson victor of the Battle of Trafalgar, midst the ignoble strife of the madding crowds thronging round its base and spreading out in all directions along the wide thoroughfare that was Sackville Street, looking anxiously about him, handsome, dapper in his grey suit, cap in hand, there he was. Her Tom.

"Tom!"

"Sybil!"

They exchanged a brief kiss and then, chatting amiably, mingling unobtrusively with the crowds, they gently sauntered, arm in arm, southwards, past the blackened, burnt out ruins of the General Post Office, along the wreck of the broad sweep of what remained of Sackville Street, past the imposing statue of Daniel O'Connell with its four winged Victories, towards the Liffey river, which they crossed over by way of the O'Connell Bridge, bound for Bewleys on Westmoreland Street, and thereafter Trinity College the first of several sights which, unbeknown to Sybil, Tom planned to show her that afternoon.

"What is it, love?" asked Sybil with a laugh, when for the umpteenth time she caught Tom casting a quick sideways grin at her from under his thatch of light brown hair. Caught out, Tom smiled shyly back at her, then blushed scarlet, something which always made him look so much like a small boy; indeed endearingly so.

"It's nothing, really". His dark blue eyes sparkled as Tom cast another shy, sideways glance at Sybil.

"Really?" By her tone it was obvious that Sybil remained unconvinced.

"Really". Tom grinned at her shamefaced.

"Then why are you blushing Tom? Go on, tell me!" persisted Sybil with a giggle.

"It's just ..."
"Just what, Tom? Out with it!"

"Well ... it's that I can't really believe it; that you're actually here with me. I know I've said it several times before, but Sybil, love, I absolutely adore you. I really do".

And now it was Sybil's turn to blush.

"I know you do, Tom" she said huskily. "I feel exactly the same way about you. And ... if my love you find it so difficult to believe that I'm really here with you, well perhaps this will help convince you".

So saying, there, in the middle of the O'Connell Bridge, beneath one of the tall, ornate cast iron gas lamps that graced its balustrades Sybil came to an abrupt and unexpected halt. Naturally Tom stopped too. In fact, so suddenly did they both come to a stand that despite the width of the pavement, several other pedestrians following close behind all but bumped into the two of them, some nearly losing their footing in the process, causing Tom and Sybil to be subjected to a barrage of abuse and scathing comments.

Standing there in the centre of the O'Connell Bridge, above the gently moving grey waters of the Liffey, midst the thronging crowd, with contemptuous, haughty, aristocratic disdain, completely oblivious to the consternation she had just caused, Sybil stood her ground.

"Tom Branson. Will you look at me?"

If but for a moment, oblivious to everything else, a pair of dark blue eyes gazed down into blue.

"Jaysus, Sybil, darlin', I love you so much!"

Sybil gazed up at Tom, her blue eyes sparkling, black as midnight, suffused with smouldering desire.

"Then kiss me, you idiot!" Sybil flung her arms tightly about Tom's neck and insistently drew his head down towards her own.

Tom did not need to be told twice. Swiftly he pulled off his cap, enfolded her slim figure tightly to him in his strong arms. With a shaft of sunlight catching a gleam in his hair, Tom closed his mouth hard upon hers; equally oblivious to the raucous cheers of the passengers on top of a passing tram and piercing wolf whistles from two young street urchins who, unbeknown to the driver, had cheekily hitched a free ride on the back of a drayman's cart heading southwards over the bridge.

It was several moments before they broke apart.

"Now are you convinced?" asked Sybil with a radiant smile, wholly unashamed of their open, public display of private affection. Not of course that Mary would have approved. Sybil's smile broadened. She could hear Mary again:

"Sybil, it really isn't done you know. It's so middle class".

"Penny for them, love?" asked Tom with a chuckle.
Sybil shook her head and laughed.

Tom grinned back at Sybil.

"Well, I'm convinced if only for the time being. But somehow I think I shall need convincing again before too long!" laughed Tom. "Now let's get something to eat". And arm in arm chatting merrily, the two of them set off along Westmoreland Street bound for Bewleys café.

Having told Sybil that he did not have to be back at the Independent until later that same afternoon, after a lunch of cottage pie, followed by gur cake, and washed down with ginger beer - Tom still had a couple of articles to proof and said he needed a clear head with which to do so, they had a couple of hours all to themselves unless of course anything unexpected happened. Dublin had increasingly come to resemble nothing less than a simmering cauldron of agitation and dissent which threatened to boil over at any minute. That being the case, there was always the possibility that something untoward might occur, but if and until that happened they had the next couple of hours to themselves.. So it was then that Tom suggested he make good on his promise and show her some of the sights of the city, to which proposal Sybil readily assented.

Their first port of call that afternoon was Trinity College which lay nearby and which, Tom proudly informed Sybil, was Ireland's oldest university. Founded in 1592, its main buildings constructed of both limestone and granite, and ranged round a series of large quadrangles known as "squares", Sybil was immediately much taken with the place. As they wandered round the quiet sunlit squares, Sybil remarked that the whole place exuded an air of both calm and scholarship and was delighted to find Trinity had been admitting women through its hallowed, imposing, grey stone portals since as long ago as 1904.

Tom agreed and pointing out the Old Library told Sybil that among other treasures it contained The Book of Kells, a manuscript dating probably from the eighth century and one of Ireland's oldest books,

"Mind you, love, I expect Mary thinks none of us over here in Ireland can either read or write!" chuckled Tom, adding that the Library also held the harp of Brian Boru who as Sybil now knew ...

".. died winning the Battle of Clontarf in 1014 against Viking invaders. You see Tom, I do listen to what you tell me" said Sybil and laughed.

"Where to now?" she asked as they walked across College Green.

""What about the National Gallery" suggested Tom. "?It's not very far". As later events were to prove, Tom was to regret his suggestion more than once.

The National Gallery of Ireland was in Merrion Square, but a short walk from Trinity College. Perhaps the finest square in all Dublin, three sides of Merrion Square were occupied by tall, elegant, flat fronted Georgian town houses built of mellow red brick, and owned by some of Dublin's most prosperous and wealthiest residents. As they walked over towards the National Gallery, Sybil said that the square reminded her very much of Grantham Place up in London which, was where her own family's townhouse stood.

On the fourth side of Merrion Square stood the imposing buildings which made up Leinster House and which now housed the National Gallery of Ireland and the Natural History Museum. Among its many exhibits, the museum contained a large number of stuffed and mounted Irish mammals. Given half a chance, Tom said that he was certain that Lord Grantham would only be too pleased to make it his personal crusade to ensure that his erstwhile chauffeur and future son-in-law joined that part of the museum's collection on a permanent basis!

"Well, I'd happily still come and see you, even if Papa had had you stuffed and mounted in a glass case", said Sybil breezily. "Perhaps the museum authorities could be persuaded to put you on display in your old chauffeur's uniform. Mind you, I do wonder what the exhibit label would have to say ... about how they came to acquire you". She grinned broadly.

"Is that really supposed to make me feel any better?" asked Tom glumly, as the pair of them strolled into the entrance hall of the grand building.

After an hour or so of wandering around, having admired many of the numerous drawings, pictures, and pieces of sculpture, by Dutch, French, Italian, Spanish, and even Irish artists, they found themselves in a quiet part of the building looking at a series of detailed pencil sketches made by an Irish artist by the name of Patrick Hennessy. It was then that Sybil made the first surprising revelation of the day; that she enjoyed sketching herself.

"That's something you've never told me" said Tom. "Are you any good at it?"

"Well, self praise is no praise" said Sybil, "but yes, I like to think so".

"What do you like drawing?"

"Anything really. Much the same as these". Sybil indicated the sketches in front of them with an expressive broad sweep of her hand. "Still life, flora, fauna, landscapes. Whatever takes my fancy. And people too".

"You mean ... like these? All of them?" Tom sounded aghast.

"Yes".

"Really?"

"Of course. Why ever not?"

Sybil glanced at Tom and saw that his face had suddenly gone bright red; he seemed not to know where to look for the best. It was only when Sybil glanced back at the sketches that she realised the reason why. Several of them were of nudes, mainly female, in which Tom had taken a close and obvious interest. However, included in the group was a pair of frontal studies of two seated and decidedly naked young men. The artist had left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

"Why Tom! Whatever is the matter?"

"How did he ... the artist ...I mean ..." Tom swallowed hard.

"How did he what, Tom?"

"Er ... draw them ... like that!" spluttered Tom indignantly.

"Oh that!" said Sybil dismissively. "Like the girls, I expect they probably posed for him".

"Well you'd not catch me doing that. It's not right".

"What about the girls?"
"Well that's different".

"No it isn't".

"Yes it is".
"So you think it's perfectly acceptable for young women to take off their clothes and pose naked for an artist for the sake of art, but that it's not right for young men to do the same?"

"Yes" said Tom at length and with heartfelt conviction.

"What about equality of the sexes, Tom?"

Tom said nothing, unwilling to meet Sybil's gaze or answer her question.

"Why Mr. Branson, I do believe you're embarrassed!" laughed Sybil.

"You're damned right I am. Aren't you?"

"No, of course not! Oh, Tom! And nor should you be either. After all, during the war, I saw large numbers of naked men". Tom's eyes widened perceptibly at yet another startling revelation from Sybil.

"In my professional capacity of course" she added hurriedly.

"Of course" echoed Tom lamely.

"During operations especially. That apart, I had to change bandages and dressings, as well as help bathe and wash those too badly injured to be able to do such simple tasks for themselves".
"Did you mind?"

"There was no question of minding, Tom. It was just something I had to do. I got used to it and I got on with it. Anyway, I've seen you like that! So what's there to be embarrassed about?"

"Well, that's altogether different" retorted Tom shamefaced.

"No it isn't".

"Yes it is".

"Oh Tom, really!"

"Well have it your own way, but like I say, you'd not catch me posing like that!"

Honestly, thought Sybil. Men!