Chapter Twenty Three
The Watcher On The Shore
Incidents, such as the violent, and in the end singularly futile attack on the two British army lorries by the Volunteers on the road from Howth, leading to the needless loss of life on both sides, to which Tom and Sybil had just become unwilling spectators, were beginning to become all too commonplace.
Sadly the bloody outcome of the ambush was symptomatic of the vicious brutality and utter madness into which much of Ireland was now descending, as demands for Irish independence became ever more noisome, ever more strident; when certain individuals were prepared now to go to any lengths to achieve their aims, be it to maintain and preserve the union with Great Britain, or else to tear it asunder and create a new and wholly independent Ireland.
Of course from the stark experiences she had gained as a nurse during the war, initially while in training at the Ripon Camp Military Hospital and thereafter at the convalescent home established at Downton Abbey, Sybil was only too well aware of the appalling injuries bullets, let alone explosives, could wreak on the human body. She had seen the horrific consequences of both many times over. But the incident at the farm was the first time she had experienced for herself, and at close quarters, the kind of violence which caused such injuries.
However, while she was understandably severely shaken by what had occurred, especially given what both of them had been forced to witness in the farmyard with the accidental shooting dead of eleven year old Joseph Kavanagh, Tom was beginning to encounter such incidents on an almost daily basis in the course of his reporting for the Independent.
From the very outset of their engagement, both he and Sybil agreed never to have secrets from one another. However, there were times recently when Tom, whilst not resorting to lies - that would never do - had chosen to be economical with the truth, had resorted to half-truths regarding what it was he chose to tell Sybil as to where he had been and what he had seen in the course of his work as a journalist. By way of justification, he told himself that he would go to any lengths, do anything to spare her needless distress, and so smooth Sybil's path as she embarked on the new life they were both now making for themselves here in Ireland. And if that meant being diplomatic in what he chose to tell her about certain matters, then so be it.
And yet, even so, both of them knew only too well that beyond the intimate, private idyll they were intent on creating for themselves, outside the four snug walls of Ma's house in Clontarf, there existed a very real world; one which was becoming increasingly brutal and violent.
But a few days prior to the bloody incident out at the farm on the road between Howth and Clontarf, both Tom and Sybil had received a very direct and especially unpleasant foretaste of what was beginning to happen in both Dublin, let alone elsewhere in the country and which occurred on the very morning after they had made love for the first time; an extremely unpleasant reminder of the darkness into which Ireland was now slowly descending.
After the untrammelled joy and physical pleasure that Tom and Sybil had experienced in Tom's bed the previous night, in their intense physical need of each other the previous night, neither of them had given the slightest thought to closing the curtains, so they had been awoken by birdsong and the sunlight of the late June morning streaming in through the open window of Tom's bedroom.
Of course, both would much far rather have stayed where they were, snuggled closely together in warmth of the Tom's bed, wrapped tightly in each other's arms, Tom lying on his back, Sybil sprawled contentedly across him, her head resting comfortably on his bare chest.
However, reality abruptly intruded, with the coming of the dawn and the sobering realisation that both of them had jobs to go to. So, after several lengthy, lingering kisses, which had they both not restrained themselves, would have led them anew into exploring the delightful pleasure of each other's bodies, with great difficulty, exercising a considerable degree of physical control, very regretfully both of them decided it was now time to get up.
Somewhat unsurprisingly, neither of them felt at all uncomfortable being naked in front of the other. But, being unsure as to when Ma would be returning - if she was not already on her way back from the farm, while Sybil struggled back into her nightgown and put on her dressing gown, barefoot and wearing nothing except his pyjama trousers, whistling happily, feeling like he was walking on air, Tom fairly danced down the stairs, to make tea for them both and to fetch hot water from the range for them to wash with and bring it upstairs to the bathroom.
It was as he reached the foot of the stairs that he saw it; a single folded sheet of paper, lying by the front door on the tiled floor of the hall and which Tom knew had not been there the previous night when he had locked up. Bending down, Tom picked it up and walked into the kitchen, unfolding the paper, reading as he went.
Scrawled across the middle of the coarse paper was a single sentence, brief and to the point:
If you value your life leave Ireland and take your English whore with you
Feeling like he had been punched hard in the stomach, Tom sank down on a chair at the kitchen table, resting his elbows on the ribbed wooden surface, and covered his face in his hands. Despite the heat from the range, he felt himself go very cold, shook first with anger and then with real fear for Sybil's safety. If anything should happen to her … At that he began to sob, which was how Sybil found him but a short while later, when, mystified by his non appearance back upstairs, she came down to find out what had become of him.
Picking up the note from off the top of the kitchen table, Tom heard her whistle, her sharp intake of breath, and then but a moment later felt her warm arm slip comfortingly around his bare shoulders.
"Tom, my love, take no notice of this".
"But if they … what it says about you …" Tom turned and buried his tear stained face in the folds of Sybil's nightgown. Ignoring the penetrating chill of the quarries Sybil knelt down on the cold tile floor and cupped his face in her hands.
"But nothing, my love" she said, slipping both her arms tightly about him, covering his face with kisses. "Tom", and when he failed to respond, "Tom Branson, will you look at me!"
Slowly Tom turned his tear-stained face to look at her.
"Tom, you and I both knew that when we made the decision to come over here to Ireland, especially now, given all of what is happening, that there would be risks. That we would face hostility and unpleasantness is, I suppose, after all, only to be expected. But for the most part, well, so far my love, we've been incredibly lucky".
"I know that. But … if anything were to happen … to you because of your association … with me, I know I couldn't go on … Wouldn't it be better …" sobbed Tom.
Sybil silenced him with a lingering kiss.
"Hush now. And no, Tom, it wouldn't. And neither could I, my love - if anything happened to you" said Sybil softly. "We're like two sides of the same coin. And as for this, my love …" She reached across and grabbed the piece of paper from off the table. "Words, hurtful words to be sure, but no more than a line written on a scrap of paper" she said contemptuously. "And, my darling … like everything else we've been through so far, we'll face this together". Sybil cupped his face tightly in her hands. "I told you once before, we are the future my love. Don't ever lose sight of that fact. Rest assured, no-one will ever take that from us. You won't let that happen, and neither will I". Tom shifted round on his chair, to look adoringly at Sybil, and did exactly the same. Cupping her face with his hands, he kissed her passionately.
"Yes", Tom said wiping his tears away with the back of his hand, as reluctantly, they broke apart. "Yes, compared to many others, I suppose we have been incredibly lucky". Tom smiled at her. "And, as ever, my darling, you're right".
"Of course I am" said Sybil brightly. "I'm a woman". She paused; then grinned at him. "You know Tom, I don't mind being your whore. In fact, I quite like the idea! But I'd much rather be your wife. And, in case you've forgotten, that's exactly what I will become, in but five days from now!"
Screwing up the piece of paper, Sybil crossed purposefully to the range, pulled open the door, shoved the note into the heart of the brightly burning fire, and watched as the paper caught light almost immediately, flared into flame, then crumbled into ash.
"Now, my love, what about that tea you were supposed to be making for us?"
Later that same day, with supper over, and with all thought of the morning's unpleasantness forgotten, as the sun sank slowly in the west and the shadows lengthened, arm in arm, Tom and Sybil strolled slowly along the sea shore, as they did most evenings.
The third and final reading of the banns announcing their forthcoming marriage had taken place the previous Sunday in the grey stone spired church of St. John the Baptist on Seafield Road in Clontarf. They could scarcely believe it; only five more days. After all the years of waiting, of self denial, they were to be married on Saturday. And, this evening, after supper, they had been to see the Reverend John Connell, rector of the parish, to finalise some minor details of the simple ceremony which would see Tom and Sybil joined together as man and wife. Happy ever after; for once it would be true - of that they were both entirely certain.
Apart from Mary and Edith, the only others who would be attending the wedding would be Ma, Ciaran, Donal, and Emer along with their respective spouses and children. After the ceremony in the parish hall adjoining the church, there was to be a simple wedding tea, the planning of which Ma, Emer, Aislin and Niamh had insisted should be left to them to organise.
Having written home to Downton in very good time with the details of their wedding, Sybil had blithely assumed that, after having given her and Tom his blessing, her father, in fact both her parents now that she knew her mother had recovered from her bout of Spanish 'flu, and her two sisters would be coming over. Of course, she knew, given her age and increasing infirmity, it would be impossible for her grandmother to make the journey to Ireland for the ceremony.
So, Sybil had been absolutely distraught to learn from Edith's most recent letter, that neither her mother, nor her father, would be coming over to Dublin for the wedding. It transpired that Papa was very much taken up with estate business, and Mama despite all appearances to the contrary had, apparently, still not fully regained her health; or so said Edith. In addition, again according to Edith, Papa also cited the escalating violence and the ongoing disturbances, both in and around Dublin, as a sufficient pretext to satisfactorily explain away their absence. There was a token expression of good wishes from her parents, but nothing more than that and not a single mention of Tom himself.
On a happier note, a letter arrived from Mary breezily informing Sybil as to when both she and Edith would be arriving and where they would be staying, but also tactlessly mentioned the fact that despite their father's apparent pressing commitments and their mother's continuing poor health, both Papa and Mama had been among the guests attending the wedding of the Honourable James Maxstoke whose parents, Lord and Lady Ashcombe owned the Ferndale estate and which adjoined that of Downton to the south west.
"… and after Papa gave us his blessing too" said Sybil bitterly, raising her tear stained face to Tom in Ma's kitchen. "He didn't mean it. Any of it!" she stormed angrily, covering her face with her hands and sobbing convulsively. Sitting next to her, Tom gently placed his arms around her, pulled her close.
"You said they'd come round, but they haven't, Tom. Why won't they accept you? Us?"
"Give them time, Sybil. I'm sure they will" said Tom, but he now spoke with less conviction than he had before. Even he was beginning to wonder if Sybil's family would ever see their forthcoming marriage as anything other than a monumental disappointment, an embarrassment, a disgraceful mésalliance; the very fact of which was to be kept hidden from Sybil's family, her relations, and friends, and seemingly for all time.
Following their visit to the rector, Sybil and Tom started their evening walk along the strand somewhat later than usual. Owing to the comparative lateness of the hour, and also because the weather was beginning to close in, with every prospect of yet more heavy rain before nightfall, unexpectedly, they found they had the beach to themselves.
"… and they have to stay somewhere, Tom. After all, with no disrespect to Ma, can you really see either Mary or Edith lodging here with us in Clontarf?"
"You mean can I see Mary sleeping across the landing from me - God help me if I mistook her room for yours my darling - having breakfast with us in the kitchen, trudging out across the yard to the jacks" laughed Tom. A mischievous grin momentarily lit up his features.
"Yes" said Sybil, grinning, "That's precisely what I meant!"
"Well no, of course not. But why on earth the Shelbourne? I'm told it's very fine inside. But, then so it should be - after all, it's only the most expensive hotel in Dublin. I told you where it is - on the north side of St. Stephen's Green, overlooking the lake. Of course, given the damage the Gresham sustained in the Rising, they couldn't stayed there, but they could've just as well have taken a suite at Wynn's".
"I'm sure they could" said Sybil. "But you know Mary ... only the finest Papa's money can buy".
"Don't I just" said Tom. "Mind you, I know the outside of the hotel well enough. When I worked for the Lord Lieutenant, I was often sent to collect those of his guests who were staying at the Shelbourne from the front portico of the hotel and returned them there from the Viceroy's Lodge afterwards. But, in all that time, seeing how I was but a poor lowly chauffeur, so I never actually got to set foot inside the place".
Tom managed to contrive to assume a most miserable impression, even managing to make his bottom lip tremble.
"All those society ladies dressed in the height of fashion. And not one of them, ever once gave me so much as a second glance" Can you imagine how that felt?" Tom sounded utterly crestfallen.
"Well" said Sybil, for once assuming a serious tone, "I'm very glad they didn't, because if they had, then I, for one, would have been incredibly jealous. And we, my love, might not be getting married on Saturday! But as for never setting foot inside, well, now that you're a rising journalist, that's all about to change. Mary and Edith have asked us to meet them there for afternoon tea".
"What you mean is they've asked you to join them" said Tom affably. "I know, I know. You've told me that Edith's slowly warming to the idea of having me for a brother-in-law. But, as for Mary, well, I rather suspect the only slow warming she has in mind for me is to see me turning on a roasting spit - assuming of course that there are a couple of servants on hand to do the turning".
"Oh, I don't know" said Sybil archly. "Knowing Mary she'd probably take great pleasure in helping out with … what was that word Ma explained to me a couple of days ago in the kitchen? Ah yes, the basting!" said Sybil and laughed out loud.
"Don't even joke about it" said Tom and chuckled. "Why, I can feel myself approaching the well done stage. Mind you, I expect she'll find something to complain about ... the standard of the accommodation, the staff, the cuisine …"
"Knowing Mary, I rather imagine it will be all of those things" laughed Sybil. "You will come, darling, won't you?" she asked.
"Of course" said Tom and laughed. "Afternoon tea with Lady Mary Crawley! Why, I wouldn't miss it for the world. That's just as soon as I can get away from the office. There's a rumour of something being planned down on the quays - a demonstration of some kind - against the unloading of munitions for the British army. Someone from the paper will have to be on hand to cover it. But I'll join you just as soon as I can. I promise".
By now, they had now reached the furthest point they ever came to in their evening strolls along the strand before, reluctantly, they turned and began to retrace their steps. Tonight as they did so, the first drops of rain began to fall. Feeling them spatter on his collar, Tom glanced up at the threatening sky, and then tightened his protecting arm around Sybil.
"There's a storm coming, love; I think we should be heading back".
"Time for a kiss surely" asked Sybil.
Tom chuckled, drew her close to him, and gazed down into her bright eyes.
"Why, that there is and to be sure" he said. "I love you Sybil Crawley. Have I ever told you that?"
"Not in the last five minutes, no" said Sybil and giggled.
"Oh Tom!" Her arms went up around his neck and drew him down into a long lingering kiss.
And, as they embraced tightly, neither of them had a single thought for the rain which had now begun to fall heavily, not for the gathering political storm threatening to engulf Ireland in civil war, and certainly not for the disapproval of Sybil's aristocratic family of their relationship; indeed not for anything else, for no-one, except each other.
Seizing the opportunity thus presented to him to slip away unobserved and get out of the worsening weather, the man who had been watching Tom and Sybil for the last hour or so, moved swiftly and silently from his hiding place behind an outcrop of rock. Making his way quickly round the low headland, he ran over towards where a motor, its engine already running, awaited him at the end of the rough track which led down to the shore. Clambering in, the man pulled the door shut, then turned to his waiting companion, and said in a low voice:
"Shelbourne Hotel. Tell Quinlan and the others".
The driver nodded, put the motor into gear, and the vehicle moved off into the gathering storm.