Chapter Thirty
Of Varying Degrees Of Difficulty
Difficult. There was no denying it. This would indeed be difficult.
As Tom knelt there on the hard, narrow prie-dieu in the quiet darkness of the confessional, through the patterned wooden lattice work of the screen he could see the profile of the kindly old priest waiting patiently for him to begin. This is not going to be easy thought Tom. He crossed himself fervently.
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned".
"How long has it been since your last confession my son?"
"I'm ..." His voice faltered, then Tom recovered himself somewhat. "To be honest I'm not exactly sure, father". Tom paused again. "A very long time. Years, certainly" he said softly.
"And why is that my son?" asked the old priest gently.
"That ... to explain why ... Well, that's rather difficult ..."
"Difficult?" Mary all but spat the word. "May I remind you that I am the eldest daughter of the earl and countess of Grantham and I am not used to being kept waiting! Certainly not by some grubby little hotel manager!" She slammed the telephone receiver back in its cradle. Next to it, the ornate vase filled to overflowing with exquisitely arranged cut flowers wobbled ominously.
"Mary, please" said Edith.
Standing quietly by one of the windows on the other side of the shared sitting room of their third floor suite at the front of the Shelbourne Hotel, Edith was looking out across the busy road below her over to St. Stephen's Green.
"Good Lord, there's a military band assembling down there. Oh Mary, do come and look!"
"I don't really much care if it's a performing troupe of Irish dwarves dancing the Can Can" said Mary contemptuously. "Why on earth did I ever let you persuade me into coming over here in the first place? Richard told me I was a fool to even contemplate it. Matthew said much the same thing too".
"You know very well why Mary. We're here for Sybil's sake; that's what for. After all, with Mama only just recovered from the influenza and Papa, even if he had deigned to come over to Ireland, likely to turn up to the wedding with a fully loaded shotgun..."
"And precisely who is to blame for that? Not Papa. This is all Branson's fault Edith, as well you know! Why if Papa had dismissed him on the spot, when darling Sybil was injured at the count in Ripon, then none of this awful business would ever have happened. Of course I blame myself".
"How so?" asked Edith with incredulity. After all, in her experience, Mary was not someone who ever admitted to making a mistake.
"Don't you remember? Oh Edith you can be such an awful ninny. At the time it was me that stood up for Branson; I told Papa he wasn't to blame".
"Well, from what Sybil said, he wasn't!"
"That's hardly the point" snapped Mary. "As for Sybil, well, given what has happened, she can hardly be considered to have been wholly impartial in her defence of Branson, now can she? Why, I've a very good mind to go down to that column thing we saw earlier on the way over here, stand on a soapbox like one of those ghastly suffragettes Sybil's so fond of supporting and tell everyone over here in Dublin just what I think of Mr. ruddy Branson!"
"Oh, Mary! For goodness' sake! Don't be so silly! Don't even think of doing such a thing"
"Why ever not? If Sybil can be allowed to spout her silly nonsense about equality and votes for woman, let alone run off with the ruddy chauffeur ..."
"Mary, she didn't elope ... run off with him, as you call it".
"No, you're damned right she didn't. The two of us put paid to that. Mind you, I should have put a stop to Branson's nonsense a long time before then".
"Aren't you forgetting that Papa gave them his blessing"?
"Thank you Edith, but my memory isn't failing me yet. Of course Papa gave them his blessing. After all, he was left with precious little other option, in order to safeguard the family's reputation!"
"Well, Cousin Isobel seems to think Branson's a very nice young man".
"Cousin Isobel can mind her own damned business. As for being nice, darling, why I've absolutely no doubt that the late Dr. Crippen was a nice young man".
"Surely you're not implying Branson is a murderer?"
"No of course not. No such luck. Although if he were, then that would simplify things considerably. To have Branson arrested for murder, after all the trouble he has caused, well, darling, that would be simply too divine! Apart from the attendant publicity of course. Granny would cope with it all I suppose, but I doubt Papa would ever live it down, what with all this trouble over Bates. And as for poor Mama, why, I expect she'd have a touch of the vapours! Then of course there would have to be a trial, well the formality of one at least, the verdict, guilty obviously and finally ..."
"Mary! How could you even think of such a thing?"
"Quite easily as it happens. Dear God, a chauffeur for a brother-in-law!" Mary buried her face in her hands. "How utterly mortifying! The absolute shame of it! Whatever next?" Suddenly Mary looked up, eyed her sister suspiciously. "I don't suppose you're harbouring some secret plan to marry one of the tenant farmers on the estate?"
Edith blushed furiously.
"Well are you?" persisted Mary.
"No, of course not. Whatever made you think of that?" asked Edith mortified.
"I was only joking silly! But thank Heavens you're not! And if a maid is not up here with my towels in the next five minutes, I shall be on ..."
"Mary, do please try and remember what Sybil said in to us both her last letter ... about not drawing attention to ourselves". Edith sighed resignedly. Sisterhood was a lifetime's sentence.
Difficult.
That was the only appropriate word to describe her relationship with her elder sister thought Edith. Her relationship with Mary had always been difficult.
Right from the very start, even when they were all children, Mary had always expected both Edith and Sybil to defer to her at every turn. Mary was the eldest and what Mary said went; what Mary wanted she had. In the general scheme of things, the wishes of her two younger sisters were of no account whatsoever. Edith had always borne the brunt of Mary's hostility, her bossy nature, whereas Sybil being the baby of the family, well Mary had liked playing the part of the flawless, matchless, imperious eldest sister; had enjoyed it immensely.
I wonder, thought Edith. Would Mary be so judgemental, so unforgiving of Sybil... of Branson even... if things had turned out differently between her and Matthew? Would Mary have been so difficult?
"Please nothing Edith!" stormed Mary. "If our dear, darling Sybil hadn't seen fit to run off with the damned chauffeur - God knows what she sees in him - I wouldn't just have to have had to endure a lengthy conversation with the impertinent imbecile who masquerades as the manager of this third rate hotel - as to why someone on his staff has found it "difficult" to ensure that I was provided with fresh towels in my bathroom!"
"I'm sure it's just an oversight, Mary. There are fresh towels in my bathroom. Would you like to borrow one of ..." offered Edith, trying to pacify her sister. Catching sight of the thunderous look on Mary's face, Edith wished that she hadn't tried to do so; wished that she hadn't said anything at all.
"Thank you no. Is that supposed to make me feel any better, Edith? That you have towels? I don't! Do you know I expect ruddy Branson's at the bottom of all of this!"
"Oh, come now, Mary, I'm sure even Branson has far more important matters to attend to than..."
"Don't you believe it! You remember what Papa said about him. Why ever since we arrived in this bloody ..."
"Mary! "
"Oh Edith! This is 1919. The war's over. So I'll speak just how I please thank you very much! After all, we're not at one of Mama's ghastly garden parties now. Although come to think of it, anything would be preferable than being stuck here in this..."
Mary drummed her fingers impatiently on the carved top of the walnut escritoire. She swept one manicured forefinger along the edge of the desk.
"Good God!" Mary was staring incredulously at the tip of her finger.
"What is it?" asked Edith with a mounting sense of trepidation. "A splinter?"
"No not a splinter, silly. Is that what you think it is Edith? I'll tell you what it is. It's dust. That's what it is. Bloody dust!" exclaimed Mary indignantly. She strode purposefully over to the telephone and picked up the receiver.
Edith shook her head in despair.
"This is Lady Mary Crawley ...
Yes that's quite correct ... would you please ask him to come to the telephone?
Ah, Mr. O'Reilly".
Yes, it is Lady Mary Crawley, again...
Don't say "again" to me in that tone of voice...
Oh, suite? Is that what you call it? Really? Well you may call it a suite, but quite frankly, in my opinion there isn't room enough to swing the proverbial cat...
No, I don't have a cat...
That is immaterial you ghastly little man. No, I didn't and don't interrupt me. I said vastly - vast as in the sense of large ... unlike this so-called suite. Yes, it must be this telephone. That is quite correct. Something larger...
Yes, where there would be room to swing a cat; proverbial or otherwise...
Tell me, have you ever sailed on the Olympic?
Oh, you haven't. Well I have and what you call a suite here in this third rate boarding house wouldn't...
Another suite?
The Imperial? Where the Viceroy once stayed? Oh really.
And are there towels in the bathrooms?
There are?
Well, that would do perfectly. And my sister and I will expect the porters directly". Mary slammed down the receiver peremptorily.
"And that, Edith dear, is how one deals with the lower orders. Including ex-chauffeurs! It's nothing difficult!"
Difficult, thought Sybil, as the red brick façade of the luxurious Shelbourne Hotel hove into view, and she prepared to get down from off the tram; this morning's shift at the Coombe had been difficult. Dealing with a still birth and then enduring verbal abuse from a patient who took virulent exception to her being English, referring to her openly and volubly, in the hearing of the matron and her fellow nurses on the ward, as "that feckin' English bitch", Of course, Sybil had encountered such unpleasantness before, but for some strange reason, this morning it had rankled, had stung, more so than or previous occasions.
Maybe she was simply overwrought with worry, which given what both she and Tom had experienced in the last couple of days, was understandable enough. If that, all of it, had not been bad enough, she was, in fact, rather dreading her encounter with both Mary and Edith, had admitted as much openly to Tom, which was why she had sought his reassurance that he would indeed join all three of them for tea this afternoon here in the opulent surroundings of the Shelbourne Hotel.
Mary and Edith were her sisters, but much as she loved them both dearly, and always would do, Sybil felt, no knew, that she was no longer really a part of the social world which they inhabited; knew also that there were now so many subjects which could not be raised in polite conversation between them, especially anything, in fact everything, to do with Tom.
And why?
All because, in Tom's own self-deprecating words, he was "a boy from a different world"- and that was undoubtedly how her two sisters still viewed him. The ex-chauffeur, who had dared to step out from his appointed place in the social order, by falling in love with and thereafter compounding his presumption by marrying the youngest daughter of the earl and countess of Grantham!
And thinking of darling Tom - when did she ever not think of him - he was as dear to her as always; she loved him to utter distraction. As demonstratively and openly loving of her as he had always been, even more so now, as the day of their long anticipated wedding finally dawned; as solicitous for her welfare as ever, last night on the darkened landing of Ma's house had proved that.
They had said their customary goodnights, and then as he did always each night, when they were both home together and before they retired to their respective rooms, Tom had cupped her face with his hands, in itself a simple enough act. He had kissed her tenderly, murmuring "I love you", and thereafter resting his forehead gently against her own, to which she had responded in like measure. They had continued to hold each other close, utterly content, losing all sense of time, as the soft darkness drew down about them, and the silent, sleeping house wrapped them both deep within its own enfolding quietness.
And yet, for all that, there was something. Something which Sybil couldn't quite put her finger on; something was worrying Tom, of that she was certain. To cope with that as well, as everything else, was difficult.
"Difficult, yes. In a manner of speaking, but also... a release" Tom said haltingly, as together the two of them exited the private confines of the confessional.
Accompanied by Tom, who adjusted his pace accordingly to match that of his elderly companion, the two men walked slowly back down the aisle, as far as the main doors of the church. There the priest turned and lightly rested both of his thin blue veined hands on the young man's shoulders.
"As to what happened, there is no need whatsoever for you to reproach yourself. Nor is there any point saying "If only". What you did then, you did in all innocence, although I suspect the same cannot be said for ... and in your heart, you must, in all honesty, know that to be true. You deserve to be happy and from what you have told me, despite all the difficulties, realising that happiness is now within your grasp".
"But if Sybil ever... Surely I should tell her about..."
The old priest shook his head.
"No, my son. Let the past bury the past and leave it so. You were not to blame. God knows that. Let Him call those who were to account. Coming in here today, and then to tell me, even within the sanctity of the confessional what happened, you have shewn great courage. So, perhaps, Virgil was right after all: omnia vincit amor".
Tom grinned ruefully at the old man.
"Love conquers all? There father, I do still remember some rags of my schoolboy Latin! Maybe. But, I can assure you that courage had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. Far from it. Perhaps, in the end, all it was nothing more than a plea for help. Or perhaps ... desperation!"
The old man smiled.
"Desperation? You? After what you have told me today? No definitely not. Never that". The priest shook his head. "Will you permit an old man one final observation?"
"Gladly".
"Well then. No matter what the pain you have endured, I assure you He will end your hurt and dry your tears. Believe that life is truly worth the living and your belief will make that so. Tell me, one thing, though. Why here? After all, there are several other churches here in Dublin much closer to where you work".
"I'm not sure" said Tom. "I think ... I think that I was somehow drawn here".
"Drawn here? Well then, some things are indeed of God, my son".
Tom smiled at the old man.
"If you say so. I can't answer for that. But thank you anyway".
Reaching forward he grasped one end of the priest's purple stole and then brushed his lips reverently against it and a moment later against the back of the priest's right hand.
"When you go from here, you will be in my prayers. Both you and Sybil. God be with you, both".
The priest raised his right hand in blessing and a moment later the sigil was completed.
"Goodbye, father".
"Goodbye my son".
Tom nodded, and then left the church. When he turned and looked back, the priest was still standing in the doorway. Seeing Tom look back, slowly, he raised his right hand in farewell. Tom did likewise and then set off bound for the Shelbourne Hotel. As Tom approached the hotel by way of St. Stephen's Green, he chuckled to himself. Afternoon tea, with Lady Mary Crawley. Now that was likely to prove difficult!