Chapter Thirty Nine
The Floosie From The Monto
In the aftermath of the explosion, just about the very same time that Tom, now wearing a borrowed dark blue suit began making his way downstairs, Mary herself strode purposefully into the lobby of the Shelbourne Hotel. What she had expected to find, she knew not, but the sight which greeted her eyes was almost unrecognisable from what she remembered of the luxurious hotel's once grand entrance hall. Instead of the calm, discrete, and ordered reception which she and Edith had encountered here upon their arrival in Dublin but a day earlier, the prospect before her now was one of confusion, of noise, and of utter pandemonium.
If only for an instant, both horrified and stunned by what confronted her, just within the shattered doorway of the entrance hall Mary came to a complete and sudden stop. Before her stretched a milling throng, principally of both khaki and of blue; made up for the most part of British soldiers and of members of the Dublin Metropolitan Police, all seemingly engaged in attempting to bring some form of order out of complete chaos.
The once pristine marble floor of the lobby was heavily bloodstained, covered in debris and dirt, among which, and in makeshift circumstances too, several doctors and nurses were doing their very best comforting and attending to those who had been injured in the explosion and had not, as yet, been removed to hospital. Of those more fortunate souls, men, women, and children, who had survived the blast without sustaining any physical injury, some of whom Mary recognised as fellow guests from the hotel, even here and there one or two with whom both she and Edith had briefly conversed at dinner the previous evening, all of them were either being herded out of the lobby, or else making their own way up the grand staircase to the undamaged upper floors of the hotel.
"'ere, you! Yeah, you! 'ave some bloody sense for Christ sake! Don't block the fuckin' doorway!" bawled a British army sergeant. It took Mary a moment or two to appreciate that the shouted words, sprinkled with profanities, bellowed across the entrance lobby in the hearing of anyone present, were, in fact, actually aimed at her. Realising that to be the case, Mary shrank back out of sight behind a marble pillar as two army privates, between them carrying a laden stretcher, bearing a bloodied and heavily bandaged man, barged their way past her, out through what remained of the entrance doors and into the street beyond.
For a short while, Mary simply remained standing where she was. Then, having regained something of her customary composure, with the entrance lobby now at last beginning to empty of its terrified huddle of people, fearing for the very worst, Mary began to make her way over to the front desk to try and ascertain what had become of Edith, Sybil, and Tom. Here luck again intervened on her side as half way across the lobby she was hailed by the same young bell-boy who had helped see to her own and Edith's luggage upon their arrival; to be told by him that her sister, another lady he didn't recognise but in a nurse's uniform, and the gentleman with her, were all safe upstairs in her suite; that the same gentleman had rescued both the ladies from the hotel's dining room.
Breathing a heartfelt sigh of relief, Mary bestowed upon the bell-boy a smile of dazzling brilliance, was fumbling in her purse, was about to give the lad something by way of a generous tip, when an altercation at the bottom of the main staircase diverted her attention. Surrounded by a group of baying, snarling police officers, amidst a heavy rain of blows and kicks, Mary saw a man with a bandaged forehead, dressed in a dark blue suit, double up, and collapse to his knees, at the foot of the hotel's grand staircase. It was as the man sunk down, rolled himself tightly into a ball, that with unseeing eyes, his face turned in Mary's own direction.
My God thought Mary. Tom!
On the floor, clutching his hands tightly across his groin, Tom readied himself for the brutal impact of the vicious kick aimed at his testicles. But the savagely aimed kick never made contact with his body; the expected searing pain never materialised. From somewhere above him, beyond the group of screaming, shouting police officers came the sound of a familiar voice. One Tom knew well, which brooked no opposition and which, owned the unmistakeable inflection of rank.
"I say! You! You there! Yes, you! Stop that this instant! How dare you! As for taking him anywhere, you will be doing no such thing. Now, do as I say and take your filthy hands off him!"
"And who the 'ell might you be to be giving us orders, miss la-di-dah? The Queen o' feckin' Sheba is it?" demanded the police sergeant impertinently, angered at being baulked so summarily of the pleasure, as he saw it, of kicking the hell out of yet another bloody Fenian. Several of his companions laughed raucously, made coarse and obscene gestures, cast amorous and lecherous glances, at the strikingly beautiful dark haired woman who calmly, unflinchingly, stood her ground before them and their deluge of profanities.
"Yeah! Who the feckin' 'ell d'you think yous is missus?"
"Yer cheeky feckin' bitch!" added another. He licked his lips, while roving his eyes impertinently over the remarkably attractive woman in front of him. What wouldn't he give for a bit of that!
"Bugger off!"
"Where yer from, yer feckin' floosie?"
"Up Amiens Street, in the Monto for sure!" laughed another.
At this last utterance, the rest of the men roared with laughter, but much to their annoyance, it seemed completely lost on the woman. But then, so it would be; for only a native of the city would have known that the Monto was Dublin's notorious red light district.
"How much yous askin' for a good time, dearie?"
"Right. Now feck off!" interposed another.
"Yeah. Bugger off. Stop interferin' with His Majesty's police in the lawful execution of their duties!"
"Lawful execution …" began Mary, appalled and horrified both by the constables' disrespect and rudeness towards her, and by what she had just witnessed of Irish police brutality
So, thought Mary, this is how it's going to be, is it? Very well then, so be it. Summoning up every ounce of courage she possessed which, to be truthful, at that precise moment in time, did not amount to very much at all, Mary drew herself up to her full height, swallowed hard, and then spoke crisply, authoritatively, and to the point.
"For your information, I am Lady Mary Crawley, eldest daughter to the earl and countess of Grantham. And that man there in your grubby little hands is" - a small lie given the circumstances, thought Mary – "my brother-in-law, Mr. Tom Branson, the well known, respected journalist, with the Irish Times. Now, do as I say and take your hands off him! Now!"
For one brief horrified instant, Mary saw the constables make no move to do as she had instructed.
"Did you not hear me? I am not someone who is accustomed to be in the habit of repeating myself. And make no mistake about it, my father, the earl of Grantham will hear about this. I should perhaps make it clear that he is on very good terms with the present Lord Lieutenant, the Viceroy, Viscount French. In fact, he is" - another little lie thought Mary - "dining with him at Dublin Castle tonight!" she added, hopefully for good measure, and in as haughty a tone as she could muster.
The constables glanced nervously one to each other, and then looked to their sergeant for guidance as to what they should do now. For his part, the sergeant scowled briefly at Mary, then nodded curtly to his men. Beating up a soddin' Fenian was one thing, but getting carpeted for it, well that was something else. No need for that. Never mind, there would be others; plenty of others.
By now, Tom had been hauled roughly to his feet and those who were holding him up against the wall reluctantly, and suddenly, released their firm grip on him. With the unexpected withdrawal of the constables' physical support of him, winded by the sadistic beating he had received at their hands, Tom sank once more to his knees, doubling up in agony on the bottom step of the staircase against the wall.
"Christ Almighty!" "Oh, feckin' hell!" moaned Tom. He rolled over on his side clutching at his chest.
Several minutes passed …
No, Tom thought. It can't be; surely not? I must have passed out … I must be dreaming.
He couldn't believe what was happening; supposed it must be something to do with the shock caused to his nervous system by the force of the explosion; by the savage beating which he had just received at the hands of the polees. But no, by God. No! She was real.
Kneeling before him, at the foot of the main staircase, on the now debris and dirt strewn floor of the entrance hall of the Shelbourne Hotel, was Sybil's eldest sister, the ever imperious, immaculately dressed, Lady Mary Crawley. However, even in his present befuddled state, Tom could see that Mary was not quite as impeccably presented as was normally the case. Her coat was muddied; her hat worn slightly awry and several curls of dark hair had escaped from the confines of her normally perfect coiffure. And surely not? But yes. There were even several smudges of dirt on the flawless ivory skin of her face.
Tom smelt the scent of eau-de-cologne, winced as Mary applied it to his face with a delicate, lace edged, white hand kerchief; gently, tenderly, with infinite care, she began wiping away the trickle of blood running down his chin from the corner of his mouth.
"Lady Mary … Sybil … Edith … they're all right … both of them" croaked Tom. "They're upstairs".
"Yes, I know. Thank God" said Mary. "A bell-boy here at the hotel told me and from what else he told me, I understand that is all thanks to you". Tom winced again as Mary continued applying the cologne to the cuts on his face.
"Lady Mary, I can manage …" Tom stopped, as a spasm of harsh coughing overtook him, shook his pain wracked body.
"No, Tom, you can't" said Mary softly.
Tom? Did she just call me Tom?
Now, thought Mary. Now was the moment.
Unwittingly, Tom had given her the opportunity to start trying to make amends and seize the opportunity she did, silently thanking him for making it so easy for her to do so. With a curt, imperious wave of her free hand, Mary silenced him, cut short his protests. At the same time she fought back a sudden urge to laugh. Not at Tom; that would have been completely callous, but at the sheer incongruousness of the situation in which they found themselves. Their former roles were now so completely and so totally reversed; in fact, had gone beyond the point of recall, even if she had wanted them restored to what they had once been. And, just as suddenly, Mary knew in her own heart that she did not want that at all. Not now. Not ever.
"No, Tom" she said gently. "It's Mary. From now on, and for all time. Just, Mary. After all, we're almost related". And, with a sense of growing disbelief, Tom felt an arm placed comfortingly around his back. The sense of his bewilderment grew, when he realised it was her arm.
"Do you think you can try and stand?" asked Mary gently.
"I can try" said Tom, painfully and through gritted teeth. Slowly, with her help and breathing heavily, his heart pounding in his chest, Tom pulled himself to his feet, leaning against the staircase wall for yet further support.
"Oh, Tom …" began Mary with a light chuckle. She then gave him a beautiful smile. A smile that she bestowed rarely and would never have thought ever to have used on him. Then, deliberately choosing to echo Sybil's words from earlier that afternoon in the dining room, she said in the most matter-of-fact tone she could muster:
"You know Tom; you really are an utter mess!"
Tom grinned. "Don't I just know it. I don't think I'd be up to …" He paused momentarily to gain his breath. " …driving you anywhere at the moment, milady" he said with half a smile, and then winced as another spasm of pain shot through him.
"Don't you worry about that" said Mary. "After all, as Edith told you, this hotel has its own chauffeurs, even if they're not a patch on you!"
At that, Tom smiled.
"But, to be sure" he said and grinned broadly at her.
Concerned for him as she was, Mary found herself smiling back. She had to concede that even in Tom's present utterly dejected and dishevelled state, for a woman, there was something intensely, unnervingly physically appealing about him. And, unconsciously echoing Edith's observation from earlier on, wondered why on earth it was that she hadn't ever noticed it before. No wonder Sybil had fallen for him.
"As you happen to mention it, no, Tom, I don't suppose you'd be much use as a chauffeur at present. But that's all done with. Now … my fine, upstanding, future brother-in-law … now that the boot's well and truly on the other foot, so to speak, it's my turn to help you. Come on, lean on me if you need to" said Mary.
"I think … Mary" said Tom ruefully and rubbing his still aching arms, "the least said about boots the better! And, by the way, for the record, I'm with the Independent!"
"Does that really matter? At a time like this?" asked Mary with barely concealed surprise.
"Oh rather" said Tom decidedly.
"Really?" asked Mary with the slightest degree of exasperation present in her voice. Honestly, she thought, at times, men concerned themselves with the most trivial of things.
"No, not really" said Tom.
It was then that Mary noticed the twinkle in his eyes, the slight smile playing about the corners of his mouth. They both burst out laughing.
"Do you know what, Tom, I rather think I'm going to enjoy having you for my brother-in-law after all" said Mary when they had finally stopped laughing
"Glad to hear it. So no firing squad then?" asked Tom with a painful chuckle.
"No. Definitely not" said Mary with another laugh.
Then, one faltering step at a time, the most unlikely pairing, of the aristocratic, elegant, imperious, refined, decidedly English, eldest daughter of the earl and countess of Grantham, and the beaten, bloodied and presently dishevelled, Irish, socialist journalist began their slow and painful ascent of the grand staircase of the Shelbourne Hotel.