Chapter Forty Six

Afterglow

Dusk was already beginning to spread its gentle velvet pall down over the city; stealing softly among the innumerable chimney stacks, domes, spires, and towers, drifting languidly across the slate roof tops, descending over the imposing granite bulk of Dublin Castle unquestionably both the centre and the definitive symbol of the leaden, mailed fist of British rule here in Ireland.

It settled softly over the abundant number of the many other equally fine public buildings in Dublin such as that sheltering the Four Courts topped by its magnificent stone dome on Inns Quay, along with the equally imposing, and likewise domed, Customs House situated on the quay of the same name, lying between the Butt and the Loopline Bridges, and occupying a splendid position overlooking the Liffey. Dusk came to rest too over Leinster House housing the priceless collections of the Irish National Gallery and the Irish National Museum, over the tranquil, collegiate, academic quadrangles of Trinity College on College Green, and the grandeur of the Mansion House on Dawson Street.

It drifted o'er the sea-green dome of the Catholic Pro-Cathedral on Marlborough Street, and the seventeenth century stone tower of the ancient parish church of St. Audoen's down on Cornmarket, indeed over the churches and the chapels of all denominations throughout the city; over hospitals such as the Rotunda, the South Dublin Lying-In on Holles Street, and the Coombe, along with the workhouses at Balrothery and on James' Street, the latter situated close to the St. James' Gate Brewery which belonged to the wealthy Guinness family.

It settled gently over the magnificent red brick Shelbourne Hotel overlooking the landscaped gardens and lakes of St. Stephen's Green, the lakes themselves fed from the waters of the Grand Canal at Portobello; over the luxurious Royal Hibernian Hotel which stood close by not far from the Mansion House on Dawson Street. It drifted down too over the once no less expensive and equally opulent Metropole and Gresham Hotels, both reduced to gaunt blackened ruins, utterly destroyed in the ultimately abortive Easter Rising of some three years earlier.

It descended quietly over the tree-lined avenues and the verdant greenery found within the walled enclosure of Phoenix Park and over the Botanic Gardens in Glasnevin filled with thousands of flowers, plants, and trees and which, in magnificence, was said to rival Kew Gardens in London across the Irish Sea.

It crept down all but imperceptibly through the wide streets, stealing also into the narrow alleys and courts, veiling from sight both the splendour and the squalor which was Dublin, spreading its silent wings through the elegant Georgian squares lying south of the Liffey such as Fitzwilliam and Merrion with their terraces of fine brick town houses, both still the preserve of the wealthy and the gentry; reflecting in the glass of their fanlights and many paned sash windows the very last golden rays of the evening sun. Dusk came to rest as well over the fashionable and stylish cafés and restaurants like Bewleys on Westmoreland Street and over the expensive shops lining Grafton Street.

It settled also over smaller houses too - in Blackrock, Glasthule, Kingstown and Rathmines, including, in Clontarf, a neat, white washed, two-storey, slate roofed villa, one of a pair, and which faced the open sea. It drifted down into the poorer suburbs of Pembroke and Ringsend, and thence among less imposing dwellings still, the eating houses, the public houses like Davy Byrne's on Duke Street or that owned by John Kehoe on nearby South Anne Street, came to rest midst the squalid tenements of Henrietta Street, Mountjoy Square, and Parnell Street, drifted past the drab windows of Joseph Doyle's pawn shop on Buckingham Street where those in immediate need resorted to pawning their boots, their clothing, and their work-tools, thus worsening the grinding cycle of poverty here in the second city of the far flung British Empire.

It drifted through the stone balustrades of the O'Connell Bridge, down over the ships and vessels and other craft moored and riding gently at anchor alongside the many quays lining both banks of the Liffey. Midst the numerous wharves and warehouses, ghostly, wraithlike coils of vapid mist rose languidly from off the gently murmuring waters of the Liffey, while across the city the lamps were being lit, among the public rooms and the bedrooms of hotels and gin shops, on railway station platforms and in waiting rooms at Westland Row, in all manner of domestic properties, and along the usually, but for the lateness of the hour, bustling main thoroughfares of the city.

Here on Sackville Street, in the last few minutes, cast by the towering column of Nelson's Pillar and the blackened, looted, shattered buildings, mute, silent witnesses to the failed Easter Rising of three years before, the shadows had deepened perceptibly. And yet, as the dusk drew ever down, and the shadows lengthened, there was still no sign of Tom.

But a short while ago, while he and Edith had both stood chatting animatedly together close to the enormous granite bulk of Nelson's Pillar, likewise and but a short distance away, over on the corner of Henry Street, next to the bullet scarred, gaunt, smoke-blackened façade of what, until 1916, had been the imposing front entrance of grand building housing Dublin's General Post Office, Sybil stood talking to Mary.

Like Edith, Mary had experienced a profound shock on seeing the terrible damage which had been inflicted here, in the very heart of the city, by the artillery of the British Army during the failed Rising. Mary's incredulity had increased when Sybil had explained pithily and in some detail that, irrespective of the rights and wrongs of what had happened here in Dublin the majority of the casualties in the Rising had been innocent civilians caught up in the crossfire between the British Army and the republicans. This caused Mary to remark that that was something which had been singularly lacking in the reports of the matter in the British press at the time; something of which she was certain Papa was ignorant even now.

It was just as Sybil was ascertaining from Mary that she did indeed know precisely the nature of the directions which had to be given to the chauffeur from the Shelbourne Hotel who was to drive both her and Edith out to Clontarf on Saturday morning that Tom had dutifully escorted Edith over to where Sybil and Mary were standing close to the ruins of the General Post Office.

In the fading warmth of the summer's evening, standing there on the edge of the pavement, all four of them had continued to chat happily, had been on the point of taking their affectionate goodbyes of each another, when, suddenly, before they had the chance to do so, with Tom about to hail a motor cab for Edith and Mary, and for he and Sybil to board the Number 31 tram for their journey out to Clontarf, Tom had asked suddenly if all three of them would mind waiting where they were for just a moment or two. He winked broadly at Sybil, gave all three of them a cheeky grin, adding that he would be gone only but a short while.

Mystified, nevertheless they had readily agreed to his request, with Mary silently giving Tom full marks for his unfailing courtesy and good manners towards them all. On the corner of Henry Street, he had paused; half turned, smiled, and then raised his hand in salutation. And then, with another lopsided grin and a cheery wave he was gone.

"Wait for me" he had called to Sybil.

"Of course. What else have I to do?" she called in reply. She smiled. Tom nodded, raised his hand again; was gone.

Thereafter, they had continued to chat, but gradually, with every passing minute, and with still no sign of Tom, their conversation grew stilted, languished, all of them, had they but known it, wondering the very same thought: what on earth could possibly have become of Tom.

And now, with no immediate sign of him, growing ever more anxious, Sybil cast uneasily about her, seeking but the slightest glimpse of Tom midst the ever changing, ever shifting kaleidoscope of puttering motor cabs, clanging trams, and myriad swarms of all manner and of all classes of people some hurrying hither and thither, others sauntering at their leisure along Sackville Street, or else congregating over by the enormous granite base of the Pillar.

"Where on earth can Tom have gone?" asked Sybil with obvious and rising trepidation.

"I know he didn't say where he was going, but, I'm sure he's just fine, Sybil. Don't worry" said Edith. She patted Sybil's arm gently in a genuine, heartfelt attempt at re-assurance.

"Darling, of course he will be" said Mary. "You'll see, Sybil. He'll be back here directly. I'm sure of it".

Sybil nodded her thanks mutely to both of them, but of Tom, there was still no sign.

None whatever.