Chapter Fifty Three
An Evening's Entertainment
No one, said Tom, knew precisely just how old the huge stone built hay barn out at Ciaran's farm on the Clontarf Estate actually was.
Among the many stories and tales spun by Aislin to her young children gathered round the fireside on winter's nights was one that told how it had been built by Merlin from stones left behind by him here in Ireland; when by magic he had spirited the Giant's Dance all the way from Mount Killaraus over the sea to Stonehenge in England.
"And when he had finished, Merlin was very tired, so he summoned a huge, fire-breathing dragon to carry him all the way back to England" said Aislin.
"What happened to the dragon?" This from Padraig; who, at the time at the time of his Aunt Aislin's first telling of the tale was staying with his cousins out at the farm, and whose eyes had grown as round as saucers.
"Well it's a long way over the sea to England, so he was very tired too, but then he found a nice dry cave, curled up, and went to sleep," said Tom, who also happened to be visiting the farm.
"And so now must you", said Aislin with a smile, ruffling her young nephew's hair.
"Will you tuck me in Uncle Tom? Please?" Padraig pleaded.
"All right" said Tom with a laugh, catching the little boy up in his arms.
"And if you're very good and go to sleep, next time, I'll tell you another story about that old dragon".
"Promise?" asked Padraig.
"I promise," said Tom with a chuckle.
However, shortly after that, Tom had left Ireland for Downton, and so never had the chance to make good on what, in good faith, he had promised so blithely to young Padraig. Not of course, that either Aislin or Tom knew it at the time, but that fire-breathing dragon really caught Padraig's imagination and ever thereafter, until he grew too old for such things, he was always on the lookout for it. So now, having finally established the whereabouts of the dragon over in England, young Padraig was absolutely delighted.
"Of course, the stones at Stonehenge were there long before Merlin and perhaps it will never be known how it is they come to be there. And the monks from the abbey out at Howth probably built the hay barn. But don't tell Padraig that" said Tom with a laugh, having just explained to both Mary and Edith the real reason behind his young nephew's fascination with dragons.
No wonder Sybil loves him so, thought Mary. Would Richard Carlisle be so good with their... she corrected herself ... with his children? She doubted that he would. Out of sight, out of mind, and packed off to boarding school at the earliest opportunity would in all likelihood be Richard's philosophy in that regard.
Standing by Tom's side, clasping his hand, Sybil smiled broadly, looked up at him fondly, her blue grey eyes shining brightly. "Do you know, some day you're going to make a wonderful father" she said. Not usually lost for words, Tom found himself blushing red.
"Perhaps" he said with a grin.
"No perhaps about it" said Sybil with a laugh.
"Any way you'll all see the barn later tonight at the céilí".
"Just exactly what is a céilí?" asked Edith.
"He wouldn't tell me, so I'm sure he won't tell you," laughed Sybil.
"Wait and see". Tom grinned.
Later...
In this?" Mary grimaced.
Seeing the horrified look on his eldest sister-in-law's face, Tom could not help but grin. Her pained expression was akin to that worn by Mary when she had learned that she was ending up with a chauffeur for a brother-in-law.
"You didn't much once like the idea of riding on a tram either," whispered Tom by way of encouragement, his deep blue eyes sparkling with merriment.
"Well no. But that ... that was different, Tom".
Mary looked again at the brightly painted, lumbering four wheeled waggonette, gaily adorned with ribbons, now rapidly filling with Ciaran and Donal's children and which was being pressed into service to transport other immediate family members, Tom and Sybil apart, out to Ciaran's farm for the céilí.
"Oh come on Mary, it'll be fun", laughed Edith already seated inside with Ma and with Mairead and Rosaleen on either side of her and Padraig sitting in her lap.
Mary was not at all sure if that was how she would term it. Did she "do" fun? She was not certain that she did.
"After all, Mary, it's only one way," said Sybil as a means of an inducement. "Don't forget darling, the motor from the Shelbourne will be collecting you both from the farm later".
"Is that supposed to make me feel any better?" asked Mary still sounding appalled at the prospect now before her.
"I can just see the headline of my article in the Indy. "Eldest daughter to the earl of Grantham scared of children" said Tom mischievously.
"Tom, you wouldn't dare ..."
"Wouldn't I?" asked Tom with a merry twinkle in his eye.
"Surely not? You wouldn't, would you, Tom?" Mary sounded appalled. Given her brother-in-law's irrepressible and unpredictable sense of humour, she was not at all sure that Tom would not go ahead and write something along the lines he had just indicated.
"Of course Tom wouldn't, Mary" said Sybil promptly by way of re-assurance. "You're family".
Mary breathed an audible sigh of relief; smiled warmly at her youngest sister, but her relief was to be short lived.
"Does that make a difference?" asked Tom contriving somehow to keep a straight face, his tone serious.
"Yes!" retorted Sybil promptly with a laugh. "As well you know Tom. After all, we Crawleys stick together!"
"Ah, but in case it's escaped your notice, we're the Bransons and have been for several hours now" laughed Tom.
Mary decided it was time for her to seize the initiative.
"Scared of children? Me?" she asked loftily with an expressively raised eyebrow. "Really Tom, just how long have you known me? Six years is it?" She laughed and grinning at her brother-in-law, turned promptly to Ciaran. "Mr. Branson, would you mind awfully helping me up onto the box there beside you?" asked Mary in her most aristocratic of tones.
"Be my pleasure, ma'am", said Ciaran touching the brim of his cap.
A moment or two later and Mary gazed down at Tom from off her lofty perch on top of the box.
"There now; publish and be damned Mr. Branson!" said Mary crisply trying desperately and failing to keep a straight face; realising that she had been right all along when back at the Shelbourne Hotel she had said she would enjoy having Tom for a brother-in-law.
"Publish what?" laughed Tom.
A few moments later, overtaken in a cloud of dust by Edmund Kelly driving Sybil and Tom in an equally be-ribboned motor, and with the last of the family now seated inside the waggonette, they were off; Mary seated next to Ciaran on the front box, chatting animatedly about the forthcoming Dublin Horse Show being held next month and the prospect of women being allowed to compete for the first time ever in the jumping section.
About the same time that the waggonette crammed with its group of boisterous, noisy occupants set out for Ciaran's farm, but a short distance from the Shelbourne Hotel, across the road, out of earshot of any curious passers-by and well out of the way of the prying and ever watchful eyes of the British authorities, in a quiet and secluded corner of St. Stephen's Green, five men were engaged in animated conversation.
One, now off duty and dressed in non descript civilian clothes, was a police constable with the Dublin Metropolitan Police; one of those very same officers who had first accosted and then assaulted Tom in the entrance hall of the Shelbourne Hotel but a few days since.
"… and I'm tellin' you, Seamus that's what she said! Daughter to the bliddy earl of somethin' or t'other … I forget exactly where; said too, that bastard Branson was her brother-in-law; that he works for the Times".
"Then it can't be the same bloke then for sure. Why, the Branson we want, he works for the Independent. Mind you, she might be 'aving got the name of the paper wrong, that it is. Best be tellin' the others though, and if t'is the same bloody bastard, then Michael will know what needs to be done. After all, it might even be workin' to our advantage".
Within its ranks, the Dublin Metropolitan Police harboured many officers sympathetic to the rebel cause. Mary's public and spirited defence of Tom was about to backfire.
On their arrival at the farm, to everyone else's and their surprise, Tom and Sybil found that Ciaran's hay barn, which stood across the yard and directly opposite the farmhouse, looked for all the world as though it awaited a visit from no less personages than Their Majesties King George V and Queen Mary. And well it might do, for some of the bunting with which the high rafters and the stone walls inside the barn were now liberally festooned had last been used as long ago as 1911 when it had been purchased by the then owner of the Clontarf Castle Estate, Edward Vernon, to celebrate the coronation of the same monarch; not long before the old world lost its way, slid over the precipice, and into war in the long hot summer of 1914.
The irony of the employment of the bunting last used to fete the coronation of a monarch and now to celebrate the wedding of an Irish republican journalist was not lost on Tom, nor for that matter on Sybil either, who when told of the origin of some of the flags and the streamers both promptly dissolved into laughter; with Mary commenting drily, and with a smile, that evidently, nothing was too good for the Crawley family's erstwhile chauffeur.
The hard packed earthen floor had been swept all but clean of straw and other detritus. Long wooden trestle tables had been erected down almost the full length of the two long walls, covered with white linen cloths, and were now positively heaving with all manner of food and drink, while along with candles and hurricane lamps set out on the tables, colourful large round paper lanterns hung from the rafters, provided illumination. A variety of chairs, benches, and forms, along with bales of hay had been brought in to provide seating, and at the far end ,across one of the two shorter walls, formed out of planks laid across several empty wooden barrels collected up from off round the estate, or else "borrowed" for the proceedings from the Guinness brewery by Donal, a small, makeshift wooden stage had been erected on which the musicians were to perform and who, like Tom and Sybil, had just arrived, and were, even now, at this early stage in the proceedings, beginning to tune up.
When Sybil had asked of Tom on the way over to the farm exactly what kind of music was to be expected that evening, still being maddeningly enigmatic, he had told her to wait and see, but that it would be nothing like the sedate pieces played in the ballroom at Downton. On the small stage she saw that the three eldest of the men had fiddles, a fourth carried something akin to the concertina part of one of her long forgotten childhood toys - a Jack-in-the-box - and which she assumed must still be somewhere in the old nursery back at Downton, and the fifth, seated already on a chair had before him a large harp.
With a distinct shock and a sharp intake of her breath, Sybil saw that the man carrying the concertina shaped object had a scarred face and wore dark glasses indicating he was blind, while the legs of the young man seated on the chair whose nimble, evidently much practised fingers were plucking softly at the strings of his harp, ended at the knees. Seeing what she had seen, Tom put his arm comfortingly around her slender shoulders and nodded in the direction of the musicians.
"The three on the fiddles were too old to fight" he said simply. "As for the others, Jimmy Farrell lost his sight in a gas attack at Ypres, Paddy Begg his legs at the Somme. Before the war, Jimmy was a watchmaker in Drumcondra on the north side of Dublin, and young Paddy well, he was known for his turn of speed on the football field. He even played at Croke Park for Christ sake. Now look at the pair of them. What a waste! What a needless bloody waste! As for Lloyd George and his feckin ruddy nonsense of a "Land Fit For Heroes". Tom shook his head, pursed his lips together in disgust.
"How utterly dreadful" said Sybil, suddenly conscious, for all their own tribulations, of just how incredibly lucky both she and Tom had been; in the same moment sending up a heartfelt and silent prayer to whatever deity or god it was that had spared darling Tom from becoming just another nameless number on one of the countless casualty lists of the dead and wounded; lists that after the last of the guns had finally fallen silent were forgotten or mislaid.
Thereafter, at least for the moment, Sybil found that neither she nor Tom had any more time to dwell on the terrible price paid by some who were deemed to have "survived" the horrors of what was, even now, being called the Great War.
The huge wooden doors of the barn stood open to the warm night air and from outside in the yard, as dusk began to fall and the night drew down, there now came to their ears, faintly at first and then growing louder all the while, the sound of voices, both young and old. On foot, by horse, by pony and trap, in carts, in wagonettes, and even in motors, there began to arrive at the farm all manner of people.
Happy, chatting, laughing, singly, in their twos and threes, in family groups, noisily they made their way into the huge barn. All of them, and to Sybil there seemed to be a very great number of them indeed, were come here this evening to eat and to drink, to dance and to make merry, and to join in the festivities certainly. But most of all they were come to raise a glass to a softly spoken fair haired Irishman and the attractive, slim, dark haired young woman now standing by his side; to drink the health and wish Tom and Sybil Branson well, at the start of their married life together here in Ireland.
Tom held out his open hand to Sybil.
"Come" he said softly, "it's time we met our guests and, rather more importantly my love, high time they all met you".