Chapter Fifty Five

Demons

Although, but for the first waltz, the dancing had not yet truly begun, the noise in the barn was now all but deafening, the heat almost overpowering; the air thick with the mixture of all manner of smells: the mouth watering savoury aromas of different kinds of food, the heady scent of cheap perfume, the pungency of stale sweat, the sweetness of freshly cut hay, the fug of cigarette and tobacco smoke, the cool fragrance of eau-de-cologne, and the noxious reek of paraffin from the lanterns.

From those seated on either side of the long trestle tables there arose a constant heckle of animated, boisterous chatter, for the most part good natured, interspersed with the repeated clatter of cutlery on china and earthenware, and the chink of glasses and tankards continually being brought noisily together in a seemingly never-ending round of rowdy toasts made, not only for the benefit of both Tom and Sybil, but seemingly for well nigh everyone else present too. This being Ireland, not surprisingly, both the Guinness and whiskey flowed freely, while for the more abstemious, or for the handful of those here tonight who had taken the pledge, as well as for the children, there was cooling lemonade, fiery ginger beer, or lashings of hot, scalding tea.

From the beginning of the céilí, after they had greeted their guests, for the meal, and unless they were dancing, throughout the evening, Sybil and Tom occupied the chief place of honour, in the middle of the long trestle table placed apart from the all the others, at the opposite end of the barn to the stage erected for the musicians, and reserved for the Bransons and their immediate family including Sybil's own two sisters.

Now that the meal, if not the drinking, was all but over and the dancing really about to begin, from her vantage point, Sybil had an unrivalled view of the evening's proceedings; watched with an increasingly broad smile, as they unfolded in all their carefree, lively, noisy abandon.

Her smile broadened into a grin as she thought what if her parents and grandmother had indeedcome over from England for her and darling Tom's wedding, what would they have made of the scene now unfolding before her? Oddly enough Sybil thought only dearest Papa would be adamant and unflinching in his no doubt open, strident, and supercilious disapproval of this evening's proceedings; that in fact dear Mama, and even granny for all her apparent snobbery, would somehow both rise to the occasion and take everything in their stride.

Thinking of her parents and her grandmother, Sybil's thoughts turned naturally to those members of her own family who were present; her two sisters. Opposite her Sybil saw, rather than heard, Edith engaged in conversation with Donal, about what she knew not, while Mary and Ma were likewise chatting as if they had known each other for years as opposed to only having met for the first time but earlier that day in the hallway of Ma's neat little house in Clontarf. Dearest Ma, who along with the rest of Tom's adopted family, had made her so welcome in what now, after all, was Sybil's adopted country. Glancing down the length of their table, Sybil saw that next to her Tom was deep in conversation with Ciaran, while Aislin and Niamh, aided ably by Emer, both had their hands full keeping their young offspring in check.

Of the immediate family, only young Peadar, Emer's husband was inexplicably missing yet again from his place at the top table, as already had been the case several times this evening, apparently pleading an upset stomach, or so said Emer, not that she herself had sounded at all convinced by Peadar's explanation to account for his repeated absences.

Later...

The céilí was now in full swing; indeed, had been so for well over two hours, as a succession of lively Irish jigs, reels, and several somewhat slower paced waltzes followed one hard upon the heels of another. Shortly after the meal ended, the dancing had begun in earnest, and the five musicians occupying the makeshift stage at the far end of the barn, whatever their physical disabilities, really set to work and showed their true mettle, evidenced now by their ruddy and freely perspiring faces, despite, or perhaps because of, being plied at regular intervals with liquid refreshment.

The noise in the barn was thunderous, any form of conversation well nigh impossible, and, even with the high doors of the barn standing open to admit the cool night air, the heat inside the building was intense; so much so that as the evening wore on, a ragged procession of people, men, women and even children, all of them perspiring profusely, could be seen heading out into the farmyard in search of some fresh air before eventually returning to the fray within. Indeed, as the festivities themselves continued, these impromptu, external, nocturnal "expeditions" had gradually become as much a part of tonight's proceedings as what was now taking place here inside the barn.

Within, notwithstanding the heat, the atmosphere inside was one of exuberant, good natured jollity even if, despite the best efforts of their womenfolk, some of the men were now decidedly worse for wear, having had rather too much to drink. Along with many of the men here present, Tom, who whilst partial to whisky was far more abstemious than most, had long since discarded his jacket, undone his collar, and loosened his tie, and was, at this precise moment in time, to be found deftly partnering Edith, along with Sybil and Donal, in a four handed star, to the lively tune of the Moon and Seven Stars.

Of course, before coming over here to Ireland, in their time both Mary and Edith, and to a lesser extent Sybil herself too, had danced a goodly number of reels when they, along with their parents, had been guests at house parties held up in the Scottish Highlands, most notably at Craigside the home of Lord Alfred Douglas Strathfern, a cousin of Papa's, and whose magnificent castellated house - granite built and a riot of pepper pot turrets and conical slate roofs - was spectacularly sited overlooking the beautiful Firth of Tay.

However, nothing which Mary, Edith, or Sybil had experienced previously on their infrequent visits to Scotland could have prepared them for the sheer amount of energy expended in dancing at an Irish céilí. However, while like many of the others now briskly weaving their way through yet another reel, with cheeks flushed and eyes aglow, Edith and Sybil continued to whirl round energetically on what passed for a dance floor, Mary herself had long since succumbed, to the demands both of decorum and, rather more especially, to tiredness.

Thus it was, that, having handed over the enjoyable, if decidedly exhausting, duty of maintaining the honour of the Crawleys at the céilí to Edith, now that Sybil had finally burnt all her bridges, crossed the Rubicon, and become a Branson, Mary sat quietly with a comforting arm held tightly round little Mairead who, like her sister Rosaleen, having been whirled round on the dance floor several times by both her father and by her handsome Uncle Tom was snuggled against her side and dozing softly.

Next to Mary sat Niamh who held young Padraig, likewise asleep, heavy in her arms while close by Ma sat with Ciaran chatting with Aislin, while apart from young Ruari, the rest of Ma's grandchildren clustered all around her greedily guzzling cooling glasses of lemonade.

Peadar, who had finally reappeared from wherever it was he had been, was seated talking animatedly to Emer and it was his obvious nervousness that first attracted Sybil's attention. Then, as they turned in the execution of the star, Sybil saw Emer's clenched hand fly to her mouth, her face ashen, saw her grasp her husband none too gently by his shoulders, heard her say "You bloody, bloody fool ...", the rest of Emer's words cut off, drowned out by the screams now coming from near the doors to the barn as from somewhere outside in the farm yard, his arm still in its sling, young Ruari tore inside.

Ahead of a stream, which quickly became a flood of frightened, terrified people now pouring from out of the chill darkness into the light and the warmth within, darting and diving, weaving his way through the sea of dancers desperately seeking his father, Ruari wove his own wild dance across the floor of the barn.

At last catching sight of Ciaran over on the far side of the barn who, seeing his son's obvious distress, had now risen to his feet, above the deafening, raucous din of the céilí, above the sounds of carefree laughter, the clapping of hands, the cheerful stamp of feet, above the rasp and the screech of the fiddles, the wheezing sounds of the winder, and the echoing, melodious, plaintive strings of Paddy Begg's harp, above them all, there came Ruari's terrified shout.

"Soldiers!" he yelled frantically, gasping for breath, his fourteen year old boy's voice breaking with emotion. "Da! There's soldiers coming up the lane!"

As people now began to take in the full implication of Ruari's shouted warning, many abruptly stopped what they were doing, what they were saying, glanced nervously from one to another, looked round concerned as to the whereabouts of both family and friends, while mothers screamed desperately for their children.

The dancing ended just as suddenly and in a disorganised scrum, those in the middle of the barn shuffling to a stand as the music died away in a discordant jangle of notes. In the momentary silence that had now so suddenly and unexpectedly descended upon the evening's festivities, clearly audible to one and all from somewhere outside in the darkness there came a menacing, rumbling growl.

The growl deepened, grew in intensity, and became a deep throated roar, heralding the unmistakeable arrival of several motor vehicles outside in the darkened, deserted farmyard. But a moment later, with only the slightest slackening in speed, with its huge acetylene headlights blazing like the eyes of some demonic hell hound, followed swiftly by its compatriots, the first of three heavily laden, lumbering army lorries swept in through the open doors of the barn.

As the lorries roared into the barn, most of those present, men, women, and children ran for cover, diving for safety, scattering in all directions, seeking what little sanctuary they could. Others, among them Edith, simply froze, she continuing to hold Tom's hand, unable to comprehend what it was that was actually happening. In the ensuing mayhem, and for both Edith and Sybil, in a frightening reminder of what had occurred but a couple of days earlier in the dining room of the Shelbourne Hotel over on St. Stephen's Green, benches and trestle tables were over turned. Along with lighted candles and paraffin lanterns, china and glasses cascaded downwards to the floor and smashed on the ground; the dry earth thankfully extinguishing both the fallen candles and lanterns.

Woken by all the commotion caused by the sudden and unexpected arrival of the three army lorries, little Mairead also screamed, then buried her face against Mary. Not especially known for her compassion, nor for any maternal feelings - after all how could she be - Mary, herself now white faced, appalled by what was happening, instinctively hugged the terrified little girl tightly to her, just as instinctively grasped hold of Aislin's hand. While Niamh comforted a sobbing young Padraig, equally horrified, Sybil turned instinctively to Tom for protection.

On board the three lorries, the respective complements of soldiers were already kneeling up on their seats, rifles loaded, the safety catches released, the muzzles trained down on those closest at hand, and ready, at point blank range, to open fire at a moment's notice. The leading lorry drove headlong into the centre of the barn. Only at the very last minute, and but yards from where Tom and Sybil were now standing, did it finally screech to a halt.

For a moment nothing happened. No one moved, and everyone now present here in the barn, on both sides, seemed to hold their collective breaths.

Then, a soldier jumped down from off the tailgate of the first of the lorries, ran round to the cab of the vehicle, and pulled open the door, allowing the officer to descend. As he did so, in that moment, with a shared rapid intake of breath, and a distinct sense of shock, Tom and Sybil, along with Mary and Edith, recognised... Captain Miles Stathum.

Miles stepped forward to stand a few feet in front of the radiator of the leading lorry. His eyes roved slowly round the barn several times, as with barely concealed distaste, he surveyed the scene before him. Finally, his eyes flicked back to the couple standing closest to him; he nodded curtly to Tom and Sybil.

"Mr. Branson". Miles paused, looked briefly at Sybil for a moment then said. "Mrs. ... Branson". Taken together, the pause and the inflexion in his voice unmistakeably conveyed the contempt in which he evidently held both Sybil and her marriage. Miles smiled a thin smile. "My congratulations to you both. And, my apologies for disturbing your evening's ... entertainment".

Letting go of Edith's hand, all eyes were now on Tom, as slowly, he moved forward but a few paces to where the bright beams from the twin headlamps of the leading lorry converged in a dazzling pool of white light. There he stopped; stood still, the courage and dignity inherent in him plain for all to see.

Behind her, Sybil heard Mary's sharp intake of breath, beside her saw Edith's eyes grow wide in amazement.

"I won't always be a chauffeur".

From years ago, from before the war, from the furthest recesses of her mind, unbidden, Sybil heard Tom's softly spoken words. Here, now, before Mary and Edith, before them all, was the living proof, if any was still needed, that her own belief and confidence in Tom had never been misplaced. At this precise moment, if it were at all possible, Sybil's love for him deepened still further and her intense pride in him soared: Tom Branson, Irishman, republican, former chauffeur, now journalist, her soul-mate, her fiancé, her lover, and now her husband, standing his ground against the unquestionable might of the British Army. If only her father had been here to see this.

"What are you doing here?" asked Tom, desperately trying to keep his voice sounding neutral.

"I would have thought that was obvious" said Miles dryly.

Tom looked questioningly at Miles, said nothing.

Then, when Tom still failed to answer him, once again Miles smiled his thin smile.

"I'm looking for someone" he said softly.

"Looking for someone ..." Tom began.

Miles nodded. Then, never for an instant taking his eyes off Tom, snapped his fingers.

"Take him!" he said.