Chapter Seventy Three
A Storm From Off The Sea
In the fading warmth of the July evening, sitting in his repaired Morris Cowley, waiting for Branson to return from wherever it was he had gone to, Kelly was now lighting yet another cigarette. He was thinking of nothing in particular, other than how he might best persuade dark haired Mabel Drury a shop assistant who worked for Lemon's Confectioners on O'Connell Street to accompany him to see the latest Charlie Chaplin film showing at the Theatre De Luxe over on Camden Street. A partiality for pineapple rock, also shared by Branson, had taken them both into Lemon's a week or so ago, and it was there that Kelly had first laid eyes on Mabel: not exactly love at first sight, but if not love, then certainly a definite case of lust across the confectionary counter. But how best to...
"Don't yous even move and don't turn round" said a man's voice close at hand. "Now do exactly loike I tells yous and yous won't get hurt". Kelly really had no choice in the matter. With the muzzle of a revolver jammed hard against his head, he had every intention of doing exactly as he was told; self preservation is the most basic of all human instincts. So Kelly, with all thoughts of both Branson and the undoubted attractions of young Mabel Drury now forgotten, if only for the present, now followed precisely and to the very letter the instructions given him to him by his unknown assailant.
For some strange reason, Sybil had found her last shift at the Coombe particularly trying and for a variety of reasons; not least because of the increasing antagonism and unpleasantness being openly displayed towards her by a couple of the nurses with whom she had to work; who clearly resented something which no-one, not even Sybil herself could do anything about.
While some of the resentment clearly had its origins in their hatred of her all too obvious English origins, this apart, much of the two nurses' hostility stemmed from jealousy. Because, if Sybil herself had turned heads when she had been introduced to several of Tom's colleagues on the Indy when she met up with them all at O'Casey's Bar just by the southern end of the Ha'penny Bridge, then when Tom had come to meet her at the Coombe, as on occasion he did, his charm and undoubted good looks had been, indeed still continued to be, the source of a great deal of comment and gossip among all the nurses with whom Sybil worked. Most of it was good natured – "such a fine figure of a man" and envying Sybil her "good fortune".
However, some of it, especially from the likes of Annie Neary and Constance Phelan had been decidedly unpleasant, for example when they idly speculated in the hospital's dispensary and deliberately within Sybil's hearing too, how it was that a handsome Irishman like Tom Branson had ended up with a cold, stuck up English bitch like Nurse Crawley. Sybil knew such remarks were borne out of both frustration and jealousy; knew equally that Tom had made it perfectly clear that he had eyes only for her however much Sybil's fellow nurses tried to flirt with him. But the comment had stung, especially when the two nurses had gone on to discuss what they imagined Tom to be like in bed and doubted that Nurse Crawley would be able to satisfy his physical needs.
That particularly spiteful observation, far from upsetting her, had, in fact, caused Sybil a certain contemptuous amusement, given how wide of the mark in reality it actually was. In fact, in the comparatively short space of time which had elapsed since they had first become lovers, then husband and wife, both Tom and Sybil had come to consider themselves to be equals in bed; yet, despite that being the case, it was often Sybil who led the way in their love-making. For, it had become very obvious to her very soon that Tom was delighted when Sybil showed that she wanted him; when she initiated their amorous encounters and the more uninhibited she was, the more Tom enjoyed it. Indeed, both she and Tom had remarked several times, usually to the accompaniment of a chuckle from him and a giggle on her part, and, more often than not, just after they had made love - each time always seemed better than the last - how right they were for each other, both as lovers and as husband and wife.
Sybil had not been unduly alarmed by Tom's message left for her at the hospital informing her that he would be home later than envisaged and that she should start preparing their supper without him. She knew that as a journalist his hours of work could be unpredictable and, after all, heating up yesterday's stew, boiling some potatoes and carrots, and making a pot of tea, was not exactly demanding of culinary skills to match those of Escoffier.
Her journey home to Clontarf on board the Number 31 tram proved singularly uneventful. There was still no news of what had become of Peadar and without Tom to keep her company, rather than sit and brood, Sybil had whiled away her time on the tram by reading from a slim volume called "Responsibilities" by W. B. Yeats and which contained a collection of the poet's verse.
Thereafter, having arrived home, divesting herself quickly of both her hat and coat, having slipped off her shoes, Sybil went into the kitchen at the back of the house to begin making supper.
A short while later, with the vegetables prepared, the stew bubbling away contentedly in its pot on the range, and having made herself a pot of tea – Mrs. Patmore, if not Carson, would, she reflected, be very proud of her – Sybil sank wearily down in the Windsor chair next to the range.
Exhausted by the near incessant demands made upon her by her last shift, made drowsy by the heat from the range and the balmy warmth of the summer's evening, Sybil's eyes soon grew heavy. Not long afterwards she fell asleep; unheeded by her, the slim volume of Yeats's poetry slipping from her grasp and falling gently to the floor where it landed with a soft thud.
Later, much later, she was to recall that she had been dreaming pleasurably of their visit to the Rainbow pool out at Ciaran's farm.
Scarlet and emerald damsel and dragon flies darted and hung motionless poised above the surface of the water. There was a sudden flash of bright blue as a kingfisher dived into the dark depths of the pool, only to emerge moments later, sparkling in the sunlight, bejewelled with minute droplets of crystal clear water, and with a wriggling silver fish twisting helplessly in its beak. The kingfisher flew off and disappeared amongst the grey green reeds fringing the pool. And, above the myriad sights and sounds, to her ears there came the continuous, almost hypnotic, sound of running water.
"Are you going in for a swim?" She heard herself laugh.
"Hardly. No bathing suit!" said Tom. He sounded somewhat wistful.
"Well, from what Ciaran said, that didn't stop you when you were here before!" She giggled.
"Sybil, I was thirteen at the time!" pointed out Tom mortified. He flushed bright red to the roots of his hair at her suggestion.
"I'd ask you to come with me, but the last time we were here, the track ... down to the steps ... well, it was frightfully overgrown!"
"Go on, off with you".
He was naked, seated on the rocky ledge from where but a short time earlier he must have dived into the pool below; absent-mindedly absorbed in drying his tousled hair with his flannel vest, his arm outstretched. Drops of water glistened on his pale skin. Tom looked radiant, carefree, glowing with both health and happiness.
"Wait for me?" he asked. There was a merry twinkle in his eyes.
"Of course". She laughed. "What else have I to do except wait for you?"
What else indeed?
Time passed.
From across Dublin Bay, the sound of distant thunder broke into Sybil's reverie. As she awoke, there was, Sybil now recalled to mind, a belief hereabouts, at least according to darling Tom, that a storm from off the sea heralded the end of the world.
The kitchen window stood open.
She remembered that she had opened it herself, when she had returned home earlier, to try and let in some air.
It was now dark; the air heavy.
Tom should have been home ages ago.
Sybil felt the first flicker of concern.
From somewhere outside a bird trilled; she could hear, too, the sound of the breakers down on the shore. And above them both, not thunder as she had first thought, but an insistent knocking at the front door. There he was, right on cue. Sybil sighed, and then smiled to herself. Evidently Tom had forgotten his key again: he'd done it before, several times in fact.
Disturbing her like this, well he'd just have to make up for it afterwards. A sly smile spread across her features at the delicious prospect of how, after supper, Tom could best make his amends. Sybil yawned and stretched languidly. Then, getting up from her chair, still drowsy, she replaced the pot containing the stew onto the plate on top of the range, and turned up the lamp.
As she made her way out of the kitchen, she glanced back over her shoulder, and smiled indulgently to herself. Somehow, she thought, no knew, that the huge table in the dining room at Downton, which could seat twenty four, and on many occasion had indeed done so, set with silver candelabra, fine china, crystal, and all its linen napery could not have looked more welcoming, as did the plain, scrubbed deal table laid for their homely meal for two.
Still smiling, she walked slowly out into the tiled hallway. At the far end of the short passage, silhouetted through the glass of the front door, she could see a man's figure. Without thinking, breaking the rule they had made for themselves, with no thought for her own safety, just glad to have Tom home again, hurriedly Sybil unlatched the door.
Tom kept the hinges well oiled.
The door swung back silently.
Edmund Kelly stood before her on the whitewashed doorstep, and with him two other men in the uniform of constables of the Dublin Metropolitan Police.
"Why Edmund ..." Sybil did her very best to conceal her all too obvious disappointment. Politely Kelly touched the brim of his cap; looked down at his feet, fidgeted nervously with one of his cuff studs.
Sybil's felt her heart skip a beat.
Her mouth felt dry; she found it difficult to swallow.
"It's Tom, isn't it?" she asked softly.
Kelly nodded his head.
"Yes" he said. "I'm afraid it is".