Chapter Seventy Five
What Mark Twain Said
The morning after Tom's disappearance, beneath a cloudless, brilliant azure sky, Dublin and its citizens sweltered in the hot July sunshine. If not to Sybil, then doubtless to everyone else in the city, to rich and poor, to Catholic and Protestant, to monarchist and republican, to soldier and civilian, to shop keeper and customer alike, the kaleidoscopic sights, smells, and sounds of Dublin all must have appeared much as they did yesterday.
Here on Sackville Street, lost in her own thoughts, completely oblivious to the crowds of Dubliners thronging the broad pavements, milling about her, trying to ignore the shouts of the news vendors, it was with increasing nervous impatience that Sybil stood by the Pillar and awaited the arrival of the tram for her return trip back out to Clontarf.
It was as she looked about her that Sybil felt her heart lurch as, unexpectedly, she caught sight of a newspaper billboard which, in large capital letters, starkly proclaimed:
"DUBLIN JOURNALIST VANISHES"
Not surprisingly, Tom's disappearance had made headline news in today's Independent, with his photograph appearing on the front page of the newspaper, along with a glowing testimonial which, although it had been penned by Edmund Kelly, had been written with the obvious and tacit approval of the editor Mr. Harrington.
Beyond the billboard, down as far as the O'Connell Bridge and the Liffey river, there stretched a rubble strewn wasteland of gaunt, burnt out ruins; all that remained of many of the fine buildings which had once lined Lower Sackville Street, all of which once had housed all manner of businesses, hotels and shops: - the General Post Office, the Metropole Hotel, Dunne and Co., Eason and Son Ltd., Clery and Co., and the Hotel Imperial to name but a few. Not surprisingly, given the circumstances in which she found herself, while she had seen them many times since she and Tom had come over to Ireland, the blackened, charred ruins of Lower Sackville Street depressed Sybil even more than usual.
She knew that she had to keep sight of the singular fact that despite what the police constables had told her the previous evening, despite what Kelly had said, there was, as yet, no proof whatsoever that Tom had come to any harm.
In an attempt to raise her spirits she averted her gaze from the depressing spectacle of the ruined buildings, instead looked up, saw again atop his soaring Doric column, the Portland stone carved figure of Admiral Nelson. From the top of the Pillar, he gazed out with unseeing eyes southwards down the now wrecked length of Lower Sackville Street and across the O'Connell Bridge, just as he had done ever since August 1809 when the figure had first been hoisted into place.
Of course, from its very erection, there had been those who had disliked the Pillar, thought it intrusive upon the scene and an obstacle to traffic. The latter was certainly true enough. But, for everyone who disliked the statue, someone else could be found who approved of both its design and its situation. For, given the fact that at least a quarter, if not a third, of those brave men who had manned Nelson's fleet at Trafalgar had been Irish, including some 400 from the city of Dublin itself, that was hardly something at which to be wondered.
And, as Tom had explained to Sybil on their arrival here in Dublin, since the very ground upon which the Pillar and its statue stood belonged to a trust charged with the monument's continuing preservation, the removal of plucky Horatio from off his plinth would require the passing of an Act of Parliament, a costly undertaking, which meant that the figure of the courageous little admiral atop his soaring Doric column stayed precisely where it was.
But now, ever since the failure of the Easter Rising, the juxtaposition of the figure of the great British admiral close to the burnt out ruins of the General Post Office - the centre of the Rising – now drew increasingly unfavourable comment.
Some hundred and twenty feet below the figure of the victor of Trafalgar, the flower sellers hawked their wares around the base of the statue and, as usual, despite the damage it had sustained in the Rising, Sackville Street, "Ireland's Main Street" was thronged with crowds; the trams, crammed with passengers, clanging and rattling their way to and from the Pillar, back and forth across the O'Connell Bridge, up and down many of the city's other busy thoroughfares and streets.
On this July morning, following Tom's disappearance, almost before it was light, having hardly slept, once she had risen, Sybil stripped off her creased nurse's uniform, washed, dressed and then went downstairs to make herself some breakfast. All she managed was a cup of tea and a piece of dry toast, for the very thought of eating anything else made her want to retch.
A short while later, Sybil took the Number 31 tram down into the city where, once she had explained to her superiors at the Coombe what had happened, that the police were searching for her husband, she had been told briskly and in no uncertain terms by the down-to-earth, matter-of-fact matron on her ward, to go home; she was in no state to be at work. Thereafter having paid a brief visit to the offices of the Independent on Talbot Street, where Mr. Harrington and everyone else had been kindness itself, indeed embarrassingly so, with the General Post Office on Lower Sackville Street little more than a blackened, gutted shell, Sybil had to make use of the telegraph office at Amiens Street station to send her telegram over to England, informing both her parents and her sisters what was suspected to have happened to Tom.
That done, she took the tram back to Clontarf, intending to try and hire a pony and trap to travel out to Ciaran's farm and break the news of Tom's disappearance. On the tram on her way back to Clontarf, not surprisingly, she sat quietly, lost in her own thoughts.
More than twelve hours had now passed since Edmund Kelly and the police officers had left the little house in Clontarf. After they had gone, with no further news of what had become of Tom expected until daybreak, having at length wearily climbed the stairs, Sybil had not bothered to undress but instead had laid down on their bed in her nurse's uniform, huddled into a near foetal position, clutching Tom's vest and his striped pyjama bottoms tightly to her in a now crumpled, tear-stained ball.
To begin with, lying there on her and Tom's bed at the top of the house, in the black, velvet darkness of the summer's night, Sybil had simply lost all track of time. The pain she felt was almost unbearable. At length, night had fallen, and, with the room in complete darkness. She lay on the bed thinking back to what had happened earlier, from when she had arrived home from work, not long before the knock on the door which had changed everything, and what came after.
Following the unexpected arrival of Edmund Kelly and the two constables on the doorstep of the little house in Clontarf, given what Kelly had said, having confirmed to the elder of the two police constable that she was indeed Mrs. Sybil Branson, the wife of Mr. Tom Branson, a journalist with the Irish Independent down on Talbot Street, Sybil had asked the three men to step inside. Having done so, she closed the front door firmly behind her and suggested that they all step through into the front room.
Thereafter, while a delicious smell of stew continued to assail their nostrils, with Edmund Kelly standing by her side scorning the suggestion that she might like to sit down, with her back to the fireplace, Sybil had stood ashen faced and, impassive in Ma's homely little parlour, while the grizzled, older of the two constables, his helmet held firmly in the crook of his arm, began telling her what it was they suspected had happened to Tom and offered his own bleak assessment of the present situation.
"I'm very sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, Mrs. Branson, but whichever way you look at it from what Mr. Kelly has already told us, it would seem that your husband was lured into a trap by means of an anonymous telephone call to his office made by person or persons unknown, and then abducted by those self same persons or their associates. Of course, once we ourselves were alerted to what had happened by the editor of the Independent, we began making house to house enquiries in the area where your husband was last seen, but to be completely frank with you, we're not receiving much in the way of co-operation from the people living thereabouts. As to whether the reward that Mr. Kelly mentioned which your husband's newspaper proposes offering for information leading to his whereabouts will be of any help, well only time will tell".
The officer concluded his account by saying that police searches were now under way in and around where Mr. Kelly had parked his motor before himself had been instructed, in no uncertain terms, by an unknown and armed assailant, to leave the area. At that, having thanked the officer, Sybil said she would like to sit down. So now, with Sybil seated by a cold, empty parlour hearth, it was Edmund's turn to tell her what little else he knew. While Kelly was explaining what had happened, first at the offices of the Independent and then over in the vicinity of the Inchicore railway works, with her head bowed and her hands placed demurely in her lap, seemingly uncomprehending, Sybil sat silently by the hearth.
"I think Tom knew he was taking something of a risk" observed Kelly quietly.
When Edmund had finished telling her what it was he had to impart, Sybil raised her pale face to meet his steadfast gaze.
"Thank you" she said softly, her voice little more than a whisper. "Thank you for telling me".
The younger of the two officers smiled wanly down at Sybil.
Aedan O'Hara, from Ballaghnatrillick, County Sligo, was but twenty years of age. In the comparatively short space of time he had been serving with the Dublin Metropolitan Police, which amounted to all of six months, whilst on the beat and in the course of undertaking other official duties, he had encountered several attractive women, but the hauntingly beautiful, dark haired, young woman now sitting before him in this modestly furnished front room, eclipsed all of them in her loveliness, her elegance, and her refinement. There was no disguising the fact that she was English - her accent betrayed that - not that Aedan would hold that against her, and it was obvious too that she came from a good family.
"Is there anyone, perhaps a neighbour, who could come in and sit with you tonight, Mrs. Branson?" asked Aedan O'Hara quietly, silently sending up a heartfelt prayer, wishing that he could be the one to offer her whatever paltry assistance he could. And yet, despite the young woman's apparent fragility and softness, there was, thought Aedan, something about her which belied her placid exterior, which suggested she was possessed of a steely resolve which would serve her well in times of adversity, such as the present.
Seemingly, there was little more that could be said and at that, the young woman became practical.
"No, but thank you for asking", she said softly. "Tomorrow morning, somehow I must try and send a message to my husband's eldest brother. He's a tenant farmer on the Clontarf Castle Estate, but now for the present if you will excuse me..."
The men nodded. Sybil rose and saw them to the door.
"If there's anything I can do" said Kelly.
Sybil nodded.
"Thank you" she said softly.
It was only when Kelly and the officers had made their farewells and finally left did Sybil then crumple, sinking to her knees in front of the empty parlour hearth, hugging her chest tightly, as heart rending sobs engulfing her frail form. About her everything looked the same. Nothing seemed to have changed; only of course it had.
Later the following morning, when Sybil arrived back in Clontarf, just as she had done so many times before, on her own and with Tom beside her, she climbed down off the tram and walked slowly across the salt bleached grass, over towards Ma's white walled house. Close by the gate a knot of onlookers had gathered; evidently bad news travelled fast thought Sybil grimly. As she made her way through the small group of people, she saw the pitying looks, heard murmured expressions of regret, even of sympathy.
It was then that, with a sudden and an overwhelming sense of relief, she saw Ciaran's trap tethered nearby; saw the front door of the house was open. Ma was there too, standing on the doorstep, her arms akimbo, with tears welling in her eyes. God, no, please, Sybil thought. She felt her heart lurch, her vision blurred. She felt suddenly light headed, knew, although she had never done so in her life, that she was about to faint. But as she crumpled and pitched forward, Sybil thought she heard Ma calling out to someone behind her in the hall; was vaguely aware of somebody pushing past Ma, who caught her before she reached the ground.
Later, when she regained consciousness, Sybil found she had been undressed, was in her night gown, and lying in bed. Sunlight streamed into the room, and from outside, through the open window, there came the sound of the breakers down on the distant shore. As she struggled to sit up, she saw that someone was sitting beside her.
With that endearing lop-sided grin of his, he cupped her pale face in his hands, his tear-stained face etched with concern. "To misquote Mark Twain, I think rumours of my death have been somewhat exaggerated" said Tom softly.