Chapter Seventy Six
Galway Bay
There was a distinctly salty tang to the air, and the sun was slowly sinking in the west, as, one afternoon, towards the end of late autumn of 1919, hand in hand, and in fading light, Tom and Sybil strolled barefoot, like two village lovers, back along the sea strand towards Ma's sister's now silent cottage in Lettermullen on the edge of the broad expanse of Galway Bay.
No-one seeing the two of them, carefree and skylarking about on the sandy shore earlier that sunny afternoon ever would have guessed that, however much she might wish to forget it, the young woman had been born the youngest daughter of an English earl and his countess, and that the young man by her side had, until but a matter of months before, been in her father's employ as his erstwhile chauffeur. Nor in fact would anyone have realised that the same young man was now unquestionably the rising star of the Irish Independent and, despite her English antecedents, the young woman an increasingly well respected nurse from a hospital in one of the poorest parts of Dublin.
The last week of October seemed somehow to have borrowed days of sunshine left over from July and, had been unseasonably dry and warm. Out across the wide sweep of the bay, shafts of bright sunlight broke through a seemingly impenetrable mass of ominous, dark clouds, sparkling on the waters of the incoming tide, seeming, if but for a moment, to turn the sea to liquid silver, glinting in the rigging of the incoming black hulled fishing smacks, each with their trio of triangular dark red brown sails, glistening on the sea swept rocks of the far distant headland crested with its blaze of purple heather. Above her, glancing upwards, Sybil picked out one of the black headed gulls as, along with its fellows, it dived and swooped, until at last she lost sight of it amongst a flock of wheeling white sun touched wings.
Given what had happened to young Peadar, now dead and buried some three months since in the cemetery at Glasnevin, not of course that anyone in the family believed the ludicrous explanation given them by the British authorities that he had somehow tripped and fallen down a steep flight of stone steps in Kilmainham Gaol, the death of Ma's sister Sorcha – who had passed away a week ago although not unexpected – had hit the family, especially Ma herself, very hard indeed.
In fact, the Bransons were only just beginning to pick up the pieces of their lives following Tom's abduction and release at the hands of the IRA, were slowly coming to terms with what had happened to Peadar - Emer had been forced to move in with Donal and his family over in Rathmines since the Great Southern and Western Railway had re-possessed the house Peadar and Emer had rented from the company over in Glasthule – when the sad news had come from the far west coast of Ireland of the death of Ma's only sister.
So with all of this in their minds, along with the mounting lawlessness and violence, which worsened by the day, and was now beginning to set the whole country aflame from one end to the other, it seemed to both Tom and Sybil, hardly fair that they should have all this natural beauty, the rugged coastline backed by the mountains of Connemara, the peace of this tranquil place, a patchwork of small fields dotted with reed thatched whitewashed stone cottages, where time seemed to have stood still, virtually to themselves.
Until she came over to Ireland, Sybil had had little acquaintance with the sea. After all, the coast of Yorkshire lay some fifty miles or so distant from her family's estate at Downton. Of course, distance apart, and provided it was not during Wakes' Week when all the east coast resorts of Yorkshire, let alone those of Lancashire, seemed to be taken over by the hoi polloi out on day trips from the mill towns of the West Riding, putting up at a fashionable hotel such as the Grand in Scarborough, would have been considered perfectly proper. So too would have been taking the waters there, strolling through Peasholm Park with its Japanese style gardens, along one of the promenades, or, until 1905, when a storm destroyed it, walking out and back along the pier; all would have been considered perfectly proper and respectable undertakings for an unmarried aristocratic young girl - suitably attired and, depending on her age, either under the watchful eye of a governess or, if older, then properly chaperoned.
However, it would certainly not have been considered proper for a high born young woman, whether married or not, to walk, let alone hitch up her long skirt as far as modesty would permit and run, hat less, coat less, and barefoot along the seashore, with a young man, his trousers rolled up to his knees, equally cap less, jacket less and barefoot, even if the man in question was her husband. As Tom remarked to Sybil she had missed out on quite a bit of fun during her childhood; to which Sybil retorted that if that was indeed the case, then she jolly well intended to make up for it now, and to hell with what anybody else thought of him, her, or the two of them. And, added Sybil she was determined, as no doubt he would be too, to ensure that when they had children, they would be permitted to have just as much fun as she and Tom were enjoying now.
Of course, their evening walks along the strand at home in Clontarf had been the start of Sybil's enduring love affair with the sea. And when, as he had promised he would do upon their arrival in Ireland, Tom had taken Sybil out to Blackrock south of Dublin but a couple of months ago, to experience the fun of sea bathing for the first time, even in the strictly segregated pools there, that had merely served to heighten her fascination with all things to do with the ocean - which had, in turn, led to a surprising confession from Tom, that, for all his seeming cocksureness, until he came to live at Clontarf, he had, in fact, never learnt how to swim.
Ciaran and Donal had taken it upon themselves to rectify the glaring omission in young Tom's education and this was duly achieved over the course of several weeks, down on the shore below the house, the very same summer that he had come to live with them all at Ma's.
"They took me down to the water's edge and made me strip naked. Then, Donal swam out to where the water all but reached his shoulders. Without further ado, Ciaran picked me up and threw me in; in the direction of where Donal was standing. Mind you, it was only the general direction. Told me I'd either sink or swim" said Tom with a shamefaced grin.
"What did you do?" asked Sybil, trying to sound concerned and yet resist the urge to laugh at the image Tom had conjured up.
"What d'you think I did? I'm here to tell the tale, aren't I?" said Tom sheepishly. "I swam of course! At least I tried to. But, not very well, at least not to begin with. I went under several times, but Ciaran and Donal were both there alongside me to help me get the knack of it; eventually, after swallowing half the Irish Sea, or so it seemed, and after several weeks, so I did".
"Well, good for you!" said Sybil giving Tom a quick kiss on his cheek.
Tom grinned, eyeing her curiously out of the corner of his eye.
"Do you know how to swim, Sybil? You've never said. Or was that not something your parents ever thought proper for you to learn, my love?"
"Oh, no" said Sybil breezily. "You've seen the lake at Downton? Well, of course you have. When we were little girls, Papa insisted that all three of us be taught how to swim - in case of accidents. One of the young footmen, John, - he went as under butler to work for the Ingletons over at Langthorpe Hall, long before you ever came to Downton, was given the task of teaching us all, down at the boathouse - under the watchful eye of Fraulein Schmidt our German governess".
All of which was perfectly true - at least up to a point. Of course, what Sybil did not tell Tom, was that, unlike Mary and Edith, who took to the water like a proverbial pair of ducks, she herself had never quite mastered the art of swimming. She hoped that she had made her tale sound convincing; it had seemed so to her.
But, evidently, not to Tom. A wry smile flickered at the corners of his mouth.
"So, milady, were I to pick you up and throw you in, right here and now, there'd be no problem then?"
"None at all" said Sybil emphatically and grinned.
"Well" said Tom, "let's find out!"
So saying, grabbing hold of her, Tom swept Sybil up in his strong arms, and strode purposefully out towards the slate grey waters of the incoming tide.
"Don't you dare!" screamed Sybil. "Tom Branson, you put me down this instant!"
Fortunately, at least for Sybil, it was at that moment that the autumn storm, which had been threatening to break upon them all afternoon, at last did so. Heavy drops of rain began to fall. Having set her down on the sand, taking her hand in his, Tom and Sybil began to run back along the strand, to the place, still some half a mile distant, where they had left the rest of their things, in the lee of a ruined cottage, nestling in a grove of alder and birch, hard by the shore. By the time they reached the place, and still with a couple of miles further to go to their destination, the rain had begun to fall in earnest.
"Here's no passing shower" observed Tom as the two of them stood huddled together under the stone lintel of what had once formed the front door of the reed thatched cottage. "If we try and get back to Ma's sister's place now, we'll get soaked through". Behind them, the rain drummed noisily on the rusty corrugated iron sheeting which formed part of what little yet still remained of the roof.
"So, what do you suggest we do?" asked Sybil. The rain was now heavier than ever.
Glancing up, Tom looked about him. "We can stay here for a while - at least until the worst is over, then, if need be, try and make a run for it"
."What here?" asked Sybil. She smoothed down her skirt, snuggled closer to Tom, who hugged her tightly to him.
"Well, not exactly on this precise spot, love, no" said Tom. "Let's take a look inside".
So saying, taking Sybil gently by the hand, he ducked under the crumbing lintel, and led her within …