Chapter Seventy Seven
Ghosts
Once inside the ruined cottage, to their surprise, they found that a sea of invasive bracken had long since taken over much of the interior. Above them, most of the thatched roof had all but ceased to exist; the rafters bleached bone white by years of constant exposure to the wind and the rain showed bare and skeletal against the dark October sky.
Fortunately, over by the stone chimney, a few feet of timber and rotten thatch, patched with rusty corrugated iron sheeting, still remained, enough to form a rudimentary shelter for them from the incessant rain. While Sybil took refuge under the last of the roof, Tom set about collecting a mass of the fragrant bracken and piled it deeply in front of the empty hearth.
"Here, love" said Tom, "you must be very tired. Come on, sit down. I know this isn't exactly the drawing room at Downton, but at least it's clean and dry".
While he wandered off into what was left of the next room, seemingly intent on some unknown quest of his own, Sybil did as Tom had suggested and sat herself down among the sweet smelling bracken, hugging her arms tightly around her knees, staring at the empty hearth before her. Glancing about her, she felt a sudden chill course through her, chilling her to the bone. She shivered. The abject desolation of this ruined place, which had once been living and was now dead, populated only by ghosts and fleeting shadows, was all too palpable. Later, much later, Sybil would have very good cause to remember that.
"What we need now" said Tom cheerfully, returning through the door less doorway of the adjoining room, "is a fire. Look, I found this in the old byre out back". In his arms he was carrying a mass of hay and straw, which he set down on the stone hearth. Then, searching about, he began to gather up all manner of dry wood from off the earth floor, broken timber from the roof and pieces of smashed furniture.
A short while later, while outside the rain continued to fall and the dusk drew down, a fire, the first it had seen in many a year, burned bright and warm before them on the hitherto cold hearth, casting flickering shadows on the bare stone walls. Sybil snuggled back against Tom, while above them they could hear the soft swish and whisper of the rain upon the rotten thatch. On the stone shelf above the fireplace, stuck into balls of damp clay, resourcefully dug by Tom from the cottage floor, there burned several small stubs of candles which he had gleaned from the very bottom of the battered old wooden candle box which still hung in its place on the wall at the side of the hearth.
"Are you warm enough, love?" asked Tom. She nodded. He had already wrapped her coat about her legs and placed his jacket over her shoulders to help keep her warm. "Shall I put some more wood on the fire?"
"No, I'm just fine" said Sybil, as she snuggled back against him, deep within the circle of his enfolding arms. His shirt sleeves were still rolled up above his elbows and, slowly, but insistently, Sybil began to caress Tom's bare forearms, stroking the fine hairs upon them with her fingers. Then, twisting around in his arms, she snuggled against him, laying her head upon his shoulder.
Tom kissed her hair, to find it redolent of sweetbriar and wild thyme, reminding him instantly of the grassy bank where both grew in profusion, backed by a grove of rowan trees heavy with scarlet berries, and on which they had spent part of the afternoon, Tom sitting cross legged, Sybil's head pillowed in his lap while he read to her, overlooking the wide sweep of the bay.
Tom looked down at his wife, and, sensing his eyes upon her, Sybil's flicked up to meet his steady gaze.
"What are you thinking about, love?" she asked.
"How such beauty ever came to be mine" said Tom softly. Leaning down, he brushed her lips with his own; the sense of wonderment he felt was clearly present in both his eyes and in his voice.
"Tom Branson, I do truly believe that you could charm the very angels in Heaven" said Sybil, her voice taking on a slight Irish lilt, as, inevitably, these days it did.
"I'd far rather settle for you" said Tom huskily.
"Well, then ..." said Sybil softly.
Tom made a wordless reply. His deep blue eyes sparkled, reflected in them the gleam of the firelight; he looked quizzically down upon her.
Given the fact that their courtship and subsequent marriage had defied the social conventions of the time, it was not surprising that Tom and Sybil's lovemaking was unconventional too, insofar as there was no particular pattern to it, occurring when the mood took them. And, even though they had been married but a matter of months, from Tom, Sybil had already learnt several undreamed ways of giving both of them physical pleasure. Not of course that she minded in the slightest, when Tom showed that he wanted her, but, early on, Sybil had very soon come to realise that there was nothing that aroused Tom more than her showing that she wanted him.
As she did now.
Possessed of this invaluable knowledge, gently, Sybil struggled free of Tom's encircling arms. Then, as he lay back in the bracken, closely observing her every move, slowly she rose to kneel above him.
"Jaysus, but you're beautiful" whispered Tom.
Sybil simply smiled at him, said nothing. Silence, like music, had its own charms. And, after all, at this precise moment, what need was there of words, so utterly safe did she feel with him; secure in both the depth of his love and the strength of his need of her. Gazing down at Tom, her eyes never once leaving his, knowing the effect it would have upon him, deliberately, provocatively, and with studied slowness, Sybil slipped Tom's jacket from off her shoulders, let it fall into the bracken behind her, and shook back her head, momentarily forgetful of the fact that she had had her hair bobbed but a week or so ago. While Tom had initially bemoaned Sybil's decision to have her long tresses cut short and follow the current fashion, he was pleasantly surprised with the end result which, he had to admit, thoroughly suited the smooth oval shape of her face. That apart, for a working woman, Sybil found the new style far more practical.
Reaching forward, with practised fingers, deftly Sybil eased Tom's braces down from off his shoulders, unbuttoned his white shirt, tugged up his vest and laid bare his chest. For a moment, her quarry now within her grasp, cat-like she simply gazed down at Tom. Then, mindful of her need of him, bending forward, Sybil's eager mouth sought Tom's.
Her lips lingered upon his, and then nuzzled his throat, while Tom's equally eager mouth once more sought hers. Pulling Sybil towards him, Tom's passionate kisses moved from Sybil's mouth, to the hollow of her throat, to her neck, his fingers running through her hair, his hands cupping and squeezing her breasts.
At the same time, while one of Sybil's questing hands played gently with the hairs on his chest, the other slipped lower still and came to rest between his legs, to find that she had not been mistaken. Far from it; from the swelling proof, hard beneath her hand, Tom now needed her and with a fervour to match her own.
After, while they slept, enfolded in each other's arms, the rain drummed incessantly on the corrugated iron sheeting of the roof. Beneath it, Tom stirred unconsciously in his sleep …
"Not loaded see!" sniggered the man with the revolver, while his mates guffawed at Tom, his features, ashen like those of a corpse. Fighting hard to keep control of his bladder, Tom grimaced, thought this piece of macabre play acting merely a prelude to his imminent execution, felt a sudden surge of hatred that overcame his innate fear.
"You feckin bastards!" he yelled.
And then, suddenly, there was furtive movement in the darkness. Heavy footsteps sounded on the dirt floor just behind where Tom was seated. As if from nowhere, a dark haired, clean shaven man appeared from out of the shadows, moved forward and seemingly unseeing, walked past Tom and seated himself heavily on the wooden table which sagged, screamed its protest, and creaked ominously.
"So, here we are" he observed laconically. His eyes flicked over Tom who thought he saw a slight smile play at the corners of the other's mouth. If so, it was gone in an instant and, in the darkness it was hard to be sure if it had ever been there in the first place. Tom swallowed hard. So this was it.
"For feck sake, I told yous I wanted to talk to him, not truss him like a turkey, rough him up, and scare him half to death!" said the man. No-one else spoke and then, just as suddenly and equally unexpected, Tom felt the ropes securing his arms and feet tightly to the chair go slack, cut through, and fall to the floor.
"And leave that bloody thing here", barked the dark haired man. He nodded to his compatriot with the revolver, who did as he was bidden and laid the heavy pistol on the table.
Not caring what his captors thought, instinctively Tom rubbed his chafed wrists vigorously, did the same to his ankles, to restart his circulation. Around him, the men in Tom's line of vision silently began to withdraw, shuffled away, all that was save the dark haired man, who had come from the shadows and who now sat on the table watching Tom with fathomless and inquisitive eyes.
The man picked up the revolver and from his pocket took out a clip of ammunition and snapped it into place.
"If you're going to kill me..." began Tom.
"Death comes soon enough for all of us" he said quietly. "No need to hurry it".
Down on the shore, the rain continued to drum on the roof of the cottage.
Within, the young boy lay back on the rough bed of bracken, while above him the rain drummed on the corrugated iron of the roof – the thatch had vanished long since. The small fire he had kindled for them both but a short while ago now burned brightly in the hearth while from time to time rogue drops of rain found their way down the chimney to hiss and spit among the glowing embers.
He was stark naked, indeed had been so for some time, yet now, almost as if he had just become aware off the fact, the boy blushed furiously and turned his head away, looked at the dancing shadows cast by the firelight on the rough stone walls and as he did so, saw to his consternation, embarrassment, and mortification, that they were not alone.
Another boy was there, watching him intently from out of the smoky shadows, his eyes bright, fearful, and even wary; his face somehow strangely familiar. Mesmerised, the young boy on the bracken made to stretch out his hand, saw that as he did so, the other repeated the gesture. It was then, with an overwhelming sense of relief that the boy saw the broken shard of glass, all that remained of a mirror that must once have hung on the wall, saw reflected in it that his thatch of fair hair had fallen forward over his forehead.
Also reflected in the wreck of the mirror, kneeling above him he saw the girl, likewise naked; saw her gently reaching forward, impatiently pushing back the hair from off his forehead with the soft brush of her palm. He saw her smile down at him, saw as she cupped his face in her hands. Slowly she turned his head back towards her, then reached between his legs, caressing, stroking his erection. She saw him swallow hard, registered the nascent fear in his eyes.
"Don't be frightened Tommy, it's only love ..."