Chapter Eighty One
Mists And Mellow Fruitfulness
Well before they ever left for Ireland, Sybil had been convinced, just as she had been about Gwen's ability to succeed as a typist that within him Tom had the makings of a very fine journalist. From shortly before their marriage, just after he had taken up his position with the Independent, and thereafter in the months which followed, Sybil found that her confidence in her husband's latent abilities had not been misplaced. Along with everyone else who got to know Tom, she too soon came to realise that he excelled at his new job. But, until their journey over here to the west coast of Ireland, she had not fully appreciated, even at this early stage in his career, just how fine a journalist Tom undoubtedly was.
Of course, both his good looks and his innate self confidence helped him in this regard, as too did his unflinching pursuit of what Mr. Chadband, a minor character in Bleak House - Tom's favourite novel by Charles Dickens - would undoubtedly have referred to as "the Treweth". However, Tom's genuine affability, charm, and his easy going manner also stood him in good stead as well. And, now having watched him on several occasions undertake his duties as a reporter with such consummate ease, Sybil was very proud of him indeed. And it was now that she came to realise that Tom was possessed of an uncanny knack; of being able to talk to anyone, irrespective of who they were; was able to relate to one and all, from any walk of life; a legacy perhaps of his own childhood experiences, of his time spent living rough on the streets in Dublin.
Tom did not suffer fools gladly; in fact he didn't suffer them at all. From snatches of conversations Sybil had heard on their journey over to County Galway, just like Edmund Kelly, she soon came to appreciate that within minutes of meeting people not only did Tom manage to set them at their ease, but somehow also managed to convey to them that whatever it was they had to impart, was of the utmost importance; that they weren't wasting his time; even if undoubtedly that proved to be the case.
For the most part, Tom's acquaintances, contacts, and correspondents were a very mixed bunch indeed; drawn from a variety of backgrounds and of widely differing social status. By degrees some were furtive and taciturn, others garrulous and loquacious, and it amused Sybil no end to try and guess their trade or profession from the way they spoke, from the cut of their clothes. More often than not, she was right, causing Tom to observe, somewhat ruefully, that Sybil might well consider offering her services as a detective to the infamous "G" Division, the plainclothes divisional office of the Dublin Metropolitan Police.
Now more than ever, Sybil could see for herself that her father's blinkered, prejudiced view of individuals based solely on their social class and status was utterly ridiculous. Could Papa and Mama have but seen Tom in the aftermath of the explosion at the Shelbourne Hotel, then taking on the might of the British army, as had Mary and Edith, and could they all see Tom now, calmly and methodically, coaxing information and stories from the most unlikely of sources and subjects, let alone read his drafts, his finished articles, whether or not they agreed with their content, they would surely appreciate, as undoubtedly did Mary and Edith, the fine, gifted, principled, upstanding young man Sybil had chosen to marry.
Beyond her, somewhere in the cloying darkness, she heard voices. Then suddenly the blackness of the stable yard dissolved, blazed forth brightly into light and flame, the night illuminated by the hissing flares of naptha lamps and the orange glow of lanterns; below her there swam the face of a boy and blue grey eyes gazed down into blue.
"TOM!"
"It's all right, love", he said comfortingly. "I'm here. I'll always be here", his lips grazing hers.
Her head heavy, with the equally cloying, noisome taste of the dream still fresh in her mind, Sybil awoke suddenly to reality, to find herself stretched out on the narrow seat of the carriage compartment, her head softly pillowed in Tom's lap. Blue eyes gazed adoringly down into blue grey. She heard the sound of men's voices and beyond the windows of the shabby compartment, lights blazed dimly through the fog. The little train had now slowed almost to a crawl, as it puffed its way slowly past where a group of gangers stood idly by the line, resting their hands on their shovels and pickaxes.
Sybil sat up abruptly. Her head swam, her mind cobwebbed, opaque, mirroring the denseness of the white sea of fog swirling about outside beyond the grimy glass of the carriage window.
"Did you sleep well?" asked Tom, looking out of the window. "I think we must be almost in Galway now, although…" He grimaced. "Actually, it's hard to tell where we are, what with all this fog. I can't see a damned thing". Tom made to hug Sybil to him, but, if for an instant, surprisingly, she found herself resisting his embrace, instead gazed at him thoughtfully for one long moment, as realisation suddenly dawned.
"You! All along, it was you!" she exclaimed.
"Of course it's me" said Tom affably pulling her towards him and kissing her softly on the cheek. "Who else would it be?"
"No, that's not what I meant" said Sybil groggily, batting his chest weakly with both her hands.
"Then, what do you mean?" asked Tom with a chuckle. He gazed at her quizzically, awaiting her reply.
"Oh, I don't know what I mean. Don't mind me" said Sybil dismissively. "Ma said all kinds of things happen when you're pregnant".
At that precise moment there came an ear splitting shriek from the engine's whistle as the branch train began trundling across the three steel girder spans of the five hundred feet long bridge which spanned the River Corrib on the outskirts of Galway. Somewhere far below them lay the river and the stone piers of the bridge, both lost to sight in the fog, the heavy web of steel girders seeming to float, unsupported by nothing more than a sea of insubstantial, shifting, swirling mist.
"When you're what?" yelled Tom above the deafening metallic roar from outside, not trusting to his own ears, unsure as to whether or not he had heard correctly what Sybil had just said to him.
"I said" shouted Sybil, trying to make her voice heard above the thunderous cacophony of noise, "that I'm sure I'm pregnant". At that, she sat back heavily on the seat of the carriage, her eyes rapidly searching Tom's face, trying to gauge his reaction to her news, half fearful of what she might see. As it was, she need not have worried.
Before the train had cleared the last of the three girders, Tom was down on his knees before her, kneeling on the dirty floor of the scruffy third class compartment, with his arms flung around her, smothering her face with kisses.
"That's absolutely wonderful" beamed Tom.
"You're pleased, Tom? Really?" gasped Sybil; still not believing that her fears about telling him her news had been totally groundless.
"Of course I am, you silly woman! I couldn't be happier. Did you think I wouldn't be?"
Sybil nodded dumbly, her head downcast.
"Expecting … is that why you were sick this morning?"
Sybil nodded again.
"And, during the last few weeks too?" She nodded weakly again; gazed steadfastly at the floor.
"Will you look at me?" Tom chucked her gently under the chin.
"It happens … apparently. You don't miss much at all, do you Tom?" observed Sybil wryly. She raised her head to meet his steadfast gaze, saw his blue eyes sparkling with nothing but pure happiness. At that precise moment, thought Sybil she would have willingly surrendered her life; drowned in their seemingly fathomless depths.
"No, love, not really. But how?"
"Tom Branson, I would have thought the "how" was bloody obvious! Or are you really that ignorant of the facts of life?"
Tom grinned broadly, shook his head.
"Er, no". He blushed furiously. " When?"
"What do you mean by when, Tom? When was it conceived, or when is the baby likely to be born?"
"When's it likely to be born", said Tom. "After all, there are so many occasions when it could have been conceived! Well, aren't there?" He chuckled, grinned broadly at her, and then it was Sybil's turn to grin, to colour and to blush red.
"Well", she said at length, "if I'm right about all of this, then sometime in the spring. Either March or April".
Tom was absolutely ecstatic; standing up he crossed briskly over to the window where he tugged hard at the leather strap, and let go the droplight. Through the open window, damp eddies of mist, made sulphurous by the smoke and steam from the engine, swirled into the bleak compartment; the temperature within fell suddenly, like the proverbial stone.
"We're going to have a baby" Tom yelled, seemingly oblivious to the chill, and in the process startling a bull standing placidly in a field alongside the fence bordering the line. The animal bellowed back at him, apparently voicing its contented assent, signifying its approval of the happy news which Tom had just seen fit to impart to it, as well as to anyone else who might just happen to be listening.
Tom turned away from the open window, back towards Sybil, his eyes sparkling, his features aglow, brushing away a mixture of both tears and droplets of mist from off his face with the back of his hand. Seeing his young wife shiver, hurriedly Tom pulled up the droplight; flopped back down on the seat next to Sybil, hugging her tightly to him in a warm embrace. For what now little remained of their journey into Galway, snuggled together in each other's arms, deliriously happy at their shared good fortune, Tom and Sybil spent the time making plans for the future; a future which now embraced, conceived in love, the birth of their child.
Completely oblivious to the dreams and plans now being hatched by the happy young couple seated in one of its shabby third class compartments, the branch train from Clifden puffed onwards through the thickening fog, clattered into Galway town, steamed noisily through the short tunnel under Prospect Hill, and finally wheezed to a gentle stop beneath the train shed of the Midland and Great Western Railway.