Chapter Eighty Two
Mata Hari
Spirals of steam rose languidly and, somewhere above their heads, dissipated into the damp, moist air.
"OK. You win. You were right and I was wrong" said Tom drowsily.
"Aren't I always?" Sybil giggled.
Tom said nothing. Like Sybil, he was naked, pleasurably so, she enfolded in his arms, as, with warm, soapy water lapping at their chins, contentedly, they lay together in the bath, on the second floor of the Royal Hotel in Galway.
"Aren't I?" Sybil persisted, her hands clasped loosely together and lying protectively across her belly, while twiddling idly at the taps with her bare toes. But, when at last Tom chose to answer her, he did so obliquely.
"Well" he drawled lazily, "I have to admit this is very pleasant indeed". He sighed contentedly. "And, if I didn't have a meeting to go to this evening, I'd happily stay here all night".
"All night?" queried Sybil. She turned her head slowly to gaze at Tom.
"Well, perhaps not all night, but at least until the water went cold. As it is ... Aargh! Sybil, I'm starting to get cramp in my legs!"
Unwisely, it was at that very moment, in a futile attempt to stop the excruciating onset of cramp that suddenly Tom chose to shift in the bath. Too suddenly as it turned out; realised his mistake but too late, as seconds later a torrent of warm water cascaded over the side of the bath and onto the wooden floor.
"Tom, you utter idiot! Now look what you've done!" giggled Sybil. Tom was seemingly unconcerned by the several trails of water now meandering their way, slowly and inexorably, across the bathroom floor in the general direction of the door.
Lazily, drawing a pattern of ever diminishing circles, he caressed her skin with his fingertips. Sybil felt his lips warm upon the nape of her neck, her shoulders, gasping as his tongue darted here and there, licking at the droplets of water on her skin. She giggled again as he nipped at a particularly sensitive spot behind her right ear; then sighed contentedly, as expertly his hands moved lower, cupping her breasts, his fingers gently pinching first one nipple and then the other.
"Tom", moaned Sybil.
"You smell lovely", he said nuzzling her damp hair.
"Don't be ridiculous" giggled Sybil. "It's just Pears' soap!"
An hour or so earlier, when their train had steamed into the station at Galway, dusk was already settling over the town, and, no doubt on account of the fog, the lamps on the platform had already been lit. Paid for with some of the money her father had so grudgingly given them when they left England, Sybil had reserved a room for them at the Royal Hotel which, lay not very far from the station, on the other side of Eyre Square. However, before they left Dublin, for the west coast, when Sybil proposed using some of her father's money to pay for a couple of night's accommodation, Tom had baulked at the very idea of using any of his father-in-law's money; suggested instead that they find a more modest boarding house, at which point, Sybil thought it was time for a few home truths. They were sitting, as was their wont, after supper, in the kitchen, at the back of the little house in Clontarf.
"Tom, do you remember, a long time ago you once told me that I was a free spirit? When you said that, I hope you meant it".
"Yes, I remember. Of course I did. Whatever makes you think otherwise?"
"This business about Papa's money".
"Oh that!"
"Yes, that!" said Sybil emphatically.
"I told you, I don't want to use any of that money".
"Well, maybe you don't, but I do!" said Sybil. "Look Tom, you've given me the chance to do what I wanted to do with my life, given me the opportunity to become what, deep down, I've always wanted – to have a life filled with purpose. Now, your career as a journalist means a very great deal to you, doesn't it?"
Tom nodded.
"But I still don't see what that has to do with your father's money".
"Don't you? You know, Tom, for someone who is so intelligent, you can be remarkably stupid at times. You gave me my chance, now by using a tiny amount of the, admittedly small amount of money Papa gave us, I want to help you realise your dream too. This trip over to Galway is important to you, isn't it?"
"Well yes it is but ..."
"So let's stay at a decent hotel, at least for a couple of nights. After all, the rest of the time we'll either be travelling or else staying with Ma in Lettermullen. And, after we've done the washing-up, you can take me to bed and show me just how much you love me. What do you say?"
"Well, put like that, I suppose I can hardly refuse, can I?"
"No, you can't. So that's settled then" said Sybil with a laugh.
And settled indeed it was.
Now, standing by their hotel window, gazing down at the dense fog swirling below her in Eyre Square, inexplicably, suddenly Sybil found herself shivering; inexplicably, because their hotel bedroom was both snug and warm, with a bright fire burning in the cast iron grate. Closing the curtains, shutting out the dismal scene outside the window, Sybil turned back to Tom, who was stretched out on the bed. Propped up on a mountain of pillows, with pencil in hand, his brows knitted together, he was absorbed in reading through a sheaf of notes, making the odd alteration here, the odd correction there. Seeing him so intent on his work, she found herself smiling.
"Before we go down to supper, I think I'd rather like to take a bath" said Sybil.
"All right" said Tom softly and without looking up.
For a few minutes, Tom took scant notice of her at all, until that was, Sybil began getting undressed. Thereafter, Tom began to get interested and, from the vantage point of the bed, still propped on his mound of pillows, with notebook and pencil in hand, Tom watched her, albeit with seeming disinterest, as slowly Sybil removed all her clothes and slipped on her dressing gown. Although she gave no sign of it, Sybil was aware of Tom's eyes upon her, took infinite pleasure in deliberately prolonging the whole process; knew he was watching her every move.
Without looking up, as Sybil tied the belt of her dressing gown, Tom grinned.
"You know, I'd gladly wager that you'd have given Mata Hari a run for her money" he said softly.
"Mata who?" asked Sybil.
"Mata Hari" repeated Tom. "Although I don't suppose your father would approve of me telling you about her".
Sybil looked at her husband quizzically.
"Why ever not" she asked.
"She was a Dutch exotic dancer, love. Shot by the French, for spying for the Germans during the war, although she said she was innocent".
"Oh! How terribly sad". Sybil paused, and then looked at him evenly. "Just exactly what do you mean by exotic, Tom?"
At that, Tom blushed red, ducked his head under his thatch of fair hair.
"Well, she..."
"Well she what?" persisted Sybil.
"She took off all her clothes... on stage ... and sold herself for money. That's what".
"Oh, you mean she was a stripper and a prostitute" said Sybil nonchalantly. "Just like they have at the Moulin Rouge and the Folies Bergère in Paris?"
Tom gulped, swallowed hard. These days, it was not often that Sybil could surprise him, shock him even, but on this occasion, with her unexpected knowledge of what went on at the Moulin Rouge and the Folies Bergère in Paris and that seemingly she knew all about strippers and prostitutes, she had well and truly managed to do so.
"And just how do you know all that?" asked Tom, not at all sure if he really wanted to hear her answer. Sensing his embarrassment, Sybil giggled.
"Oh, Tom! Don't be so sensitive; After all, aren't you forgetting that I worked in a convalescent home with, how was it you described them? Oh, yes, "a load of randy officers" during the war? I heard them discussing the physical charms of Mata Hari, and of other women just like her, on several occasions. Remember Major Bryant, the one who got Ethel pregnant?"
Tom nodded.
"He had a photograph of her pasted to the back of his bedside cupboard. We found it when Edith and I were helping move the beds out of the Morning Room at the end of the war. I suppose Major Bryant must have forgotten all about it, when he left. Edith was most intrigued by it".
"What, by a photograph of Ethel".
"No silly. Of Mata Hari!"
"So, all along, you knew who she was? And you made me tell you all about her?" Tom spluttered indignantly.
Sybil grinned at him.
"In a word, yes!"
"Why, you little minx!" He laughed. "Go on, off with you, go and have your bath!"
From her aunt Rosamund, Sybil had learned that some of the grander hotels up in London, such as the Savoy, Claridge's, and also the Ritz, as well as these days some of the less expensive ones in the capital, had for some years provided what were called "en-suite" bathrooms. In this respect however, despite its much vaunted claims as to comfort and modernity - "newly renovated, with hot and cold baths, lighted throughout by electricity, with a Ladies' Drawing Room, providing Coffee and Commercial Rooms, with a First Class Billiard Room on the Premises and Good Fishing to be had", with its three lounges, spacious dining room and a commercial room, "all brightly lit, but tastefully decorated and furnished", in the autumn of 1919, the amenities on offer in the Royal Hotel, Galway, lagged somewhat behind the times.
Even with its "Hot and Cold running water", the bathroom placed at their disposal and indeed for the use of anyone else so minded occupying a room on the same floor, lay not adjacent to their own room, but some way off, and at the far end of a lofty, narrow corridor. However, if what the lady on the reception desk of the hotel had said was true, then fortunately, given the time of year, and thanks to the awful weather, Sybil and Tom were the only guests on this particular floor.
"There! Thank God that's done". Tom stretched and yawned expansively. It was now, on reaching the door to their room, Sybil half turned, raised an expressive eyebrow, and gave Tom a backward, provocative glance over her left shoulder; twirled suggestively the end of the belt of her dressing gown.
"Want to join me, Mr. Branson?" she enquired archly "Unless, of course, you'd prefer to just lie there and dream of Mata Hari? Maybe you're even too tired to bother?"
Leaving off looking at his notes, Tom's head snapped up. Grinning broadly, casually tossing aside the notebook, quickly slipping off the bed, wrenching off his tie, hastily shrugging out of his waistcoat, and deftly unbuttoning his shirt, but a moment later he joined her by the door. Once there, he gave her a light peck on the cheek and a playful nip to her backside.
"Why, I thought you'd never ask! Darlin, that's something no-one will ever accuse me of!"
"What's that?" asked Sybil enquiringly.
"Not wanting to be bothered; at least, not where you're concerned!" said Tom with a suggestive laugh and a chuckle. Without further ado, he swept Sybil up into his arms, and then nodded his head towards the door knob.
"Open the door, love" he said in the most prosaic of tones.
Sybil now did as she was bidden, reached down and turned the knob.
"Just where did you say the bathroom was?"
"Down the corridor and to the right" she said. "But Tom, you can't possibly..."
"Can't possibly what?"
"You can't carry me down the hotel corridor like some prize trophy!"
"Can't I just?" chuckled Tom with a provocatively suggestive lift of his eyebrows. "We'll see about that, Mrs. Branson! Now be a good girl and close the door!"
And, without further ado, carrying Sybil in his strong arms, her hands clasped tightly about his neck, Tom set off down the corridor in search of the second floor bathroom of Galway's Royal Hotel.
Author's note:
For those of you who have never heard of her, Margaretha Geertruida "M'greet" Zelle MacLeod (1876-1917), born in the Netherlands, is much better known to history by her stage name of Mata Hari. She was, exactly as Tom described her to Sybil: an exotic dancer and also a high class prostitute.
In 1917, during the Great War, despite protesting her innocence, Mata Hari was convicted by the French of spying for the Germans, and shot by firing squad. Her death was the beginning of her legend as the archetypal female spy, the French doing much to propagate this myth, in order to justify her execution. Thirty years after her death, one of her prosecutors conceded that "there wasn't enough evidence [against her] to hang a cat". In 2001, in the light of further new information, the French were asked to reconsider her execution and posthumously exonerate her of all charges of spying. To date they have not done so.