Chapter Eighty Three
Footsteps In The Fog
It was sometime later, and with a marked degree of reluctance, that Sybil and Tom, she held fast in his arms, returned to their bedroom from the bathroom on the second floor of the Royal Hotel in Galway.
Having once again negotiated the tricky business of both opening and closing the door to their room, for a while, with Sybil sitting on Tom's lap, her head pillowed on his shoulder, they sat contented, drowsing before the fire, while outside the night drew down and the chill fog thickened. Thereafter, having dressed and readied themselves for dinner, happily content, faces flushed with pleasure, eyes aglow, arm in arm, laughing and joking, Tom and Sybil descended the main staircase of the Royal Hotel and went cheerfully into dinner.
Not unexpectedly, given the fact that at this time of year there were but only a handful of people staying in the hotel, there were few other guests partaking of dinner. Accordingly, even if it was a hotel dining room, the attention and service they received from the two waiters on duty was such that Tom felt certain it would have won plaudits even from the irascible Mr. Carson.
Throughout their meal, they chatted about a whole host of matters, about family and friends, of matters claiming their attention at work, even possible names for the baby. How was Ma faring in Lettermullen, how Emer was coming to terms with Peadar's death; Tom thought she never would; whether Papa would ever come to accept their marriage the way Mary and Edith, along with Mama, Cousin Isobel and Matthew obviously now had. Tom told Sybil about the ribaldry he had to endure at work following his kidnapping, with Edmund Kelly and others wondering if Tom should be chaperoned every time left the offices of the Independent on Talbot Street. For her part, Sybil recounted some of the hostility she had encountered at the Coombe and which she had kept from Tom.
"I thought we agreed. No secrets" said Tom.
"We did, but if I didn't tell you about my difficulties at the hospital, you never told me what it was that you said which persuaded Collins to let you go. So, Tom, tell me now. What was it?"
"Oh that".
"Yes, that".
"Well, I'm not entirely certain, but I think it may have had something to do with you".
"With me?"
"Yes, you".
"But how?"
"I'm not sure exactly. It was when he asked me about my loyalty to Ireland".
"What did you say?"
"I said I was loyal to Ireland but also to other things. He asked me how that was possible. I said that it was. When he pressed me as to what else anyone could be loyal to with such passion as the country of their birth, I told him the simple truth".
"Which was?"
"That I was loyal to Ireland, but also to the woman I loved and had married. It was when I said that, mentioned you, said what you meant to me, that Collins seemed to accept I was telling him the truth, said he could understand that, made mention of a woman, I think he said her name was Kitty; said he'd been introduced to her by a cousin. So you see darlin' it's thanks to you that I was set free".
It was the last thing Sybil expected to hear him say and for a moment she sat silent, digesting what Tom had told her, before at last, other matters claimed their attention.
The dinner itself was first-rate, the Mulligatawny soup excellent, the pot roast of beef with browned potatoes and carrots done to perfection. While Tom enjoyed a pint of plain, Sybil stuck to water. For dessert, they ordered sherry trifle, which Tom enjoyed so much so that he made so bold as to ask the younger of the two waiters for another helping. Watching him demolish with gusto his second bowl of trifle put Sybil in mind of the last time when both of them had been in a hotel and Tom had had a second helping of something – on that occasion, chocolate cake. When she chanced to remark upon this, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, Tom retorted that yes, he remembered only too well what had happened to them all at the Shelbourne Hotel, but that this was Galway and not Dublin. Rest assured nothing like that would ever happen here.
On account of the fog, on their arrival, they had seen very little of Galway, so Sybil asked Tom to tell her something about it. Between mouthfuls of his second helping of trifle, Tom explained to Sybil that it was the largest town in the area, said most of the population was Catholic, but while to the casual observer Galway itself might seem prosperous, that was illusory. Like much of the county hereabouts, Galway was in decline. Persse's, the local distillery, had closed down and despite improvements to the harbour, the Claddagh fishing fleet was also struggling to survive.
Overall, said Tom, here in Connemara, the population was falling and in recent years many people had left the area in search of work and a better life, some, as elsewhere in Ireland, even taking passage over to America. Without any meaningful investment in the area by the government, let alone elsewhere in the country, Tom couldn't see things improving any time soon, especially for those working on the land, the majority of whom eked out a hand-to-mouth and often pitiful existence.
Even the building of the railway over to Clifden hadn't helped, although it should have. According to Tom, the line was supposed to have run along the coast, where most of the population lived. Instead it had been built inland, benefitting only the local landowners, absentee landlords like the Berridges, the largest landowning family in County Galway, who lived at Ballynahinch Castle.
Sybil smiled as Tom ran on with all his facts and figures.
"For goodness' sake, Tom, are you running for political office?" she asked at length and with a laugh.
Swallowing his last mouthful of trifle, Tom grinned sheepishly at her, and shook his head.
"No. Sorry, love. I know I've run on a bit, but you did ask me. Darlin' sometimes I get so angry. Things don't have to be this way. You can see that, surely?"
"Of course I can. The fact that you want to make use of your position as a journalist to try to improve the lot of those less fortunate than yourself is commendable, does you credit Tom, as does your willingness to fight injustice; two reasons why I love you so very much" said Sybil earnestly, her eyes sparkling.
"So that's two of the reasons why you love me. What are the others?" asked Tom. He gave Sybil one of his endearing lop-sided grins.
"Never you mind Mr. Branson. Maybe I lied. Perhaps there aren't any other reasons. And even if there are, remember, what curiousity did. It killed the cat!" said Sybil with a giggle.
Somewhere a clock chimed the half hour.
"What time is your meeting over at the station?" asked Sybil.
"Eight o'clock" said Tom. He delved in his waistcoat, pulled out his watch, glanced at the dial, before tucking it firmly back into his pocket once again. "It's just after half past seven. We should be setting off shortly. Are you really sure you want to come with me, Sybil? It's an awful night for a stroll. You could just as easily sit and read by the fire in the Drawing Room here at the hotel".
"Tom, darling, after what happened to you back in Dublin, I've no intention of letting you out of my sight, at least not any more than I have to!"
"Very well then, have it your own way" said Tom with a chuckle. He glanced out of the window and shivered. "That fog looks worse than ever".
A short while later, arm in arm, both warmly wrapped against the chill of the foggy evening, they set off across the square bound for the Railway Hotel where Tom had arranged to meet several of his local contacts. Owing to the closeness of the town to the sea, the fog had a distinctly salty tang to it and although by now night had fallen over Galway, there was no indication of the fact; the fog had blotted out the stars, with the lights of the gas lamps reduced to little more than flaring, hissing pin pricks of light, which did little to help guide Tom and Sybil on their way from their hotel, through the municipal gardens in the centre of the square, and thence over to the railway station.
Given the weather, at this hour of the evening, even here in Eyre Square, in the very heart of the town, it seemed that most of the shops had closed early; there were few other people about. From time to time, those that were, reduced to little more than dark, featureless, ghostly wraiths by the fog appeared suddenly out of the mist, all doubtless intent, as were Tom and Sybil, on reaching wherever it was they were bound as quickly as possible. With their heads bowed, their faces indistinct and buried deeply in their mufflers and scarves, their fellow citizens scurried wordlessly past them both, vanishing into the fog as quickly as they had appeared, all trace of them gone in an instant, save for the sound of their scurrying footsteps, which rapidly dwindled and faded into silence.
Although neither of them mentioned it at the time, independently of each other, Tom and Sybil were both conscious of the ever so slightly creepy feeling which thick fog often inspires, but, eventually, and without mishap, they reached the station on the far side of the square. Once there, they made their way through the entrance lobby of the imposing Railway Hotel, in search of the bar where Tom had arranged to meet up with several of his local contacts.
According to Tom, the Railway Hotel at one time had played host to a future emperor of France, Napoleon III. Unless Sybil could tell him otherwise, not even Downton Abbey had ever played host to an emperor! And, if this place was good enough for a Napoleon, then it was certainly good enough for the likes of them. Sybil grinned at Tom and shook her head. He really was incorrigible.
And, as for arranging to meet his contacts right under the very nose of the British authorities, well, that was so like Tom. The hotel at the station had been requisitioned by the British Army the previous year, which was why, although it remained open for business, with Alcock and Brown having stayed there after their recent flight across the Atlantic, Tom had thought it unwise that he and Sybil should stay there.
Thereafter, having met up with his Galway pals in the hotel bar, as was his way, Tom soon got down to the business in hand, while for her part, Sybil sat contentedly by the fire in the entrance lobby and continued reading "Far from the Madding Crowd" by Thomas Hardy.
It was probably about twenty minutes later, perhaps a little longer, that she happened to glance up from her novel. It was then that she saw the man, sitting alone in an alcove but a short distance from her. He was dark haired, wearing a grey cap pulled low on his brow, a muffler of an indeterminate hue, dark jacket, brown corduroy trousers and dirty scuffed black boots. He must, thought Sybil, have come into the hotel lobby in the last few minutes because she was certain that he hadn't been there when she had sat down.
He seemed to be taking a keen interest in everything that was being said in the bar, especially by Tom, so much so that from time to time, he made notes with a pencil in a worn, black leather bound pocket book.
Although most of his face was hidden by his cap and muffler, he made no secret of his presence; apparently completely unaware of Sybil's presence nearby and also obviously equally ignorant of her connection to Tom. There the man continued to sit, seemingly minding his own business, out of sight of all those gathered round Tom in the bar, but at the same time, close enough to be within earshot of what was being said.
Sybil's first thought was that perhaps he was a local reporter. Tom had told her that the local papers did not take kindly to what they viewed as outside interference on their patch by reporters over from the Dublin; had mentioned the name of one of the papers, the Galway Observer. Or had it been the Express? However, on reflection, the more Sybil watched him, the more certain she became that the man in the alcove wasn't a reporter. He certainly didn't look like one, although, except for darling Tom and a handful of his colleagues, including Edmund Kelly, who she had met but briefly on two or three occasions back in Dublin, Sybil had little experience of the species.
And there was something else; the man looked strangely familiar, although Sybil didn't see how that could be so. The clothes he was wearing seemed to be worn awry, looked out of place upon him. Despite or perhaps because of his commonplace exterior, gradually, she became convinced that he was definitely not what he appeared to be; a working man, awaiting the arrival of the last train of the day to Clifden, to Dublin, or to wherever else it was he might be bound.
It was the otherwise entirely innocuous act, one which would have passed unnoticed by anyone else, of him self-consciously stroking his neatly clipped moustache that confirmed to Sybil the true nature of his identity. For all that he was dressed in mufti she had met with many of his kind, at Downton during the war. Tom, as she had reminded him but a short while earlier, had contemptuously referred to them all as "randy officers". Here undoubtedly was another one of the self same, arrogant, conceited individuals: for the man seated in the alcove was undoubtedly an officer in the British army.
With his habit of stroking his moustache, he reminded Sybil instantly of the odious Major Bryant who, his interest in the late Mata Hari apart, had been responsible, however much he tried to deny it, for getting Ethel with child; for her losing her position at Downton, for walking away from his duty, and then avoiding doing the right thing by Ethel forever by the admittedly rather drastic and permanent means of being blown to smithereens at Vittorio Veneto in the dying days of the war.
Why was the man taking such a covert interest in Tom and his associates? Acting instinctively, Sybil resolved to find out, but just as she did so, the door to the lobby of the hotel suddenly opened, admitting two passengers seeking a warm refuge from the chill, foggy night.
Laying aside her book, Sybil stood up and walked briskly over to the alcove. It was empty; the man had disappeared, and so completely that he might never even have existed. He had not walked past her, nor had he gone into the bar. It was then that, all but lost to sight in the shadows, Sybil saw the door at the rear of the alcove. Opening the door, she stepped outside and found herself on the fogbound concourse of the station.
A moment later, she heard footsteps, and then the sound of a match being struck. Ahead of her in the fog, the man had stopped to light a cigarette. For one brief moment, the match illuminated his face, and at last now seeing who he was Sybil gasped, shrank back into the shadows.
If he had heard Sybil's rapid intake of breath, Captain Miles Stathum gave no sign of it as, a moment later he continued on his way down the platform. Meanwhile, Sybil, her thoughts now in turmoil, stood still, wondering what on earth she should do next. What was Stathum doing here in Galway? And why was he dressed as a working man? There and then, she resolved to try and find out.
Cautiously, she set off after him. The fog grew even thicker, swirling eerily about her, eddying back and forth along the entire length of the deserted platform like a damp, frayed shroud of grey muslin.
But Stathum had disappeared. There was now no sign of him whatsoever. Sybil paused; stood still. What should she do now?
Then suddenly, several things happened together.
From somewhere, lost to sight in the fog and at the far end of the platform on which Sybil was now standing, there came the shrill blast of an engine's whistle, heralding the approach of the Dublin bound train. Then there came the unmistakeable sound of footsteps, pounding along the surface of the platform towards her, and seconds later as she whirled frantically about, Sybil was shoved violently from behind.
The fog had served to disorientate her and, in the murk, unwittingly, she had been standing much closer to the edge of the platform than she thought; indeed, dangerously so. The force with which she was shoved forward knocked Sybil off balance, causing her to pitch head first over the edge of the platform, directly into the path of the oncoming train.
Author's note:
The woman Michael Collins refers to was Kitty Kiernan (1892-1945) to whom he became engaged and with whom from 1919 onwards, he had a long correspondence, most of their letters being written between 1919 and 1922. Sadly, they were destined never to marry; Collins being killed during the Irish Civil War, in August 1922, just four months before the date set for their wedding.