Chapter Eighty Four
Death On The Line
The warning shouts of the crew on the footplate of the Dublin express went unheeded; drowned out by the sudden roar of escaping steam, the screech of hastily applied brakes, the clanging of buffers, the ominous creaking of wooden bodied carriages, and the screeching of metal as steel wheels bit hard on steel rails made slippery by the dampness of the foggy evening. Beneath the cavernous roof of the train shed of Galway station, belching thick black smoke and in a cascade of fiery sparks reminiscent of a scene from Dante's Inferno, the Dublin express slid finally to a sudden and abrupt halt within feet of the buffer stops.
The deafening cacophony of sounds reached those propping up the bar in the Railway Hotel, and even drowned out the raucous singing of a group of army NCOs from the Connaught Rangers whose home depot was here in Galway and who, clustered round a long out-of- tune piano, were belting out a decidedly tipsy rendition of "It's a Long Way to Tipperary". At the same time, several of those in the bar nearest the doors spilled out into the fogbound station, in what turned out to be a vain attempt, to try and see what it was that had occasioned all the unexpected noise.
As he drained the last drops of plain from his glass, Tom looked about him, well satisfied. Because it was so public, he had thought his choice of meeting place, here in the bar of the Railway Hotel in Galway, inspirational. By gathering here, Tom had thought it far less likely that he and his colleagues would attract the unwelcome attention of the authorities, for all that the British had seen fit to requisition the very building in which they were all now standing; was gratified to see that, so far at least, his hunch seemed to have paid off.
At the other end of the bar to which Tom and his compatriots had adjourned after the business of the evening was over, well away from where the Rangers were continuing with their boisterous sing-song, Tom and his colleagues were now busy making their farewells. With cordial handshakes all round, their meeting in the crowded, noisy, smoke- filled bar of the Railway Hotel was just breaking up, when above the continued shouted chatter and prattle, the clink of glasses, and the raucous singing from the far end of the room, everyone there present heard the shrill scream of an engine's whistle, followed almost immediately by an equally piercing screech of brakes.
"Thank you, Mr. Branson, for taking the time ... to meet up with us all. It's been most interesting", barked the man loudly.
The speaker was in his late thirties, well dressed, and usually softly spoken, who had had to shout to make himself heard above the raucous din at the far end of the room, where the group of Rangers had now launched into an equally spirited performance of "Mademoiselle from Armentières".
The man glanced down briefly at the white enamelled dial of his heavy gold pocket watch, snapped shut the cover, and then hurriedly swallowed the last of his whisky, setting down his now empty glass on the heavily stained wooden surface of the bar.
"Now I must be off. I need a clear head for the morning. I trust you and your wife will have a safe journey back to Dublin, Mr. Branson".
"Thank you, Mr. Purcell. I'm sure we will", said Tom, shaking the plump, soft hand which the man held out to him.
Like Matthew Crawley, Samuel Purcell was a local solicitor whose office was here in Galway, on Eglinton Street, over on the other side of the square. He was decidedly more urbane and rather more sophisticated than the rest of Tom's contacts hereabouts. Although he had only met Purcell and the others for the first time this very evening, bearing in mind what Sybil had told him about her cousin, Tom thought the Galway solicitor to be very much like Matthew Crawley. He was unfailingly calm, courteous, considered in both his judgements and pronouncements; indeed, some possibly might even say dull and predictable.
In fact, thought Tom, Purcell seemed strangely out of place with the rest of them who had been gathered round their table here tonight. He had told Tom that this evening's meeting had reminded him of his misspent youth; mentioned time whiled in some of the more disreputable bars in and around Trinity College in Dublin, during his days as a student studying law.
But beneath Purcell's placid exterior there burned a fierce passion which, in his case, was to see, and as soon as possible, the birth of an independent Ireland, freed forever from British rule. From the brief time which they had spent together, it was evident to Tom that Purcell, perhaps because of his innately cautious nature, perhaps because of his profession, perhaps even because of both, considered any matter under discussion most fully before he gave his opinion, and then spoke only sparingly, authoritatively, crisply, and to the point, weighing his words with care, as if they were gold sovereigns from out of his very own pocket. Lawyers, thought Tom, whether here in Ireland or over there in England were one and the same and always would be; mindful of their money!
"Thank you all for coming". Individually, in turn, Tom eyed each of the half dozen or so men standing round him in a half circle and who were now starting to put on their overcoats.
"I expect this evening's discussion has given not only Mr. Purcell, but all of us, a very great deal to think about for sure".
All quietly muttering their approval, nodding their collective assent of Tom's succinct assessment of the evening's proceedings, the other men in the group continued to busy themselves pulling on their overcoats.
"Be that your young missus we saw, when we arrived earlier? Dark haired, sittin' readin' there out by the fire in the lobby?" asked one of the men expectantly. Tom smiled, nodded affably.
"Why, ya be a lucky beggar Mr. Branson, and make no mistake. She's a grand girleen, for sure. Where d'ya be findin' her then?"
"Ah" said Tom with a smile, which broadened into a grin, "now that really would be telling, for sure, Mr. Egan. Mind, if I was to be telling ya which of course I'm not, then ya'd never be believin' me!"
"Do she be havin' a sister that be unwed?" asked another.
"She does" said Tom, sparing a very fond thought for Edith, his eyes shining brightly in the light cast by the sputtering gas jet above his head.
"And ..."persisted the man. He grinned, winked slyly at Tom. The man was from nearby Barna, an undertaker, if Tom remembered the man's profession a right.
"Ah, Jaysus, forget it " said Tom genially. "Why, you'd as sooner be finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, as get close to the likes of her for sure!"
"And ya not long married? What with winter comin', it'll be good to be havin' a feek like that to be keepin' ya warm at nights!" said another jauntily.
"Whist! Bejaysus, ya be embarrassing the poor man!" said Egan.
"Married four months" said Tom with another grin.
"Ya be a lucky man, Tom Branson" said Egan, slapping Tom good naturedly on the back.
"Don't I know it!" said Tom and chuckled.
The men all laughed; began making their final farewells.
But, for all the good nature of the ribaldry to which he now found himself subjected, despite his attempt to avoid doing so, Tom found himself blushing furiously with embarrassment; not for himself, but for Sybil. And, curious to relate, at the same time sparing a passing kindly thought for someone for whom he would never ever have thought ever to have done so; his still disapproving father-in-law, the earl of Grantham.
God knows what Robert Crawley would think if he could hear the undoubted merits and physical charms of his youngest daughter being bandied about, discussed openly, for anyone who cared to listen, in a public bar, on a railway station in the west of Ireland, thought Tom. Why, he'd have every right to personally see me torn to pieces by wild dogs!
"Mind your backs, please gents" called the grizzled, profusely perspiring, aproned barman breezily as he deftly edged his way between their backs and the adjoining table, dexterously bearing aloft a tray of drinks bound for the raucous group of the Rangers gathered together round the piano in the far corner of the bar.
"Bloody feckin' bastards" hissed one of Tom's younger compatriots throatily and rather louder than was advisable, at the same time casting a murderous look in the direction of the rowdy Rangers.
"Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the Holy Martyrs, cop on, Jack! Shut it, now! Some of their mates from round here fought bravely in the war".
"And many of 'em didn't make it back neither!" added another. "Remember? Keep a low profile loike we said? Some in 'ere be feckin chancers!"
The small, freckled fresh faced youngster, named Jack Madden, blushed, and reluctantly nodded his assent.
"Indeed it has", said Purcell softly, in reply to Tom's earlier observation. "Though", and here he lowered his voice still further, " whether this campaign of what amounts to civil disobedience, of just trying to shut the British out of things, will actually work, will prove anything but a damp squib, remains to be seen. I have my doubts ... in the short term, as you well know. Not, of course, that I can condone the destruction of property, wanton acts of violence".
"But, if as you've just said, you now also have your doubts about the campaign of civil disobedience, the setting up of an alternative administration - you've read what Arthur Griffith wrote about it - eventually proving ineffective, then what other choice do we have?"
"Indeed I have, Mr. Branson, but, as for those who would seek to hurry the process and to adopt other more ... er ... drastic solutions? No, those I cannot and will not condone".
Quietly nodding his agreement, the nervous, pale faced man, a shopkeeper – an ironmonger named Lafferty from the town, who was standing next to Samuel Purcell swallowed the last of his jar and stubbed out his umpteenth cigarette.
"My thoughts exactly", he said.
"Even if those solutions lead ultimately to what we all are agreed must be the outcome of the present ... situation? Like you, Mr. Purcell, I don't condone violence myself, but ..."
For one brief moment, before Tom's very eyes, the sights and sounds of the smoke filled bar of the Railway Hotel here in Galway vanished into thin air, dissolved out of sight, were replaced by the familiar, strangely comforting, view of the inside of the brick built garage back at Downton, so much so that Tom could all but smell the reek of petrol and engine oil.
He was standing looking at Sybil, as he so often did then, after all he could do nothing else, he jacket less, in his chauffeur's uniform, she in her white blouse and long grey skirt.
"All I'm saying is that sometimes a hard sacrifice has to be made, for a future that's worth having".
Tom chuckled to himself.
How apt it was, he thought, that his very own words should come back to haunt him now, and in perhaps the most unlikely of places. But not surprisingly, he was no longer thinking any more of Purcell, nor of the others, but of Sybil. It was time he rejoined her. After all, the meeting was now over.
Tom said his remaining goodbyes to the others in the group, and then made to walk towards the entrance lobby of the hotel to find his wife, but as he did so, the doors leading out onto the platforms of the station burst open and an ashen faced young porter wearing the uniform of the Midland and Great Western Railway, eyes glazed, flung himself into the room, running headlong into the bar, and, in the process, all but knocking Tom off his feet.
"For Christ's sake, is there a doctor here?" he screamed. "Help me please! For the love of God, please help! Someone's gone and fallen under the Dublin train!"
At the young man's words, everyone momentarily froze, as if a spell had been cast upon them, stopped what they doing or saying, staring dumbstruck at the young railway official. Then, all hell broke loose.
A moment later, Tom reached the fireplace by which Sybil had been sitting when he had last seen her. The fire still burned brightly in the grate, her copy of "Far From The Madding Crowd" lay close by, on a narrow wooden ledge beside it. But the bench on which she had been sitting was now empty.
Just before he left her, Sybil had told him that she might go for a short walk along the platform, to stretch her legs. He had counselled her against it, said it was too foggy, that she must be tired, should look after herself and the child she was now carrying, should take care, remain inside, and suggested she stay put by the fire. Sybil had shot him her most withering look - what Tom thought equated to "Storm Force" on the Beaufort Scale.
On reflection, of course, Sybil being Sybil, Tom should have known better. Very soon in their marriage, he had come to realise that if he suggested to Sybil that she didn't, or shouldn't, do something, then his headstrong young wife would, like as not, for sheer devilment, do it anyway; usually retorting with a provocative backward glance over shoulder "I thought I gave the orders round here Branson" - much as she had said to him all those years ago when he had countenanced her against going unaccompanied into the count at Ripon - the memory of which was something that now always made them both laugh.
Throughout his adult life, Tom had had little time for the Almighty. After all, he had seen too many prayers, including those uttered so fervently by him in his stolen childhood, go unanswered, to place much faith in divine assistance; although his present lack of faith had not precluded him from making his recent confession at St. Audoen's. But now, Tom found himself praying to God, as he had never prayed to Him before. For the sake of Your Son, spare her please!
An army medical officer, who in turn was followed swiftly by two burly uniformed orderlies (Tom had seen enough of them around Downton during the war to recognise their uniforms and insignia on sight) carrying a stretcher, none too gently shoved their way past him. Following in their wake was the stationmaster and the young porter, still ashen faced, the front of his uniform liberally flecked with vomit.
"Went right under the engine ... didn't stand a chance!" The young porter was clearly agitated, slurring his words. Tom was aghast. Had the porter said "he" or "she"?
Oh my God, thought Tom already fearing the worst, with tears starting in his eyes and running his fingers distractedly through his hair. He could feel his heart racing, pounding against his rib cage, as if it somehow it would leap out of his chest. Sybil, please, God, no!
And with that, heedless for either his own health or welfare, Tom fairly bolted through the still open doors of the entrance lobby of the hotel, out onto the platform, and following hard on the heels of the army medical staff who by now had disappeared; swallowed up by the murk of the foggy night, made worse by the thick fug of steam and smoke from the waiting train.
Author's Note:
With a very long and distinguished military record, raised in 1793 and based in Galway, the Connaught Rangers was a regiment in the British Army. Having served bravely during the Great War (losing in all some 2,500 officers and men) the regiment was disbanded in 1922 following the establishment of the Irish Free State.
The Rangers' own marching tune was one of which everyone has heard: "It's A Long Way To Tipperary", a song which, more than any other has come to be associated with British soldiers who served during the Great War.
There were several versions of the song "Mademoiselle from Armentières", which tells of a young woman who, according to some lyrics (there are several variations) was of rather easy virtue. Understandably, the song proved very popular with the Tommies!