Chapter Eighty Five

When Irish Eyes Are Smiling

It was odd, decided Edith; singularly so, and had arisen, at least in part, as a result of her taking afternoon tea with her grandmother at the Dower House. That had been following the unexpected arrival in the morning of the same day, during breakfast, of Sybil's telegram announcing to shocked members of the Crawley family, along with their equally stunned household staff, that darling Tom had been kidnapped in Dublin.

Of course, the following day had come the wonderful, and equally unexpected, news by telephone of Tom's release; something Edith herself would never forget, but not, for the reason which, understandably, anyone else might at first suppose. The reaction among both the family and the servants to the news of Tom regaining his freedom had been one of euphoria. Edith had received a tight hug from her mother and then later, surprisingly, another from none other than Mary herself. Indeed, no-one seemed to be able to stop smiling for the rest of that day: there was even, thought Edith, a twinkle in Carson's eyes. Everyone was absolutely delighted, apart from Papa of course, but even he had managed to observe, albeit gruffly, that "he's all right then" before stalking off to his study in the wake of Mary's pithy comment that "he" had a name and that it was "Tom".

If Mary had the misfortune to be the recipient of the telegram announcing Tom's abduction, it was Edith who took the telephone call announcing his release. At the time, Mary had taken herself off for a ride in the park, Mama was upstairs writing a letter to her own mother, and Papa was out on estate business, so when the telephone call came through, Edith, who was in the Drawing Room, was the only member of the Crawley family on hand to take it.

"A telephone call, milady" said Carson dryly. Edith looked up questioningly. The elderly butler shook his head.

"No, milady, the individual didn't give his name. I suspect therefore he is no gentleman. He merely asked to speak with Lady Mary. When I informed him that Lady Mary was unavailable, he asked to speak to you".

"To me?"

"Yes, milady".

"Thank you Carson" she said distractedly. For once, Edith didn't mind playing second fiddle to her elder sister; somehow knew that this was the news they were all waiting for; not dreading, so she had not the slightest qualms about walking briskly out into the hall and picking up the receiver.

"This is Lady Edith Crawley. With whom am I speaking please?"

There was a slight pause, followed by a few crackles, and then, at the other end of the line, a familiar, lilting Irish voice answered her question.

"It's Tom" he said.

Two simple words.

On hearing them, for Edith, it was as if somehow her birthday, Christmas, and New Year had all come at once. Her heartfelt cry of relief was probably heard down in the village. It was certainly heard by her mother who, in response to it, came hurrying out onto the upper landing of the hall, and by Anna as well, who was just on the point of going upstairs, in answer to a summons from the countess of Grantham .

Propriety be damned thought Edith.

"It's Tom, Mama! It's Tom!" she screamed, unable to contain her delight.

Edith would have termed the time spent with her grandmother on the previous afternoon as a "fireside chat", but since it had taken place in August, the one month in the year when the fire in her grandmother's Drawing Room remained stubbornly unlit, the term had seemed somehow singularly inappropriate.

At the end of the tale she had to relate about Tom, before they knew of his release by the IRA, her grandmother's succinct summing up of Edith's suspicions regarding the young Irishman's antecedents was encapsulated in a single word: fey, which granny had then gone on to explain. And this, in turn, had all arisen out of a surprising disclosure on the part of Edith's grandmother which had all but trumped Edith's own startling revelation; went some way to explaining, albeit in no way justifying, Papa's continuing animosity towards his son-in-law and his steadfast refusal to accept Tom and Sybil's marriage.

And now here it was again, thought Edith; the same feeling; a premonition of impending catastrophe.

Edith had experienced several similar instances of this during her childhood. She remembered, especially vividly, an occasion when she had been no more than eleven. She had gone down with Mary and their governess into the village; Sybil, she recalled, had been left behind in the nursery in the care of their nanny. It had been market day in Downton, and, not far from the Grantham Arms, a traction engine hauling a trailer loaded with logs had collided with the building on the corner of the same street. Market day always attracted not only the local farmers, but also the gypsies. Two young gypsy lads had gathered to watch the men on the traction engine checking the load of logs over to see if it had sustained any damage in the impact. With the typical unconcern of youngsters, the two young boys were standing but a few feet from the rear of the trailer watching what was happening.

"Get out of the way! The logs ... they're going to fall!" Edith's shouted warning from the pavement averted certain catastrophe. The boys skedaddled not a moment too soon, just before several huge logs tumbled from off the load and fell down into the road. Had the boys still been standing where they were, then both of them would have sustained serious injuries or in all likelihood been killed. Afterwards, Mary had pinched her hard, told her not to make such a spectacle of herself in public of all places, had said the gypsy boys were of no account, had demanded at one and the same time how Edith could possibly have known what was going to happen.

"I don't know; I just did" she had whimpered.

Edith had now experienced the same sensation once or twice before in recent weeks, firstly when standing on the deck of the Ulster, waving goodbye to Tom and Sybil and then again when Carson entered the Dining Room with Sybil's telegram; even before she had seen Mary's reaction, had read for herself the words printed within it, she had known that the old butler was the bearer of very bad tidings.

Tonight, as before, the feeling had come upon her quite unexpectedly, and in the most unlikely of places: in church.

This evening, well before dinner, she had gone down to the parish church in the village to help Cousin Isobel with arranging flowers up by the High Altar. That in itself was unusual, but Isobel had telephoned from Crawley House, had said the lady who normally helped her was indisposed, and asked if Edith could spare the time to help her, and Edith had said that she could; indeed, readily assented, relishing the opportunity to get away on her own, for however short a period of time, to escape the stultifying atmosphere of the house. Having told her mother about her unexpected errand, in no time at all, Edith had readied herself and then walked the short distance down to the garage to tell Pratt that she was borrowing the Renault for a short trip down into the village. As she walked towards the garage, Edith found herself thinking suddenly of Sybil, which in itself was not unusual. After all, she reflected, her younger sister must have traversed this self same path many times when she and darling Tom were courting.

On her arrival at the garage, Edith had told Pratt she would be back within an hour or so. Arranging flowers in a church couldn't take that long, surely? Or, could it? Perhaps it might. In any event, she had promised her mother that she would be back in time to change for dinner. After Pratt had opened the garage doors for her and started up the Renault, having clambered into the driving seat of the motor, Edith set off, sparing a fond thought for her handsome blue eyed brother-in-law who had taken the time to teach her how to drive during the war; doubted that Pratt would have been so indulgent or so patient.

Nor, thought Edith, would the experience have been quite so thoroughly enjoyable; blushingly recalled, not that she had done so at the time, the pleasure of being in Tom's company, the soft lilt of his voice, the sparkle of mischief in his eyes, as for the first time she tried to reverse the Renault in a quiet back street down in the village.

"Don't worry, milady. The street's quite wide for sure. There's no-one about, and only a couple of lamp posts!"

His lop-sided grin had been infectious, so much so that, as at the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin, instinctively, she had found herself grinning back at him; remembered, too, now with a frisson of delight, the almost electrifying touch his bare hand had had upon her own, as he helped her find the reverse gear and then turn the steering wheel.

For some reason which she couldn't now recall - he had probably forgotten all about it even if she hadn't - Branson, as he then was, had taken off his gloves; she had done likewise, so as to grip the steering wheel more firmly; or, at least that was what she had told herself afterwards. Edith smiled fondly to herself at the very remembrance. No wonder Sybil had fallen for Tom, hook, line, and sinker!

The Renault purred through the all but silent village, the lamp lit windows of the cottages mostly curtained against the autumn chill, and Edith fell again to remembering when she had last driven the Renault; over to the Dower House and to afternoon tea with her grandmother.

Author's Note:

The title of this particular chapter is, of course, that of the famous song, first published in 1912, the year the Titanic sank. It was very popular before and during the Great War when romantic songs about an idealised view of Ireland were very much in vogue. I have begun adding the odd footnote to answer some of the many questions I receive by way of PMs about some of the historical events, figures, and facts which, from time to time, crop up in this story. .