Chapter Eighty Six
"All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust"
The fog which had descended over Galway had done so stealthily and by degrees, until it now formed an opaque wall of grey mist, which enveloped the entire town in a clammy, damp miasma, and which had the effect of shutting off some sounds completely, while letting others through. As a result, those caught in it found themselves in a grey world of nothingness, formless, inhabited only by pale phantoms, and sombre shadows, divorced from reality and substance.
The very last thing that Sybil remembered seeing bearing down upon her, as she found herself falling forward, toppling headlong over the white painted stone edge of the platform into the dark void that lay beyond it, was the gleaming, green engine of the Dublin express.
Bursting out of the dense bank of dirty white fog, the engine at the head of the oncoming train was wreathed in steam, seemed enormous, the noise truly deafening. Then came the sound of brakes being furiously applied, the seemingly never ending ear splitting scream of a whistle, the menacing hiss and thunderous roar of escaping steam, the harsh, piercing screech of metal on metal, while the pale yellow glow from the two oil lamps, one set either end of the red painted buffer beam, reminded her of the headlights of the army lorries as they had swept into the barn at Ciaran's farm during the céilí.
"Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done"
"Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan"
Perhaps it had been one of her fellow trainee nurses in the hospital at Ripon Military Camp who had told Sybil that just before a person died their whole life flashed before them. And yet, if that was true, then the very last images that came to her in those all too brief, crowded seconds were not of Downton Abbey, not of her childhood home, not even in fact of her childhood itself, not of her imperious grandmother, not of Papa and Mama, not of Mary, not of Edith, not of her time spent nursing, but instead a veritable kaleidoscope of images, of pictures, of scenes of ... Tom. Not that this struck Sybil as at all incongruous, for, when all was said and done, was not Tom her whole life?
Tom, with his fair hair neatly combed and parted, his deep blue eyes alive, sparkling with mischief, smartly attired in his dark green chauffeur's uniform resplendent with its polished brass buttons, politely but with no trace of obsequiousness, impeccably well-mannered, yes, but not deferential, helping her both carefully and courteously into the back seat of the gleaming blue Renault as it stood on the manicured gravel outside the palatial entrance to Downton.
Tom, driving her in the same Renault, quite where to was not clear, did not really matter, from time to time, in fact rather more often than that, in fact every few minutes, glancing round, looking approvingly at her over his left shoulder, his bright eyes shining, while they talked - oh, how the two of them talked. Truthfully, and without a word of a lie, she could listen to his beautiful, lilting Irish voice for hours.
Tom in his white shirt sleeves, standing by the Renault, sitting nonchalantly on the running board of the motor, inside the garage at Downton, gazing adoringly at her: "I'll wait forever" he said.
Tom, as he looked, when for that very first time, he enfolded her tightly in his strong arms, holding her close to him, kissing her, first chastely, then with increasing fervour, and mounting passion, until she seemed to turn to liquid fire, to melt, to fuse, and to become one with him.
Tom, in the Drawing Room at Downton Abbey, standing proud and resolute by her side, the faces and forms of the others present in the room were both hazy and indistinct, not that, at least to Sybil, it seemed to matter, as she and Tom jointly announced to her shocked, startled, stunned, aristocratic family, that they were engaged, would marry, settle, and both of them work for a living far across the Irish Sea, in Dublin.
Tom said "I haven't seduced anyone. Give your daughter some credit for knowing her own mind". Sybil knew that at that precise moment in time she would never be prouder of him, presented with the incontrovertible evidence of his unswerving commitment to her, of the depth of his love and passion for her, in the face of such implacable, vitriolic hatred, and hostility.
"Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke"
As the darkness began to deepen about her, the images began to crowd in faster.
Tom, on the train to Dublin: "God, Sybil, love, I adore you" he said, as clasping her to him in his arms, he began showing her that he truly meant every word of what he had just said.
Tom, as he gazed at her with heartfelt admiration, as she glanced back nervously towards him for comfort and support, then walked purposefully step by step up the path to the front door of the house in Clontarf for the very first time.
Tom, barefoot, stripped to the waist, as he carried her gently, almost reverently, in his strong arms, her own locked tightly round his neck, her face buried against his comforting shoulder, to the waiting bed in his lamp lit bedroom at the top of the very same house. And after … when she felt as if her whole body, her whole being, seemed to float, and had turned, this time, to liquid silk.
Tom as he turned to smile shyly at her, his blue eyes sparkling, with his fair hair neatly trimmed, freshly scrubbed and shaved, dapper in his new grey suit, standing by the altar rail in the little stone church at Clontarf on their wedding day.
Tom, on their wedding night, as he gazed lovingly upon her wrapped warmly in his comforting arms, asked of her: "Now, tell, me, my love, what you did like best about our wedding day?"
Other more recent images now crowded in ever more insistently upon Sybil, even faster than before.
Tom laughing, running barefoot with her, hand in hand along the sandy sweep of Galway Bay, Tom making love to her by candlelight in the ruined cottage by the shore. Why, she could even smell his scent mingled with that of the bracken, hear the thunderous roar of the sea breaking on the strand.
Tom gazing gently at her as she sat quietly by the fireside here in the entrance lobby of the Railway Hotel in Galway: "Wait for me "Tom had said huskily. Sybil glanced up at him, smiled. "Of course I'll wait for you, love" she said. "After all, what else have I to do?"
Tom turned, vanished into the fog; was gone.
"Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
. Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.
The fire beside Sybil dimmed. A sudden coldness touched her skin. The dark drew down about her.
Night fell.