Chapter Eighty Eight
Road To Jericho
Having placed his two hands on the very edge of the platform, the portly British Army Medical Officer, roundly cursing one and all, visibly shaken by what he had just seen, clambered back up onto the surface of the platform, and, legs apart, stood by the front buffer beam of the hissing, gently wheezing engine of the Dublin express.
The officer was breathing heavily, his face ashen, much like that of the young porter who, but a short while before, had burst in so unceremonious a fashion into the entrance lobby of the Railway Hotel on Galway station, and raised the alarm in the first place.
Clustered about him was a frightened, horrified gaggle of uniformed railway staff. The Medical Officer was livid; angered beyond belief on two counts. To begin with, he was infuriated at having had to interrupt the pleasant meal he was enjoying with his fellow officers in their mess situated on the first floor of the Railway Hotel, for something which, after all, was not army business, and which secondly, turned out to be a complete waste of his time. Gradually, the colour began to flood back into his face. Perspiring heavily, he pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his fevered brow, while from somewhere, towards the rear of the engine, could be heard the faint sound of water trickling from a pipe, punctuated by the slow, rhythmic pant of the locomotive's Westinghouse pump.
Unhurriedly, still perspiring, the now red faced officer surveyed the anxious, expectant faces of the group of men who had gathered round him including the engine driver and his fireman both in their dirty, coal, oil stained overalls, and the guard who had just arrived, none too quickly, from the rear of the train. The officer thought the red carnation in the guard's buttonhole seemed incongruous, strangely out of place, with the gravity of the proceedings unfolding, and in which they all were now involved.
"God Almighty, I've seen some bloody awful things … across the Channel, over there in France. But that …"
The officer jabbed a thumb curtly downwards in the direction of the oily motion and wheels of the engine, then blanched, fought back against the rising bout of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. Having wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, for a moment, he fell silent, swallowed hard, pursed his lips, and then shook his head emphatically at the stationmaster who had just appeared out of the fog, hastily buttoning the jacket of his uniform. Panting and out of breath, having run all the way over to the train from his office situated on the far side of the station, the stationmaster was accompanied by the young porter who had raised the initial alarm and in their wake by several blue clad officers from the Royal Irish Constabulary.
"Nothing to be done here; at least not by me. In fact, nothing anyone can do, except clear up the mess" said the officer tersely to the stationmaster. Evidently, he was habitually a man of few words, since he continued in the same laconic tone, brutal in its brevity. "Killed outright; death instantaneous; wouldn't have known a thing; if that's any comfort; which it probably isn't. I found this nearby, down there. It may help with identification; I can tell you, what is left won't".
The Medical Officer held up a delicate lace edged handkerchief that had once been white; was now soiled and bloodied.
"S C" I wonder who she was? Not that I suppose it matters; at least not to her. Not now. Here, man, you'd better have it".
All but imperceptibly, the officer nodded briskly to one of the several waiting police constables, handed the handkerchief over to him, and then barked sharply to the two army orderlies with the stretcher.
"You there! Stay here with that, until it's needed".
The two uniformed orderlies nodded their assent; understood what now must be done and the part they were expected to play in the conclusion of tonight's tragic proceedings.
The officer equally nodded his head at a group of railway gangers who had just appeared out of the fog and who, even as the Medical Officer was still speaking, had begun clambering down onto the line; equipped with paraffin lamps, shovels, and a stained, torn tarpaulin, once down on the ground, they began walking slowly towards the front wheels of the engine, once there, having the unenviable task of dealing with what now lay hidden beneath the locomotive, once it had been reversed out of the way.
The officer nodded curtly to them all, then turned briskly on his heel and left the scene to continue with his interrupted meal. The beef, he reflected, had been especially good; such a bloody waste. But, after seeing that, well he wasn't quite sure that even he had the stomach for it; nor indeed for Plum Duff and custard and he had been so looking forward to that. Perhaps a few stiff whiskies at the bar instead, and then an early night.
For his part, further back down the platform, Tom found his path towards the scene of the accident barred, initially by a seemingly endless flood of passengers from off the train, and thereafter by an unhelpful and then threatening group of constables from the Royal Irish Constabulary.
It was the unruly horde of passengers which Tom encountered first, seen but dimly at first, then looming up at him individually and in their twos and threes, out of the sulphurous murk of fog and steam. In the immediate aftermath of the incident all of the passengers on the Dublin express had been ordered to remain in their compartments. Now, at last, having been permitted to leave the train, they were streaming in a disorganised throng, many with their heads bowed, faces half hidden deeply within mufflers and scarves, along the fogbound platform towards the booking hall at the far end of the station.
None of the passengers as much as even glanced at the huddled group of men standing in conversation by the engine. Nor did any of them seem to care what it was that had happened, what precisely it was that had occurred in such an untimely way, and so inconsiderately, as to incommode them on the very last part of their journey into Galway. Not of course, that their lack of interest in the matter was particularly surprising, nor indeed personal to Tom. After all, few, if any of them, would have known precisely what it was that had happened, and even if they did, the identity of victim was not, at least for them of any consequence whatsoever.
Unlike Tom himself.
In vain, and with increasing desperation, by now with tears streaming down his face, Tom tried to force his way through the scrum of passengers, found himself pushed back none too gently. Of course, most of those from off the train were men including, in their midst, Tom noted, a black clad priest, aloof and serene, disdainful of his fellow travellers, and clearly uncomfortable of being forced into such close proximity with them; so unlike the kindly cleric Tom had encountered at St. Audoen's. Among the passengers was also a handful of women and children, all of whom were now moving quickly away from the scene, most, the priest as well, without even so much as a look, a backward glance, at Tom.
"Excuse me … let me through … please … excuse me … please … have any of you seen … a young woman … dark hair … I need to get … please … have you … dark hair … please …" Tom implored.
Nobody answered him, few of the passengers were prepared to even meet his tearful gaze, and of those that did, most hurriedly shook their heads, while the remainder shot Tom baleful, furtive glances of something which came close to pitying contempt. But, his calls for meaningful assistance, his tearful entreaties for help, both went totally unheeded, while his beseeching, pleading hands were angrily cast aside.
It was the presence of the Catholic priest walking hurriedly, perhaps even more so than all the rest, away from the scene that stirred deep within Tom a long forgotten memory from his childhood; of him sitting in bed, while his mother read to him the Parable of the Good Samaritan. Why, he hadn't thought of that in years. His recollection of it just now, must thought Tom, have something to with the silent unanswered prayer he had made but a short while ago to the Almighty.
But here they all were, just as in the tale his mother had read to him on that long gone evening. Not of course precisely the Pharisee and the Levite but, instead a crowd of decidedly secular passengers and a black clad Catholic priest, all from off the train; all minding their own business, all totally absorbed with their own concerns, all concentrating on their own affairs, and all concerned solely with getting on with their own lives.
Tonight, here on Galway station, the individual taking the place of the Samaritan was a British army officer, as hated and loathed by Tom's fellow Irishmen, as the Samaritans had been by the Jews; who had found himself dealing not with traveller from Jerusalem to Jericho ambushed by thieves, but instead with a nameless colleen who had died a violent death beneath the speeding wheels of the Dublin express.
Tom was no more successful with the police constables, who, following the passage of the last of the passengers from the train, together now formed a narrow but impervious cordon across the whole width of the platform, and despite his manifold, repeated, tearful entreaties, would not let him pass.
It was then that Tom saw the blood stained handkerchief one of the men was holding, recognised it for what it was.
"My wife's …" he said hoarsely, his voice cracking with emotion.
The constable shook his head unsympathetically.
"Evidence, see" he said bluntly, and stuffed the crumpled, soiled handkerchief into his pocket.
"Orders is orders, see. Now git!"
Tom staggered, leaned against a nearby railing, the tears running down his face, his whole body racked painfully by heart rending sobs that all but tore him apart. The sounds of the last of the passengers from off the Dublin express dwindled, faded into the fog, and were gone.
Somewhere a clock in the town a clock chimed the hour; a dog howled mournfully.
His head in his hands, the tears continuing to stream freely down his face, unchecked and unheeded, his whole body shaking with the depth of his sobbing, Tom slumped down onto a nearby luggage trolley, the surface of most of which was covered by damp bundles of newspapers, tied up with string, among them copies of tomorrow's Independent.
Sybil.
Beautiful Sybil.
His darling Sybil.
She was his whole being, his whole life, had been for years.
And now?
Now, that she was gone, no-one mattered to him anymore; nothing had any meaning. Certainly not Mary, not Edith, not even Ma, not Ciaran, not Donal or Emer. The struggle for Ireland didn't matter; his job didn't matter; his own life didn't matter.
About him, everything seemed to fade into silence.
Then, somewhere, lost in the fog, and just along from where Tom was sitting, a door quietly closed.
And, above the gentle rhythmic pant of the engine, it came.
He felt the hairs on the nape of his neck begin to rise. Whatever it was, it passed swiftly and away through the fogbound air. As it did so, Tom felt a chill brush softly across his skin, like the gentle caress of a woman's fingers. There had definitely been something though; akin he thought, to a sigh, little more than an echoed whisper.
Or perhaps ... an answer to a prayer.
Footfalls, muted by the fog, at first soft and indistinct, then growing louder, sounded on the surface of the platform.
Grew louder still.
Stopped in front of him.
Tom's head remained bowed down in grief; he didn't even bother to look up.
She spoke his name.
Hearing her voice, Tom looked up … to see Sybil standing there, gazing down at him, her face etched with worry and concern.
Tom let out a cry that must have been heard over on the far side of Eyre Square, instantly rose to his feet, and clasped Sybil to him in a heartfelt, tight, and tearful embrace.