Chapter Eighty Nine
Reflections By The Fire
It was just after nine o'clock, on a cold, frosty Saturday night, towards the end of November 1919.
Notwithstanding the time of the year, even here in Clontarf, on the east coast of Ireland, where the weather was often milder than elsewhere in Leinster, tonight, after darkness had fallen, the temperature outside had suddenly plummeted like the proverbial stone, so much so that Tom had gone into the back kitchen, drawn boiling water from the range, filled up the earthenware hot water bottle, and placed it in their bed so that it was cosy and warm for them both before they went up for the night.
And, judging from the look of Sybil earlier - she was already half asleep when Tom went back into the front room, it would not be long before he had to carry her upstairs to bed. But for the time being at least, with Tom back downstairs again, the two of them sat snuggled together by the hearth in front of the glowing fire, in the best room of Ma's snug little house. Sybil, as so often was the case, was happily ensconced on Tom's lap, her arms clasped tightly round his neck, her head comfortingly pillowed against his shoulder. Tonight, they had not even bothered to light either of the lamps, preferring to sit in the darkness while the flickering firelight cast comforting shadows on the ceiling, the furniture, and the walls of the homely room.
For the time being, as the year drew inexorably down towards its close and the days grew ever shorter, as autumnal gales of increasing severity swept in from off the Irish Sea, evening walks along the strand were no longer an option. So, tonight they had done what they now did on most evenings, unless of course Tom was out pursuing a story, or else Sybil was working a late shift at the Coombe. After supper was over, and they had washed up, they sat together by the fire in the front room, or else by the range in the back kitchen, where they read, chatted, talked over the day's events, what had happened at Tom's office and at the Coombe, and discussed the ever worsening political situation here in Ireland.
Just last week, Tom had decided to bring his battered, secondhand desk down from his old bedroom upstairs and set it up in the front bay window overlooking the sea so that in the evenings, providing that they were both at home together he could be in the same room as Sybil while he worked on drafting, editing, proofing, and writing a variety of articles for the Independent.
Obviously, Sybil knew that Tom had an enquiring mind but, until they were married, was unaware of his fascination with how all manner of things worked; that he also had a natural flair when it came to repairing anything which had broken or ceased to work as it should. He also liked tinkering - Sybil's choice of word not his - simply for the sheer enjoyment it brought him, be it with a lock or the mechanism of a clock. It was hardly surprising, therefore, that at his office on Talbot Street, when the opportunity arose, Tom had quickly taught himself how to use a typewriter and soon became very proficient at using it.
So, when the Independent acquired several rather more up to date models, Tom had jumped at the chance of acquiring gratis an old Underwood Number 5, which made the preparation of his articles at home after work so much easier.
And, in the evenings which followed the arrival of the Underwood at the little house in Clontarf, while Sybil sat and read, dozed, or else perhaps darned a pair of his socks, the sight of Tom hunched over his typewriter became a regular occurrence. In time, the tapping of the keys, the zip of the carriage, the ring of the bell as Tom came close to a margin, often accompanied by a string of half smothered Irish profanities when Tom found inspiration lacking or felt there to be something amiss with one of his drafts, these became as familiar to Sybil as the sight and sound of the sea gulls crying, soaring, and wheeling above the waves breaking on the seashore down below the house.
This evening, sitting by the fire, Tom, finding that he was beginning to get cramp in his legs, shifted gently in his chair, so as to avoid the pain becoming any worse, but at the same time, doing so in such a way so as not to disturb Sybil. Her suspicions that she was pregnant had been correct and had been confirmed by one of the doctors at the Coombe shortly after their return to Dublin from Galway. In the last few days, Sybil had begun to tire far more easily, noticed the change herself; on occasions, snapped irritably at Tom, which was most unusual for her.
Sitting gazing at the myriad, ever changing, fleeting patterns cast by the dancing flames of the fire, listening to Sybil's gentle breathing as she dozed, her left hand placed protectively across her stomach, something which she had recently taken to doing, Tom felt his own eyes begin to grow heavy, to close in sleep. Abruptly, he shook his head to keep himself awake, and, still gazing at the fire, began to reflect upon all that had happened to them both over the last twelve months.
Extraordinary.
There simply was no other word for it.
Thus far, it had been a quite extraordinary year, one that he and Sybil too would never forget. In fact he could not imagine experiencing a year like it ever again; doubted if she could either. Why, just this time last year he was still a poor, lowly chauffeur. Well, poor maybe, but never lowly. Definitely not; after all, he had never thought of himself as that - except in jest and, as for Sybil, she was still working in the military convalescent home established at Downton.
Then, at last, the war had ended. Mr. Matthew, as he then was, at least to Tom, had not yet regained the use of his legs, Miss Swire was still alive and well, and Sybil, correction Lady Sybil, was still as undecided as ever as to whether she and Tom had a future together. That they did, was decided by them shortly afterwards, leading to their failed elopement, the never to be forgotten confrontation with Sybil's father in the drawing room at Downton, and finally to his grudging recognition of their engagement, their intention to marry, to settle, and to work in Dublin.
But, of course, at least where Sybil's father was concerned, recognition did not mean acceptance.
Soon after that Tom and Sybil had bordered the Munster for the sea crossing over here to Ireland and to a whole new way of life for them both; to new occupations, to their wedding, and to so much more, most importantly of which being that, God willing, in the spring, they would become parents. But, for the time being, until her pregnancy had progressed somewhat further, while Ma and the rest of Tom's family over here in Ireland were privy to their happy news, Sybil had resolved to say nothing to her own parents or sisters until she was certain that everything was as it should be.
Glancing down at the floor, Tom's eyes alighted on yesterday's copy of the Independent. Virtually all the newspapers here in Ireland were full of articles discussing and reporting on every detail of the British Cabinet's Irish Committee's decision to establish two Home Rule parliaments. One would be established here in Dublin, the other in Belfast, along with the setting up of a Council of Ireland to provide a unified framework for the whole country.
This evening, however, there had been yet another article, of more immediate interest to both Tom and Sybil, albeit now relegated to one of the inside pages, speculating on what it was that had come to pass on the fogbound platform of Galway station back at the end of October.
Of course, they had gone over the incident many times during the last few weeks. Indeed, both of them still had nightmares about it, in which the grim events of that foggy night repeated themselves, stark in their gruesome detail, to their individual and mutual discomfort, but in the end to no real purpose.
What exactly it was that had happened on that foggy autumn night at the end of October still mystified them both; indeed, from the letters written to editors of several of the papers, apparently mystified many, the more so because even now, the identity of the victim who died such a ghastly death, cut to pieces, under the speeding wheels of the Dublin express, still remained a mystery.
From the several accounts of the affair now in circulation, all of which Tom had taken very great pains to read, despite strenuous assertions to the contrary at the time - as he had very good cause to recall - it was now unanimously accepted that the victim had been male and that the British, for reasons of their own, appeared to have taken deliberate steps to ensure that the victim's identity was never known.
That the Times had seen fit to state categorically that "as a result of reliable information which has recently come into our possession from an unimpeachable source close to Dublin Castle" - the seat of British power here in Ireland - that the British authorities were not involved in attempting to cover something up, was according to Tom, irrefutable confirmation for him that precisely the opposite was true.
And then, said Tom, there was the question as to whether the footsteps Sybil insisted she had heard pounding along the platform had belonged to Stathum or to another individual. Had Stathum found himself being followed not just by Sybil, but by someone else? Had he perhaps encountered someone out there in the fog? Maybe even a member of the local IRA. A struggle had then ensued culminating in the death of the victim, who had fallen or been pushed under the train as it entered the station. Sybil was horrified, baulked at the very idea, but said Tom, both of them knew that, despite his mask of affability, just how ruthless and unpleasant Stathum could be. Apart from trying to discredit Tom and ruin his reputation for impartiality, Stathum had promised that no harm would come to Peadar in Kilmainham. And look what had happened.
Or was it possible that Stathum had been meeting with a local contact of his own, someone working for the British perhaps? After all, it was well known that there were many here in Ireland who were genuinely loyal to both King and Country and saw it as their bounden duty to become unpaid informers or spies for the British administration. Of course others who did so were far less altruistic in their motives; who instead sold information in their possession for money. As Tom then remarked, not for nothing was it often said that the best force the British had at their disposal was St. George's Cavalry - a seemingly endless supply of gold sovereigns!
And, explained Tom, just as the Royal Irish Constabulary and the British Army gathered information on them, so the IRA returned the compliment and in good measure too. It was well known that within the British forces there were some who were passing information, including the identities of suspected spies, to the republicans. That the IRA was quite prepared to execute those implicated in spying against them was well known. After all, but a matter of months ago, in August 1919, said Tom, across the border from Galway, down in East Clare, the IRA had issued a proclamation warning that informers and spies would be shot. So, observed Tom dryly, perhaps the death of a nameless individual beneath the speeding wheels of the Dublin express should be laid at the door of the local IRA, although, on balance, it seemed likely that the truth of the matter would never be known.
That the victim was possibly a British informer, perhaps a double agent, was certainly one possibility, but whether he was the same man that Sybil had seen sitting in the alcove near to where Tom and his colleagues were meeting, the dark haired man with a moustache, who reminded her so much of the late, odious Major Bryant, and who had been taking notes of what Tom and his colleagues were discussing, as yet remained unproven.
Circuitous enquiries pursued independently by Tom as to the whereabouts of Captain Miles Stathum had proved equally inconclusive; frustratingly so. From one of his contacts, Tom learned that Stathum had apparently left Ireland several weeks before the incident on Galway station. And yet, if Sybil said it was definitely Stathum she had seen on the fogbound platform that night, Tom believed her. Whether or not he was also the man Sybil had seen earlier sitting in the alcove, she could not say. Tom saw no reason to disbelieve her version of events; Sybil was not disposed to be fanciful. Clearly, something did not add up, but here they both were, well over a month later, and with neither of them still any closer to learning the truth of what had actually happened.
As to what Sybil herself recollected of the event, she said she was adamant, that she had not been dreaming, at least not to begin with; distinctly remembered laying aside her novel, getting up from the fireside, and going over to the alcove, only to find it empty. She remembered too, stepping through the door at the rear of the alcove and out onto the platform; that it was cold and foggy, that she had suddenly felt unwell.
But, she remembered very little else after that, except fragments of an extremely unpleasant dream, more akin to a nightmare, wherein she found herself falling forward from the edge of a railway platform into the path of an oncoming train; until she awoke to find herself lying safe and sound on a leather covered bench in the Ladies' Waiting Room of Galway station. Sybil also said she recalled having some all too fleeting, exceedingly pleasurable images, of Tom. Jokingly Tom suggested that perhaps he too had been part of her nightmare, but from Sybil's expression and her pithy response, that if he was going to make fun of her, that she wouldn't discuss the matter with him any further. Realising that she was in earnest, Tom had promptly apologised.
Thereafter, they both agreed that, whilst still asleep, she must have heard the approach of the Dublin express, perhaps even heard the accident itself, albeit not from the edge of the platform, but rather from the safety and warmth of the Ladies' Waiting Room further down the platform. When she had awoken, she had looked for her handkerchief and had been unable to find it. That she had dropped it on the platform seemed more than likely. As Tom pointed out, the fog was especially dense that night, and said that anyone who had ever been out in such weather would know the way fog can disorientate you, let through some sounds, and shut others off.
Sybil nodded, but seemed unconvinced; said that after waking up in the Ladies' Waiting Room, she had set off in search of Tom, only to find him, all but incoherent, in floods of tears, seated on a luggage trolley, believing that it was she who had gone under the train, instead of a nameless individual, unknown to either of them.
But, as to the imagined shove she had felt from behind, her falling in front of the oncoming train, both could have no existence, no reality, outside the borders of Sybil's fevered dream. It was the only explanation that made any sense, not only to Tom, but also to Sybil herself. After all, as she had so astutely remarked, she was alive, uninjured, and here to tell the tale. From what she had read, for all the advances made by Freud in Vienna, there was still so much as yet unknown, about the complexities of the human mind, and which could so easily play tricks upon the unwary.
And, said Sybil, Freud even had an explanation for dreaming about falling, which apparently "usually occurs in the first stage of sleep and indicate that you are contemplating giving in to a sexual urge or impulse". When Sybil had chosen to impart this particular piece of psychological knowledge, they had just made love, were lying pleasurably naked in bed; whereupon Tom had guffawed, and, mindful of the baby, had rolled gently over on top of her with his eyes firmly closed and said that he felt he was falling.
Tom chuckled softly at the remembrance. It was at that moment that the pile of glowing coals at the very heart of the fire in the grate suddenly collapsed inwards in a shower of sparks. The flames flared and the sudden rush of light woke Sybil from her light slumber.
"Tom!" she cried out in sudden alarm.
"It's all right, love, it's all right, I'm here" said Tom soothingly, clasping her to him, and nuzzling her hair. "There's nothing to be afraid of, my love. It's just the fire".
Shortly thereafter, having had to carry Sybil upstairs, when they were both in bed, while Sybil slept peacefully beside him, Tom remembered that there was an issue which he himself needed to address.
While he had deliberately chosen not to respond to his cousin Maeve's initial letter to him informing him of the death of his Uncle Jacob, she had now written to him again, several times, using, as before, the services of an intermediary to ensure that her letter was delivered to him, initially at the offices of the Independent and thereafter at Rose Duffy's flower shop on Henry Street. In her letters Maeve repeatedly begged Tom to get in touch. Her latest letter told how her mother had suffered some kind of seizure, was now bed-ridden. Most of the servants had been paid off and much of the house was shut up. Given what was happening in Munster, first with the proclamation of the Limerick Soviet earlier in the year and with all the violence, there were even rumours that a detachment of British soldiers might be billeted at Skerries.
As before, while he felt uncomfortable about not doing so, Tom had still not replied. So far, he had said nothing to Sybil on the subject of Maeve's later letters, but he knew Sybil had sensed that something was wrong. However, as yet, Tom had no answer as to how to broach with her the subject of what it was that was troubling him.
So, just before he fell asleep, his arms wrapped protectively round Sybil, the answer still eluded him.
What on earth was he going to do … about Maeve and Skerries House?
Author's Note:
"St. George's Cavalry" was the nickname given to the gold sovereigns paid to informers and spies working for the British – the name deriving from the image on the obverse of the coin - a figure of St. George shown as a Roman soldier mounted on a horse with, beneath its hooves, a representation of the Dragon.
In August 1919, the IRA in East Clare did indeed issue a proclamation warning that anyone caught informing or spying for the British would be shot. This had the desired effect of deterring most from indulging in such activities for well over a year.
Sigmund Freud (1856-1939) was an Austrian neurologist who is known as the founding father of psychoanalysis.
The Limerick Soviet existed for about a fortnight in April 1919 and came into being when the British declared most of Limerick and some of the surrounding district as a "Special Military Area". This prompted a general strike organised by the Limerick Trades and Labour Council, during which time the Soviet printed its own money and arranged the distribution of food supplies. The word "soviet" unnerved the British Authorities as it was the establishment of soviets in Russia which had, in part, led to the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917.