Chapter Ninety
Adeste Fideles
Whether in Downton, or else across the Irish Sea here in Dublin, it was still unquestionably Christmas Eve. Indeed, so as to be more precise, six o'clock in the evening on Christmas Eve, 1919, with the old year now fast drawing down to its close.
As on the previous few days, the weather in Dublin, perhaps even over in Downton as well, had followed an all too predictable pattern, with a brief spell of winter sunshine around midday, then heavy snow showers falling well into the evening, followed by a bone chilling, iron hard frost.
Having finished what had turned out to be a particularly trying day shift at the Coombe, head bent, coated, gloved, and well muffled and wrapped against the biting chill of the late December evening, Sybil trudged wearily through the falling snow to the tram stop beneath Nelson's Pillar. Earlier in the day, she had had to contend with a stillbirth, a breech birth, and being called "an English bitch" by a woman in a protracted labour. Of course, Sybil had had to endure verbal abuse before, some of it far worse, had told Tom about it, said that it did not matter, recited the timeworn maxim of "sticks and stones"; but today, for some strange reason that she could not as yet fathom, the insult had rankled more than usual. Had hurt, really hurt.
Perhaps in her heightened emotional state, she was simply more sensitive to all manner of things, however trivial, on account of her advancing pregnancy. Certainly, on a couple of occasions in the past few days, she had been unusually short with Tom. Not that he seemed to mind. For, intuitively, he always seemed to know exactly how she was feeling; knew that, from time to time, she experienced pangs of homesickness for Downton, which he said was only natural, even though her home was now here with him in Dublin; something Sybil would not have changed for the world.
It was, said Tom, also only natural that Sybil would remember past Christmases spent at Downton with an especial fondness. However, even if both of them had been able to take unpaid leave of absence from their respective jobs, which they could not, there was absolutely no question of them booking passage over to England to spend the festive season in Yorkshire, however much her mother and sisters would have wished it so: the Bransons simply did not have the money to pay for the price of the steamer tickets.
From Mama's letters, including that received as recently as yesterday, well as from those they had received regularly from both Mary and Edith, Tom and Sybil knew only too well that that her father was still as implacably opposed to their marriage as ever. Yet, even if that had not been the case, and things were different in that regard, Tom would not have countenanced spending any more of the small sum of money that the earl of Grantham had so begrudgingly bestowed upon them and certainly not as a means to fund their crossing over to England.
Besides which, given Sybil's advancing pregnancy, let alone the unpredictability of the weather in the Irish Sea at this time of the year, undertaking a sea voyage to England in December and then a lengthy train journey would be foolhardy in the extreme. In any event, given the hospitality which Tom's family had shown her upon her arrival here in Ireland in June, let alone what had then happened to Peadar, as well as the death of Ma's sister, it seemed only right and proper that Tom and Sybil should spend their first Christmas together as man and wife here in Dublin, along with Ma and all the rest of the Bransons.
In the few short months which had elapsed since their marriage in July, Tom had proved himself over and over again, if any proof was necessary, to be a marvellous husband, wonderful lover, and perfect soul mate. Sybil knew she could never have been loved by anyone as much as she was loved by Tom; knew equally that, for her part, she herself could never have loved anyone else but Tom.
And, despite all the drawbacks, all the sacrifices, all the difficulties, and all the problems, which they had both encountered along the way, both before and after their marriage, Sybil knew in her heart that she would not have wanted it any other way, could not have wished for a better man for her husband. Mary could marry Sir Richard Carlisle, Edith, perhaps, Sir Anthony Strallan; her own friends could marry the sons of marquesses, dukes, and earls; those who had been lucky enough to survive the dreadful cull of the Great War, all of them inordinately wealthy, extremely well connected, with vast country estates, and fine town houses up in London. Well, each to their own, and good luck to them all.
But Sybil had something that money and position could never buy; the unquestioning love of a wonderful, wonderful man, for all that her own father might consider Tom beyond the pale of respectability. Respectability be damned thought Sybil. Respectability would not keep her warm at night, the way Tom's strong enfolding arms did. And it was the very thought of those strong enfolding arms that sustained her as she trudged ever onwards through the thickly falling veil of snow.
Here, in the very heart of Dublin, on either side of every street, given that it was Christmas Eve, even at this hour, many of the shops were still open, and from them, the comforting warm glow of lamplight blazed forth, spilling out from behind their plate glass doors and windows, from behind the etched glass panes of the public houses, the cafes, and the restaurants, making the snowbound pavements glisten and sparkle as if they had been strewn with minute diamonds. But, not surprisingly, the snow clad streets of Dublin were no more strewn with diamonds than those of London were paved with gold.
Tom had a word for it: "existing". And, having for herself, now seen the disease and deprivation which stalked the tenements north of the Liffey river, Sybil would not take issue with Tom's astute assessment that many of those individuals who had flocked to Dublin in search of work, had found instead only destitution and poverty, eked out a miserable existence, cold, hungry, even starving, forced to live in abject squalor, counting themselves fortunate if they managed to eat one hot meal a day usually only of potatoes.
Despite the worsening weather and the time of day, because the shops were still open, the pavements were much busier than usual. While of course both Ripon, and Downton too, had shops, neither place could match the number or the diversity of those which lined the streets here in Dublin. After all, Ripon was but a small cathedral city, Downton no more than a village, while Dublin was, as Tom had told her, on, if Sybil remembered correctly, their very first day here together in Ireland the second city of the British Empire.
So, it was not surprising that the kaleidoscope of goods and wares on offer was truly breathtaking. With this is mind, Sybil paused for a moment's rest from her present task of purposefully wending her way through the dark clad, snow flecked, thronging crowds, many of whom were heavily laden with all manner of bags and packages. She came to a halt in front of the next shop along the snowbound pavement, which turned out to be a grocer's.
Here, the amount and variety of food on display behind the plate glass windows was amazing; incredible. Most, if not all of it, was well beyond the ability of many of those living here in Dublin to purchase. Both the left and right had windows of the shop were festooned with holly and mistletoe, and were given over to large displays of bottle plums, greengages, gooseberries, and damsons, for tarts, along with, above, nets of melons suspended from the ceiling. Beneath, on the wooden floor, stood barrels of grapes, pomegranates, oranges, and tangerines, along with stacked boxes of apples, pears, and pineapples.
There were other goods on display too, among them a range of very fine Cheddar cheeses, which had, according to a printed notice, prior to the war, once taken First Prize at the Royal Agricultural Show held in York. It would, thought Sybil, have to be York, and for a moment, her feeling of homesickness all but threatened to overwhelm her.
To the right of the display of Cheddar cheeses, were several large Stiltons, then trays of eggs, along with a bewildering assortment of Harris Wiltshire hams, sausages, Melton Mowbray pork pies, and flitches of bacon. There was also a splendid show of tinned goods, Christmas cakes, home-made mincemeat, figs, lemon cheese, honey, boxes of preserved ginger, almonds, dates, nuts, dried fruits, and fancy boxes of chocolates, along with other kinds of confectionary. By the door, Sybil could see a large stand displaying muscatelles, Metz fruits, and Huntley and Palmer's biscuits packaged in gaily painted tins.
Drawing a breath of icy air into her lungs, Sybil inched her way, moved slowly along the crowded, ice bound pavement, passing a poulterer's, the front of which was all but hidden from sight, as was what was displayed within; cuts of meats, long strings of thick pink sausages, and neatly stacked richly crusted pies – by the snow crested bodies of all manner of dead birds and game. These included rabbits, hares, ducks, geese, pigeons, partridges, and pheasants, all of which were suspended from rows of hooks and hung upside down.
Just along from the poulterer's, was a high class draper's, the windows of which were decorated with branches of evergreen, moss, and holly, along with white wadding made, apparently, from cotton wool, which added to the overall festive and seasonal effect.
Within were displayed women's evening wear, in the form of beautiful dresses, along with the requisite capes, furs, mufflers, and long silk gloves; appropriate enough for a dinner in the Dining Room at Downton, but which, thought Sybil bitterly, would serve little purpose, and look singularly out of place, in Henrietta Street here in Dublin. There were winter overcoats and smart suits for both gentlemen and young boys, along with white dress shirts, festoons of collars, cuffs, handkerchiefs, a truly bewildering selection of ties, silk hats, felt hats, tweed hats, and caps, along with a number of children's pinafores and frocks. At the bottom of all the displays were exhibited in profusion, every conceivable manner of footwear for gentlemen, ladies, and children, including boots and shoes for the winter season.
Taking care so as to avoid slipping on the frozen, rutted surface of the road, Sybil crossed the crowded street and headed over towards the Pillar topped by its snow shrouded figure of Nelson. At its foot, even at this hour, mingling with, but seemingly unheeded by, those seeking to catch their trams out of the city, here and there, Sybil noticed some of those very individuals who, to use Tom's own word, "existed" on the fringes of Dublin society.
Of course, since June, she had seen these poor creatures and others like them, many times. They included the usual group of raggedly dressed women, some accompanied by equally ill kempt, mal-nourished children, who were attempting to sell pathetically small bunches of flowers, while among them drifted individual women, liberally made-up with rouge and garishly dressed, presumably down from the Monto, who were trying to hawk a more intimate and personal form of wares.
Close by, beggars and vagrants pleaded for charity, among them, to Sybil's utter dismay and consternation, a one legged soldier, presumably a casualty from the Great War, now reduced to beggary on the snow covered streets of Dublin. What made the former soldier's plight all the more harrowing was that with several thousand British troops stationed here in barracks, some of whom were perhaps former comrades in arms of the disabled man, Dublin was a garrison city.
Close to the Pillar and the burnt out ruins of the General Post Office, bone tired and weary, Sybil stood awaiting the arrival of her tram; prayed it would be on time. Near to where she was standing, a uniformed band of the Salvation Army was playing and singing Christmas carols. As the Clontarf tram clattered into view, the haunting strains of the final verse of "In The Bleak Midwinter" rang out:
"What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
Yet, what I can I give Him: give my heart"
The sung words and music drifted above Sybil's head, above those of the bustling, jostling crowds who still thronged the lamp lit streets here in the very heart of the city; drifted higher still above the snow capped spires and grey slate roofs, echoing down among the decaying, squalid tenements and quays north of the river, whispered faintly between the ornate columns of the newly restored entrance hall of the Shelbourne Hotel, among the bare, black branches of the trees in St. Stephen's Green, more faintly still through the elegant streets and squares close to Dublin Castle, drifted down the Liffey river, faded, and were gone.