Chapter Ninety One
Keep the Home Fires Burning
Standing by the Pillar, Sybil breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief as, through a veil of freshly falling snow, the tram for Clontarf finally hove into view. With it being Christmas Eve, not surprisingly, all the trams were positively crammed with all kinds of passengers, and it was only thanks to a well mannered young man, who was getting off at the next stop, who seeing her condition, politely touched the brim of his cap and offered Sybil his corner seat, that she avoided having to stand. Bestowing her young saviour on the tram a radiant smile, and with grateful words of thanks, Sybil sank wearily onto the seat which had been vacated for her. Homeward bound! That, she thought, had a lovely ring to it; home to Tom, to supper, to a warm fire, and then a nice hot bath.
What with the pattern of her shifts at the Coombe, the attack by the IRA on the printing presses of the Independent following the publication of articles by the paper to which some of its members had taken offence, and now, in the wake of the recent attempted assassination by the IRA of the Viceroy, Lord French, in Phoenix Park, the incessant demands made upon Tom in the last few days by Mr. Harrington his editor, let alone Tom writing up a detailed piece for the Independent on the Better Government of Ireland Bill just introduced into the House of Commons, recently, both he and Sybil had seen precious little of each other in the last few days.
They both missed the cosy fireside domesticity of the past few weeks, Sybil in particular. She said as much to Tom, who agreed, but observed with a chuckle, at supper on one of the evenings when it was his turn to cook and when they were both in the house together for an evening meal, that every cloud had a silver lining.
"Meaning what? Sybil asked, genuinely perplexed, only seeing the amused glint in Tom's eyes at the last minute. But by then, of course, it was too late.
"Well, love, with you not being here to cook ..."
"Yes?" persisted Sybil.
"Well, it gives my stomach something of a fighting chance ..."
At that Sybil had stuck out her tongue, flung a damp tea towel at Tom and told him that he could jolly well wash and dry up too!"
Tom caught hold of her as she made to pass him in the small kitchen and drew her down on to his lap; nuzzling her throat, covering her face with kisses, said he adored her burnt offerings, but then added that it was just as well that Ma had returned for Christmas from Lettermullen, otherwise with him being at the office so much, they would both have starved to death!
Because both she and Tom would be working on Christmas Day, something which, when she had written and told Mary about it, her eldest sister simply could not understand, and also so as to mark Sybil's first Christmas here in Ireland, Ciaran and Aislin had asked Ma and the two of them to a festive supper out at the farm the following Sunday.
Niamh and her two children had already been over to the farm shortly before Christmas, while Donal was at work. Emer, now widowed some five months, was still lodging with Donal and his family in Rathmines and since the farm held too many awful memories for her, the wounds occasioned by Peadar's arrest and death at the hands of the British still being too raw, understandably, she had felt unable to accompany Niamh and the children.
So, while they had visited the farm, Ma had gone over to keep Emer company and was to stay there in Rathmines over Christmas, returning to Clontarf in time to travel out to the farm on Sunday in the second hand Model T Ford Tom had hired a few days ago from the garage which had done such a splendid job of repairing Edmund Kelly's bull nosed Morris after it had been shot up by the British at the ambush on the Howth road. Ma herself had never travelled in a motor and was looking forward to the trip immensely, especially, she said, with Tommy as her chauffeur, causing Sybil to remark that it was a shame he had not brought his uniform with him over from Downton.
As the tram rattled on its way through the snowy streets of the city, Sybil reflected that for her, this first Christmas spent over here in Ireland, would be unlike any other which she had experienced to date. Even little things were so different from how they were at Downton. Take something as mundane as Christmas cards for example. At Downton, each year, the Crawleys were the recipients of a veritable blizzard of cards, but over here in Ireland, so far, she and Tom had received but three.
Two had come from England and the third, most unexpectedly, from the United States; all had been addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. T. Branson", something which pleased Sybil enormously, even more than the cards contained within the three envelopes.
The card from the United States was from Sybil's American grandmother, Martha Levinson. Although Tom had never met her, Sybil assured him that the card Martha had sent them, and which depicted, seated before a roaring fire, a laughing, rubicund Father Christmas was just the kind of colourful Christmas card her grandmother always sent to Downton; as the Dowager Countess would say "brash, vulgar, and typically American".
It was Tom, who on closer examination of the card, observed the half empty bottle of Tennessee rye whiskey reposing next to Father Christmas, causing Sybil to remark that she seemed to recall hearing her father mention, at least in passing, that Martha herself was especially partial to a glass of whiskey. This produced a chuckle from Tom, who was himself equally fond of a glass or two of malt, but only in moderation, causing him to remark that from the rosiness of his cheeks, which almost matched the redness of his outfit, Father Christmas looked positively inebriated, so much so that he would have been totally incapable of driving a sleigh anywhere, and so clearly intoxicated that he should not be allowed near anyone, especially small children.
The letter inside the card was overtly friendly, long and breezy, full of gossip from the States, wished them both every continued happiness in their marriage, said that Martha had heard "a very great deal about you, Tom, from Sybil's dearest Mama" and that Martha "looked forward to meeting you my boy when that old stick in the mud" I assume she means Papa said Sybil with a giggle, "deigns to ask you both to stay at Downton. And, if he doesn't buck his ideas up soon in that regard, he will have me to answer too" finished Martha with a plethora of under linings and a positive flurry of exclamation remarks.
The first of the two cards from England to arrive was that from the Dowager Countess. Signed from "Your Ever Most Loving Granny", it enclosed a letter addressed to them both, which while expressing the customary season's greetings, was equally also full of gossip from both town and county, most of which meant little to Sybil and even less to Tom, although he had heard of some of the places mentioned by the Dowager Countess: Burton Hall, Houghton House, and Castle Wilsthorpe, and to which he had driven various members of the Crawley family, when in service at Downton.
Sybil's grandmother also let slip that, while no guests were expected at the abbey over Christmas, along with Cousin Matthew and his mother "so well informed one would imagine she must have digestedall the volumes of the Encyclopædia Britannica, seemingly without any ill-effect upon her constitution", Sir Richard Carlisle would be seeing in the New Year with the family, unless, of course, he was unavoidably detained up in town, the prospect of which, did not seem to dismay Mary one iota; in fact, quite the reverse, or so said the Dowager Countess. Forgetful of Sybil's chosen profession, granny then proceeded to offer them both tried and tested tips for staying healthy "at this most inclement time of the year", and that if all else failed, they should both "wear socks in bed" to keep warm. Tom grinned, said there were more pleasurable ways of keeping warm in bed which did not require the wearing of socks and Sybil's eyes had lifted at her grandmother's very mention of the word "bed".
The second card from England was from Mama, Mary, and Edith, was addressed inside to "Dearest Tom and Darling Sybil" and wished them both a "Merry Christmas". Mama had added a postscript, saying that all three of them were looking forward immensely to both Tom and Sybil visiting Downton in the New Year, with or without the approval of the earl of Grantham.
"If your father doesn't change his mind about me, do you think I'll have to use the servants' entrance?" had quipped Tom.
"I expect we both will" laughed Sybil.
Along with the card, had come a wicker hamper, much like the one they had received just before their wedding, delivered to the house this time the day before Christmas Eve and again by a dray belonging to the Dublin and South Eastern Railway. When the hamper was opened, it was found to contain all kinds of seasonal fare, including, wrapped in a muslin bag, a small Christmas Pudding.
Sybil squealed with delight when she realised what it was.
"Oh! My favourite!"
Holding the muslin bag to her nose, she inhaled deeply, provoking a pithy comment from Tom that no-one was in the trenches, the war had been over for more than a year, "feckin' charity food parcels from home", however well-intentioned, were totally un-necessary, and that they were perfectly capable of keeping the home fires burning without assistance from the Crawleys, thus earning him a reproving look from Sybil, who was kneeling on the floor of the kitchen by the range, slowly unpacking the contents of the hamper, which included not only a mouth watering selection of food stuffs from the local grocer's down in the High Street at Downton, but several pies and tarts from the kitchen up at the abbey, presumably made and then baked by Mrs. Patmore and Daisy.
"It's not charity, Tom" said Sybil, this time without looking up. "No-one will ever offer either you or me that. It's sent to us with their love. And if that's good enough for me, then it should be for you too!"
"Very gratifying" said Tom, sounding uncharacteristically grumpy and morose.
"So it damned well should be! And, you'd better not let Ma hear you speak like that. Remember the last time you were this way? Just before our wedding? She threatened to box your ears, and since she is a woman of her word, Tom, it's as well that what you just said will stay between the two of us and these four walls. Now, instead of whingeing about the iniquities of the social order, make yourself useful and put these in the larder!" So saying, Sybil handed Tom several packets of tea.
"I don't whinge" said Tom miserably. "I comment!"
"Well, comment away all you like, Mr. Branson, but while you're doing so, be a dear, and put these in there as well" said Sybil indicating the larder with a nod of her head.
"Hey, I can't carry any more!"
"Of course you can!" exclaimed Sybil. And, as if to prove the truth of what she had just said, she loaded his already burgeoning arms with yet another couple of tins.
Shaking his head, Tom groaned, pretended to stagger under the combined weight of all the groceries in his arms and, still muttering, shambled slowly into the larder.
"I don't tinker with things either; I repair them", he mumbled peevishly, standing back, gazing sullenly at the bottled jars of jams and preserves which he had just placed on the rapidly filling shelves of the larder.
"I heard that!" laughed Sybil merrily from the kitchen.
However, while both Tom and Sybil wisely forbore, at least for the present to make any mention of the missing signatory to the second Christmas card from England, neither of them could but fail to laugh at the complete irony of the designs on the front of the two cards, and which, in fairness, had probably escaped their respective signatories.
Somewhat surprisingly, that from the Dowager Countess, belied her characteristically frosty exterior, and featured two bright eyed, happy children, a young boy and a girl, kneeling on the ends of their beds, gazing out expectantly from the window of their bedroom, as a laughing, smiling, waving Father Christmas, seated in a sleigh drawn by two prancing reindeer, his sack bulging with presents, sailed before the children across the darkened moonlit night sky outside and sped past the lamp lit room within.
"I don't know why they look so damned happy" commented Tom sarcastically and with the briefest of chuckles. "It's feckin' obvious that Father Christmas isn't stopping. So, no presents for them then; like it is for so many others I could mention!"
The card from Mama, Mary and Edith also depicted two children, but here the similarity with the one sent by the Dowager Countess ended. The pair of children shown on the second card were raggedly dressed, standing on a snow covered pavement, their noses pressed against the window of a brightly illuminated toy shop, feasting their eyes on all that was on offer within which, at least for them, was all too obviously out of reach.
Holding up the two cards, Tom grinned at Sybil, his eyes sparkling momentarily with mirth.
"God knows why those who design these cards have such an obsession with snow!" he observed dryly, his gleeful expression suddenly changing, vanishing in an instant, his eyes now opaque as if sheathed in ice. "Have they ever sat outside, huddled in a doorway, at this time of year, and tried to keep warm in threadbare clothes? I know I have!"
Sybil saw Tom's eyes then cloud, mist with tears. Instinctively she went to him, reached up, and clasped her arms about his neck, holding him as close to her as the growing baby would allow, trying to re-assure him, to help banish the ghosts of the past, realising in that very moment how different all of her own childhood Christmases had been from those of Tom.
"I suppose it's tradition, Charles Dickens, 'A Christmas Carol'; just like Christmas Pudding" said Sybil softly at length, resting her head gently on his shoulder.
"For some, maybe" said Tom bluntly. He sniffed audibly. "But I think ..." he said, now nosing the scent of her hair, "...it's rather more to do with turning a blind eye to the way things really are; the snow helps hide some of the grim realities of life.
Come to think of it, I suppose it's a bit like one of your doctors down at the Coombe being fascinated by something he sees on a specimen slide under a microscope, forgetting if only for the moment that diseases do horrible things to people! After all, think just how grim life is for those living down in the tenements north of the Liffey, not only at Christmas, but always. I guarantee that they won't be receiving a Christmas hamper from Downton any time soon. And, if you don't believe me, just you go down to Henrietta Street and ask anyone living there when they were last ever warm, decently clothed, housed, had a full meal, let alone ate Christmas Pudding, and they'll tell you precisely what they think of your Dickensian 'traditions' ... and exactly what you can do with them!"
At that, Sybil had flushed, released her hold, and drew back from Tom, regarded him thoughtfully through narrowed lids. For a moment, she felt completely at a loss, and for an equal instant, there was brought painfully and sharply into focus for Sybil, just how different their two lives had once been.
But then, realising that Tom spoke but the simple truth, always wore his heart on his sleeve - after all, who should know that better than she herself did - Sybil took no offence. Instead, she merely nodded her head, in her mind's eye seeing once again the group of ragged flower sellers huddled together beneath the snow shrouded bulk of Nelson's Pillar down on Sackville Street; realised just how lucky both she and Tom were.
They might not have much money, but they both had jobs at which they excelled. More importantly, they had each other and, God willing, a whole lifetime together; a child born out of their love was on the way, they had their health, and they had a loving family both close at hand and also across the sea in distant England. Compared to so many others here in Dublin and elsewhere, they were extremely fortunate.
"What do you think?" Tom asked eventually, at long last becoming less serious. With the obvious change in his tone, Sybil began to relax, hugged him to her once again. "The two children on the cards?" persisted Tom. "Do they remind you of any one, Mrs. Branson?"
"Us?" giggled Sybil.
"Exactly!" said Tom, and thankfully this time with a laugh.
Author's Note:
Composed in 1914, by Ivor Novello, "Keep The Home Fires Burning" was a patriotic song of the Great War. It was first published in October of that year under the title of 'Till the Boys Come Home.
In December 1919, the IRA did indeed destroy the printing works of the Irish Independent, partly because of the paper's criticism of the organisation and its methods.
Everyone has heard of the Ford Model T motor car, but what many will not realise is that they were also manufactured here in England, at Trafford Park near Manchester, as well as in several other countries, thus becoming the first truly mass produced car.
At the end of the Great War, the abject poverty in the poorer parts of Dublin was truly appalling, as indeed it had been for many years. However, it must be remembered that such deprivation was not unique, and that it was much the same in other cities in the British Isles, including London.