Chapter Ninety Two
The Talisman
The Clontarf bound tram, the lower wooden panels of its usually pristine white and green exterior heavily encrusted with a thick layer of compacted dirty brown frosted ice and snow, its trolley pole arcing and sparking in the frost hung air, continued to clatter and rattle its way through the white shrouded streets of Dublin.
Given the snowy weather, apart from a handful of hardy, some might say foolhardy, souls, hatted, gloved, and heavily wrapped against the biting cold of late December, the slatted seats on the open upper deck of the tram were virtually empty: down below, it was an entirely different matter.
Unable to see out, wedged fast in her corner seat by two plump, basket laden women endlessly chatting away in Gaelig, Sybil's thoughts turned understandably once again to the events of the day at the Coombe, to the rudeness and hostility she had encountered, not only from patients, but also once again from likes of Annie Neary and Constance Phelan; how close she had come this time to braining Nurse Phelan with a bedpan.
Then her thoughts drifted to the disabled soldier on crutches that Sybil had seen down by Nelson's Pillar. So much for Prime Minister David Lloyd George's much vaunted "Land Fit For Heroes" she thought bitterly. Yet another broken promise; like so many others, made by a corrupt politician, simply to maintain his grip on power. No wonder Tom wanted, metaphorically speaking, to put a bomb under the lot of them.
In the chill dampness of the lower saloon, its windows misted and opaque, their drab outer clothing splattered with dark blotches, the passengers, whether seated or standing, were crammed in together like sardines. Not by choice of course, but simply by the sheer overwhelming press of their numbers. After all who would want to be penned in like sheep on their way to market, packed closely together in a foetid heaving miasma of damp leather, wet wool, cheap perfume, eau-de-cologne, stale sweat, and tobacco smoke?
Certainly not Sybil!
Apparently, although she had never been on it herself, it was just as bad travelling on the Underground up in London, during something Tom had told her was called "the rush hour", or so he had said.
As if from a lifetime ago, or so it seemed, Sybil could hear her eldest sister saying forcefully that she wouldn't be seen dead on a tram. Well, maybe Mary had a point! After all, wouldn't anyone, if given half a chance, prefer being driven in a chauffeured motor, to travelling like this; especially if the chauffeur in question was a good looking young Irishman. At the very thought of Tom, so handsome in his dark green livery, Sybil squirmed pleasurably and suddenly on her seat, earning a reproachful look from one of the two gossiping women, almost as if she had been able to read Sybil's very own thoughts.
Glancing round the crowded saloon, the sudden incongruousness of it all hit Sybil with the force of a motor charabanc; she had seen one once, long before the war, crammed full of passengers, puttering along the promenade in a haze of petrol fumes, at Scarborough, where she and her family had been staying at the Grand Hotel.
Goodness, why, she hadn't thought of that in years. It was odd, Sybil reflected, remembering her recent conversation with Tom about Freud, how the human mind could blank off memories of past events, sometimes for years, only for them to resurface, often in the unlikeliest of circumstances, suddenly recalled and thrown into sudden sharp focus. Why, if she closed her eyes, she could even smell the petrol fumes from that long forgotten charabanc!
Despite this being Christmas Eve, hardly anyone on the tram spoke; the merest handful chatted, one or two smoked, another read a book, and somewhere someone coughed and sneezed. However, for the most part, despite this being Ireland, with English reserve decidedly to the fore, the majority of Sybil's fellow passengers, many weighed down by a mixture of heavily laden baskets, bags, newspapers, parcels, and furled umbrellas, sat steadfastly minding their own business; resolutely silent, seemingly lost in their own thoughts, staring vacantly into space, gazing directly ahead, down at the sodden floor, or else looking up at the ceiling, anywhere in fact but at their fellow travellers.
And, thought Sybil savagely, her mind drifting once again to the present political turmoil engulfing Ireland, it was Lloyd George and his British government which had abandoned any attempt to amend the Third Home Rule Act of 1914, had pushed forward instead with the Irish Convention in 1917 which, so as to make up the shortfalls in men caused by the appalling casualties on the Western Front, had proceeded to infuriate those seeking a negotiated settlement to the Irish situation by linking Irish Home Rule to the introduction of conscription in Ireland.
Sybil recalled how angry Tom had been at the time when he had first read about it in the newspapers, while he was still working at Downton as the chauffeur. And, she also remembered the remark made by the leader of the Unionists here in Ireland - if only because of his surname - Sir Edward Carson - that down the centuries Ireland had suffered most from the "broken pledges of British statesmen".
It was the devious, duplicitous Lloyd George and his government who were now trying to "negotiate" a settlement with the republicans here in Ireland. For all Tom's idealism, if she was scrupulously honest, Sybil doubted that whatever changes were eventually wrought here across the Irish Sea in Ireland, that the lot of those at the bottom of society would alter very much, if indeed at all; that after the "revolution" for want of another word for what must come, there would merely be a different set of people in power, and life would go on much as before for the labouring poor.
After what she had just seen in the shadow of the Pillar, after sitting here thinking about the hopelessness of the political situation in Ireland, with tears starting in her eyes, at that moment Sybil knew that all she wanted to do, more than anything, was simply to reach home and to see Tom. He would understand, understood everything; was her talisman. To hear his soft, lilting Irish voice, to see his blue eyes sparkling with mischief, his endearing lop-sided grin, to feel his soft lips hot upon her own, was like balm to her very soul.
But, what she needed most of all was simply just to be held; to feel safe and secure in his comforting, loving arms, although Sybil knew equally well, that given his present workload, it was unlikely Tom would be home any time soon tonight, and certainly not before her. On the occasions, of which there had been several recently, when because of being on an early shift at the Coombe, she had, perforce, had to go to bed before he had come in, before she drifted off alone to sleep, without Tom beside her, her head resting comfortably on his chest, his arms about her, as was their wont, the desolation Sybil felt on being on her own in their bed, was almost unbearable, had reduced her to tears.
With a bleak and monotonous regularity, the various tram stops came and went but, thankfully, as the tram trundled on, threading its way through the more distant suburbs, at last, the press of passengers in the saloon began to dwindle; more passengers now got off than got on, including, eventually, the two basket laden women, still chattering just as vigorously.
Now that she could reach it, Sybil rubbed vigorously at the misted up glass of the tram window with her gloved hand. Through the ragged opening thus created, she saw that for the most part the houses hereabouts were fewer in number and much larger than the cramped, squalid terraces of the inner suburbs; here and there, through the veil of lightly falling snow, through as yet un-curtained windows, she glimpsed warmly lit interiors, made even more cheerful and welcoming by their colourful, festive decorations, reminding her painfully of past Christmases at Downton, all of which served only to heighten her own sense of desolation.
Not surprisingly, by the time the tram finally reached Clontarf, Sybil felt utterly dejected and exhausted. Stepping down from the tramcar, glancing across the bay, she saw a thick bank of mist was drifting in from off the sea, which put her instantly in mind of the fog shrouded platforms of Galway station. Shivering at the unpleasantness of the recollection, quickening her steps, leaving ghost prints in the frost, Sybil made her way purposefully across the road towards the darkened house.
Behind her, on the final leg of its journey, the now all but empty tramcar rattled off, swallowed up by the encroaching mist. Out here on the coast, on the edge of Dublin Bay, although it had stopped snowing and seemed slightly milder, it was still bitterly cold. Glancing up, as she hastened her steps, Sybil saw that the night sky was still pocked with stars which glittered brightly in the frost hung air. So many stars, how on earth did the Wise Men ever pick out the one which led them to Bethlehem? wondered Sybil as she walked briskly towards the darkened, white walled house.
Reaching the house, she saw that there was no sign of the motor which Tom had hired, so as she had expected, he must still be out. Sighing with heartfelt resignation, Sybil walked up the short path to the front door, while, dogging her footsteps, the thickening mist swirled in eerily behind her from off the bay.
Author's Note:
Born in Wales, David Lloyd George (1863-1945) was Prime Minister of Great Britain and led the wartime government 1916-1922.
In April 1918, his attempt to settle the question of Irish Home Rule by making it conditional upon the introduction of conscription to Ireland caused great resentment, leading to the runaway success of Sinn Féin in the General Election in December of that same year; whereupon Sinn Féin immediately declared an Irish Republic.
Despite winning the General Election and introducing various social reforms, many people felt Lloyd George had betrayed the trust they had placed in him, when, as Sybil mentions, he had pledged to create "a country fit for heroes to live in".
The elegant Grand Hotel in Scarborough still stands and, following an extensive and expensive refurbishment, is once again the finest in town.