Chapter Ninety Five
The Scarlet Ribbon
While, of course, Sybil heard Gaelige spoken daily at the Coombe, she understood very little of the language; the odd word here and there, but nothing more, which, given some of the choicer utterances screamed by women in the pains of childbirth, or even during a miscarriage, was probably just as well.
However, from time to time, over the last few weeks, after supper, during the quiet winter evenings the two of them had shared together sitting by the fireside, once he had finished with his writing, Tom had sought to teach Sybil various words which she might find useful, even some simple phrases. And, here on Christmas Eve 1919, as she sat on Tom's lap by the glowing fire in the front room of the small house in Clontarf, it was one of those phrases that Sybil had recalled to mind:-
"Is leor don dreoi nead"
Momentarily lost in her thoughts, a secret smile spread slowly across her face. Yes, thought Sybil, silently rendering the Gaelige phrase into English, "Home truly is where the heart is", and by home, she knew that she did not mean Downton Abbey.
In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she wondered if Downton had ever truly been her home. Of course, before she had met Tom, and then fallen in love with him, had anyone asked her, then she would have given the predictable response, that Downton Abbey was indeed her home.
And yet, as much as she loved Downton that had nothing at all to do neither with its grandeur, nor because of the life of privilege she had once enjoyed there. No, it was rather because the large house far across the sea in England, in the distant West Riding of Yorkshire, held so many happy memories for her, both of her child and girl hood; indeed, the house still sheltered her parents and her two sisters. But for all that, thought Sybil, there had always been something missing.
She knew also that home was not this small, some might even say nondescript, house, which stood by the sea in Clontarf, looking eastwards, out across the wide expanse of Dublin Bay. In fact, thought Sybil, glancing up at Tom, realisation slowing dawning upon her, home had nothing whatsoever to do with stone and timber, nor indeed with brick and slate.
Gently, her hand came to rest protectively across her stomach as she looked at the face of the one, single person who meant more to her than anyone, more to her than life itself, who she loved to utter distraction: Tom. Catching sight of her looking at him, Tom smiled, gently kissed the top of her head, and hugged her more tightly to him.
"Home" murmured Sybil, turning in his arms and kissing him with a sudden fervour that surprised her as much as it did Tom.
"What did I do to deserve that?" he asked softly when at last they broke apart.
"Nothing. And everything. For simply being you" said Sybil quietly, her eyes shimmering in the firelight. She sat up abruptly.
"How much did you give them?"
"Who?"
"The carol singers".
"Oh them. A few pence; it was all the loose change I had".
"Do you have a favourite carol?"
"Huh?"
"I said do you have a favourite carol?"
"Well, as it happens, yes, I do" said Tom. "You know that these days, I don't have much time for religion, Catholic or Protestant, at least not since my parents died. But, before then, as a boy, I sang in the choir at Blackrock".
"Blackrock?"
"I told you; before my parents died I went to school, here, in Dublin".
Sybil nodded.
"But you've never ever said very much about it" she said cautiously, searching her husband's face for signs of the faraway look it sometimes wore.
Even now, with all that had happened between them, much of Tom's childhood, of his young life, before he was orphaned, and before had come to live here with Ma and the others in Clontarf, remained a closed book to her. It was obvious to Sybil that for Tom, most of those memories were still too raw, too painful. She had witnessed that distant look upon his face several times now; thought she knew what it betokened; that he was unwillingly, conjuring up ghosts from his past.
Of course, from time to time, Tom had made oblique, simple references to this or to that. To things that had happened during his early boyhood, but with obvious reluctance; those instances had in their telling by Tom who was usually so gifted with words, been not only marked by their brevity, but had also been rare as well.
He had told Sybil that his mother had taught him to read, told him tales of her Breton homeland, about wild birds - Sybil had found that out when Tom had taken her to the Rainbow Pool - that his mother had taken him to the National Gallery, as well as to the National Library on Kildare Street. Tom's father was a more shadowy figure, at least to Sybil. Possibly, now, at this distance in time, even to Tom himself. But it was his father who had been responsible for giving Tom his abiding love of history, and through his stamp collection, instilling in the boy a lasting fascination for faraway lands and places, of their peoples and their customs, and for telling Tom too that in the eyes of God, if not of man, all men were born equal.
Therefore, sensing his distress, Sybil had not pressed Tom to tell her about things, the remembrance of which so clearly upset him. And it was because of this, that, so far, she had refrained from saying anything at all to him about her suspicion that somehow, however improbable it seemed, that they had met as children, years before he ever came to Downton as chauffeur to the Crawleys.
On that count at least, Sybil had reasoned that her intuition must be flawed. For while it was true that when she and her sisters were younger, the Crawleys had visited Ireland a couple of times, as far as Sybil could recollect the family had stayed with friends near Dublin, and by that time, Tom would have been living, however unhappily, with his uncle, aunt, and elder cousins, down at Skerries.
Sybil supposed she could have asked Mary and Edith where it was they had stayed, if they remembered, but had equally refrained from doing so for fear of having to justify to either of them, her real reason for making such an enquiry in the first place. Of course, had Sybil trusted to her own intuition and done so, then she might have found, at least in Edith, who thought she had already divined such connection, a far more sympathetic and understanding ear than Sybil could possibly have imagined. However, as it was, Sybil had reasoned also that it was far better to let sleeping dogs lie; after all, there was no earthly point starting a hare, which then refused to run.
"I went to school in Williamstown, to Blackrock College. I think my parents chose it, because my mother's family had some connection with the priests who founded it. They were French, or so I believe," he added. "De Valera went there, did you know that?"
"No, I didn't".
Tom grinned sheepishly.
"No, of course not; why ever would you? Anyway, I sang in the chapel there. It is very beautiful. Perhaps one day, I'll take you and show you".
At that, Tom fell silent, his face assuming the look that Sybil recognised very well. Seeking to deflect him from troubled thoughts, gently she caressed his cheek with her fingertips.
"And you, a chorister?" Sybil grinned, as there formed in her mind the delightfully incongruous image of a very young Tom, his face freshly scrubbed and shining, his hair neatly combed and parted, dressed in the ruff, cassock, and surplice of a choirboy.
"Why, is that so very difficult to imagine, milady?" asked Tom.
"Not just difficult; well nigh impossible" said Sybil and laughed out loud.
Tom grinned.
"I'll have you know, Mrs. Branson, that I was a model chorister. And, since you asked, of all the Christmas carols which we sang back then, the one that I loved best of all was "In The Bleak Midwinter". You know the one I mean?"
"Of course I do" said Sybil, and for one brief moment she found herself thinking back to where she had been earlier this same night; waiting for the tram, standing in the freezing chill of the winter's evening, beside Nelson's Pillar on Sackville Street, listening to the band of the Salvation Army.
"We often sang that one too, down at the parish church in Downton, on Christmas Eve. But why that carol so especially?" asked Sybil somewhat mystified. "The words are by Christina Rossetti ..."
"... and the music is by Gustav Holst" added Tom assuredly. He chuckled. "Two can play that game!"
"By Gustav Holst? Really?" asked Sybil
"Yes; really". Tom nodded affably.
Sybil grinned; looked at her husband with unfeigned and obvious heartfelt admiration.
"You know love, you're always full of surprises!" giggled Sybil.
"Aren't I just?" said Tom putting on an air of mock superiority. "Our music master was very thorough! And by what you just said, do you mean you're surprised Holst wrote the music or ..." Tom paused. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes; a smile played about the corners of his mouth. "Or would ya be t'inking, milady t'at t'is poor, lowly, ignorant oirishman wouldna be knowin' somet'ing loike that?" chuckled Tom, putting on the thickest Irish brogue he could muster, and tugging an imaginary forelock.
"Of course not, you silly idiot!" Gently, Sybil batted Tom's chest, toyed idly with one of the buttons of his waistcoat. "So, tell me, my love, why did you like the carol so much?"
There was a sudden pause, which then lengthened into a soft silence. From outside there came the noise of a tram, probably the very last one of Christmas Eve, rattling along, the sound of its clanging bell carrying far in the frost hung air, while here within the snug front room of Ma's little house, the fire crackled and spat.
"I don't know, love" said Tom thoughtfully at length. "If at the time, anyone had asked me to explain it, I don't think I could have told them why I liked it so much. At least not then. But now ... Well, I think it was almost as if it was ..."
"As if it was what?" asked Sybil softly.
"Almost … almost as if it was somehow a premonition".
"A premonition? Of what, Tom?"
"Not of what, love; of ... of us".
"Of us? How so" asked Sybil mystified. She twisted round in Tom's encircling arms to look up at him wonderingly.
"I think so, yes" said Tom hesitantly. His voice was husky, scarcely raised above the level of a whisper. He nuzzled Sybil's shoulder. "But if I tell you, you'll ... you'll think I'm being daft. Blame it on the whisky if you want. I'm bein' maudlin, darlin'". His voice cracked, faltered, fell silent.
"No. I won't" said Sybil softly, searching his face. By now, she was so completely intrigued, her curiousity so thoroughly aroused, that at that precise moment, Sybil would have promised Tom anything to hear his explanation as to why he liked the carol so much. It was then that she saw the tears in his eyes. "Why, whatever is it my love? Tell me, please".
"Do you remember the words of the very last verse, my love?" asked Tom gently. His moist eyes glistened in the soft glow of the lamplight.
Sybil nodded, hummed softly.
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.
"But I still don't see ..."
Gently, Tom leaned forward, intertwined his fingers with Sybil's and placed his hand on her stomach.
"Isn't the carol all about a much loved child, being born to poor parents in straightened circumstances?" asked Tom softly. "And after all, when I think of all that you might have had, as your father said to you on the path in the church yard at Downton … a very different life .What have I been able to give you really … except … except my heart".
"Oh, Tom, my darling!"
Tom turned, reached down over the side of his chair nearest the fireplace, fumbled with his left hand, and picked up something from off the floor. The "something" turned out to be a small packet, covered in plain brown paper, and tied up with string. "It's not much. I was going to give you this tomorrow morning, before we left for work" said Tom shyly. But ... well now seems to be far more appropriate. Happy Christmas, love". He blushed furiously, something which always made him look so endearingly vulnerable, and then gently handed the package over to Sybil.
"Tom … love … but we agreed that we'd only buy presents for your nephews and nieces, not for ourselves". Sybil chided him softly. Those very self same presents lay upstairs in their bedroom.
There was material for Aislin to make the two girls, Mairead and Rosaleen a pinafore each along with some lengths of ribbon for their hair, and a penknife for Ruari. Laughingly Tom had suggested a razor might be more appropriate, whereupon Sybil had told him not to be so insensitive; a leather football for Ronan, and a wooden rattle for little Riordan. They were all that Tom and Sybil could afford, and were destined to be given to their no doubt eager young recipients on Sunday, when Tom and Sybil were to drive out to Ciaran's farm in the motor for their shared, if late, Christmas meal.
"I know, I know" said Tom. "But when I saw it, I just knew I had to buy it for you. Go on, love, open it".
Sybil turned the small packet over in her hands, and then did as Tom had bidden her, and slowly began to untie the string which bound it together. The paper crackled and rustled beneath her eager fingers. Tom said something softly under his breath, but Sybil, who was having trouble with the knot, merely nodded; did not hear him properly. The knot now undone, she turned, looked quizzically at Tom.
"Sorry, love, what did you just say?"
Tom merely smiled, shook his head at her. "It doesn't matter love. Don't mind me now. Go on. Open it!"
The sheet of creased brown paper fluttered softly to the floor, to reveal, now lying in Sybil's lap a book, evidently second hand, lacking its dustcover, the end covers faded, slightly stained, but otherwise intact. Sybil turned it over. For one brief moment, the words on the cover before her suddenly blurred as unbidden tears formed in her eyes.
"I'm sorry it's a bit battered. I picked it up in a pawnbroker's, just off Sackville Street. I don't expect that your father would even give it house room".
"The Wind In The Willows" Sybil read haltingly, "by Kenneth Grahame". Oh Tom! Thank you my darling!" Recognising the book for what it was, a gift from the heart, her arms went up about his neck and drew Tom down towards her in a deep and lingering kiss.
"And, if as you say, Papa wouldn't give it a place in his library, then I most certainly will! Tom, my darling. What a lovely present".
"I've … I've written something inside" said Tom softly.
Sybil opened the book to find, inscribed on the title page, written in Tom's bold, firm hand:-
To Sybil
Gold, incense, myrrh, I canst not bring
Forever yours, and with all the love I possess,
Tom
Dublin, Christmas, 1919
"Oh, Tom! It's just too perfect! Thank you, my darling, for this, for everything!" Slowly, she turned the soft pages of the book, until at last she found the passage she was looking for. Softly, she began to read the well-loved words out loud.
"... when sounds were heard from the fore-court – sounds like the scuffling of small feet in the gravel and a confused murmur of tiny voices.
˜I think it must be the field mice", said the Mole, with a touch of pride in his manner. They go round carol singing regularly at this time of the year. They're quite an institution in these parts. And they never pass me over – they come to Mole End last of all; and I used to give them hot drinks, and supper too sometimes, when I could afford it. It will be like old times to hear them again".
˜Let's have a look at them!" cried the Rat, jumping up and running to the door.
It was a pretty sight, and a seasonable one, that met their eyes when they flung the door open. In the forecourt, lit by the dim rays of a lantern, some eight or ten little field mice stood in a semicircle, their fore-paws thrust deep into their pockets, their feet jigging for warmth".
Sybil fell silent, content just to be held fast in Tom's loving arms.
"So, don't I get a present?" chuckled Tom at length.
"Well ..." Sybil smiled. "There is something. Something, in fact, which I have been meaning to give you for some time now. Do you remember that day when you took me out to see the Rainbow Pool?"
Tom nodded.
"Of course. How could I ever forget that? You were going to do some sketching as I recall, only you fell asleep!" He prodded Sybil gently in the ribs and grinned.
"Only I didn't".
"Didn't what?"
"Fall asleep".
"You didn't?"
"No, I didn't". Sybil slowly shook her head.
"Wait there, Mr. Branson". She smiled, laying aside her book. Tom nodded.
"Of course; now where else would I be going darlin'?" drawled Tom languidly, stretching his up arms, and yawning, before finally settling contentedly back in his chair.
Sybil smiled, slipped off Tom's lap. He watched her disinterestedly, as she walked purposefully out into the hall; heard her run upstairs, heard too, the sounds of her moving about in their room. A short while later, Sybil came back downstairs and stood in front of him. In her hands, she was holding what appeared to be a rolled up piece of paper, which was tied, improbably, with a short length of scarlet ribbon.
"I don't know if I should give you this or not" she said thoughtfully, fingering the roll of paper. "I mean ... Well, it might ..."
"Might what?" asked Tom coolly. "Come on, tell me". He grinned again; saw her blush red enough to match the colour of the scarlet ribbon.
"Well, it might ... it might shock you. And ... and if I do give it you, you must promise me that you will keep it hidden away from everyone else. Apart, of course, from me that is".
By now, Tom's own interest, like that of Sybil earlier over the carol was well and truly piqued. He grinned and nodded his assent; in fact, would gladly have vouchsafed Sybil anything, simply so as to find out what it was that she was holding.
"Promise?"
"I promise," he said.
Taking a deep breath, Sybil held out to him the small roll of paper.
"Happy Christmas, darling".
She watched silently, as Tom took it from her, untied the length of ribbon, let it, like the brown paper before, fall to the floor, un-furled the sheet of paper, saw wash over his face, a scarlet hue, deep enough to match the colour of the now discarded ribbon. Oh, my goodness, she thought, he's embarrassed, remembered his reaction to the sketches in the National Gallery, for in her drawing of him, Sybil had caught Tom naked, absent-mindedly absorbed in drying his tousled hair with his flannel vest, his arm outstretched. He looked radiant, carefree, glowing with both health and happiness, the more so because the drawing wasn't posed. After all, how could it have been when Tom had been so singularly unaware that Sybil was sketching him? And it was the total lack of self-consciousness on the part of Tom which gave the drawing such an extraordinary joie de vivre.
"Well, what do you think?" she asked nervously, chewing her lower lip, unable to contain her apprehension a moment longer.
"I think ...," said Tom softly. "I think it's bloody wonderful. Thank you, my darling. Thank you so much!" He drew her down onto his lap, smothering her face with kisses. "You really do have a gift for drawing, Sybil. Aislin said so. Do you remember?"
Sybil nodded, recalling how pleased Aislin, Tom's sister-in-law had been with her sketch of Riordan, her youngest child.
"But I can understand why you wouldn't want anyone else to see this, so you keep it safe for me, eh? Where was it, if you don't mind me asking?"
"In my trunk".
Tom nodded, then, with infinite care, rolled up the sketch, retied the scarlet ribbon, and handed it back to Sybil.
"Well put it back in there for me, darlin,'" he said softly. She took the rolled up drawing from him, laid it aside with her copy of "The Wind In The Willows", and saw Tom grin broadly.
"What?" Sybil asked.
"I was just wondering ... What I mean is..." Colour now washed over his face.
Sybil giggled.
"What Tom? Come on, out with it?"
"Well, I was wondering if you'd like to inspect the original. Purely in the interests of art, you understand. I mean ... just to be sure, that everything in your sketch is ... er ... correctly proportioned".
"And if it isn't?" giggled Sybil.
"Well, I'll just have to pose again, now won't I?" he said softly, nuzzling her throat, burning kisses across her jaw line, till at the last, with Sybil held fast in his arms, her hands clasped about his neck, Tom rose from his chair, and carried her swiftly upstairs.
Author's note:
Blackrock College, on the edge of Dublin Bay, some four miles or so from the centre of the city, was founded in 1860, by the Congregation of the Holy Ghost, who were French missionaries. It was the first of five schools founded by the Order in Ireland and still exists today. The chapel is indeed very beautiful. Éamon de Valera not only studied, but later taught at Blackrock.
Christina Rossetti (1830-1894) was a Pre-Raphaelite, English poet who wrote a variety of romantic, devotional, and children's poems. She is best known for her long poem "Goblin Market", her love poem "Remember", and, indeed, as Sybil tells Tom, as the author of the words of the Christmas carol "In The Bleak Midwinter".