Chapter Ninety Six
Bethlehem Comes To County Dublin
In Ireland, 1920 dawned much as any other previous new year, both cold and frosty, and with leaden skies, but with the added hope that very soon, as Tom put it, the country would be in a position to throw off the English yoke once and for all.
But, in that his faith was to prove sorely misplaced, at least for the time being. For while in the rural areas the local elections mirrored the results of the General Election of 1918, with Sinn Féin taking control of three quarters of the County Councils, Rural District Councils, Boards of Guardians and other local government bodies across the whole island, in the urban areas, support for the party was not as clear cut, and certainly not in the pro-Unionist province of Ulster.
And, with the new year barely twenty four hours old, there had come news of the capture by the IRA of the Royal Irish Constabulary barracks at Carrigtwohill, not far from Cork in the pro-republican province of Munster. Clearly then, said Tom there would be no let up in the escalating violence of the previous year.
But it was news of a rather different kind which was of more immediate concern to Tom and Sybil Branson, lying in bed on the Sunday after their trip out to Ciaran's farm the previous week-end. Ma had returned to Lettermullen and, for the time being at least, once more they had the house to themselves. Had that not been so, then it is unlikely that they would still have been in bed at nine o'clock in the morning. More than once in recent weeks, with a merry twinkle in her eyes, and no doubt Tom in mind, Ma had made mention to Sybil "that the Devil finds work for idle hands!" After all, who better than Sybil could attest to the pleasurable uses to which Tom could put his "idle" hands?
So, with Ma now safely back on the west coast of Ireland and with several hundred miles between her and the little house in Clontarf, on this particular Sunday morning early in January 1920, with Tom lying beside her, Sybil was reading through a packet of letters from England. Although they had been delivered the day before, this was the first opportunity she had had to read them at her leisure.
"Heavens!" she exclaimed, suddenly sitting up in bed. "Tom! You'll never guess what's happened!" Her voice betrayed her absolute astonishment, while outside, if but for a moment, the morning sky darkened ominously and a burst of sleety rain spattered heavily against the window, causing her to shudder. Tom had not yet re-lit the fire in their bedroom, so, instinctively, Sybil pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders to try and ward off the worst of the glacial chill in the room.
"Mr. Carson's run off with the family silver?" suggested Tom affably, his voice drowsy, half muffled by the covers. Lying beside her, warm in bed, he stretched out, yawned, and opened an enquiring eye, made to draw Sybil back down with him underneath the blankets. He was definitely not a morning person. With the demands made upon them by their respective jobs, it was not often that they had the chance to lie in bed together in the morning, causing Tom to reflect ruefully that one of the few perks of his employment whilst at Downton had been the opportunity to rise later than the rest of the domestic staff.
Sybil shook her head, softly batted away Tom's fingers which had begun to gently knead and caress her breasts, and continued instead to peruse her mother's letter.
"Mr. Carson's run off with Mrs. Hughes?"
Sybil shook her head with exasperation.
"Don't be disgusting! Tom, darling, I'm trying to read!"
Temporarily baulked of what he had had in mind, if only for the present, Tom lay back and stared intently at the ceiling, nonchalantly linking his fingers together behind his head on the pillow.
"I know" he said at length and with a deep and satisfied chuckle. "Since finding out you're expecting my child, your father's petitioned Lloyd George to have me castrated".
"Well, while they may be very important to you, I think the Prime Minister of Great Britain has matters of rather greater consequence on his mind than the fate of your testicles" retorted Sybil with a giggle.
"I'm very glad to hear it" observed Tom sardonically.
"In any case, apart from being singularly unfortunate, at least for you that is, to have you castrated now would be rather pointless. After all, it's a bit late for that, don't you think?"Sybil laid her hand protectively across her swollen middle.
"Unfortunate? Is that all you can say? Sybil, it's my bollocks you're talking about".
"No, it's you that's talking about them. And for your information, Mr. Branson, the correct medical term for that particular part of your anatomy is "testicles" said Sybil primly, trying to sound serious, before dissolving into a fit of giggles. "Oh, Tom really! Why, if Papa heard you use language like that, well he probably would do just what you suggested!"
"You don't sound too shocked".
"Oh, I've heard much worse than that, I can assure you" said Sybil flatly.
"At Downton?" Tom sounded incredulous.
"No, at Ripon Camp Hospital, during my training. Now, just listen to this, Tom. Mama writes that she, Mary, and Edith are all truly delighted with the news about the baby. Then she goes on to say that there was some kind of fight between Matthew and Sir Richard Carlisle. Good Lord! Mary's broken off her engagement ... Matthew's proposed to her and Mary's accepted him! They're engaged to be married, and want us there for the wedding!"
It was now Tom's turn to sit bolt upright in bed.
"You mean go back to England?"
"Tom, darling, your intelligence never ceases to amaze me. When like you I was last there, Downton was indeed in Yorkshire. So yes, back to England".
"I don't see how" grumbled Tom. "I mean, what with the price of the steamer tickets being what they are" he said beginning to nuzzle her shoulder. "Can't you leave reading those letters until later?" he wheedled coaxingly.
"Tom!" said Sybil reprovingly, at the same time eyeing his naked muscular upper torso with a mixture of both approval and concern, felt the familiar yearning stirring within her. Perhaps, after all, she could read the rest of Mama's letter later.
"You're right, about the tickets though" she said quietly. "I don't really see how we can afford... Aren't you cold like that?" she asked suddenly changing the subject.
"Not particularly" said Tom, whereupon he belied the fact by promptly shivering and burrowing hastily back down under the covers.
"I think I've got frost bite!" he said, trying to sound alarmed and gain her undivided attention, before proceeding to examine something minutely - in fact the tips of his fingers - under the covers. Time for some fun thought Sybil.
"Turning black is it?" she asked continuing to read her mother's letter.
"Black?"
"In which case, amputation is the only solution. Still, if you've been castrated, you won't miss it" said Sybil sounding thoroughly uninterested.
"Are you this unkind to your patients at the Coombe?"
"Oh infinitely worse" said Sybil in the same matter-of-fact tone, whereupon, seeing he was getting precisely nowhere, Tom decided to try another tack.
"See. What did I tell you?" he said smugly from his warm refuge under the blankets. "Matthew and Mary! I'm very pleased for Mary though, pleased for them both in fact. What else does your mother have to say?"
"Well, darling, first be a dear, make yourself useful, and light the fire. A cup of tea would be nice too. Then I'll tell you all the rest of her news" said Sybil plumping up her pillows and resting herself contentedly back against them while continuing to scan the closely written lines of her mother's latest letter.
"You're very free with your orders this morning, milady". Tom grinned.
"It's one of the privileges of being a married woman".
"What is?"
"Breakfast in bed".
"Who said anything about breakfast?"
Tom sounded aghast, even though he knew that his bacon and eggs were, at least according to Sybil, better than those served by Mr. Carson in the Dining Room at Downton. After all, Sybil had told him so only last week, when one morning, quite unexpectedly she had asked him to make her a cooked breakfast. Tom had done so, of course, rather than suggest she did so herself, if only to avoid having to send for the fire brigade. Sybil had then greedily wolfed down the scrambled eggs he had prepared her, along with several rashers of bacon. Seeing the look of incredulity on his face, Sybil had asked if something was amiss, and without waiting for him to reply, had said she was now eating for two and promptly asked for some toast.
"I'll settle for a cup of tea" said Sybil with a laugh, seeing the stricken look on Tom's face.
"God, it's freezing in here! Where's my vest got to?" asked Tom who, clad only in his pyjama bottoms, having struggled out of bed, was now searching somewhat disconsolately round the room for the missing item of his clothing.
"How should I know?" said Sybil loftily, not even bothering to look up.
"Well, it was, if I remember last night correctly, milady, you who pulled it off!" Tom was now down on his hands and knees, and searching under the bed.
"Ah, here it is" he said. Having retrieved his vest, Tom pulled it on over his head, stood up, and moaning about the floorboards being cold on his feet, shambled unwillingly over to the fireplace, where a short while later, thanks to his efforts, a warm fire blazed merrily in the small cast iron grate.
"Now what?"
"Tea" said Sybil promptly and still without looking up.
"What did your last servant die from?" asked Tom, as with a chuckle he shambled off again, this time downstairs.
"I can't recall!" laughed Sybil, smiling as she watched the undeniably handsome form of her husband, clad in his vest and striped pyjama bottoms, disappear from her line of vision; moments later heard him banging about downstairs in the kitchen, as he began stoking up the range, and then filling the kettle.
Well, she thought languidly, feeling the warmth from the fire at last beginning to take the chill from off the room, if he does what I've asked him to do, then I just might feel in the mood for ...
Sybil smiled sensuously to herself, glanced round their bedroom, her blue gray eyes alighting at last on the tiny china shamrock brooch lying next to Tom's fob watch, atop the mahogany stained nightstand standing next to their bed. The watch had belonged to Ma's husband and had been given to Tom to mark his twenty first birthday.
The brooch, however, was a much more recent gift, one which Sybil would treasure all her life. Reaching over, Sybil picked it up, putting her in mind of Ciaran and Aislin, and of the previous Sunday out at the farm. That, she reflected, had been a lovely day...
Like today, last Sunday had dawned cold, and with an equally leaden sky, a north east wind, tasting faintly of salt, blowing inland in savage gusts from off the sea.
That particular morning, shortly after eleven, with Ma safely ensconced in the rear seat along with all the presents for Ciaran and Aislin's brood of children, and with Sybil like Ma warmly wrapped against the cold but seated in the front beside her husband, Tom put the motor into forward gear, released the brake, and a moment later they were off, bound for the farm. Because it was the first time Ma had ever ridden in a motor, Tom had promised her that he would drive extra carefully and not go too fast.
"Just like your grandmother" he grumbled good naturedly to Sybil, but, before either Sybil or Ma were ready to leave, Tom had entered into the spirit of the occasion and had spent an hour polishing the brass work of the motor until it positively gleamed.
"And, just like old times too" said Sybil squeezing Tom's thigh tightly with her gloved hand. "Not quite" said Tom. "After all, you wouldn't have dared do what you've just done, in any case you'd have been riding in the back where Ma is now, and apart from my goggles and gloves, I'm not in uniform!"
"Do you know, I often thought how handsome you looked in your livery" said Sybil softly so that Ma shouldn't hear.
"Did you now", chuckled Tom equally quietly.
"Yes, I did" said Sybil wistfully.
Despite Ma's admonishment to Tom, the motor fairly bowled along the hard, frosty surface of the road until, having left Clontarf behind, they turned off up the lane which led to Ciaran's farm, the trees and hedges at this time of the year black and bare, sparkling with hoarfrost; the only thing moving apart from the motor being a crow which flapped down onto the branch of a pine tree and began to caw raucously. A while later, having purred down hill, the motor splashed noisily through the ford at the bottom of the long descent, the stream at this time of year in spate, causing a cry of alarm from Ma who tapped Tom smartly on the shoulder, told him not to be so reckless, and reminded him of his promise that he would drive carefully.
"That's much better, Tommy", called Ma from the back seat and holding onto her hat, as the motor slowed almost to a crawl.
"It's because we're going up hill, Ma" said Tom through gritted teeth. He glanced across at Sybil, who was trying desperately to keep a straight face. "Anyway, I wasn't doing more than thirty! Perhaps she'd prefer to get out and walk instead!" grumbled Tom.
"I don't suppose you dared to suggest that to granny when she complained" laughed Sybil.
"I can tell you, I thought about it, several times!"
"What stopped you?"
"The thought of never seeing you again" said Tom huskily.
"Oh!" exclaimed Sybil and fell silent, blushing furiously.
Now almost at walking pace, the motor continued to labour up the hill, and shortly thereafter, scattering a flock of startled clucking chickens and squawking ducks, ran smoothly forward into the mossy, cobbled yard of Ciaran's farm.
Of course, in the stillness of the winter's morn, the four oldest children had all heard the sound of the approaching motor, much as young Ruari had heard the growl of the approaching army lorries on the night of the céilí, but, even if they hadn't, Tom had blared the horn with gusto, just so as to make sure. And moments later, the children were joined also by both Ciaran and Aislin, she holding Riordan in her arms, to witness Tom's noisy and triumphal entry into the farm yard.
With the smell of exhaust fumes and leather hanging heavy in the cold, still air, and with the motor now parked close to the large barn, a building which held both pleasant and unpleasant memories for them all, having taken off his goggles and leather gloves, Tom clambered down from the driver's seat, only like a veritable Pied Piper of Hamlin, to be surrounded by his nephews and nieces, all plying him with questions mostly about the journey; how long it had taken them, how fast could the motor go, all vying for his attention.
From her lofty perch, Sybil sat back watching, thinking what a wonderful father Tom would make as, laughingly, if only for the moment, Tom parried their questions, promising to answer them all and listen to everything they had to tell him, just as soon as he had seen Ma and Sybil down from the motor.
Then, with Ma safely back on terra firma, while she exchanged greetings with Ciaran, Aislin, and the baby, Tom opened the other door and, standing aside, let young Ronan, all of twelve years of age, who with grave solemnity and a half bow which would have won praise, even from Mr. Carson, proceeded to help Sybil down from her front seat.
And, as he closed the door, it was Ronan who spied the packages on the back seat. "Presents!" he breathed and with such a heartfelt longing that Sybil realised anew that while all of the children here at the farm were very much loved, the receiving of gifts and presents were both rare events in their young lives; realised too, once again, how different their lives, like Tom's had been, from her own as a child.
"Not so fast! They're for later!" laughed Tom ruffling the boy's dark hair, while Sybil stood and glanced about her, taking in the sights and sounds of the farm: the cattle lowing in the byre, from somewhere the bleating of sheep, the brown and white donkey standing patiently by the wall of the barn. Sybil's hand slipped sub consciously and came to rest on her middle.
Why, it's just like the first Christmas, she thought.
Bethlehem come to County Dublin and in a Model T Ford!
Sybil smiled broadly at the comparison and, as she continued to look about her, noticed too that the walls of the reed thatched house, in fact, the walls of the outbuildings too, appeared to have been newly painted.
On seeing Sybil glancing about her, surveying the walls of the house and the other buildings, Ciaran smiled warmly, but before he could say anything, his two older sons came forward and added their two penneth by way of explanation.
"We helped Da do all of the whitewashing. Both of us" chorused Ruari and Ronan together, beaming with pride and nodding enthusiastically.
"You did?" asked Sybil, wondering, had it been permitted, just how long it would have taken Mary, Edith, and herself as children to do the same to the walls of Downton Abbey – and what their parents would have said. Of course, reflected Sybil, no doubt Mary would have refused to participate, would, instead, have stood back and supervised both her and Edith. Sybil smiled broadly at the thought and equally broadly at the two boys, saw Ruari flush, duck his head in a manner which reminded her instantly of Tom.
"Penny for them? It's an old Irish tradition" explained Tom breaking in upon her reverie.
"What is?"
"Whitewashing all of the walls of the buildings at Christmas. That too". Tom nodded towards the window of the main room of the farmhouse, where, behind the frosted panes, Sybil caught sight of a solitary candle burning inside.
"The candle".
"Ma let me light it" said Rosaleen proudly.
"Only because Riordan's too little" retorted Mairead smartly.
"What's it for?" asked Sybil.
"It's to let all know they are welcome here at this special time of year" said Aislin softly, moving forward with Ciaran to warmly greet both Tom and Sybil.
"Baby all right?" asked Aislin.
"Yes, thank you" said Sybil marvelling anew at how open and warm hearted Tom's family was with her. They had truly taken her in, and to their hearts. "All seems fine, at least so far".
"Nollaig Shona Duit" said Aislin softly, and kissed Sybil lightly on the cheek. Although she had never heard the words before, their meaning was obvious.
"Merry Christmas, Aislin" replied Sybil returning her sister-in-law's greeting in English before doing likewise to Ciaran.
Then, while the little donkey across the yard brayed noisily, with Tom having gathered up the Christmas presents from off the rear seat of the motor, they all trooped into the farmhouse to finally begin their long awaited Christmas meal.
Author's Note:
In rural Ireland, whitewashing or lime washing the walls of the farmhouse, both inside and out, along with all the other buildings, was once a time honoured Christmas tradition: a symbolic purification of the farmstead to commemorate the coming of the Christ child.
As for the Christmas Candle, it was indeed traditionally lit by the youngest person in the house and placed in the window on Christmas Eve to indicate that the Holy Family was welcome too. Not to have a candle lit was considered to signify that strangers were not welcome – and that there was "no room in the inn"!"
Obviously Tom and Sybil go out to the farm later than Christmas Eve, but it is Sybil's first Christmas in Ireland and Ciaran and Aislin want them and their forthcoming child to feel especially welcome.