Chapter One Hundred And Five
All A Question Of Time
It was shortly after Ma had returned home to Clontarf from Lettermullen that Sybil received the letter from her mother, asking both her and Tom to come and stay at Downton.
Ma's return to Clontarf had been somewhat unexpected, but both Tom and Sybil knew that she had been missing seeing her grandchildren and, after all, the house by the sea did still belong to her. What Sybil did not know was that several weeks prior to her return home, Tom had written to Ma and asked if she would consider coming back to Clontarf, at least until after Sybil had had her baby.
Tom was become increasingly concerned that Sybil was trying to do too much. The time would shortly come when, with her advancing state of pregnancy, she would have to give up her position at the Coombe. As far as Tom was concerned, despite the obvious financial implications for them both, he would be very glad indeed, when Sybil no longer had to travel into the city. The situation in Dublin was fast deteriorating, sliding inexorably to all out war between the two opposing factions.
Through some of his own contacts, Tom had learned that the British administration based at Dublin Castle was becoming increasingly frustrated by the growing successes being achieved by the Irish Republican Army. Much of this was as a result of the IRA having established a highly effective Intelligence Department, under the inspired leadership of Michael Collins, someone Tom had cause to remember all too well; as a result of which, the IRA was increasingly one-step ahead of the British Army's own intelligence unit based on Parkgate Street.
Apparently, the authorities in Dublin Castle had now decided the time had come to take whatever steps were deemed necessary to eliminate, once and for all, the threat posed by the republican organization towards the continuance of British rule here in Ireland. What those steps might entail, Tom was not entirely sure, and even if he suspected what they might be, he did not feel able to discuss them with Sybil, except in the broadest of terms, as to do so would only cause her to worry more about him than she did already.
Nevertheless, having raised the issue with Sybil, in a very general way, both of them agreed that they must be even more vigilant. Given Sybil's condition, Tom even gently voiced the suggestion, which he knew was likely to prove just as unpopular with Sybil as it was with him, that it might be for the best if they both considered returning to England, at least in the short term.
That, said Sybil, was completely out of the question. Much as she missed Downton, her home was now here, in Ireland. Even so, she dearly wished to see her grandmother, her parents and her sisters, especially after the receipt of Mary's last letter which confirmed what Mama had written and told them about: the irrevocable break with Sir Richard Carlisle and the announcement of Mary's engagement to darling Matthew.
Both Tom and Sybil were also in agreement that what was so surprising about the whole business was that Mary's engagement to Sir Richard Carlisle had ever taken place. For, notwithstanding the fact that Matthew was then engaged to dear, darling Lavinia, what was so obvious to both Sybil and Tom was that neither Mary nor Sir Richard had ever been in love with each other. So following Lavinia's unexpected death, it was only a matter of time before Mary finally put an end to the nonsense with Carlisle. What was inexplicable was the length of time it had taken her to do just that.
Learning of the dramatic end of one engagement and the happy announcement of another in a carefully worded letter was not quite the same as hearing the news from Mary herself. Indeed, reading between the lines of her sister's letter, Sybil suspected that Mary had been somewhat economical in her telling of the tale. Sybil would dearly have loved to ask Mary about it in person, but that would have necessitated a trip across the sea to England, which, at present, was totally out of the question.
Then, shortly thereafter, two things happened which made both Tom and Sybil review their opposition to the idea of a temporary move back to England.
The first was almost a repetition of an incident which had occurred about a month before, when Tom came home somewhat worse for wear, having been roughed up for the second time in just over as many weeks, whilst covering an incident in Dublin. This second time around he assumed that his assailants had been supporters of the Irish Republican Army which, in December 1919, had destroyed the paper's printing works, angered at what they perceived to be the paper's pro-British and Unionist stance.
The earlier incident had been much more serious. One snowy evening, towards the end of January, shortly before Ma had returned from Lettermullen, Tom had come home later than usual from work, nursing a black eye, cut lip, and bruised knuckles. He had been covering a nasty, vicious confrontation between his old sparring partners from the Shelbourne Hotel – constables from the Dublin Metropolitan Police - and dockers down on the quays close to the Custom House. The dockers had been protesting against being required to help unload supplies they claimed were destined for use by the British Army. As the confrontation descended into chaos and then turned violent, Tom had become caught up in the ensuing fracas.
That particular evening, which Sybil remembered all too well, she had got back a while before Tom. She was in the back kitchen preparing their supper when she heard his key in the front door, and then a few minutes later fell to wondering why it was that he had not come straight through into the kitchen to greet her, as was his way.
"Tom, love, is that you?" called Sybil and still receiving no reply went out into the hall to find Tom slumped down on the tiled floor by the front door still in his cap and overcoat. She heard him groan, saw him attempt to rise.
"Tom, my God! What is it? What's happened? Ignoring the icy chill from the tiled floor, despite the bulk of her advancing pregnancy, Sybil struggled to kneel down in front of Tom, gasped in the flickering light from the gas jet above his head, when she saw the state of his battered and bruised face.
Much later, when, with all thought of supper forgotten at least for the time being, having helped Tom into the back kitchen, carefully stripped him of his outer clothes, sat him down at the kitchen table, Sybil had gently cleaned, washed, and dressed his injuries, she sat on his lap with her arms around his neck, holding him close. The warmth of the range was comforting, so much so that, a while later, Tom, forgetting his bruises, shifted too quickly on his chair, and grimaced audibly with pain. At that, Sybil looked up, at his well-loved face. Tom's black eye had all the makings of developing into a truly spectacular bruise. Seeing her all too obvious concern for him etched across her face, Tom tried to make light of what had occurred.
"Darlin, both of us knew this might happen, with the way things are going. And from what I'm hearing now from various sources, things are likely going to get a great deal worse" said Tom.
"Jaysus!" exploded Sybil employing one of Tom's own favourite exclamations. "And is that supposed to make me feel any better? Tom Branson, you are enough to try the patience of a ruddy saint!"
"What would your mother think hearing you use language like that?"
Momentarily forgetting his cut lip and bruised ribs, Tom started to laugh, winced as his injuries made themselves known yet again.
"Don't you dare try and laugh this off Tom, or else I just might very well be tempted to finish what the poless started!" flared Sybil. "I won't have it! Whatever next? Am I to see you brought home dead, laid out on the floor of a cart?"
Tom saw the tears start in Sybil's eyes.
"That won't happen, love. I promise".
"Don't make promises you can't keep, Tom", wept Sybil.
While Sybil was patching up his latest round of injuries which, fortunately were not that serious - Ma was out at a meeting of the local Temperance League - Tom tried to explain to her that the Independent was not pro- any faction. The job of a reporter, as he saw it, was to see and report, without fear or favour, not to take sides.
Although she did not say so, Sybil suspected that what lay behind the latest incident involving Tom was his outspoken written condemnation of violence by either of the two opposing sides. She knew that she could not ask Tom to be any less than the man he was; in this particular regard: courageous and highly principled.
However, she would not stand idly by and see him killed in the process of standing up for what he believed to be right.
For if Tom had a responsibility to his readership to be impartial in what he wrote, then, he damned well had a responsibility to look after both her and their unborn child. That very day, she had received the letter from her mother asking if she and Tom would like to come and stay at Downton. Given the fact that they had missed Christmas at Downton, and now possessed of the news that Mary and Matthew were engaged, Sybil now raised the matter, said she was minded to accept her mother's invitation and informed Tom of that being the case; thus provoking the first serious quarrel in their marriage.
"... and I'm not leaving Ireland. Not now; I can't!"
"Can't or won't?"
"Can't then!"
"And I'm not leaving without you. So there's an end to it!" stormed Sybil.
Tom knew when he was beaten. By now, there were tears in his eyes too.
"All right, all right! I will see if I can speak to Harrington in the morning. Tell him just how things stand; that I feel it might be better for you, if we went back to England".
At Tom's almost casual mention of the word "we", Sybil's head snapped up. She raised her tear stained face to look at her husband.
"You mean it? You really mean it?"
Tom nodded.
"At least until the baby's born".
"Agreed" said Sybil.
If Tom was prepared to compromise, then so too was she. After all, she knew just how much playing an active part in Ireland's struggle for independence meant to him. Especially when what for so long had been but a pipe dream, might well now soon come to pass.
"And I think I know just how to broach putting the idea to Harrington. I know that recently, he has been looking for someone to write a series of articles setting out how what is going on here in Ireland is perceived over in England. I could suggest that, if I went with you, back to Downton, that I could do just that".
"And you'd do that? Really? For me? Leave Ireland? With all that's going on? Given what Ireland means to you? For no other reason, than knowing that what you are doing is making me so unhappy?"
Tom nodded; knelt down on the floor in front of her, laid his head in her lap, then gazed up at her adoringly.
"I should have done so a long time ago, Sybil ... when I saw how things were going over here".
"But what about your loyalty to Ireland?"
"I'm loyal to Ireland, yes. But, as I told Collins, also to other things too".
Gently, almost reverently, Tom placed his hand on Sybil's swollen belly.
At that, Sybil gave Tom a smile of dazzling brilliance.
"I don't know what I've done to deserve you my darling. Truly I don't," she said smothering his face in kisses.
"Hold on! Hold on! Now, wait until I've spoken to Harrington in the morning!"
"Tom, he'll agree. Trust me, I know he will. After all, he must recognise what an exceptional man you are. Just as I do" said Sybil, her voice taking on an unmistakeable sensuousness.
Tom grinned.
He knew very well, from past experience what that change in the tone of Sybil's voice betokened and in that, Tom was not mistaken. Indeed, some of their most enjoyable sexual romps been born of disagreements and minor quarrels.
A short while later Sybil got slowly up from her chair. Then, with a smouldering, provocative glance over her left shoulder, showing how much she had need of him, Sybil turned, leant forward and deftly extinguished the brass oil lamp standing on the deal table, plunging the kitchen into sudden darkness.
Despite having been married for nearly eight months, if the present spellbound expression on Tom's face was anything to go by, Sybil realised that even now, she could still surprise him. The certainty of that not only gave her an intense degree of personal satisfaction, but also spurred her on to do what she did now.
Taking him gently by the hand, Sybil drew him languidly after her, for Tom's part in complete and silent wonderment, slowly out of the kitchen, through the open doorway, from there into the gas lit hall, and to the foot of the darkened staircase.
Sybil mounted the first step, but then found, to her infinite surprise, that Tom seemed reluctant to follow her lead. She half turned; looked down upon him, to where Tom stood motionless at the foot of the stair, gazing up at her. The look upon her face said it all; that she wanted him desperately; the look upon his face still betokened a mixture of both adoration and wonderment.
When Tom still did not move, Sybil leaned forward and kissed him fully on the lips. He accepted her kiss, but no more than that. Sybil drew back; looked thoughtfully at him. At that, Tom reached up and gently caressed her cheek.
"Sybil, love, after what I've been through today, I ache all over. All I want to do tonight is sleep. Tomorrow I'll …"
"Tom, my darling, tomorrow is too long a time to wait".