Chapter One Hundred And Seven
"Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack"
Their journey down to the station at Kingstown Harbour but a few weeks later proved singularly uneventful and, in but a very short space of time, having carried their own luggage up the gangway, both Tom and Sybil found themselves boarding the steamer which would take them back across the Irish Sea to Holyhead.
The ship on which they were to sail across to England was the RMS Munster, the same sleek, black hulled, twin stacked steamer that had brought them over to Ireland the previous year. All too soon, especially for Tom, given his distinct lack of sea legs, the heavy, thick mooring ropes had been cast off, and the Munster was gently nosing her way slowly out of the calm haven of Kingstown Harbour into the cold grey waters of the Irish Sea.
It seemed that as far as the weather was concerned, their return voyage to England on board the Munster would prove as singularly uneventful as had their journey over to Ireland in the summer of 1919. As the ship steamed slowly out into the open sea, Tom and Sybil stood by the rail on the promenade deck. Above their heads, the sun broke through the sombre clouds, and raucous white, black tipped gulls soared skywards, then swooped low almost into the churning, frothing wake of the steamer. Thereafter, ahead of them, as indeed for all those on board, at least for the next couple of hours, lay nothing but a vast expanse of grey ocean.
For the first hour or so of the voyage, the weather out in the Irish Sea, while bitterly cold, remained fine and clear. As far as the eye could see, a flat, limitless calm covered the entire surface of the dark green waters, with only the slightest of swells, the occasional white crest of a languid wave to disturb the deceptively placid surface of the ocean.
Like many of their fellow passengers, taking advantage of the unexpectedly good spell of weather, arm in arm, Tom and Sybil embarked on several brisk turns round the promenade deck. And, it was while they were on the third of these that on her starboard bow the Munster overhauled a much smaller, slower vessel, a rusty, ill kempt tramp steamer, belching thick black smoke from her single funnel.
Standing close by the ship's rail, warmly wrapped against the increasingly cold air, Sybil, nestling back in Tom's enfolding arms, much as she had done upon their arrival in Kingstown, caught sight of the tramp steamer.
"I wonder where that's bound for" she said somewhat pensively.
"Well, certainly not for sunny Palestine, that's for sure. And I doubt she's come all the way from the Isthmus either" said Tom and laughed.
"Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine"
"Why, Tom Branson, you never cease to amaze me!" laughed Sybil.
Tom blushed furiously.
"Ma made me learn that whole poem when I was a lad. And judging by the state of that - he nodded in the direction of the rapidly receding tramp steamer - I think Masefield was right, don't you?"
Tom grinned at Sybil, his blue eyes sparkling, the strengthening breeze whipping through his light brown hair. Sybil eyed the sorry state of tramp steamer
"Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack …"
"Well almost, Tom. Even if this is the Irish Sea, not the English Channel! And …"
"All right, love, I know" cut in Tom with a chuckle. "And this is still February, not March! I wonder what it's carrying."
"Tyne coal?" suggested Sybil with a laugh.
"Wrong side of the country for that" observed Tom phlegmatically. What about "Road-rails, pig-lead … "
But, before Tom could complete the quotation, a powerful and unexpected tremor swept along the entire length of the ship from bow to stern. The Munster shook violently, the force of which all but knocked the pair of them from off their feet, as the bow of the ship was hit by the full might of a sudden and enormous swell, which surged up, as if from nowhere.
The force of the impact almost sent Tom sprawling headlong, losing his cap, which went flying overboard into the foaming, surging sea. Sybil herself was only prevented from falling head-over-heels by Tom instinctively grabbing hold of her and hugging her close to him, while Sybil hung on for dear life to the ship's rail.
The steamer pitched viciously, and then rolled heavily to port. Slowly righting herself, the Munster surged forward into an ever-deepening trough, almost like a vast void in the ocean, only to encounter yet another enormous swell, much deeper than the first. The bows of the ship plunged forward into a foaming, roaring, angry, boiling liquid cauldron, and then disappeared from sight as an immense towering wall of water crashed down upon them.
High up on the promenade deck both Sybil and Tom, along with several other passengers found themselves deluged by a stinging torrent of cold, salt laden spray which showered down upon them, forcing each and every one to seek immediate refuge inside the saloon.
"Jaysus" yelled Tom as the two of them, their clothes spattered with blotches of seawater, all but fell head first through the door. "Are you all right, love?"
Sybil nodded.
"I think so. No bones broken. Let's find somewhere to sit down and get dry". Clutching hold of each other for mutual support, they staggered across the steeply tilting floor of the saloon and slumped down together on a leather-upholstered bench fixed securely against a bulkhead. Just as they did so, the steamer pitched violently once again, as another huge wave crashed over her bows.
"Tom, love, darling, are you all right?"
Receiving no reply, Sybil turned to see that Tom had closed his eyes, was sitting very still, with his hands clasping his knees. He was deathly pale and had broken out in a cold sweat. He shook his head slowly.
"No, I'm not", croaked Tom through gritted teeth.
Battling near storm force winds, the Munster steamed resolutely onwards through mountainous seas; the ship constantly pitching and rolling.
Within the saloon where, when the first wave had struck the bow of the steamer, those passengers - men, women and children - who had been out strolling along the promenade deck- there was little cheer. More than a few of them had now been violently sick several times over; including Tom who, groaning pitifully, with his arms clasped tightly around his stomach, was now curled up almost in a ball on the leather upholstered bench. Doing her very best not to worry about what was happening outside, Sybil sat next to Tom, repeatedly stroking his damp brown hair, wiping his mouth with her own handkerchief.
"Don't travel well do he, for sure" said a male Irish voice close-at-hand.
Sybil looked up, to find that two men had seated themselves on the bench opposite; were regarding both her and Tom with undisguised interest.
"Your husband is he?" asked the other.
Sybil nodded dumbly.
The older of the two men, and the one who had spoken to her first, took a swig of some amber coloured liquid from an open bottle before passing it back to his companion.
"He's very shook looking, he is. Should be after taking a drop of this poteen. Never fails for sure". The younger man nodded in the direction of Tom. He grinned, re-corked the now half-empty bottle, and stuffed it away in one of the capacious pockets of his soiled jacket.
"Thank you but no. I doubt whisky would do my husband any good. He always gets sea sick".
"Bound for Holyhead?"
"Aren't we all?" asked Sybil evasively.
The man smiled a thin smile.
"That we are. English are we?"
Sybil nodded, and with inevitable resignation. After several months spent living and working in Dublin, she had of course acquired a slight Irish lilt to the way she spoke, but there was no disguising the fact that she was both English born and bred.
"And where be your own people from?"
"From near Rip ..." began Sybil. She paused, suddenly mindful of the fact that Tom had impressed upon her repeatedly the absolute necessity of refraining from volunteering too much information about her own antecedents. "It's a small village. You won't ever have heard of it".
"I might. I lived in England for a long time" The man looked questioningly at Sybil.
"Langthorpe" said Sybil promptly. It was the first name that came into her head.
"Langthorpe? For sure", repeated the man evenly.
Sybil could tell that he did not believe her.
"And … your husband?"
"He's from Dublin"
"Ah. Work there?"
"Yes, we both do".
"Let me guess now. You're ... you're a nurse?"
Sybil nodded, looked quizzically at the man.
"Whatever makes you say that?"
The younger man laughed.
"Ah. Don't take on so. Stands to reason. The way you be looking after him". The man jabbed his thumb swiftly in the direction of Tom.
Sybil smiled weakly at the man. Perhaps he meant no harm. With Tom so ill, her nerves were on the raw. But then, she saw how his eyes roved insolently over her swollen body.
"And not long married?"
She chose to ignore his impertinent question. Despite the fact that she was warmly dressed, wearing a heavy coat against the bitter chill of late February, there was no disguising the fact that she was expecting a child.
"What's he do then, your husband?" asked the other. Looking Sybil up and down, the two men exchanged meaningful glances and grinned. Sybil had seen that kind of lascivious look many times before… on the faces of some of the soldiers she had helped to treat during the war.
"He's ..." Sybil paused.
While it might be nothing more than two benighted fellow travellers making idle chit chat to while away the voyage, to keep their minds off the worsening weather outside on deck, Sybil felt there was something about the two men, which instinctively she did not like. It was not their over familiarity, their tendency to coarseness. She could cope with all that. It was something else. They were asking her far too many questions.
A faded poster on the wall opposite her caught Sybil's eye; came to her rescue. It offered cheap day excursions with the City of Dublin Steam Packet Company.
"My husband? Why ... he is ... a clerk ... with the shipping company.
The Munster heeled, pitched violently.
Tom groaned.
Sybil made a grab for a battered brass spittoon as it rolled noisily past her across the steeply inclining floor of the saloon.
"Use this!"
With one hand, Sybil quickly shoved the dented receptacle in front of Tom, while placing her other arm comfortingly around his hunched shoulders, holding him tight, holding him close. Tom retched violently into the proffered spittoon, but brought nothing up.
"Jaysus, love" he moaned ", I feel feckin awful!"
If her grandmother, her parents, and her sisters, could but see her now, thought Sybil grimly. Smiling wryly, and taking the filthy spittoon from Tom, she wedged it as best she could beneath the bench on which they were both sitting. It was likely he would need it again before very long.
Tom turned away from her, and once more curled himself up as before.
"Here ... I think your husband must have dropped this," said the older of the two men. He held out a letter. That it was clearly addressed to Tom Branson ℅the Irish Independent, Talbot Street, Dublin, was something, which the man could hardly have failed to notice. However, he gave no sign of it.
"Thank you. Now, please, you must excuse me. I need to attend to my husband," said Sybil, grasping the letter and stuffing it hastily away into the pocket of her coat.
The younger of the two men nodded affably enough.
"A clerk? With the shipping company?" echoed the other sardonically, as a mocking smile played around the corners of his mouth.
Eventually, after what seemed an age, the storm finally blew itself out. And, no doubt, all those on board, both crew and passengers alike, heaved heartfelt sighs of relief, as the Munster passed the lighthouse at the end of the breakwater marking the entrance to the calm waters of the harbour at Holyhead.
Thereafter, somewhat later than envisaged, it was a battered and bruised, but decidedly grateful group of passengers that finally stepped ashore from the storm swept decks of the RMS Munster and down onto the granite quayside at Holyhead; a stone's throw from the imposing red brick façade of the London and North Western Railway's Station Hotel.
"Breakfast?" asked Sybil cheerfully with a backward glance over her shoulder at Tom who was now, she thought, at last beginning to regain some of his usual colour and bonhomie.
"I thought you'd never ask," said Tom. He grinned weakly. Then turned. And was promptly sick over the side of the quay
The voyage, but not their journey, was over.