Chapter One Hundred And Eight
And Was Jerusalem Builded Here?
After a very late breakfast in the virtually empty, echoing dining room of the imposing Station Hotel at Holyhead, Tom and Sybil caught the next London and North Western Railway train bound for distant Chester. Having crossed the bleak island of Anglesey, the train steamed out over the magnificent Britannia Bridge high above the deep, tidal waters of the Menai Strait, and thence along the windswept, rugged coast of North Wales as far east as Chester, where they changed trains.
Something else upon which she and Tom found they both agreed was that, either over across the sea in Ireland, or else here in England, railway approaches to most towns, and certainly to cities, were never picturesque, and in this the ancient city of Chester was no different from any other. From Chester, their journey northwards to Downton took them first to the grimy, smoky, bustling metropolis of Manchester, thereafter across the desolate, stark beauty of the Pennines which, said Sybil, had proved so inspirational to the Brontë sisters, and thence into the equally dismal, sprawling metropolis of Leeds.
Thereafter, through worsening weather, and from the unlikely vantage point of a snug but undeniably scruffy third class railway compartment, Tom and Sybil found themselves gazing out upon seemingly endless rows of rain-soaked, slate roofed, brick-built, terraced houses. These drab, uniform dwellings were home to the countless thousands of men, women, and children who both laboured and worked in the industrial towns and cities of Lancashire and the West Riding of Yorkshire. Built of brick, the grimy, flat fronted houses seemed to cower beneath their immediate lofty neighbours, the smoke blackened factories and cotton mills, all of them houses and mills alike, set under an ever-lowering sky. The depressing scenes they witnessed caused Tom to remark caustically that while Dublin might have the worst slums of any city in the British Empire, deprivation and poverty knew no national boundaries, and were by no means unique to Ireland.
After Leeds, where they changed trains yet again, this time below the cavernous, echoing roof of the central station, there followed a landscape blighted by heavy industry and dark, satanic mills, which eventually gave way to the far more genteel and refined surroundings of, first the spa town of Harrogate, and, then, the historic small cathedral city of Ripon, the latter nestling snugly in the verdant pastures bordering the River Ure. At Ripon, Tom and Sybil changed trains for the very last time that day and in the gathering gloom of the late February afternoon, boarded the branch service to Downton by way of East Haxby, Kirk Grantham, and Langthorpe.
Sybil's mother had written to them that Farrar, the family's new chauffeur, who would drive them up to the Abbey, would meet them at the railway station in Downton. Daylight was already beginning to fade when, as the train pulled slowly into the quiet country station at East Haxby nestling in the lee of the surrounding hills, without warning a dense grey blanket of chilling fog suddenly descended and abruptly blotted out the view.
"Never mind", said Sybil squeezing Tom's hand gently. "It's not long now until we reach Downton".
Tom grimaced pointedly.
"Don't I know it!" he responded glumly.
And, so indeed proved to be the case.
For what little now remained of their long journey, Tom and Sybil sat snuggled close together in the dimly lit third class compartment, as a short succession of all but deserted lamp lit wayside stations came and went: Kirk Grantham dominated by the now mist-shrouded grey ruins of its once powerful castle, Langthorpe with its ancient, narrow, stone packhorse bridge across the gurgling, swift flowing waters of the Ure, and finally Downton itself.
Stepping out onto the already darkening platform at Downton, for one brief moment, Sybil found herself transported back to beneath the overall roof of the station in Galway. The sight of an all too familiar green chauffeur's uniform beneath a fizzing, spluttering gas lamp, its wearer ready to see to their luggage and to help them to the motor waiting in the station forecourt on the other side of the line, jolted her swiftly back to the present.
Had it not been for the fact that Tom had insisted on carrying his own luggage across the footbridge and down to the waiting motor then he and Sybil might have had time to pay a little more attention to those of their fellow passengers who also got off the train at Downton. These included, from a compartment in the very last carriage, two men who Sybil would instantly have recognised as the same two inquisitive Irishmen she had encountered in the saloon of the Munster earlier that same day, during the storm in the Irish Sea.
Seeing the minor altercation developing between Tom and Farrar over the slight matter of the portage of luggage, not wishing to be either seen or recognised, the two men hung back in the gathering gloom and the shadows at the far end of the platform. There they waited until the matter had been resolved, and Tom, Sybil, and the chauffeur had departed the station forecourt in the Rolls.
A short while later, the two men crossed the footbridge, and shouldering their heavy packs, set off at a brisk pace on foot, up into the foggy streets of Downton, bound for their own rendezvous in the deserted, distant market place.
Well ahead of the two men, the gleaming motor purred sedately through Downton. Up the High Street, past the Grantham Arms, past gas-lit shop fronts, across the empty market square, where in the shadows, at the side of the stone built Market Hall two men, in a nondescript lorry, sat waiting; past St. Mary's Church, its spire lost to sight lost in an all-enveloping brown sulphurous miasma, caused by the smoke rising from the chimneys of the cottages in the village, past the scant ruins of the castle destroyed in the Civil War and which pre-dated the Abbey by several hundred years, down out of the drear, mist-shrouded village by way of the three-arched stone bridge over the River Ure.
Out beyond the village the fog persisted, but here, while thicker than ever, it was but grey and murky. Because of it, their journey out to the Abbey took a little longer than usual, but, eventually, through the murk, Sybil saw the familiar lodge gates, which marked the beginning of the drive up to the house. Surreptitiously Sybil glanced across at Tom, saw him swallow hard.
Despite everything, both the good and the bad, that had happened to the two them in the eight or so months since they had been married, despite the loving, re-assuring nature of all of the numerous letters they had received since then from her mother and from Mary and Edith too, Sybil realised that even now their arrival here at Downton was not really in any sense a homecoming for Tom. After all, this grand, imposing house which she had known all her life had never been Tom's home. And yet, for all that Sybil dearly loved both the house and the people in it. So, it was with a shock and a sudden jolt of reality that as, minutes later, the mist shrouded, imposing façade of Downton Abbey swept into view, Sybil realised that this was no longer her home either.
The motor drew gently to a precise stop on the immaculately raked gravel directly opposite the front door of the Abbey
"Well this is it! For better or for worse! No going back now!" exclaimed Tom. He smiled wanly at Sybil.
"Darling, trust me, you've absolutely nothing at all to fear, nothing to worry about". Sybil smiled, and then patted and squeezed Tom's thigh reassuringly. "Although…"
"Although what?" asked Tom nervously.
"Well, Mama did happen to mention something in passing in her last letter… that Papa had ordered something rather special the other week from Blanch and Son up in London".
"Blanch and Son. In London? Is that significant?"
Sybil nodded her head vigorously in assent.
"I suppose I should have told you, but then I didn't want to worry you".
"Worry me? Why? I've never ever heard of... Who was it again?"
"Blanch and Son. And that's rather a pity then, I mean that you've never ever heard of them" said Sybil laconically.
"A pity? Why should it be a pity? Who are they" queried Tom.
"Oh, didn't I say? How silly of me" Sybil smiled sweetly at Tom. "Blanch and Son… they're gunsmiths. Amongst other things, they make shotguns!"
Tom gulped.
"And knowing that, as you now do, if you've a mind to turn tail and run for home, if I were you, I'd think twice before doing so, my darling. In her letter, Mama also said that Papa had Burgess, you remember him, of course you do, he's the head gamekeeper on the estate, refurbish several of the old mantraps which were last used in the days of the third earl, my great-grandfather. I believe they're now scattered throughout the woods and elsewhere. And I think Mama also mentioned that the farrier down in the village had been ordered to sharpen the gelding irons used to castrate stallions".
Tom gulped again, instinctively placed both his hands protectively across his groin; then, as he saw Sybil break into a broad grin, realising he had been duped, he smiled ruefully.
"Shotgun, mantraps, gelding irons? Why you lying little minx!" laughed Tom good-naturedly. Sybil giggled and, in the privacy thus afforded them seated on the back seat inside the motor, kissed Tom soundly. "There now, darling, that's restored your good humour! Just like I knew it would".
At that moment,. as if from nowhere, but obviously from out of the line of waiting servants, a footman was immediately standing by the door of the motor, which now opened; swung back silently on well-oiled hinges.
They both alighted, first Tom now clutching his briefcase instead of his genitals, followed in turn by Sybil, to be met at the front entrance of the house by Sybil's mother. Mary and Edith stood to one side, and opposite them was a line of expressionless, silent servants, among them several new faces which of course Tom did not recognise, and others whom he did, among the latter, Mr. Carson, his face impassive as if carved in granite, Mrs. Hughes who permitted herself the luxury of a brief smile, Thomas as supercilious as always, and warm-hearted Anna who, seeing Tom's eyes alight upon her now dared to incur the possibility of invoking Mr. Carson's wrath later that evening, and, all but imperceptibly, nodded her head in welcome.
Of Sybil's father there was no immediate sign. Sybil saw Tom looking about him, saw Mary and Edith sense his uncharacteristic nervousness, saw them smile reassuringly at him.
"And, if it's Papa you're looking for, you're wasting your time. He's probably off somewhere having Giles load him his new shotgun!" whispered Sybil.
"Welcome to Downton. Both of you" said Cora stepping briskly forward. There was no denying either the sincerity of her smile or the warmth in her voice. Impulsively, she hugged Sybil to her in a tight embrace, and then shook Tom's outstretched hand firmly.
As Sybil moved slowly towards the house with her mother's comforting arm protectively about her slender shoulders, Mary having said something to Farrar about their luggage, for once disregarding and ignoring the customary, strict protocol and social etiquette which demanded that members of the family wait in line for an arriving guest to greet them first, both she and Edith moved swiftly forward and in turn hugged and kissed Tom effusively; causing Mr. Carson to stare at them in affronted amazement.
"Darling, dearest Tom! Welcome to Downton! You must both be very tired. Come in and get warm. There's tea in the Library".
Only now, and at a suitably respectful distance behind the family, did all the assembled servants dutifully troop back into the Abbey to resume their interrupted domestic duties, while on the gravel outside, Farrar busied himself seeing to the small amount of luggage from the rear of the motor.
Yet still further off, back down in the distant village, the two men from off the train which had brought the Bransons back to Downton had now met up with their compatriots in the waiting lorry; which but a short while later set off, lumbered slowly out of village, disappeared from sight, swallowed up by the ever thickening fog, and headed in the direction taken by the Rolls.
Author's note:
The title of this chapter is taken from the poem by William Blake, best known the world over today as the anthem "Jerusalem" and set to music by Sir Hubert Parry in 1916 during the Great War.
Established in 1809, John Blanch and Son is one of the oldest of all the London gunsmiths. The firm is still in business today.