Chapter One Hundred And Twenty
A Lesson In Irish History
Maeve.
Since her arrival here in Ireland the previous year, after she had learned of her existence, Sybil had known that, from time to time, while they were living in Clontarf, Tom had received several letters from his cousin Maeve who lived with her now bed-ridden mother, Tom's aunt, down at Skerries House: the country estate down near Cork which, following the death of Tom's uncle, and thereafter his two sons William and Christopher both of whom had been killed in the Great War, however much he wished it otherwise, now because like Downton it was entailed, belonged indisputably to Tom.
The passage of the years had done nothing whatsoever to erase the painful boyhood memories Tom had of the brief time he had spent at Skerries after the death of his own parents; of the ill treatment meted out to him by both his uncle and his two cousins. Indeed, Tom's back still bore the scars of one of the beatings his uncle had administered to him. So, when Maeve had written and told Tom in her latest letter that her mother had suffered a massive stroke, which had left her bed-ridden, incapable of either movement or of speech, when Sybil had gently ventured to enquire as to how she was faring Tom's response had been concise and to the point.
"Decaying I hope!"
The only kindness Tom had ever found at Skerries had come from his cousin Maeve. Some seven or eight years older than he, apparently something of a beauty, but for all that whenever Sybil had tried to ask Tom about her, to learn something of her, Tom had shown a marked reluctance to tell her anything of Maeve. To Sybil,Tom's surviving cousin therefore remained an enigma, but on the morrow all that was about to change when she would finally meet Maeve for herself.
By the time they reached Cork, it was growing late. Having got off the train, with Sybil carrying Danny fast asleep in her arms and Tom carrying their two battered cases, they walked from the station on Glanmire Road into the city.
On Penrose Quay, just opposite and across the river from the imposing domed Custom House, a British military convoy, which included two lorries crammed full of young soldiers, swept past them in a cloud of choking dust; several of the seated soldiers rising unsteadily to their feet, gesticulating lewd gestures, shouting obscenities, and wolf whistling raucously at Sybil, even with Danny held fast in her arms.
Tom saw his wife blush fiery red, turn her face away in embarrassment. He grimaced, shook his head, as the two lorries, together with their noisy, rowdy human cargoes, disappeared at high speed into the middle distance along St. Patrick's Quay, and towards the centre of the city.
Of course, Sybil was no shrinking violet.
If, in her view, the situation merited it, then Sybil could turn on her full blistering aristocratic English no-nonsense manner as easily as other women turned on a tap; Tom could well attest to that. It was at times like those, Tom wished he could sink through the floor.
Indeed, no doubt, so too, did a number of shopkeepers; those who owned premises in the centre of Dublin and who, when in Sybil's hearing, because they recognised her upper class English accent, had all rashly made the same mistake; of making disparaging comments regarding the continuing British presence here in Ireland. True, all had lived to tell the tale of their never-to-be-forgotten encounter with the formidable Mrs. Branson. Whether their equilibrium ever recovered from the experience was another matter entirely.
The most recent member of that very select band of retailers who had chosen to make such ill-advised judgemental remarks in Sybil's earshot had been Mr. Seamus Doyle who owned a small draper's shop just off Sackville Street not far from the burnt out shell of the General Post Office...
Her few purchases made, Sybil drew herself up to her full height.
"Really, Mr. Doyle? Do you think so? May I then give you a quick lesson in Irish history?" Not waiting for Mr. Doyle to answer Sybil closed in for the kill.
"For your information, we "feckin' British bastards" as you so kindly choose to term us, have ruled Ireland for just over a century; in fact, a mere one hundred and twenty years - ever since the passing of the Act of Union in 1800. In that, comparatively short space of time, Dublin has risen to become the second city of the British Empire and some parts of Ireland, not all I grant you, have achieved considerable benefits, largely because of British expertise and investment. Had we been here for the seven centuries, which you mistakenly seem to believe to be the case, then I can assure you that we would have achieved a very great deal more than we have done to date".
Mr. Doyle visibly wilted under Sybil's blistering, storm force tirade.
Inch by inch, he gradually backed further and further away from the counter as far as he could. Now, with his back jammed hard up against several bolts of cloth, equally unwisely Mr. Doyle tried to interrupt her, to make what paltry amends he could. As Tom well knew, trying to interrupt Sybil when she was in full flow was what it must have been like for those attempting to stop the sea water flooding into the hold of the Titanic after she hit the iceberg; utterly futile.
"Mrs. Branson, I did not mean to ..."
"Do not interrupt me, please, Mr. Doyle. I am not yet finished!" blazed Sybil.
Mr. Doyle blanched, gulped, and passively awaited his fate.
"Granted that our presence here in Ireland has not been without its faults; I accept that we have made serious errors of judgement and terrible mistakes in our dealings with the Irish, but in just over a century, I think we may be forgiven some of the lesser of those. Don't you? After all, we have made similar mistakes elsewhere in our Empire, but then, only half the world is civilised because we have made it so. Now, indulge me, please. Do tell me, just exactly when was the Rising?"
Tom was mystified. What the hell was Sybil playing at? She knew very well when the Easter Rising had taken place.
Mr. Doyle smiled, singularly unaware just how clearly his unspoken thoughts about what he really thought of Sybil showed in his face. At last! Something the feckin' stuck-up English bitch didn't know.
"1916".
Mr. Doyle's smug, self-satisfied smile continued to broaden, became a wide grin, so that in but a short space of time he resembled the proverbial Cheshire cat. Oh no, thought Tom shaking his head and covering his face with his hands, please don't. Don't smile.
"Yes, 1916. From the 24th to the 29th April, wasn't it?" asked Sybil hesitantly, apparently unsure.
Tom smiled to himself. Given her flawless performance so far in the proceedings, he was quite sure that had she ever been vouchsafed the opportunity of treading the boards, Sybil would have made a consummate actress.
Mr. Doyle nodded.
"So it was".
"Indeed", said Sybil. She smiled sweetly back at Mr. Doyle.
"I'm glad to have been able to assist you, Mrs. Branson", said Mr. Doyle smugly.
Sybil's eyes narrowed.
"Actually, you haven't" snapped Sybil. "As it so happens, Mr. Doyle, I know perfectly well when the Rising took place. Ever since it failed, certain of you have been trying to force the British to grant this country her independence and just look at the mess you have managed to make of things so far. If the pitiful attempts made by some of your fellow countrymen to run Ireland on your own during the past four years are but a foretaste of what is to come, then I shudder to think of the chaos this country will have descended into after a centuryof you being in charge!Ireland deserves better! Much better! My change, if you please! Tom, would you be kind enough to open the door for me?"
As Sybil well knew, since 1916, the British had been as culpable, probably more so, than the Irish themselves, for many of the troubles that had beset the country ever since the failure of the Rising. Now, of course, was not the time to remind Sybil of that, so Tom did as she asked of him, and hurriedly opened the shop door.
Leaving Mr. Doyle to stare open mouthed at her, clutching her change in her gloved hand, with Tom trailing behind carrying her several purchases, and in a manner that with her increasing age, her grandmother the Dowager Countess would have found hard to emulate, Sybil swept imperiously out of the shop and exited onto Sackville Street. When they reached the tram stop beneath Nelson's Pillar, it was only then that Sybil found Mr. Doyle had given her too much change.
She was still fuming.
"Why, the damned cheek of the man!"
"Are you ... going to go back?" asked Tom somewhat hesitantly.
"Certainly not" said Sybil and laughed. "Spoils of war! Let's go to Bewleys and eat cake! Unless, of course, you're nervous of being seen on the streets of Dublin with a "feckin' British bitch?"
"Not nervous at all", said Tom. He grinned broadly. "Proud". Sybil's resulting dazzling smile mirrored his own as she flung her arms tightly about Tom's neck and kissed him soundly.
Sybil was equally also well used to hearing all manner of obscenities and profanities noised openly at the Coombe, and working for a newspaper Tom himself was well used to "language". Indeed, from time to time, as Sybil would readily have confirmed, should anyone have asked her about it, Tom made use of a few choice epithets himself. However, it was not quite the same, in fact, a different matter entirely, to have British soldiers yell foul-mouthed obscenities and make lewd gestures directed explicitly and openly at his undeniably attractive and beautiful young wife.
"Are you all right, love?" asked Tom, immediately solicitous for her welfare.
"I'm fine, Tom. Really I am". Sybil patted his wrist with her gloved hand. "I don't mind. Really, I don't. No harm done; sticks and stones. I suspect though, if Papa was here right now, he would be outraged and on the telephone immediately to their Commanding Officer. And ... and as for Granny, why, she would have a fit!" giggled Sybil.
"Doesn't it make you at all nervous, love, I mean to be seen out on the streets of Cork with someone who, no doubt, your father would term a rabid Irish republican?"
Sybil shook her head. Then sensing Tom's continuing embarrassment on her behalf at the soldiers' boisterous antics - and loving him even more for it - Sybil slipped her arm around her husband's waist and pulled him close, then said in conscious emulation of the words he had used to her on Sackville Street in Dublin.
"Not nervous, Tom. Proud".