Chapter One Hundred and Twenty Two

All Things By A Law Divine

He paused in what he was writing, laid down his pen and ghosted a smile. It had been summer back then too; the time of year much the same as it was now, in fact, almost to the very day.

"Come", she said gently and held out her hand to him.

The young boy paused; said nothing. Hesitantly, half fearful, he looked up at her. She stood his gaze and smiled indulgently down at him.

"Honestly, there's nothing to be frightened of".

The boy looked quizzically back at her. She sensed his trepidation, his innate wariness, of everything, of everyone, which, given the circumstances, came as no surprise, even to the girl . Seeking to reassure him, she smiled again; now swiftly helped him to his feet from off the short greensward at the top of the cliff, the turf thick with sea-pinks and red campion.

"But if he should ..." Methodically he began dusting the grass from off the seat of his trousers.

"He won't. And nor will they. Trust me".

She smiled again.

He smiled shyly back at her, then took hold of her proffered hand; so innocent, so trusting. But then, innocence and trust are traits inherent in most twelve year old boys, even those on the cusp of manhood.

"And, I promise you, there really isn't anything to fear, truly".

As if belying the truth of her words, the girl now turned away from him, glanced up at the cliff, its ledges crowded with the nests of kittiwakes and sea gulls and whitened with their droppings, to where the house stood high above the sea, overlooking the bay. The timbre of her voice was still gentle, but now had a keener, insistent edge to it. Suddenly, a lone gull screeched low over head, causing both of them to duck their heads.

"We have an hour or so; no more". She had to raise her voice so as to make herself heard against the raucous cry of the swooping gull.

Then, as if to reinforce what she had just said, she put her arm about his hunched shoulders and at the same time began slipping his jacket from off his shoulders, began to unbutton his waistcoat, as, she led him down the narrow, steep path towards the distant cottage on the shore.

Outside the rain lashed against the window panes in stinging gusts. From somewhere in the rain-swept darkness beyond the window of their hotel bedroom came yet again the rasp of marching booted feet on the granite setts of the street, interspersed with barked, shouted orders, a dog barked and a clock chimed again the passing of yet another hour. Well pillowed, sitting up, snug within the double bed, Sybil looked up from her book of Shelley's poems, mentally counted the dolorous, mournful strokes of the bell ..eight, nine, ten.

With the faded curtains of the bedroom drawn as closely together as was possible, on their return from the English Market, first having assured herself that Danny was still sleeping peacefully, Sybil had washed and readied herself for bed, while Tom, having replenished the fire, seated himself across the room at what passed for a desk, a small table made of pitch pine, turned up the lamp and was soon busily engaged finishing drafting an article for the Independent based on his first impressions of Cork while Sybil sat and read.

With the fire well made up, their room was both cosy and warm and the weather outside could do its worst. Tom's chair creaked; Sybil looked up, heard him sigh, softly, mindful of Danny if not of her, mouth an Irish expletive, saw him stretch and rub the back of his neck. She knew by now well enough what those signs betokened; Tom was having trouble with his article, but, only on account of the fact that he was such a perfectionist. Glancing once again over at the cot, Sybil saw that, sucking on his thumb, with his favourite teddy bear lying beside him, Danny still slumbered quietly. Here, within this snug, lamp-lit room, safe from all immediate harm, was her entire world.

Of course, Sybil was no fool, knew, as did Tom, that the situation here in Ireland had worsened considerably during the time they had spent over in England, was fast spiralling out of control; that killings of officers of the Royal Irish Constabulary continued to escalate, as did the burning of their abandoned, isolated barracks by the IRA. Across the south and west of the country, the court system had collapsed, with jurors refusing to be sworn in and but a couple of months earlier, there had been rioting in Limerick, which had led to indiscriminate shooting on the part of British troops trying to restore some semblance of order; in the course of which an usherette from the local cinema had been killed.

And there had been another ugly development, to which, at least to begin with, no-one here in Ireland seemed to have paid particular attention. In recent months, advertisements had appeared in several newspapers over in England asking for volunteers among ex-soldiers to serve in Ireland, to supplement the dwindling numbers of constables now prepared to serve in the Royal Irish Constabulary.

These new recruits, now known by their nickname of the Black and Tans from the colour of their uniforms, part bottle green of the RIC and part khaki of the the British army, had soon acquired a very unsavoury reputation on account of their brutality and vicious behaviour. But that they were soon both feared and loathed by the civil population here in Ireland seemed not to bother them one whit. Indeed, many of the new recruits revelled in their notoriety. One of the reasons Tom had been sent south by his newspaper was to report on the activities of the Black and Tans, lay before the Irish public what they were up to, given the fact that their well-known excesses were flatly denied by the British government in London.

But for the time being at least, it served no useful purpose to dwell on all of this and so, Sybil returned to her book of poetry.

"The fountains mingle with the river

And the rivers with the ocean,

The winds of Heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single,

All things by a law divine

In one another's being mingle

Why not I with thine?"

Why not indeed?

In the months which had followed Danny's birth, they had resumed their lovemaking, although with Ma now living back in Clontarf, the demands of Tom's job and ministering to the needs of a baby, they were denied the leisure of the earlier days of their marriage.

Perhaps it was those lines from Shelley's "Love's Philosophy", or perhaps it was simply the fact of seeing Tom, as he had been once before, on a long gone night, sitting at an improvised desk, wearing nothing but his vest and trousers, which put Sybil immediately in mind of another lamp lit bedroom, many miles to the north-east, in Clontarf, on the outskirts of Dublin. Remembrance stirred and it was the memory of that night that inspired Sybil to do what she did next. Softly she closed and laid aside her book, pulled her shawl more closely about her shoulders, slipped quietly out of bed, moved silently across the room towards Tom. Halfway there, she stopped and paused; saw he had laid down his pen, was staring into space, as if seeking inspiration.

"Nothing to be frightened of. How wrong we both were" he said softly, then laughed quietly.

Not trusting to the evidence of her own ears, Sybil moved forward, slid her arms gently around Tom's waist, softly rested her head on his shoulder.

"Wrong about what? Tom, love, aren't you finished yet?"

Obviously startled, albeit clearly pleasurably so, Tom half turned towards her. He smiled languidly, closed his eyes contentedly, sprawled in his chair in the corner of the room and gazed up at her; but not before Sybil had seen on his face that faraway look which sometimes it wore.

"Almost done, love. Almost".

"Almost, is not what I want to hear, Tom", said Sybil huskily.

"Hm".

"Wrong about what?" she persisted.

"Oh, that".

"Yes, that!"

"Oh, nothing really".

"Tom".

"It was a conversation I was having with... er... Kelly a few days ago, in O' Casey's bar, down by the Ha'penny Bridge... about... about how we hadn't expected any of this".

"Any of what, Tom?"

"All this... all this fighting, all this violence... I mean, to gain our freedom. Danny still asleep?"

"Yes, of course, he's fine".

"Well then..."

"Tom, don't change the subject".

"I'm not".

Sybil eyed Tom cautiously. He was no fool; knew well enough that the British were never going to be prepared simply to give up Ireland without a fight. The bloody suppression of the Rising had proved that. Tom knew very well, as did she, that there were many here in Ireland, especially in the north, as well as landowners down in the south, those with other vested interests too, who wanted to maintain the Union and would take up arms to do so. So why was Tom saying something which he knew to be patently untrue? Why then swiftly change the subject and ask about Danny? After all, was he not here, sleeping soundly in his cot, in this very same room along with the two of them? Had he awoken, then Tom would have heard him just as well as she. No, something didn't make sense.

"Tom, darling, you would tell me wouldn't you, if there was something troubling you?"
"Of course I would. You know me!" He smiled lazily up at her from the chair.

Sybil was on the point of replying, but then, instead of saying what she had intended, bit back the retort she was about to make; that, yes, I know you so well, that I can tell when there is something troubling you, something which you don't want to discuss. Instead, she simply nodded, held him close, breathing in the scent of his hair.

Looking down at him, provocatively she slid her white shawl from off her shoulders. While Tom watched, entranced by her every move, slowly and deliberately, her eyes never for once leaving his face, reached forward and placed both her hands on his shoulders. Tom smiled, covered her hands with his own, returned her steadfast gaze with one of his own; looked up wonderingly at his young wife. She was absolute perfection, the dark gossamer strands of her hair - spun midnight he had once called it - her flawless ivory skin, her eyes two deep fathomless pools, but so alive, lit by the intensity of some inner sparkling light.

Even now, despite being married for nearly a year, there were times when he wondered how it had come to this. That, above and over anyone else, Sybil had chosen him, a seemingly penniless Irish lad from off the poorest streets of Dublin - for that was how he still sometimes saw himself - when he reflected on the life of privilege she had forsaken, when he had so little to offer her. How could she truly be his? However, the very proof of that fact was standing here before him. No ethereal wraith-like vision of loveliness, but one of sensuous substance, of warm flesh and blood, She was here, was real, was his, and the realisation of this simple fact made Tom's eyes mist over, wet with tears.

Letting go of Sybil's hands, Tom reached up and drew her quickly down towards him. She came forward willingly into his arms, snuggled on his lap, her arms clasped about his neck. She felt his Tom's lips begin to burn kisses along the length of her jaw, the tip of his nose nuzzling against the lobe of her ear, was aware of his hands reaching up to cradle her face. Tom kissed her gently on the lips. The kiss deepened, became deeper still as Sybil slipped her hands below the bottom edge of his white flannel vest, ran her hands up and over the bare skin of his chest.

"God, Sybil ... You're the love of my life" moaned Tom in between his deepening kisses.

"You are my life, Tom", echoed Sybil. "And now Danny too. Much as I love Downton, there was always something missing. But, my love, that no longer be the case".

They were both of them singularly aware that the atmosphere in the room had suddenly changed; was once again charged with the same overt sexual tension as on that long ago night in Tom's bedroom at the top of Ma's house in Clontarf.

As Tom drew her back into the warmth of his encircling arms, Sybil yielded passionately to his embrace, to his deepening kisses, and whimpered, almost delirious with pleasure, as Tom began to caress and touch her, in places and in ways that he knew gave Sybil the greatest delight. A moment or two later, taking her in his arms, Tom carried her purposefully back across the room, to the warmth of the waiting bed. Hurriedly, Tom stripped off his vest, trousers and underpants.

As her husband gently lowered her down onto the bed, Sybil drowsily opened her eyes, gazed back at him. The sensation bare skin moving against her own was electrifying; the intimacy of the moment made the two of them almost light-headed. What Tom did next made her gasp, arch her back, moan with ecstasy. Tom cupped her face in his hand; their lips met in a gentle kiss, Sybil savouring the probing touch of the tip of Tom's tongue, as softly he caressed her lower lip, seeking once more to deepen their kiss; and, not surprisingly, once again, the kiss lingered, became deeper, and ever more passionate.

Harrington will just have to wait for his damned article. This is a much better way to spend the evening, thought Tom. Gently he caressed the curve of Sybil's hip, placed soft kisses along her skin. She sighed contentedly; bestowed a gentle kiss on the tip of his nose, then another upon his neck, ran the fingers of one hand through his hair, while running the fingers of the other up and down the length of his spine. He felt her hand travel along his ribs, tickle his skin. She moved lower still until Tom felt Sybil's hands reach between his legs, and when she found and grasped hold of him, he moaned with untrammeled pleasure.

"Sybilllllllll …!"

At that, he rolled swiftly over upon her and, as Tom lowered himself down upon her, Sybil reached forward, and drew him into her with a cry of utter bliss to match his own.

Later, while Sybil slept, Tom lay awake beside her in the darkness, thinking. He closed his eyes, again, only to have, as before, a woman's face form before him out of the blackness of the night. Time seemed to stand still; the hours frozen. Then, before he knew it, the sunlight of early morning was spilling into their hotel bedroom. He turned from the window, and from Sybil; realised he hadn't slept at all.

Author's Note:

The breakdown in law in order in the south and west of Ireland in the province of Munster happened exactly as described, so too, the rioting in Limerick and its heavy-handed suppression by the British army. The Black and Tans, who to this day, still have a notorious reputation in Ireland, were recruited in the manner described, to bolster the depleted ranks of the Royal Irish Constabulary.

"Love's Philosophy", by Percy Bysshe Shelley, is one of that poet's best-known poems and was quoted from much, much earlier in this story.