Chapter One Hundred And Twenty Three
Lullaby
Later that same morning, as the first fingers of the pearl grey light of dawn began inexorably to creep their way stealthily into their bedroom, Tom continued lying on his back in bed. Enfolding Sybil within the crook of his right arm, he clasped his left hand behind his head, and stared vacantly up at the cracked, mildewed plaster of the ceiling.
"Come", the girl said gently and held out her hand to him.
He 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..."
"Nothing to be frightened of. How wrong we both were" he said softly again; laughed quietly to himself as before. Not quietly enough, as, beside him in the bed, Sybil stirred gently in her sleep, and stretched out an arm.
Gently, he drew his own arm from around her. Then, tugging on his pyjama trousers, he slipped quietly out of bed and padded across the bare boards of the floor to the window. Drawing aside the frayed edge of the threadbare curtain with his thumb, Tom gazed out over the waking city. Apart from some dark smudges of black cloud on the far distant horizon, the rain had all but ceased. Above him, the firmament was translucent, pearl, shot with the orange flame of sunrise, while wraith like wreathes of mist rose slowly up from off the dull slate grey waters of the river, spiraling lazily upwards before dissipating into nullity.
Below him, an early morning tramcar, painted in the cream and green livery of the Cork Electric Tramways and Lighting Company, clanged and rattled its way noisily along South Mall. A minute or two later, its wheels screeching, it veered sharply to the right, crossing over the south channel of the river by way of the Parnell Bridge; passing close to the imposing limestone splendour of the City Hall surmounted by its cupola topped clock tower. On either side of the river could be seen a veritable forest of funnels and masts belonging to the host of coasters and schooners moored alongside the quays, while from somewhere nearby there sounded the whistle of an engine, its hitherto unseen passage along the quays, marked by regular, rhythmic, successive puffs of white steam.
Closer at hand, Tom now heard the rumble of wooden wheels, then the unmistakable clip clop of steel shod hooves and the whinnying of a horse, as a heavily laden dray drew to a stand beside a small, scruffy much weathered coastal steamer riding quietly at anchor at the quay. Thereafter, amidst a barrage of rough cries, shouts, and much swearing, a group of dockers began loading a cumbersome cargo of fully laden oak barrels belonging to Murphy's Brewery.
From behind Tom in the bedroom there now came sounds too, but this time of much more gentle movement.
"Tom, love? Isn't it very early? What on earth are you doing?"
At the sound of her voice he turned his head, heard the springs of the mattress softly groan their protest, and saw Sybil sitting up in their bed, her shawl draped loosely about her shoulders. The short dark tresses of her hair, ruffled from sleep, contrasted sharply with the soft ivory whiteness of her bare skin, which seemed to glimmer in the early morning light. His wife stifled a yawn, rubbed her eyes free of sleep.
"Nothing, love. Couldn't sleep. That's all".
Only of course, it wasn't all. In fact, far from it. For, if the truth be told, Tom was more nervous of returning to Skerries House than he cared to admit; either to Sybil or even ... to himself.
"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.
"Come back to bed" Sybil smiled, patted the empty place beside her invitingly and stretched wide her open arms towards him. Tom grinned, reached provocatively for the drawstring of his pyjama trousers. A moment later, he had padded across to the bed and clambered back onto it, pulling the covers about them. As he did so, Sybil slipped her arms comfortingly about his neck, gently pulled his head down to rest upon her breasts, brushing his hair with her lips. Tom raised his head, looked up at his wife, searching her face, their lips now but a breath apart.
"Jaysus! I do love you so very much, Sybil", he whispered fervently, before crushing his mouth against hers, enfolding her to him in a sudden fierce embrace as if the very act of his possession of her would somehow serve to exorcise finally the demons of the time spent as a boy at Skerries House.
It was this particular reoccurring nightmare which had led Tom to make his impromptu, spur-of-the-moment visit to St. Audoen's Catholic church back in far-off Dublin; to make there his long overdue confession to the benevolent, kind-hearted parish priest, all of which had taken place on the very same day that Tom and Sybil had met her sisters at the Shelbourne Hotel, just before he and Sybil were married.
In Christian charity, the kindly, elderly priest had listened patiently to all of what Tom had to relate; had given him absolution and then blessed him. But, in the end, apart from bringing Tom some momentary release from his inner demons, in the long run, it had counted but for nought. After all, reflected Tom remorsefully, the past is ever present and nothing, not even a heartfelt benediction, could make things as they once had been.
A moment later and Tom gasped, all thoughts of what had happened at Skerries for the moment forgotten, as Sybil's practised hands reached between his legs and grasped hold of him.
"God, Sybil, I absolutely adore you", moaned Tom as he felt her settle comfortably beneath him.
Gently, Tom lowered himself down upon her once again, and, as he did so, tenderly caressed her soft, moist lips with his own, sought her mouth with the probing tip of his tongue. At that same moment, Sybil felt as if her very being had once again turned to liquid silk. A pleasurable tremour coursed through her body. She was conscious of a heightened sense of awareness flowing through her and a dreamy feeling of delicious anticipation enfolded her within its comforting warmth, as slowly, almost languidly, they began to possess each other.
Mindful of the presence in the room of young Danny, who, no doubt, would shortly be awakening for his usual early morning feed, they laughed softly together, stifling their moans of pleasure, speaking in hushed whispers, kissing gently, and warm tongues deeply probing. Tom's practised hands slipped lower, aligning their bodies; then, even when tightly entwined, pulling each other closer still, savouring the physical intimacy of the moment.
Their intense need for each other deepened with each passing second, Sybil moaning as she drew him in and he himself thrust yet deeper within her; she felt herself near, arched her back as she went over the edge, spiralling into the vortex. A moment or two later and she heard Tom's breathing quicken, cupped his face in her hands, watching him intently as at his own moment of release, he spilled himself deep within her.
Soft laughter followed; breathless, flushed from their exertions together they lay back upon the bed, sated and content. Not a moment too soon, as right on cue, little Danny awakened from his hitherto peaceful slumbers and whimpered plaintively whereupon Sybil grimaced and sat bolt upright in bed.
"Honestly, Tom! He's so like you!"
"I do rather hope so!" Tom grinned lazily up at his wife. "But, since you come to mention it, humour me. As intellectual to intellectual, in which particular way did you have in mind, precisely?"
"Why, since you ask, precisely, because he's so damned impatient!" exclaimed Sybil not even bothering to reach for her nightgown and instead slipping naked from out of their bed. Tom chuckled; would she have done that at Downton? For all their studied flaunting of convention and propriety, he thought it very unlikely. A matter of moments later and she was back with Danny held fast in her arms; the little boy already snuffling contentedly at her full left breast.
"See what I mean!" she laughed.
"No rest for the wicked, eh!" chuckled Tom pulling back the bedclothes as encumbered with their feeding son Sybil clambered slowly into their bed. Naked, she shivered, as with the fire in their room now having sunk to but little more than a few red embers, there was a distinct damp chill to the morning air. Instantly, Tom pulled the bed covers more closely about her still naked body.
"Will the two of you both be warm enough? Do you want me to make up the fire again?" he asked solicitously.
"No, it's not for long, but thank you all the same. We'll be all right, won't we, my darling?" Sybil gazed down fondly at her son as he continued to suckle at her breast.
"For sure?" Tom enquired.
Sybil nodded her head affirmatively.
"Of course. But I'll make doubly sure though that he's well tucked in when I put him back down in his cot. And, as for the wicked; certainly not!" she observed playfully and with a rueful sigh.
Lying by her side, for the moment both happy and content, Tom smiled, brushed Sybil's cheek with his thumb and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead; watched as his young son continued to feed contentedly. Then, like Sybil, likewise still naked, Tom snuggled himself down under the blankets as a sudden, unexpected, heavy burst of rain rattled noisily against the window as if a spray of gravel had been thrown hard against the sash. Catching sight of her husband's broad, self-satisfied smile, Sybil smiled.
Tom cocked a listening ear.
"A last passing shower and that really should be the end of it. At least I hope so. I don't much fancy trudging through the streets of Cork in the rain".
"What time do we have to be at the solicitor's?" asked Sybil.
"Ten thirty, I think, or thereabouts".
"Whereabouts?"
"Why, over on St. Patrick's Street. It's not that far from here".
"I'm very glad to hear it".
"Hm!"
Tom snuggled further down under the bedclothes.
"You needn't be looking so pleased with yourself, Mr. Branson".
Tom took no notice; his sleepy grin broadened. Closing both his eyes, he sighed contentedly and stretched himself out languidly in their bed.
"Hm! This really is nice".
"I wouldn't be getting yourself too comfortable, Tom; at least, not now".
"Why ever not?" Tom opened one enquiring eye.
"Well, apart from the fact I heard someone moving about downstairs and..." Sybil inhaled deeply "...from that delicious smell, preparing breakfast, because, when he needs changing... then it's your turn!" said she with a wicked laugh.
And so, with Danny continuing to suckle contentedly at her bare breast, snuffling greedily, his ever watchful, impossibly blue eyes fixed solely on both of his parents, Sybil settled herself comfortably back against the pillows; began to hum softly the lilting tune of the Welsh lullaby, taught to her at Downton in the weeks immediately following Danny's birth by Bronwen, a young girl from the sleepy little market town of Tregaron in mid Wales, who was now in service as a parlour maid to Cousin Isobel down at Crawley House:
Huna blentyn ar fy mynwes
Clyd a chynnes ydyw hon
Breichiau mam sy'n dynn amdanat
Cariad mam sy dan fy mron;
Ni chaiff dim amharu'th gyntun
Ni wna undin รข thi gam
Huna'n fwyn ar fron dy fam
Author's Note:
The Welsh lullaby referred to above is called Suo Gan, which will, in fact, be familiar to anyone who has seen Steven Spielberg's "Empire of the Sun" where it is sung for the very first time in the film by the English boys' school choir in Shanghai. In English the opening lyrics may be rendered as:-
Sleep child on my bosom
Cozy and warm is this
Mother's arms are tight around you
Mother's love is under my breast
Nothing may affect your napping
No man will cross you
Sleep quietly dear child
Sleep sweetly on your mother's breast
Down the years, this lullaby has been recorded by very many artists, but if you want to hear it in the original Welsh, Google "Anthony Way "Suo Gan" on the Internet. I have no connection to the artist, who, when this particular version of this beautiful and haunting tune was recorded, was a twelve-year-old chorister at St. Paul's Cathedral Choir School in London.