Chapter One Hundred And Twenty Four
Legal Niceties
Some time later, downstairs, in the small, homely dining room of their hotel, Tom and Sybil sat and enjoyed an excellent breakfast of sizzling rashers of bacon, fried eggs, sausages, toast, butter and marmalade, all washed down with scalding tea, served to them by Mrs. O'Keefe who bustled about the room like a ship under full sail. Their landlady was every bit as loquacious as she had been upon their arrival the night before and was ably assisted in her endeavours by young Bridget, who was delighted to then be given the task of watching over little Danny in his cot upstairs while his parents did justice to the hearty breakfast placed before them. Apart from a middle-aged commercial traveller, Tom and Sybil had the dining room all to themselves.
Beyond the net curtains of the bay window of the hotel dining room, the pavements and the streets of the city still bore witness to the rain from the night before; along with the numerous puddles, the wet cobbles and granite setts glistened and shone in the sunlight. On this fine morning in July 1920, Cork was now slowly beginning the daily ritual of awakening from its night-time slumber. Above the spires and roofs of the softly stirring city, little by little, the sun climbed ever higher into the azure main of the early morning sky. Mist rose in white spiraling coils from off the limpid surface of the river, while a wooden sailing barge nosed its way gently against the current and headed slowly upstream.
Thereafter, having paid their bill and made their farewells, Tom and Sybil with Danny held fast in her arms set off for the offices of Fitzmaurice, Fitzmaurice and Simmonds Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths which occupied a corner site at the junction of Crab Passage, a foetid, stinking alley and St. Patrick's Street, a broad thoroughfare, not far from the bridge of the same name, which spanned the north channel of the River Lee. Their way led them through a maze of narrow, bustling streets which lay between the two channels of the river.
But a short while later, they found themselves seated before a huge mahogany desk, which in size rivalled that which stood in the earl of Grantham's imposing library at Downton Abbey.
Tom glanced slowly round the solicitor's office. In front of him, the surface of the large desk was littered, indeed one might say almost obscured, by all manner of papers, while the dark oak panelled walls of the room were, for the most part, book-lined and reminiscent once again of his father-in-law's study. But there the similarity ended; for here, in the dour, drab office of Silas Fitzmaurice, the senior partner of the firm, the shelves were crammed with regimented rows of leather-bound copies of all manner of Law Reports; some of which, from the dates upon them, Tom could see stretched back in time beyond the Great War to the days of Queen Victoria. In one corner and marking the slow passage of the minutes, a long case clock ticked softly.
The few other furnishings of the room were both equally dark and heavy, serving only to add to the prevailing gloom, made infinitely worse by the suddenly sombre, leaden sky which Tom now glimpsed beyond the un-curtained window and through which a dissonance of sounds drifted up from the busy street below. That in itself was hardly surprising; given that, here in Cork, St. Patrick's Street was the city's busiest thoroughfare, known affectionately to its citizens as Pana.
"This is one pleasure I can damned well do without" said Tom, nervously fiddling with his cap. "Just where on earth can the fellow have got to? That's what I want to know for sure". Ignoring the ticking clock in the corner, Tom glanced hurriedly at his wrist watch. "Jaysus! Why, we've both been sitting here for nearly half an hour already! If the chap's not here soon, we'll miss our train and there isn't another one until tomorrow morning!" Tom exclaimed; his frustration at being kept waiting for so long now boiling over. Taking several deep breaths to try and steady his fraught nerves, Tom gagged. The air in the room was undeniably musty.
Sitting beside him, her face etched with concern, with Danny held fast in the crook of her right arm, Sybil nodded sympathetically. She knew very well that Tom wished himself to be anywhere else than here; wanted nothing that had once been the property of his late uncle; in fact, would never even have come down here to the south-west of Ireland and to Cork however much Mr. Harrington had impressed upon him that as the rising star of the Irish Independent to do so would be to his professional advancement, had it not been for the plain, simple fact that Tom could no longer put off resolving the long-standing matter of Skerries House.
"Look upon it simply as a necessary evil, Tom; a means to an end and nothing more than that" she had said earlier, as they were being shown into Mr. Fitzmaurice's sombre first floor office by a gangly, spotty faced clerk. Then, with the young man having left to ascertain the whereabouts of the still inexplicably absent solicitor, Sybil continued with her candid assessment of the situation as she saw it. "And once Mr. Fitzmaurice has explained to you how things stand, once the papers which require your signature are signed, then you will have complied with the terms of your late uncle's will and the house itself can be sold". She reached forward with her left hand, touched Tom gently on the arm.
"Yes love. I know you're right. But I do so wish…"
Behind them the door now at last quietly opened, and half turning on his chair, for the first time, Tom saw his late uncle's solicitor, an unprepossessing, balding, portly little man with piercing eyes, dressed in an old-fashioned suit with a gold pocket watch and chain. Tom rose to his feet. The little man shuffled forward, held out his soft, plump, pink hand in greeting.
"Ahem. Mr. Branson? Mr. Thomas Branson?"
Sybil smiled. Christened Tom, she had never ever heard anyone call her husband Thomas, much as no-one, not even her father, a stickler for proprietary, ever called Danny by his given name of Daniel. All the same, wearing a mask of seeming affability, Tom nodded; took hold of the man's proffered hand and grasped it firmly only to find the other's grip both limp and perfunctory.
"Ahem. Mr. Fitzmaurice. So, we meet at last; my apologies for keeping you waiting".
His tone was matter-of-fact and he offered no further explanation as to why he had not been present when the Bransons had arrived on time for their appointment and had been ushered straight upstairs and into his office. Tom found himself wondering if the man's absence had been contrived.
"Permit me to introduce my wife and our son".
The old solicitor nodded.
"Ahem. Mrs. Branson", he said in a manner every bit as perfunctory as had been his handshake. Danny he ignored. A moment or two later and the old man had seated himself behind his large desk and put on a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez.
"Ahem. Now; as to the matter in hand. You have the papers which I sent you to sign?"
Seated again, Tom nodded, bent down and withdrew from his battered briefcase a sheaf of papers.
"All read and signed and witnessed where necessary" he said dispassionately, handing over the same papers to Mr. Fitzmaurice.
The solicitor likewise nodded. Picking up his fountain pen, he cursorily scanned the documents Tom had given him, making here and there the odd note in their broad margins.
"Ahem. Indeed, indeed". Mr. Fitzmaurice laid aside his pen. "Now, I should explain that there are some other... minor formalities which need to be addressed in the matter of the farm tenancies..."
The clock in the corner chimed midday; Danny woke up and began to whimper. How in the name of Jaysus, wondered Tom, could the matter of "some other... minor formalities" concerning but half a dozen farm tenancies have taken upwards of an hour to discuss. After all, he was disposing of the feckin' bloody farms to their sitting tenants! So why on earth...
Mr. Fitzmaurice eyed Danny with thinly veiled contempt.
"Mr. Branson, if the child becomes fractious I shall have to ask that your wife..."
Sybil made to rise, but Tom laid a restraining hand upon her wrist.
Tom grimaced.
"Then perhaps you would kindly expedite matters, Mr. Fitzmaurice. My son stays where he is".
Now it was the solicitor's turn to grimace. Mr Fitzmaurice was not in the habit of being expeditious about anything. Indeed, it was not a word in the lexicon of any solicitor of his acquaintance. He glanced sourly across at Tom. Jacob Branson, the man's late uncle, had said his nephew had been trouble as a boy for the short time he had lived at Skerries. And clearly he was just as difficult now that he was grown. Mr. Fitzmaurice shifted uneasily in his chair.
Another quarter of an hour had now passed.
"… and so, with your approval, I shall travel out to Skerries on Wednesday of next week; to complete the necessary transfer of the estate into your name, that is, assuming of course, the roads are passable. In these fraught and uncertain times, one never knows what may occur to prevent loyal subjects of His Majesty from undertaking their lawful business",
"Thank you" said Tom drily. His lip curled with distaste, as, momentarily, he glanced up at the portrait of King George V hanging in a heavy gilt frame upon the wall just above the solicitor's head. Along with the portrait, let alone the Union Jack flying prominently over the entrance porch of the building in which they were all now seated, there was no mistaking and now from the old man's last remark too just where his own political sympathies lay.
"Ahem. No need to thank me Mr. Branson. I am merely doing what is required of me as your late uncle's solicitor in the matter of discharging in full and to the letter the terms of his last will and testament".
"None the less, thank you".
Tom now made to rise and Sybil did likewise.
The old solicitor remained seated, cleared his throat yet again. There was obviously something else he wanted to say. Tom and Sybil resumed their seats and waited. Mr. Fitzmaurice nodded and came to the point almost immediately.
"Ahem. So you did not fight in the War then, Mr. Branson".
Tom shook his head emphatically. His reply, when it came, was monosyllabic.
"No".
"Ahem. Unlike your late cousins, Mr. William and Mr. Christopher. Of course, I knew them both as boys. Saw them grow up. Fine young men. Such promise. Brave young men too, the pair of them. They fought for their king and country. Both now dead". Mr. Fitzmaurice sighed. "And so, in accordance with the terms of the entail, you being the next male in line now inherit the Skerries estate. Spoils of war". Mr. Fitzmaurice smiled a thin smile; his implication thinly veiled and all too obvious.
Tom still said nothing.
As a twelve-year-old boy, orphaned after the deaths of both his parents in the wreck of the S. S. Hilda off the Breton coast, for the short time he had lived at Skerries, before he ran away, Tom had, on numerous occasions, stoically and repeatedly endured the "bravery" of his late cousins. And, thought Tom, fine was not a word he would ever have used to describe either of them; sadistic bullies the both and so too their partner in crime, a third boy who had on occasion come to visit at Skerries House and who had, to save his own skin, joined in with the baiting and ill-treatment of Tom by his two older cousins.
"Ahem. And from our recent, previous correspondence, am I to understand, once all the necessary formalities have been completed next Wednesday, that it is still your intention to sell the estate?"
Tom nodded.
"It is. Just as soon as a buyer for it can be found".
"Ahem. But you have a son, Mr. Branson". It was now that Mr. Fitzmaurice nodded in Danny's direction and, for the very first time during this morning's proceedings, really deigned to acknowledge the little boy's existence in any positive manner. "Surely, you should consider this young man's future too… before you undertake such a drastic step. After all, Skerries is now much his birthright, as it is your own".
For one brief moment, Tom found himself transported back in time to several months previously, to the Drawing Room at Downton, and to the night when Sybil and he had explained to the stunned members of the Crawley family there assembled, something of his true identity; that Tom was heir to a small estate down near Cork, in the south of Ireland. When, that same evening, he had announced his intention to sell Skerries, Robert Crawley had voiced the same concerns as Mr. Fitzmaurice had just done now: that Tom was robbing his children of their inheritance. And, once again, as he had done at Downton, Tom shook his head.
"I do not believe in aristocratic titles or for that matter in the principle of inherited wealth. So, when the time comes to explain to my son... what was done in the matter of Skerries... I trust he will understand. So, yes, Mr. Fitzmaurice it is still my intention to sell what remains of the estate".
Mr. Fitzmaurice said nothing, merely shook his head in disbelief, and then spread his podgy hands expansively. Doubtless a member of Sinn Féin, a ruddy Socialist and probably a damned Bolshevik too! And yet... and yet, somehow... married to a member of the British aristocracy. Mr. Fitzmaurice idly skimmed the correspondence in front of him, noted again a couple of letters written from England, on headed notepaper bearing the coronet of an earl and the words Downton Abbey, Yorkshire. Something did not add up. Curiouser and curiouser.
"Ahem. And which, I fear, Mr. Branson may prove somewhat difficult in these uncertain times. That apart, following the deaths of your uncle and his two sons, I regret to say that the property has been... somewhat neglected and for a considerable period".
"So I am given to understand".
"Ahem. Should you then wish to retain the services of this firm in that regard, Mr. Branson, with your agreement at the appropriate time, I shall in due course instruct a local firm of land agents to draw up the necessary particulars of sale. I would suggest Messrs. Beamish and Crosbie. They are highly thought of locally and are thoroughly dependable. I have had dealings with them in the past".
"Thank you. Mr. Fitzmaurice".
This brought their discussion finally to an end and they all rose to their feet. It was a short while later, after they had made the customary farewells and were standing downstairs in the stone flagged hallway, waiting for a clerk to open the front door that Mr. Fitzmaurice, having offered his condolences on the continuing ill health of Tom's now bed-ridden aunt, saw fit to impart one additional, further and startling piece of information.
"Ahem. And do please remember me to your cousin, Miss Maeve".
Tom nodded.
"Ahem. And do also pass on my congratulations to her. I understand from a mutual acquaintance that she has recently become engaged to be married".
Tom could not conceal his obvious surprise.
Mr. Fitzmaurice smiled thinly.
"Ahem. But I thought you would have known. I understood that you have been in correspondence with your cousin?"
"I have…occasionally" said Tom woodenly. "But she made no mention whatsoever of any engagement".
"Ahem. A recent development, I believe".
A short while later, having finally exited the offices of Fitzmaurice, Fitzmaurice and Simmons, Tom and Sybil made their way down the bustling, busy street, lined with drab, four and five storey flat fronted buildings many of their upper facades festooned with advertisements, the thoroughfare made noisier still by the continued passage along it of a stream of clanging, bright green and cream painted trams, a bevy of horse-drawn vehicles and all manner of motor traffic. Fortunately, despite the lowering bank of cloud to the north, the rain kept off and they made their way along the street in warm sunshine.
Weaving their way steadfastly through a flurry of other dark clad pedestrians, many of whom had chosen to discard their overcoats with the gathering heat of the July day, with, despite all the noise, young Danny fast asleep held tightly in Sybil's arms, the two of them pressed on through the crowds, walking briskly in the direction of St. Patrick's Bridge, bound for Merchants' Quay.
Almost in sight of the bridge and at a point where for the moment at least the crowds were somewhat less than they had been, when, full of British troops, another army convoy, this time of three or four open-backed lorries roared past them at full speed in a cloud of choking fumes, sending up walls of dirty water from the numerous deep puddles which, following the incessant rain of the previous day, had gathered in the gutter at the side of the road; the soldiers guffawing, laughing, shouting obscenities, as pedestrians on the pavement, men, women and children scattered for cover or else were drenched in torrents of filthy, stagnant water.
Fortunately for both Tom and Sybil, and only by sheer chance, they somehow managed to avoid the worst of the cascades of foul water; this notwithstanding, Tom stopped abruptly, setting down their cases on the pavement and letting rip with a tirade of blistering Irish profanities. Once he had vented his spleen, it was now that Sybil turned to him.
"So, Maeve said nothing to you, in her letters, about becoming engaged?" asked Sybil absent-mindedly brushing droplets of muddy water from off her overcoat.
"No, she didn't!" said Tom somewhat more sharply than he intended. "And I find myself asking why".