Chapter One Hundred And Twenty Five

Out Of The Frying Pan...

Thereafter, at the end of St. Patrick Street, close to the bridge, deftly avoiding both a horse-drawn coal cart and an oncoming tramcar, they turned right down Merchants' Quay; thence walked along Parnell Street, retracing their steps across the bridge of the same name and then made their way down Albert Quay heading for the station where they would then take the Kinsale branch train as far as Skerries Road.

Unusually for the two of them, for much of what remained of their journey on foot over to the station, they walked in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

Of course, Sybil knew that Tom had not wanted to make this journey down here to Cork and for very good reasons too; it stirred up too many bitter memories, some of which she knew he had yet to share with her. And yet, for all that, some small part of her was ever-so slightly intrigued to see once again the house where she and Tom had first met all those years ago as children.

She was also well aware that Tom had been infuriated by what had just come to pass in the solicitor's office and that he was also very upset by the news of his cousin's unexpected engagement; although quite why that should be so, Sybil could not begin to fathom.

In her early thirties, Maeve was several years older than Tom who, since the death of her father and her two brothers, was now her only surviving male relative. Still unmarried, her mother ailing, unlikely to live very much longer and, since Skerries House was now at last to be sold, it was, thought Sybil, only natural that Maeve should begin to make plans for her own future. What surprised Sybil was that Maeve had not begun to do so long ere this. Not of course that Tom would ever countenance throwing Maeve out onto the street but, even if he had been inclined to do just that, Sybil had the sneaking suspicion that somehow his cousin would have contrived to rise above her misfortune.

Having learned much of Tom's true antecedents shortly after her arrival here in Ireland, Sybil was well aware that Tom and his cousin had continued to correspond, albeit in a desultory fashion. For the most part their letters, with Tom's knowledge she had read all of them, had been concerned with Maeve's struggle to keep together what little remained of the Skerries estate, which, as Munster had descended further into chaos and violence, had become increasingly difficult, especially after her mother had become bed-ridden.

And yet, for all that, the distinct impression that Sybil had formed of Maeve was of a strong-willed woman who would not let herself be crushed by any of life's tribulations, who was more than capable of fending for herself and who was certainly not in need of any meagre protection which Tom, as her only surviving male relative, was in a position to bestow upon her.

For his part, despite what Sybil had told him, that the meeting with Mr. Fitzmaurice was merely a means to an end, Tom had indeed been angered beyond measure by the old solicitor's arrogance, condescension and, as he saw it, impertinence. There had been no mistaking that Mr. Fitzmaurice was one of the old school, nor where his allegiance and political sympathies lay: with the British.

With his short-term assignment for the Irish Independent over in England finally at an end, despite the fact that in the aftermath of the fire and the birth of Danny, Tom and his father-in-law had, metaphorically speaking, signed their own Armistice, Tom had been very glad to return home to Ireland.

That he had acquitted himself well while over there in England was obvious; when, on his first day back Tom had walked into his office on Talbot Street in Dublin for a meeting with his editor, Harrington had been fulsome in his praises of Tom's articles giving the British perception of how things were unfolding here in Ireland.

The old chap's buttering me up. He want's something, I'll be bound had thought Tom.

And in that he had been right; for, after singing his praises in good measure, Mr. Harrington had gone on to explain that to counter the propaganda emanating from Dublin Castle, the seat of British rule in Ireland, it had become increasingly urgent, if not essential, that the Independent have someone down here in Munster who could report at first hand exactly what was happening in the south.

Given the fact that confrontation between the forces of the Crown and the Irish Republican Army was fast degenerating into open warfare, it would, said Mr. Harrington, be of considerable interest for the readership of the Independent to have placed before them first hand and unbiased accounts of what was now unfolding in the far south of the country.

And who better to undertake this posting than his highly respected journalist, Tom Branson? When Tom had demurred said there were others more senior than him, those who knew Munster far better than he, Harrington had brushed aside his protests with a dismissive wave of his hand; had made it abundantly clear to Tom that a posting to Cork would be very much in his own interests; would be the making of him as a journalist.

By all means, talk it over with your pretty young wife, but, make no mistake, Branson, I want you down there in the south. And, by the way, congratulations on the birth of your boy.

It was on the evening of that very same day, impatient to be home, seated in the tramcar on his way out to Clontarf, with Sybil and Danny no doubt just as eagerly awaiting his return, let alone the prospect of one of Ma's mouth-watering Irish stews for supper, that Tom had chewed over in his mind his interview with Harrington.

Part of him desperately wanted this assignment and there were other reasons too why a move south would be in all their interests.

It would have been so much easier to deny something shouted openly from the very rooftops of Dublin, than to suppress tittle-tattle or whispered rumours. For, despite all the careful precautions both he and Sybil had taken to avoid anyone finding out about her antecedents or his own background, let alone his connection to Skerries House, it seemed that, somehow, some of that information had indeed leaked out.

Not openly of course, but in covert ways, such as in what on the face of it was nothing more than innocuous banter in the offices of the Independent. Why, only just last week, when, as was often the case he was working late on a story, Tom had heard one of the young copy lads chatting in the passage outside Mr. Harrington's office, when taking orders for fish and chips from Burdocks, refer openly to Tom, with a snigger, as "His Lordship".

Sybil, too, had several similar unpleasant experiences of her own at the Coombe in recent months, again all seemingly innocuous, but disquieting nevertheless - most recently shortly before they had left for England, when she had been asked to see to the disposal of an afterbirth. "... if that's not too much trouble for Your Ladyship", had sneered Sister Maguire. A young nursing sister who had but recently come to work at the Coombe and whose family lived on Wall's Lane, close to St. Nicholas's Church on Francis Street, in one of the poorest districts of the city. Maguire had swiftly followed up her insolent jibe with a pointed mocking half curtsy.

As to exactly how what it was that which they had both fought so hard to suppress had, apparently, become if not exactly common knowledge, noised abroad, Tom knew not. There were questions to which there were answers, and others to which there were not. However, there was no use crying over spilt milk. What was done, was done.

Moreover, there was still the continuing problem of what to do about Skerries House. The house, together with its half-dozen remaining farms, now indisputably belonged to Tom. Letters and papers, received whilst they were over in England from his late uncle's solicitor based in Cork, had left Tom in no doubt of that. The most recent of these he had received but a matter of days ago; had reached Tom via a circuitous route, at the post restante address which he had established at the Rotunda Rink Postal Sorting Office on Parnell Square in the centre of Dublin upon their return here to Ireland. Continuing with any other ad hoc arrangement as he had done in the past, let alone permitting any correspondence on this particular matter to be sent to him at the offices of the Independent on Talbot Street, was far too dangerous. And with that most recent letter there had been several others awaiting him too; all from his cousin, Maeve.

Later that evening, after supper, Ma's stew having been every bit as good as he remembered, with Danny fast asleep in his cot and with Ma having retired upstairs too, with Sybil seated on his lap, her arms clasped about his neck, Tom had broached tentatively with her the matter of him going down to Cork.

Darlin', I've... I've something to tell you...

He had got no further than that before Sybil had released her arms from about his neck, sat bolt upright, clambered off his lap and had gone to stand by the fireplace. From there she had regarded Tom with thoughtful eyes, watching his face intently, while letting him say his piece without interruption.

Ever good with words, Tom had explained in predictably glowing terms how Harrington had sung the praises of his articles written from England giving the British perception of what was taking place in Ireland, how the Independent now needed someone on the spot down here in the south of the Ireland and why... Harrington thought he was the best man for the job; adding that his editor had left him no doubt that the posting would be good for his career and why it might be for the best if he removed himself from Dublin at least for a short while. Then there was also the matter of Skerries House...

At that, Tom had fallen silent, waited for the brunt of Sybil's anger. It never came.

Instead, it was now Tom's turn to sit and listen. And listen he did, as to his utter amazement, Sybil said that she had no doubt that Harrington's fulsome praises of his articles were fully justified, but setting those aside, what Tom had just said made eminent sense. After all, his editor clearly realised just how exceptional a man Tom was, as, in truth, albeit for other reasons, so did she. At that Tom had grinned broadly, drawing Sybil's only reproach of the evening so far, observing pithily that he looked rather too pleased with himself. Then she had become serious.

As with most things in life, there was, said Sybil, a price to be paid and this situation was no different from any other. She went on to say that, as always, she would give Tom her full support but on one condition. Here she paused and then had looked him squarely in the eye; that she and Danny went with him.

"What? Darlin', you can't really mean that! Have you any idea what's happening down there in the south?"

"Do you?"
"Some. Anyway, a damned sight more than you do. Darlin' as I told you back at Downton, it won't be like taking a run into Ripon. Make no mistake, it will be dangerous..."

At that, Sybil had bristled. Too late, Tom realised that he had blundered. Of course, he had continued to bluster and protest, but realised he had already lost the argument. And, when it became obvious that Sybil had absolutely no intention of letting him go down to Munster on his own, in the face of her out-and-out opposition to any such idea, he had capitulated. He said that he still had his reservations but agreed that she could come south with him.

For, when Tom had said she should stay at home in Clontarf with Ma, there being no possibility of her returning to the Coombe for the present, had then said that it might be dangerous, Sybil's response to him had been incisive and to the point.

"Dangerous? Tom, what we have is a marriage, a partnership of equals. Where you go, I go too. I told you that back at Downton, remember? Do you honestly expect me to sit at home here darning your socks beside the fire, while you walk into God knows what down there! I won't have it, I tell you!"

Tom had shaken his head in disbelief. No, he said, he had never expected her to do that.

"Well,then..."
"But that's because your darning is much like your cooking. Bloody terrible! Anyway, all my socks will be with me down there in Cork!" He grinned broadly.

"All the more reason for me to be with you then!" Again she paused.

"What?"

"Don't laugh at me".

"I'm not".

"Tom, I've a right to go".

"A right? What right?"

"It's my country too, remember?"

On hearing her utter those words, Tom could not have been prouder of Sybil. Leaping up from the sofa, he hugged her to him in a fierce embrace, his kiss leaving her in no doubt of how he felt about what she had just said about Ireland.

Thereafter, sitting together back on the sofa, they had discussed what he intended to do about Skerries House and in this too, Tom knew that Sybil supported his intention to do as he had always wanted: to put the mansion-house up for sale, although as to whether a buyer for it could be found in these troubled times was something, which Tom very much doubted. The half-dozen farms he proposed conveying irrevocably into the ownership of the sitting tenant farmers. Even if Harrington had not proposed sending him down to Cork, as they both knew Tom's presence down there was unavoidable as he was required to sign the necessary deeds of transfer at Skerries House, so as to comply with the terms of a specific clause contained in his hated late uncle's last will and testament. Tom's comment on the predicament in which he now found himself was, like Sybil's, equally emotive and likewise very much to the point.

"The bloody bastard's had the last laugh. He's stitched me up good and proper this time! Why, if it wasn't for Maeve, I wish someone would burn it to the ground. If I never saw that damned place again ..."

Here Tom's voice faltered, his face crumpled, and he burst into tears.

"No, Tom, love, don't. He hasn't! He hasn't, my darling".

Seeing Tom's obvious distress - they never hid their feelings from each other - Sybil cradled him in her arms.

"Hush now, my love. He hasn't. Believe me, he hasn't. Only if we let him. And, we won't give him that satisfaction now, will we?"

When Tom didn't answer her, Sybil grasped hold of his shoulders and shook him none too gently.

"Will you look at me, Tom Branson?"

Slowly, Tom raised his tear-stained face to gaze at Sybil. The expression on his face made her gasp. Never before had she seen him look as vulnerable as he did now, for the look he wore was that which one might expect to see on a young child, but never on a grown man. To Sybil, Tom appeared, much as she thought he must have done, when as a young boy he had been forced to live rough on the streets of Dublin; half-fearful, frightened of everyone, of everything, terrified of what the future held in store for him. Moreover, seeing the depth of his distress, her heart went out to him, as it had never done before.

"Oh, Tom! Don't let go. Don't give up, my love. We will survive this. Tom, we will get through it, as we have so many other things, because of the strength we both give each other. Never, never, lose sight of that!"

Once across the Parnell Bridge, independently of each other, both Tom and Sybil each made a conscious effort to put aside their private concerns and, as was their usual wont, now chatted animatedly.

Here on Albert Quay, in the warmth of the midday sun, a tan coloured dog lay sprawled contentedly on a pile of sacking while a tabby cat, its tail erect, sauntered along the quay, pausing to sniff at a clutch of empty fish boxes. Close by, seated on a cast iron bollard, a couple of seamen sat quietly darning the torn mesh of a net, while black and white seagulls darted and swooped on the cluster of fishing boats and steamers, which lined the granite quays on either side of the Lee.

Chatting happily, Tom and Sybil were walking along the quayside when a sudden loud blaring of motor horns caused them both to look round. But a moment or two later, as they hurriedly flattened themselves against the brick wall of an adjoining warehouse, two dark green painted open-topped motors replete with shiny brass work roared past them in a cloud of petrol fumes. This time, the occupants of both the vehicles were a gaggle of British Army officers, high-ranking ones too, judging by the amount of gold braid on their caps.

As the vehicles sped past the Bransons, one of the officers seated in the rear of the second of the two motors turned his head and looked intently at them, or, rather, at Sybil. Inspite of everything, Tom now found himself smiling. Wherever they went, Sybil inevitably turned heads. And no wonder. He smiled broadly.

"What?" asked Sybil catching sight of his smile.

"Oh, nothing".

Sybil had a very good opinion of herself and justifiably so too. No need to inflate that still further! Instead, putting the knowledge he had gained as a chauffeur to good effect Tom nodded his head in the direction of the rapidly disappearing pair of motors.

"Fine cars, those Crossleys. Good turn of speed. Weigh 9 tons. 25/30 horse power".

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?"
"I'm sure Danny would agree".

"What? Tom, he's barely five months old!"

"Honestly!"
"Honestly what?"
"Women!"
"Men!"

At that they both burst out laughing, all memory of what had happened earlier at the solicitor's forgotten, if only for the present.

The high-speed passage of the two motor cars was watched in sullen silence by others too, by a scatter of idlers and also by a group of men engaged in loading tea chests onto a horse-drawn dray, who paused in their endeavours along with everyone else to watch the vehicles as they sped rapidly down almost the entire length of the quay, towards where shimmering in the mid morning heat haze a waiting single stacked steamer lay berthed at the far end of the wharf.

The Bransons now drew level with the half-loaded dray. Tom nodded in the direction of the loaded tea chests.

"All the way from Ceylon, for sure! I expect your father drinks it at breakfast! According to Conan Doyle, the tea fields of Ceylon are as true a monument to courage as is the lion at Waterloo".

One of the men helping load the chests guffawed and Sybil smiled, marvelling, as she often did, at Tom's unexpected store of knowledge.

The Bransons walked on towards the station, singularly unaware that while the tea chests and much of their contents indeed came from Ceylon, well secreted beneath the tea, at the bottom of each of the chests lay items which had never originated from off of any tea plantation.

Items which were, in truth, well enough hidden to escape any of the usual, rudimentary inspections made by the British customs officials here in Cork. A more thorough and searching inspection of the tea chests might however have revealed a different story and brought to light items which would have looked singularly out of place upon the earl of Grantham's dining table either at breakfast or indeed at any other meal served at Downton Abbey. For, wrapped in oily rags, and hidden beneath false bottoms, there lay a cache of ammunition clips and the disassembled parts of a goodly number of Mauser and Webley pistols.

Beyond the dray, the two motors had disappeared rapidly into the mist and in their wake a semblance of something like normality returned to the quay, with everyone else resuming whatever it was that they had just been doing.

Moments later, and the two vehicles had come to a stand adjacent to a gangway leading up to the deck of the SS. Bandon. Quickly disembarking and saluting the guards posted on the quayside, the group officers from out of the two motors made their way hurriedly up the gangway, at the top of which they were met by another officer and immediately shown down into the main saloon of the vessel.

A man in full military uniform sat seated at a large table. On entering the saloon, the officers snapped to attention and saluted. The man seated at the desk curtly returned their salute and then rose slowly to his feet.

"I trust everything is in order?"He glanced for confirmation at his own aide-de-camp.

"Yes, sir. Or so I am informed. The motor down there on the quay is at your disposal and is waiting to convey you through the city, out to the Victoria Barracks".

General Strickland moved to the nearest porthole, lifted the curtain, then let it fall. He turned and nodded his head in approval of the arrangements which had been made for him by his subordinates.

"So, I see". Strickland cleared his throat, glanced ahead of him at the clock on the wall of the saloon and then surveyed the expectant faces of the waiting officers. "Well then, gentlemen, time and tide wait for no man. I think we should make a move".

"As you wish sir". The aide-de-camp came smartly to attention and saluted his superior officer.

"And..."

"Yes sir?"
"One thing more..."

"Sir?"

"My congratulations".

"Sir?"
"I understand you have recently become engaged to be married".
"Indeed sir. Thank you sir" said Stathum.

Author's Note:

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle did indeed make the remark attributed to him by Tom about the tea plantations of Ceylon.

The SS. Bandon, not to be confused with a vessel of the same name torpedoed and sunk in 1917 during the Great War, actually existed and belonged to the Coast Lines Company.

Lieutenant-General Sir (Edward) Peter Strickland (1869-1951) was a British Army officer who commanded the First Infantry Division during the Great War. In 1920 he was here, in Ireland, in Cork, as General Officer Commanding the Sixth Division of the British Army. In September 1920, also in Cork, the general would escape a kidnap attempt made upon him by the local IRA, in the course of which he was wounded in the shoulder.