Chapter One Hundred And Thirty
Farewell My Love
By now, the station platform was thronging with people, most of them soldiers, several of them stretcher-bearers, as one by one, Sybil and the two army privates made a thorough search of the shattered, bullet-ridden compartments of the train. The three of them eventually reached the final compartment of the last carriage where, as before, Sybil now clambered aboard, only to re-emerge a few moments later, but this time, to the amazement of the two privates, with a crying, mewling infant her arms.
"Would you help me down please, Will", she asked. The tone of her voice was calm, unemotional, almost matter-of-fact, belying her immediate surroundings, seeming to deny what it was that they had both just witnessed.
So surprised was he by Sybil's sudden re-emergence from the wrecked carriage with a swaddled baby in her arms, that without a word, unquestioningly, Will simply did as he had been bidden. Taking her by the elbow, he helped Sybil step down on to the gravel platform, and led her gently through the milling, madding throng to a place in the shade, out of the heat of the sun, beneath the wooden canopy of the station building. There they both sat down on a bullet splintered wooden packing case, Sybil still holding the whimpering infant.
Their eyes met over the baby's head.
"The child's unharmed. The mother is back in there. She's ..." Her voice suddenly faltered, as, with a slight nod, Sybil indicated the bullet shattered compartment at the far end of what had been the Bransons' own carriage.
Then came an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
"It's a miracle this poor little mite isn't dead too. The mother must have covered the baby with her body when the shooting began".
Sybil paused, lowered her head, now remembering that but a short while ago, she had done exactly the same for Danny and probably more or less at the exact same time that the baby's own mother had been killed.
A dark shadow loomed over them.
Sybil looked up questioningly, to see that out on the platform a nun in the habit of a Sister of Mercy, presumably from one of the convents in Cork, had stopped in front of them, was eyeing the bloodstains on the baby's shawl with obvious concern.
"Are you hurt?" asked the nun solicitously, Sybil shook her head, was on the point of replying, when at that very moment some sixth sense told her that she was being watched. Craning her head, she glimpsed briefly, standing at the far end of the platform, midst the steam and smoke, a slim, fair-haired young woman, elegantly dressed in a trim dark blue suit, white blouse, and grey cloche hat, who seemed strangely out-of-place with her immediate surroundings.
"I asked you if you were hurt" repeated the nun, her words now tinged with the faintest hint of exasperation. Sybil's head snapped up.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, sister. Thank you, but no, I'm not hurt at all", she said somewhat pensively, turning her head again towards the end of the platform, only to see that there was no longer anyone standing there; the smartly dressed young woman had disappeared. Sybil turned back to the nun. "Nor the child; this blood isn't mine either, sister. It's from the mother, she's back in there; the carriage at the end of the train, in the last compartment". Sybil indicated exactly where she meant with another nod of her head.
"Are you a relative then?"
Sybil shook her head.
"No, I ..."
"Shall I take the child?"
Sybil nodded.
"Yes, sister. And... thank you", she added, almost absent-mindedly. Rising to her feet, she now gently placed the swaddled infant into the out-stretched arms of the nun. That done, she sat back down on the wooden packing chest next to Will.
"Thank you also" she said.
"My pleasure" he said. Smiling, Will gently squeezed her hand. Sybil sighed and closed her eyes, well aware that the young soldier seated beside her still held her hand. For a few stolen minutes they sat companionably together, warmed by the rays of the afternoon sunshine.
At length, Sybil opened her eyes and turned her face to Will.
"I suppose I really should go and see how my husband and son are faring". She now rose swiftly to her feet; letting go of her hand, Will himself did likewise. Together, they walked out onto the platform.
"Well, goodbye then, Will. And thank you once again for being so kind. Perhaps we'll meet again and in happier times". Sybil held out her hand to him.
"I do hope so" said Will fervently, his eyes now glistening.
He had never ever met a woman quite like the one standing here before him in the golden sunshine of that never-to-be-forgotten summer's afternoon. Knew too, in all honesty, that he never would meet anyone like her ever again. On his part, it had been love at first sight; for once it was true. For him, beauty, elegance and grace now stood before him on the platform, all of those qualities encapsulated in Sybil's frail, slender form. Will thought her to be utter perfection; everything a man could ever want in a woman. With this in mind, impulsively, he did something he had never done before. Reaching forward, he grasped Sybil's proferred hand and then raised it gently to his lips.
"Goodbye... Sybil".
"Goodbye... Will".
He snapped smartly to attention, saluted, turned and a moment later he was gone, swallowed up in the buzzing milieu of both khaki and mufti. Sybil likewise turned, but in the opposite direction and swiftly rounded the corner of the station building.
Neither of them was aware that their all too brief encounter on the platform of the station had been witnessed by the foul-mouthed NCO. Of course the corporal could do nothing about that stuck up bitch of a nurse who had made such a fool of him in front of his men, but as for A...A...Atkins, well that was an entirely different matter. He could make the young private's life hell and he would see to it that he did, at least for the next few days. Fatigues, jankers, guard duty, the list of punishments was endless and the beauty of it was that A...A... Atkins would never know the reason why.
Two nights thereafter, while on guard duty at the Victoria Barracks on the north side of the city of Cork, close to the Barracks' chapel, a young private with the South Staffordshire Regiment was shot dead by an IRA sniper.
A few days later, over in England, just as she was returning from the morning milking, the postman delivered a letter into the work-roughened hands of Mrs Martha Atkins, of Ash End Farm, Alrewas, Staffordshire:
"It is my painful duty to inform you that a report has been received this day from the War Office notifying the death of 15632 Private William Atkins, South Staffordshire Regiment, which occurred at Victoria Barracks, Cork, Ireland…
"Tom, good people are going to be killed; on both sides. Is that the kind of history you want to make?"