Chapter One Hundred And Thirty Four

Once A Chauffeur, Always A Chauffeur

Over the days and weeks that followed hard upon the bloody ambush on their train at Skerries Road, as the long, halcyon days of summer wore on and the heavy heat of August slipped almost imperceptibly into the pleasant warmth of a glorious September, Tom continued to make solid and steady progress in recovering well from his injuries; at least according to the elderly doctor from Kinsale who was as good as his word and came up to the house and looked in upon him on a weekly basis. Much to Sybil's embarassment, the old man was also exceedingly complimentary as to the quality of nursing care his patient continued to receive.

Penned several days after the incident itself, Tom's own harrowing account of the ambush on the train was duly published in the Irish Independent, along with several other perceptive articles written by him, one on his own first impressions of the city of Cork, another how down here in the south, the momentum in the guerilla campaign being waged by the IRA against both the British Army and the Royal Irish Constabulary seemed, at least on the face of it, to be turning in the favour of the republican cause. All these articles, as well as several others besides, to begin with, Tom wrote while sitting out in the warmth of the summer sunshine, seated in a deckchair, on the neglected, overgrown terrace of Skerries House, overlooking the sea.

For much of the time Sybil sat with Tom, either with little Danny seated on her lap or else mother and son lying on blankets and rugs brought out from the house and spread over warm flagstones beneath the remains of a pergola, the air heavily scented from the overgrown roses which twined around its rotten posts.

While Sybil naturally wanted to be with Tom while he recovered, part of her motive in remaining so constantly by his side was utterly selfish. Not that she didn't trust him, but her overt presence ensured that Maeve's equally overt solicitousness for Tom's welfare was kept within well-defined limits and strictly at arm's length.

Eventually, this tactic on her part seemed to have the desired effect, for, although, each evening, once Danny had been fed and put to bed they had eventually agreed between them that it would be churlish not to join Maeve for dinner in the dining room at Skerries and from time to time Tom's cousin sat with them out on the terrace, for much of the long summer days, they were left very much to their own devices, especially after breakfast was over.

For despite the ever deteriorating situation, Maeve was often out and about, either riding, or else driving herself in the pony and trap and paying a whirl of seemingly endless social calls. She made no mention whatsoever of any engagement and when, in due course, mystified by this, Sybil had asked Tom if Mr. Fitzmaurice had been mistaken in what he had told them, Tom explained what Maeve had said to him on the subject. And there the matter rested until Maeve herself chose to be forthcoming.

Even though Skerries was somewhat off the beaten track, news of what was happening in the outside world both in County Cork and further afield throughout the length and breadth of Ireland continued to filter through in the form of reports in the pages of the Cork Examiner and the Irish Times, as well as gossip regaled by the local postman, along with snatches of conversation overheard among the soldiers garrisoned down at the old stables, when Tom was back on his feet again.

Of course, the very last time Sybil had seen the stable yard at Skerries, it had been through the eyes of a small child. Then it had been dark and the brick buildings, ranged around four sides of a square and lit by the flickering light of many lanterns, had seemed truly enormous; now, all these years later seeing the stable yard again as an adult and in daylight too, even if only from the arched entrance, it did not look at all large.

However, such is often the way with recollections of the past, even if held with great conviction, feeling and lucidity. At best they can be imprecise and at worst completely false. True, Tom and Sybil's first view of the buildings as adults had been and continued to be somewhat circumscribed, owing to there being soldiers on guard at the entrance who were under strict orders not to admit any civilians into the stable yard, not even the prospective owner of Skerries House.

Even if their strolls past the stables still stirred painful and unpleasant memories for Tom - he said as much to Sybil afterwards lying facing one another in bed one night after they had made love - one unexpected benefit was that it was through one of these pedestrian excursions, Tom acquired what would become his much loved Triumph motorcycle.

He had seen it, a beast of a 550 horsepower machine, a Triumph Model H, much used by the British Army during the war, lying abandoned and forlorn, propped against the outside wall of the stables. Perfunctory enquiries of one of the NCOs down at the stables revealed that as far as he knew it was completely beyond repair and that the army had no further use for it. This indeed turned out to be the case and for the payment of a modest sum, Tom was welcome to it.

The motorbike came with a full set of tools and, when he was well enough, with Tom's knowledge of all things mechanical, under his expert ministrations, he set about finding out exactly what the problem with the engine was, something to do with the crankshaft he thought and then, when he was certain that was indeed the problem, proceeded to find a way of rectifying it, replacement parts being non-existant. That Tom would indeed eventually have the motorcycle repaired and back out on the road again, he was in no doubt. There was, he said, no reason why on God's earth the machine could not be put back into running order for, as he explained enthusiastically to Sybil, this particular "model" was extremely robust.

Not, of course, that Sybil knew anything about models of motorcycles or for that matter of motorcars, but Tom's enthusiasm for the project was boundless and a welcome antidote to his sometimes harrowing work as a journalist. He spoke knowledgeably of gears and pistons, of crank pins and tappets, along with a host of other parts all belonging to the motorcycle, none of which meant anything at all to Sybil. But chatting about what he had planned buoyed Tom's spirits enormously while he continued to chafe at the restrictions, albeit temporary, placed upon him while he recovered from his wounds.

Sybil said as much to Mary in her last letter, drawing the pithy response from her eldest sister that with his obsession with repairing his newly acquired motorcycle, her dearly loved brother-in-law was now obviously simply just reverting to type and asked, tongue-in-cheek, if she ought not to ask Mrs. Hughes to parcel up Tom's chauffeur's uniform and send it over to him in Ireland.

Enclosed with her letter, Mary sent a button from off Tom's old livery, saying that the rest of his chauffeur's uniform could easily follow if Sybil deemed it necessary. Tom was much amused by Mary's suggestion and thereafter proceeded to keep the button in his trouser pocket as a treasured keepsake.

"So, what exactly are you doing today, I mean, that is, apart from trying to repair it?" Sybil asked one warm September day. Having fed Danny and laid him down for his afternoon nap, she had come upon Tom, now at last free of almost all of his bandages, stripped to the waist, kneeling on the gravel beside the motorcycle in front of the steps leading up to the house; saw how the muscles in his back rippled, recalled too how she had felt those self same muscles beneath her fingers the night before.

Hearing her voice, Tom turned. Sweat beaded his brow and Sybil saw his face was streaked with oil, presumably, she imagined, from the engine. His blue eyes sparkled, twinkled with mirth. With a broad sweep of his hand, he indicated a variety of neatly ordered parts belonging to the motorcycle and which now littered the gravel. Tom was nothing if not methodical.

"Stripping her down, milady" he growled lasciviously and with a cheeky grin.

"Oh! Really?"

"Yes, really!"

Sybil raised a provocative eyebrow, doing her very best to ignore her husband's obvious double entendre, but under the incisive gaze of his deep blue eyes, she found herself blushing. However, she recovered her composure almost immediately. Two can play at that game she thought.

"Well then, Mr. Branson, given your expertise in matters of that nature, you should have no problem then!"

Tom's grin broadened. He so loved it when she blushed. He smiled and with his eyes never once leaving her face, he now rose to his feet, slowly and methodically wiping his fingers on an oily rag.

"Perhaps, but, practice makes perfect, milady. Or so I'm led to believe" he drawled amiably before tossing the rag nonchalantly aside.

In spite of herself, Sybil blushed again.

Tom chuckled at her repeated discomfiture.

"It's hot, to be sure" he said squinting up at the sun.

"Why, how observant of you" offered Sybil; knew that at this particular moment she had never wanted him more. "Perhaps we should go inside where it's cooler".

"Why inside?" asked Tom. He laughed. "Come! I've a much better idea" and held out his oil stained hand.

In the heat of the afternoon, Sybil let him lead her away from the house, up the steps of the terrace, past the wreck of the pergola and the dried up lily pond, her trust in him so complete that never once did she question where he was taking her.

The answer to that appeared but a few moments later, standing among a secluded copse of trees. An octagonal, brick built summerhouse. The roof had gone; the windows too, the walls much festooned with ivy, but as Tom ducked under the crumbling lintel and she let him draw her inside, Sybil saw that the decorative tiled floor yet remained, albeit all but hidden by a thick bank of leaves, the detritus of many autumns past.

Within the ruined summerhouse, Tom knelt among the leaves and drew Sybil to him where, laughingly he soon showed his expertise in "stripping her down" was not confined to machinery. For her part, Sybil herself was no less proficient in the same art, making equally short work of Tom's clothes: of course, that he was already half-naked helped her enormously. Then, seated astride him, Sybil leaned down to kiss him, their tongues soon entwined, his fingers sifting her hair, pulling her closer to him, their breaths coming in short, shallow gasps.

Early on in their love-making, Tom had learned that despite her understandable inexperience in matters sexual, Sybil was as adept and willing as he was in taking the lead and so it was now, surrendering himself willingly to her practised ministrations, following at the pleasurable pace she now set for the both of them.

Reaching for her breasts, he smiled languidly as felt himself sink into her. Her hands took hold of his shoulders, her nails raking his skin while his own hands slipped lower grasping her hips, pulling her to him. But a short while later and the pace between them suddenly quickened. Knowing what was shortly about to happen, Tom watched as Sybil's passion now became all-consuming, possessed her to the core of her being and finally sent her over the edge. Moments later, he closed his eyes, arching his back, crying out, as he spilled himself deep within her. A moment later, with both he and Sybil thoroughly sated, Tom rested his forehead gently against hers.

"God, Sybil, darlin', you have no idea, how much I love you" he whispered, nuzzling first her neck and then her throat.

"Oh, I think I do" she said softly.

At her words, Tom grinned lazily; felt her lips soft against his own. Somewhere close at hand a bird trilled. Tom opened one enquiring blue eye and then the other. He saw that Sybil was gazing up at the sky, staring into the emptiness of where the roof of the summerhouse had once been and chewing on her bottom lip, a sure sign that she had something on her mind.

"What is it?" he asked softly, taking her fingers in his and giving them a soft kiss. "There's something on your mind, milady. You're keeping something from me, Sybil. I can tell". Kissing her tenderly, slowly, he rolled her over onto her back, his hand slipping between her thighs, fingers gently probing. He saw her smile up at him.

Sybil had wondered how she was going to tell him, but with the elderly doctor from Kinsale having yesterday now confirmed what she herself had suspected for some time that she was indeed again expecting a child, she was left with no option but to speak the plain, simple, unvarnished truth.

"Tom, darling, I'm pregnant".

She need not have worried about telling him. Tom was absolutely ecstatic at the news, smothering her face with kisses, holding her close.

"When?"

"... is the baby due?"
He nodded, his eyes glistening.

"Some time early next year".

"By which time, we should hopefully all be back in Dublin".

Sybil nodded in agreement. Like Tom, albeit for different reasons, she would be equally glad to see the last of Skerries House.

They dressed languidly and then strolled hand in hand, all the while talking animatedly about the new arrival, as far as the house where Sybil sat on the front steps and watched Tom as he continued to work on the motorcycle out in the warmth of the sunshine; both of them blissfully unaware that the acquisition and subsequent repair to full working order of the motorcycle, whether or not it solved Tom's immediate transport problems, was to have serious and unforeseen consequences for them all.

Indeed, it had been but a matter of hours before he chanced upon the motorcycle, that in the dour Drawing Room of the decaying mansion, with Sybil standing by his side with Danny in her arms, in the presence of Maeve, with Mr. Fitzmaurice and his young spotty faced clerk in attendance, that Tom had finally become the unwilling, albeit legal owner of Skerries House.

The completion of all the necessary legal formalities had been somewhat delayed both as a result of the injuries Tom had sustained in the ambush on the train some four weeks earlier and by Mr. Fitzmaurice having been unwilling to travel out beyond the confines of Cork until he considered it safe to do so, owing to what he saw as the breakdown of law and order in the countryside. That being so, Mr. Fitzmaurice insisted that he and his young clerk wait until there was a military convoy bound for the barracks down in Kinsale, in which he would be able to travel in both comfort and safety, presumably accompanied by a British officer in a staff car.

But, when the time came, despite the affront to the old solicitor's dignity, both he and his clerk were left with no option but to make the journey out to Skerries and the return trip back to Cork seated on a bench in the rear of a British Army lorry with, as their escort, a rowdy bunch of Tommies, who, with their tour of duty here in Ireland now at an end, were leaving for England the very next day.

And if, as seemed more than likely, before his journey out to Skerries, staid old Mr. Fitzmaurice had never ever heard sung If you were the only Boche in the trench, much later that same day, by the time both he and his clerk were dropped unceremoniously off from the lorry back in St. Patrick's Street in Cork, whether he wanted it or not, along with the words to several other lewd ditties from the war, he had by then heard them belted out enough to know them all backwards.

Tom's first act, before the ink was scarcely dry on the Deed of Transfer, was to do as he had said he would and instructed Mr. Fitzmaurice to put the house and what remained of the estate up for sale by private treaty, although in these fraught times, the old solicitor thought it extremely doubtful that a buyer would be found in the immediate future, if at all.

"Ahem, yes. But I, ahem, in these troubled days, ahem, as I told you, Mr. Branson, ahem, I think it very unlikely that any purchaser…"

"All I require of you is that you do as I have asked, Mr. Fitzmaurice".

The merest suggestion that he would somehow not comply with the wishes of his client caused the parchment cheeks of the old solicitor to flush scarlet. He mopped his fevered brow with his handkerchief and wished he had never ever come. In his considered opinion, along with his disdainful, haughty English wife and their squalling brat, this man was undoubtedly trouble.

"Ahem, naturally I will do as you ask, Mr. Branson. Ahem, but, as your solicitor, ahem, I feel it my duty to warn you that, ahem…"

"Then I consider myself suitably warned" interrupted Tom briskly. The old man and his nervous tick were beginning to try his patience beyond belief.

In all of this, Maeve herself had said nothing, but then as the beneficiary of a life interest in a town house on North Mall, one of Cork's finest streets, something which, even if it came as a complete shock to Tom, watching Maeve from out of the corner of her eye and seeing that knowing smile of hers playing about those full lips, Sybil suspected was something she had known about all along. Maeve had landed on her feet, just as Sybil always imagined she would with Tom promising his cousin that she could take from Skerries any of the furniture or paintings she wanted, along with her pick of the china, glassware and linen. After that, what remained would be sold along with the house.

With Maeve like as not to move into Cork in the next few weeks, until the estate was sold, Tom and Sybil agreed that, for the time being at least, they would remain here at Skerries. The already skeleton staff could be reduced still further and virtually all of the remaining rooms of the house shut up until a buyer could be found.

But as it turned out, Maeve did not move out quite as soon as had been expected.

None of the news which filtered through to Skerries in these weeks while Tom slowly recovered from his wounds and began repairing his newly acquired motorcycle made for good hearing. With republican prisoners in Cork gaol beginning an indefinite hunger strike, a raid by the British authorities on City Hall, further shootings of RIC officers, attacks on army units such as that mounted by the IRA on the Cameron Highlanders at Whiterock, on a cycle patrol of British troops ambushed near Ballyvourney and on British soldiers guarding an aeroplane which had been forced to make an emergency landing not far from Kanturk, let alone the failed attempt to capture Lieutenant General Strickland in Cork, whom Miles Stathum had met with down on Albert Quay, it was very much a case of business as usual for both of the opposing sides in an increasingly bitter struggle where quarter was not sought, for none would be given.

For someone who abhorred violence as much as did Tom, here in the south of Ireland, this descent into a sickening spiral of killing, marked a new era of depravity, with innocents such as the young man on the train at Skerries Road and others just like him being caught in the crossfire and where the loss of human life was now seen as a price worth paying, both by the British Army and by the IRA, in their interminable, intractable quest for military superiority.

Facilis descensus Averno - Virgil had been right, thought Tom grimly as one late September afternoon on his return from Kinsale, he puttered up the rutted drive to the house on his newly repaired ex-army motorcycle. The descent into Hell was easy and, just as Sybil had so astutely predicted, Tom had no doubt either that caught up in all of this murderous mayhem, good people had died, were dying and would continue to die on both sides until somewhere someone saw sense and accepted that in the struggle for Ireland's independence, violence was not the way forward.

Tom slowed and brought the motorcycle to a practised stop in front of the house. In his view, there was nothing different to a bullet fired into the back of the head of a local magistrate kidnapped and shot by the IRA in a lonely field, to a bullet fired into the back of the head of a local priest abducted and killed by the Black and Tans and his body thrown into a bog.

Murder was still murder, whoever it was who committed it.

Author's Note:

The Triumph Model H motorcycle was indeed much used by the British Army during the Great War, especially by despatch riders.

"If you were the only Boche in the trench" sung to the tune of "If you were the only girl in the world" one of many of the songs sung by British soldiers in the trenches during the Great War.

The ambushes and attacks referred to above all actually happened.

Virgil, an ancient Roman poet of the Augustan period.