Chapter One Hundred And Thirty Five
A Door To the Past
Sadly, as Mr. Fitzmaurice had predicted, as the year wore on, apart from a handful of desultory enquiries, there was little interest in the purchase of what still remained of the once extensive Skerries estate. Given the deteriorating military situation, this was hardly surprising, since following the attempted murder of Sir Alfred Dobbin, one of Cork's leading citizens and a prominent Unionist, other members of that community down here in County Cork who might once have been expected to have been interested in purchasing a country house felt increasingly under threat and many were now actively looking to leave the area altogether, either for the north of Ireland or else for England. With Tom finally restored to rude and vigorous health, their own customary nightly activities leaving Sybil in no doubt whatsoever of that, while her mother yet lingered, Maeve continued to stay on at the house, much to Sybil's annoyance and late summer now drifted inexorably down into the mists and mellow fruitfulness of early autumn.
Finally having obtained the requisite permit from the British military authorities, which as an accredited journalist with the Irish Independent enabled Tom to travel throughout the length and breadth of Munster, whether or not those same authorities approved of what he wrote, he was often now away from Skerries from early in the morning sometimes not returning home until dusk. Out and about on his motorcycle, he became a regular sight in the streets of Cork itself, in Bandon, in Cobh, in Kinsale, in Macroom and in Skibbereen; as well as throughout a whole host of other hamlets and villages, pursuing his various enquiries, following up on leads and potential stories, meeting with all manner of people, Catholic and Protestant, republican and unionist, shopkeeper and tenant farmer, as he puttered back and forth along the quiet country lanes and roads of County Cork.
Despite telling her not to worry, naturally Sybil did precisely the opposite; was desperately concerned for Tom's safety but, ironically enough, despite the escalating violence here in the south of Ireland, the greatest threat to his wellbeing came, so he said, not from the British Army nor from the IRA, but from the appalling state of the roads. Most were unmetalled or else cobbled, some little better than muddy farm tracks and, given the fact that most of the traffic on them, especially in the rural areas was horsedrawn, the roads were often strewn with nails lost from horseshoes, all of which caused Tom several mishaps and punctures. Many was the time when he appeared back at Skerries somewhat later than he had promised, having ended up in a ditch, thankfully with no broken bones, but, all the same, battered, bruised and mud-stained. And, although Tom had a telephone installed at the house, not only so that he could speak with his editor in distant Dublin, but more importantly so that during the day he could, perforce, also keep in contact with Sybil, in practice it proved to be of little use, there being, as yet, so few other telephones in the rural parts of County Cork.
While the good weather lasted, on the rare occasions when Tom was not working, he and Sybil took to wandering down to the cove below the house. There, while he sat and wrote up his articles, as her pregnancy advanced, Sybil played with Danny on the sand, chatted with Tom, sketched, or wrote letters back to Downton. Danny had just begun to stand and, with his parents' help, to try and take his first steps, so from time to time, they took the clearly delighted little boy down to the water's edge where they all paddled in the sea.
Sometimes, when it was just the two of them, Tom and Sybil walked arm in arm along the sea strand almost as far as, but never quite reaching, the ruins of the cottage down on the shore. To begin with, Sybil put Tom's aversion to the place down to plain, simple tiredness. After all, it was further from the house than she had at first thought, but then, even when Tom had recovered, he still seemed disinclined to walk that way, even when Sybil said the place reminded her of the ruined cottage on the shores of Galway Bay, surely he remembered that, somewhere which held special memories for the both of them. At that, Tom had smiled, nodded his head. Not that it made any difference...
Above him the rain drummed on the corrugated iron of the roof; most of the thatch had vanished long since. Within, the young boy lay back on the makeshift bed they had fashioned out of their clothes supplemented with several armfuls of bracken. The small fire he had kindled for them both but a short while ago now burned brightly in the hearth, while from time to time rogue drops of rain found their way down the chimney to hiss and spit among the glowing embers.
He was stark naked, indeed had been so for some time, yet now, almost as if he had just become aware off the fact, the boy blushed furiously and turned his head away, looked at the dancing shadows cast by the firelight on the rough stone walls. As he did so, he saw to his consternation, embarrassment, and mortification, that they were not alone. Another boy was there, watching him intently from out of the smoky shadows, his eyes bright, fearful and wary. Yet, his face was somehow strangely familiar.
Mesmerised, the young boy on the bracken made to stretch out his hand, saw that as he did so, the other lad repeated the gesture. It was then, with an overwhelming sense of relief that the boy saw the broken shard of glass, all that remained of a mirror that must once have hung on the wall; saw reflected in it that his thatch of fair hair had fallen forward over his forehead.
Also reflected in the wreck of the mirror, kneeling above him he saw the girl, likewise naked; saw her gently reaching forward, impatiently pushing back the hair from off his forehead with the soft brush of her palm. He saw the glinyt in her green eyes. Saw her smile down at him, saw as she cupped his face in her hands. Slowly she turned his head back towards her, then reached between his legs, caressing, stroking his erection. She saw him swallow hard, registered the nascent fear in his eyes.
"Don't be frightened Tommy, it's only love ..."
Visitors to Skerries were rare, and while from time to time a British officer occasionally came up to the house, sensing their presence was now merely tolerated and no longer welcome, for the most part the soldiers down at the old stables kept more or less to themselves. Indeed, only once did the shadow of the past openly intrude upon this comparatively peaceful period of Tom and Sybil's lives. This occurred during the very last week of September, on a hot, still, sultry afternoon when, from somewhere away to the south west, had come the first faint rumbles of thunder and flickering flashes of lightning, which told of an approaching storm. What then happened apparently did so quite by chance, or so Sybil thought at the time. Afterwards, she was not so sure.
That morning, saying she would be out for most of the day, Maeve had gone into to Cork to supervise the arranging of some of the pieces of furniture she had chosen and which had been taken over to the house on North Mall.
After lunch, having left Tom playing with Danny down on the foreshore, Sybil had gone up to the house to enquire if there was any lemonade to be had by way of a cooling drink. As she crossed the hall, she had the very good fortune to encounter Mrs. Treves almost immediately, had asked her about the likelihood of there being any lemonade, with the housekeeper promising to make the necessary enquiries of the cook. If there was any to be had, Mrs. Treves said she would see to it that a bottle, together with a couple of glasses, placed in a covered basket so as to keep the lemonade cool, was left for Mrs. Branson by the front door of the house.
Calling out her thanks Sybil now hurried upstairs, an urgent call of nature, which she put down to her advancing pregnancy, sending her scampering for the nearest water closet which, as she knew, lay at the far end of the passage just beyond the bedroom shared by her and Tom.
A short while later, with her bodily needs now attended to, espying from the landing a covered basket placed on the floor of the hall by the front door, Sybil was on the point of setting off downstairs, collecting the basket along with its contents and returning to the sunlit cove, when, on a sudden impulse, or so it seemed, instead, she crossed over the landing to the other side of the house. A matter of moments later and she found herself in unfamiliar territory.
Thereafter, having wandered down several passages, all of which looked remarkably similar, Sybil found herself to be well and truly lost. So, if for no other reason other than in an attempt to find her bearings, she tried in turn all the doors of the passage in which she now was, but found each of them to be locked, although, on reflection, that was only to be expected. Obviously, the housekeeper had followed out her orders to the letter.
All locked, save one.
This lay at the far end of the corridor and when Sybil found it to be unlocked it was all she could do to prevent herself from crying out with relief, but her euphoria proved to be short-lived, for as the door opened, it revealed a narrow flight of dusty wooden steps which led upwards towards where, at the top of the staircase, another door stood slightly ajar and beyond which Sybil glimpsed daylight. From up there, all things considered, she thought she should be able to see exactly where she was and so promptly set off up the stairs, her shoes leaving ghost prints behind her in the dust.
At the top of the stairs, just as she made to push open the door, probably for no other reason than the unevenness of the floor, of its own accord, the door swung silently back on its hinges, whereupon Sybil walked slowly forward into the room which lay beyond. There she immediately crossed over to the small window which provided the low, sloping ceilinged chamber with its only source of natural light.
The barred window Sybil found to be festooned with cobwebs, while several of its panes were either broken or else missing. Through the broken glass Sybil heard the sound of the sea and by craning her neck, found she could look down to where, far below, Tom sat with Danny cradled in his arms, seated on the sand of the sheltered cove. That being the case, thought Sybil, I must be on the east side of the house, so, all I have to do is…
At which point, she turned hastily back to the room intending to go straight down the narrow stairs. But, as she did so, she had the singular misfortune to bark her shins on something just below the window. Looking down, Sybil saw immediately what that something was; a steamer trunk, the top of which was thickly covered in dust, as indeed she now saw was equally true of each of the other items in this sparsely furnished cell-like room: the cast iron frame of a narrow single bed, a rolled up mattress, a wooden nightstand and a single chair. That was all. Something in the dust on top of the trunk arrested her attention. Kneeling down, she ran her palm across its surface, disclosing a set of indistinct initials, in fact so faded that they appeared to have passed beyond the recall of reading.
Rising to her feet, almost unaware that she was doing so, Sybil now moved to stand in the middle of the room. Here she paused, stood stock still and glanced about her. Like so many of the rooms at Skerries this one had obviously not been used for a very long time. But, unlike those downstairs, this particular room seemed never to have been cared for. With the coming of disuse, it had not been carefully swept clean, its furnishings shrouded in dust sheets and then closed up for as long as was to prove necessary. Instead, with its dusty furniture, the broken and cracked panes of glass, damaged plaster and peeling paintwork, this place spoke mutely of deliberate dereliction, had clearly been abandoned long since, left to moulder into dust and Sybil found herself wondering why.
She turned back to the window.
The rusted bars proclaimed that at some time in the distant past the room must have been used as a nursery, but if so, then why was it so far removed from the rest of the house? At her unspoken question, somewhere a board creaked and something like the ghost of a sound slid through the heavy, silent air. It was almost... almost as if someone had come to stand just behind her.
Inspite of her no-nonsense and practical approach to most things, for once in her life Sybil was truly startled; felt the hairs on the nape of her neck begin to rise. Then, with surprising fortitude, she whirled angrily about to confront whoever it was who had just come into the room and dared to so frighten her. But of course, there was no-one there. After all, how could there be?
It was now that she saw, beside the bed, the framed picture which, along with the stub of a candle, stood on the nightstand. Walking over to the bed, she reached forward and picked up the picture. Like both candle and the night-stand, glass and frame were heavily covered in dust. Sybil brushed away the worst of it with her hand to reveal beneath a sepia photograph which, at the bottom, bore a short, faded inscription: Dublin, 1900.
When fully revealed from beneath the layers of dust that had besmirched it long years since, Sybil found herself gazing at the picture of a man in the prime of life and smartly attired in the military uniform of a British officer. Standing beside him was a beautiful woman elegantly dressed in what would, at the beginning of the twentieth century, have been considered to be the height of fashion. Between the two of them, smiling somewhat self-consciously into the camera, wearing a sailor suit and clutching a model yacht, there stood a young boy. As realisation suddenly dawned, Sybil heard herself gasp out aloud. For the boy in the picture was Tom.
Sybil recalled to mind that, following their arrival in Dublin last year, when Tom had told her what had happened to him during his childhood, he had mentioned that he had no photographs of his parents; that those that he possessed, had been left behind at Skerries. Carefully setting down the photograph, Sybil turned and looked about her. This bleak, cheerless place must have been Tom's own bedroom, where he had freely admitted to Sybil, that as a boy, he had so often cried himself to sleep.
She retraced her steps to the trunk and knelt once more on the bare boards of the floor where she brushed hard again at the dust on the lid with the palm of her hand. This time luck was on her side for a sudden ray of sunlight illuminated the top of the box and for one brief instant the faded intials became legible "T B"; the trunk must have been Tom's and, thought Sybil, like the photograph, brought here to Skerries from his childhood home in Dublin.
Setting her thumbs to the catches, Sybil was surprised to find they still worked and snicked up immediately at her touch. Lifting the lid of the trunk, she let it fall gently back against the wall.
Within there lay clothes, beautiful and well made: day clothes, formal clothes, night clothes, all belonging to a young boy and all of them neatly folded. At that Sybil smiled, for it seemed that some habits died hard. As a chauffeur, Tom had always been most particular about both his clothes, his appearance and ordered too in his habits. There were underclothes too, Sybil chose one of the vests at random, brought it up and pressed it to her face. Even now, after the passage of so many years, to her at least, it seemed still to yet retain the ghost of Tom's scent.
Along with several pairs of small leather boots, there were toys in the trunk as well, among them the original of the yacht which appeared in the photograph of Tom and his parents, its linen sails now yellowed with age, along with jigsaw puzzles, games of chess and draughts, a Jack-in-the-Box, a leather football and a worn and clearly very much loved teddy bear.
Not unsurprisingly, knowing Tom's love of the printed word, there were books too. And many of them. Sybil chose one at random, "Aesop's Fables", flipped it open and read aloud the words written on the fly leaf:
"To Darling Tom,
From Your Ever Loving Mama,
Christmas 1901"
There were other mementoes in there too. All told the same sad story of the stolen boyhood of a young son, dearly loved. Sybil's eyes glistened and she felt the sting of tears. Well, thought she, let them come.
Then, as she carefully replaced the book back in the trunk, through the mist of her falling tears, she saw the diary. Opening it at random, Sybil saw that much of the writing within was undoubtedly Tom's, a younger version of the hand he would assume much later in life as a man, but somewhat confusingly, some of the later entries appeared to be in an entirely different script altogether. Not wishing to pry further, resolving for the moment to say nothing to Tom about what she had found, Sybil quietly closed the diary, laid it back in the trunk from whence it had come, closed the lid and set off downstairs,
Down on the beach, having enjoyed their cooling glasses of lemonade, Tom smiled, suggested that they now all go for a walk along the shore. He held out his hand to Sybil which she took with alacrity.
"What's this?" he asked her suddenly just before they all set off.
"What?"
"This? Here, on your fingers".
Sybil looked down at her hands, saw the faint sheen on her finger tips.
Tom smiled, nuzzled her neck.
"Have you... been out... for a secret spin on my motorcycle, Mrs. Branson?
Sybil giggled, looked at him entirely non-plussed.
"No, of course not you idiot. Whatever makes you think I..."
"Feels like oil to me".
"Does it indeed?"
Tom chuckled.
"Seeing your lover, in Kinsale, to be sure!" he said peppering her face with kisses.
Sybil laughed, shook her head.
"No such luck!" she said archly. She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know where on earth this can have come from". She dipped her hands together in the water of a nearby rock pool and rubbed at them vigorously.
Then, with young Danny gurgling and tottering along between them, the three of them dawdled slowly along the beach, Tom pointing out to the little boy the seabirds nesting on the cliffs, Sybil momentarily lost deep in thought, as with a shock, realisation now dawned upon her. The locks of the trunk had been freshly oiled.
Meanwhile, at the top of the house, in the deserted, silent, long-abandoned, dust-shrouded room, a floorboard creaked.
Author's Note:
The attempted murder of Sir Alfred Dobbin took place in January 1920. At the end of the Great War, the minority Unionist community in Cork was numerous and prosperous. However, by the end of the Irish War of Independence and the Irish Civil War, this part of Irish society had been destroyed by a campaign of intimidation and murder. Thereafter, it is a sad fact but the authorities of the new Irish Free State did little to protect those Unionists who, for whatever reason, chose to stay in the south.