Chapter One Hundred And Thirty Seven
A Pair Of Blue Eyes
More or less about the same time that Maeve's pony and trap was trotting briskly out of Kinsale, a hurriedly convened meeting was taking place somewhere within the sprawling military barracks which dominated both the little town and its harbour.
The meeting had been called by Major Arthur Ernest Percival in his capacity of intelligence officer of the Essex Regiment to consider exactly what steps should now be taken to deal permanently with an increasingly troublesome journalist with the Irish Independent by the name of Branson. The consensus of the meeting was that whatever steps were now taken to silence the meddlesome reporter from Dublin once and for all, nothing should be able to link the matter to the British.
Had Percival been of any disposition other than that which he was, he might well have derived a certain grim satisfaction from the unsavoury reputation both he and certain officers and men of the Essex Regiment were fast acquiring in the far south of Ireland. As far as he was concerned, the fact that the Cork IRA viewed him as a bête noire and had even placed a bounty of £1,000 on his head, was merely confirmation in Percival's own mind that his uncompromising policy of meeting terror with terror was working, something of which, through one of his many and varied contacts, Tom Branson was only too well aware.
From his same source, Tom knew also that it was equally Major Percival's considered opinion that here in Ireland the British government in London, along with the administration in Dublin, were now facing a country wide insurrection of monumental proportions which would take both time and resources to put down. That Percival had repeatedly told his superiors that reliable military intelligence would play an all important role in this and that there was no point in being squeamish about the methods to be employed in ensuring that the information the British had at their fingertips as to the identity, strength, whereabouts and intentions of their opponents was both accurate and up-to-date.
Something else also known to Tom was, that along with his fellow officers it was also Percival's belief that the so-called Irish Republican Army, in his view and that of his compatriots, recruited from the very dregs of Irish society, was intent on overthrowing British rule by waging a campaign of intimidation, murder and arson and thereafter establishing a government akin to that now nominally in power in Russia. In these circumstances Percival considered that it behoved the British authorities not to be too delicate in the methods they employed in obtaining any information deemed necessary to help them destroy this evil canker in Irish society once and for all and thereby re-establish the status quo.
As if merely to confirm Percival's thoughts, a series of terrified screams echoed along the passage outside his office here in the basement of one of the wings of the military barracks in Kinsale. Entirely unaffected by what he had just heard, the major stood up, turned and surveyed the large map marked with pins and which occupied much of the wall behind him. The two Shiners now under interrogation down the corridor had been apprehended in the vicinity of Clonakilty. There was something brewing down there in that little shithole. That bastard Collins was behind it; of that Percival was certain. Another piercing scream now rent the air. The Tans would have it out of those two little sods and no mistake. So, why not then co-operate and thereby save themselves a great deal of pain and unpleasantness?
And if it also took the methods used in Balbriggan a couple of months ago as well as elsewhere to help pacify this benighted country, what of it? It was only a pity that Balbriggan had been so close to Dublin and that what had happened there had been so widely reported by foreign correspondents based in the Irish capital. The thought of those inflammatory, anti British press reports made the major wince and focussed his mind once more upon the matter now under consideration. Percival turned back to his desk and the man seated opposite him and resumed his seat.
"Now, as I was saying, what to do about Branson".
Percival perused again the now decoded telegram he had received that morning from Dublin Castle.
"Leave resolution of matter entirely in your hands"
"Well, that's taking a position I must say". Percival drummed his fingers impatiently on his desk and then tossed the flimsy across to the officer sitting directly opposite him. The other quickly perused the contents of the decoded telegram and then handed it back to his superior.
"In our recent discussions I trust I have made myself very clear that whatever is done to silence Branson, there must be nothing whatsoever which connects us to his diappearance" said Percival.
"Perfectly clear sir. In fact, if I am to understand you correctly, that you approve of what I have proposed, then I can assure you that there will be nothing to link Branson's... disappearance to ourselves. Indeed, quite the reverse. No-one will ever know what became of him".
"Good. And one thing more. The woman".
"Sir?"
"Branson's wife and child. Given who she is, they are not to be harmed".
The other now raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"Is? Was, surely?"
Percival shook his head.
"An unfortunate business that, marrying out of her class, but Lady Sybil does not cease to be the youngest daughter of the earl and countess of Grantham simply by virtue of an ill-conceived marriage, or so I have been reliably informed".
"I see".
"Indeed".
"Really?"
"Yes, really. You should be aware that the War Office was most insistent on that point, but, of course, if matters should so conspire that Lady Sybil and her child..." Percival shrugged his shoulders dismissively.
"A tragic accident, a matter of infinite regret and so forth?"
"I couldn't have put it better myself". Percival chuckled.
The other smiled.
"I want no details, none at all, but when precisely do you intend to act?"
"In the very near future, sir".
"Capital!"
"Just as soon as I have made certain arrangements and, anticipating your approval sir, I took the liberty of putting in train the first of those but a short while ago. In fact, as it happens, here in town, earlier this very morning".
"Well I must say..." began Percival. He paused, cleared his throat, curtly nodded his assent and closed the open folder before him on the desk. He rose to his feet and held out his hand.
"Then we have nothing further to discuss. I trust you understand that in the present circumstances I can give you no written orders?"
"Of course sir".
The two men shook hands.
"Then, may I wish you every success. I have no doubt that in due course you will receive the grateful thanks of both your king and country".
"Thank you sir!" Stathum saluted smartly, turned on his heel and left the room, closing the door firmly behind him. Outside in the passage Stathum smiled knowingly. It was true then: revenge was a dish best served cold. Well satisfied, as he set off up the passage he began to whistle merrily.
"As I walk along the Bois de Boulogne..."
An adjoining door to Percival's office now opened and two other men came in. Each was dressed in the blue tunic of the Royal Irish Constabulary and the khaki trousers of the British army proclaiming them to be serving with the Black and Tans. Both men were sweating profusely, the buttons of their tunics undone, their motley uniforms flecked with fresh bloodstains and vomit. Not that Percival seemed to notice their dirt-stained déshabillé and even if he did, he made no comment upon it. The two men saluted promptly.
"Easy gentlemen, please". The two men did as they had been bidden, relaxed and stood easy.
"Thank you, sir".
"Have they talked yet?" enquired Percival calmly and dispassionately lighting a cigarette.
"Not yet sir but they will. A couple more hours and they'll be willing to tell us all they know. By the time we've finished with them, why, they won't even be men". The dark haired Tan smiled; produced a pair of bull nosed pliers from one of his pockets.
Unmoved, Percival nodded his head.
"Let me know what you find out. Now, as to the matter in hand". He jabbed hard with the forefinger of his left hand at the folder lying before him on his desk.
"Sir?"
"Branson. You heard?"
The two men each nodded their assent.
"Every word".
"So, gentlemen, assuming that matters go according to plan and things turn out as Captain Stathum envisages, that Branson is silenced once and for all and in a manner which will lead to the inescapable conclusion that the responsibility for his death rests entirely with the IRA and not ourselves, then Stathum will also have served his purpose".
"You mean that he..."
"What I mean, gentlemen, is I want no loose ends. They have an annoying habit of complicating matters unnecessarily and that is something which, in this particular affair, I wish to avoid at all costs. Is that understood?"
The two men nodded.
"I anticipate that you also will equally understand that as regards your own part in this I can give you no written orders either but I trust my meaning is made equally clear?"
"Perfectly clear, sir".
Evidently Miles Stathum was singulary unaware that anyone embarking on a journey of revenge should dig two graves.
The first of Maeve's social calls was to a nearby Church of Ireland rectory and swiftly accomplished; according to his housekeeper, the reverend gentleman was out visiting a sick parishioner. As they bowled away in the trap, Sybil was left wondering if the call possibly had something to do with Maeve's engagement; perhaps to do with the calling of the banns. However, since Maeve had said nothing further to Tom and certainly not to Sybil about the matter, if her own suspicions about the identity of Maeve's intended were now correct, Sybil could well understand why. In any event, as Maeve made no attempt to enlighten her as to the purpose of the call to see the Reverend Aloysius Denning, Sybil made no comment.
The second call of the day, to Lady Millicent Anstruther, at Cullen Hall, was rather more lengthy and given what had happened in Kinsale, tried Sybil's powers of patience to the utmost. All she wanted to do was to get back to Skerries as quickly as possible; not something she would have believed she would ever wish to do but Tom was there and he needed to be told about what she had witnessed back in Kinsale.
On being introduced to her hostess in the drawing room of the house, Lady Millicent had promptly insisted that Sybil must call her Millie. Somewhat younger than Tom's cousin, Millie Anstruther, who turned out to be both light-headed and vacuous, seemed, at least to Sybil, to be an odd choice of friend for Maeve. Millie's parents were presently residing at their place near Alcester in Warwickshire over in England. Here in Ireland, where they were expected in a week or so's time, they owned Cullen Hall which bordered the Skerries estate to the south west.
On learning that Millie's elder brother Louis had been killed in the war, Sybil had murmured the customary expressions of sympathy. However, Ernest, Millie's younger brother had come through it all and was now a captain in the Life Guards up in London. Even so, if Ernest was but half as dim-witted as his sister, quite how he had managed to survive "the show" as Millie so annoyingly insisted on calling the war was anybody's guess; until that was, Millie let slip that, thanks to Papa who was a friend of Field Marshal Haig, dear little Ernie had spent most of his time safe and sound at British Headquarters at Montreuil over on the French coast and so well away from the front line; which, thought Sybil was, on balance, probably a blessing in disguise, certainly for the British and possibly also for the Germans.
It was not long before Sybil came to realise that anything and everything which did not pander to Millie's immediate needs and her own frivolous way of life was considered by her to be either boring or else tiresome and usually a combination of both.
"Daaarling, do, do call me Millie. All my friends do and I just know that we're both going to get along famously", gushed Millie, at the same time eyeing Danny with a mixture of both fascination and disgust.
Heavily made up, her hair bobbed, with her fashionable flat chested, boyish figure, dressed gaudily, in the height of fashion and smoking a cigarette in a long ebony holder, Millie was exactly what Sybil took her to be: one of those bright young things, whose decadent, outrageous exploits were beginning to be chronicled in certain sections of the Press. Never having worked in her life and with no intention ever to do so, on the surface, Millie was fascinated to learn from Maeve that Sybil was a nurse and actually worked for a living and that Tom her husband was a journalist with the Independent.
"How…er…positively, positively quaint" she said lamely. "Not that I bother reading the papers. Apart from the Court Circular that is. They are so, so boring". Then, learning that Tom had been injured in the ambush of at Skerries Road station, Millie had expressed her perfunctory regrets.
"Oh, how positively, positively awful for you daarling" she simpered.
At Maeve's prompting, Sybil went on to recount to them both something of what Tom did at the Independent. While Maeve asked several intelligent and pertinent questions, Millie was totally bewildered by what Sybil had to tell.
"You mean he actually writes the newspaper? All of it? He must be so frightfully, frightfully clever". Millie contrived to both look and sound suitably impressed.
"He is" offered Sybil with a broad smile. "No; not all. Although I'm sure he could, if he wanted to. But no, he just writes part of it".
"Oh…I see" although from her tone it sounded doubtful if Millie actually did.
Understandably, Millie had no interest whatsoever in the rapidly deteriorating situation here in Ireland except insofar as how it inconvenienced her; how it impacted upon her own social whirl, as travel about the country became daily ever more difficult and ever more dangerous. And the curfew, in Millie's considered opinion "was so awfully, awfully tiresome".
"I mean, if they have to fight each other, why don't they just go and do it somewhere else. Somewhere foreign".
"Where precisely did you have in mind?" asked Sybil, shaking her head in silent disbelief. Was there no end to this silly creature's stupidity? Seemingly not.
"France?" offered Millie in all seriousness.
Then it was Danny's turn.
"Oh, a baby! How positively, positively sweet. Isn't he just so, so adorable". Millie reached forward and patted Danny cautiously on his head as if he was a performing dog, unsure as to whether or not he might bite. Of course, had he been present, darling Matthew could have confirmed that Danny did indeed bite. Now whether it was Millie's heavily made-up face which frightened Danny, Sybil never knew, but having been unceremoniously patted on his head,Danny immediately voiced his disapproval of the gaudy creature sitting beside him by the only means he had available; Danny screwed up his little face and howled fit to wake the dead. As if she had been stung by a wasp, in an instant Millie immediately withdrew her hand.
"What... what... what did I do wrong?" she asked more querulously than nervously.
Sybil shook her head.
"It doesn't matter". Then, watched open-mouthed by Millie, Sybil now hushed Danny gently into silence. That accomplished, she now stood up.
"Daarling, how on earth? I mean… How did you manage to…?" Like little Danny, thankfully, Millie trailed off into silence.
"I think he needs feeding" said Sybil.
"Feeding?" Millie sounded perplexed and frowned.
Then realisation, or at least what passed for it, now dawned in Millie's febrile brain. Feeding meant food and food was something which she did understand, or at least so she thought.
"Shall I ring down for some?" she asked guilelessly. "I know! I'm sure there were some sandwiches left over from yesterday's afternoon tea; potted meats, beef, shrimp and anchovy paste, that sort of thing. Anyway, Cookie will know what we have". By Cookie, Sybil assumed that Millie was referring to Cullen Hall's equivalent of Mrs. Patmore. Warming to the task of feeding little Danny, Millie now applied herself to the matter with gusto, which proved to be a singular error of judgement on her part. Not of course that she appreciated it to be so. In her view, Millie was just trying to be helpful.
"Perhaps your little boy would like some biscuits. Maybe a piece of cake? Or what about… jelly and ice cream? Children do love it so! But then I expect you know that already. I mean… er… being a nurse and all that".
Sybil grimaced. Quite precisely just what Millie meant by "all that" remained unclear.
"Thank you, but I really don't think Danny's quite ready for such a rich and varied diet. At least not just yet".
At this startling news, Millie looked thoroughly deflated.
When, with incredible forbearance, Sybil now patiently explained exactly what feeding Danny actually meant, asked politely if there was a bedroom which could be put at her disposal, Millie's heavily mascared eyes grew large as saucers; while at the same time surveying her own flat chest with a mixture of absolute horror and revulsion, as if for the very first time realising what purpose her breasts were actually meant to serve.
"Oh, daarling! If you positively, positively have to! By all means. But how incredibly, incredibly tiresome for you". At that, Millie reached instantly for the bell pull. Moments later a housemaid appeared. Disingenuously, Millie now explained that Mrs. Branson needed to lie down for a few moments and would Polly kindly show her to the Blue Room in the East Wing.
As she quitted the room with Danny in her arms, Sybil overheard Millie's parting shot to Maeve.
"Is she… er… quite… er… normal? I mean wanting… wanting to do something like that? Oh, yes, I know. Incredibly sweet. But daarling, I wouldn't want one myself, would you? So incredibly, incredibly tiring, don't you think? I mean, daarling, can you honestly see me as a mother?"
No. No, I can't, thought Sybil silently as she crossed the hall and followed Polly upstairs in search of both the East Wing and the Blue Room.
And then, a short while later, after taking their leave of the annoying, dim-witted Lady Millicent Anstruther, on their way home, came their final visit of the day to what in fact was now the last remaining farm belonging to the Skerries Estate and where Maeve had a pair of repaired boots to deliver. If Fitzmaurice's clerk had indeed brought over the lease to Tom, as he had said he would, then the farm would shortly belong to its present tenants, the Ryans, whose youngest son, Fergal, had worked in the kitchen garden at Skerries.
The trap ran down into the farmyard, scattering a gaggle of geese in the process along with a small pig which had been rooting in the midden. Maeve deftly brought the trap to a stop adjacent to the farmhouse. Having scrambled down from the box, promising she would not be long, she collected the pair of boots and disappeared inside.
While she waited for Maeve to return from the farmhouse, seated atop the box of the trap, letting her eyes roam slowly around the small yard, Sybil now proceeded to take in her immediate surroundings. To begin with, she thought the cluster of stone built, reed thatched buildings, albeit much smaller, to be very like those to be found out at Ciaran's farm on the Clontarf Castle Estate. However on closer inspection, Sybil soon realised that if Kinsale was decidedly not Ripon, then this poverty stricken collection of buildings in no way resembled Ciaran's neat, ordered, well-run farm for here, all of the buildings, even the farmhouse, which in size was little more than a cottage, were in sore need of repair.
Of course, Sybil had encountered grinding deprivation before, in Dublin, in the decaying, dilapidated, disease-ridden tenements on the north side of the Liffey river. Even so, Tom had told her that such poverty was not confined just to the poor districts of Dublin; that it existed elsewhere in Ireland too. However, this was the first time that she had seen it at close quarters out in the countryside. Sybil was familiar enough with the concept of a tenant farm. Indeed, excluding Home Farm, there were a dozen or so on the Downton Abbey estate alone, some well run others less so, but, as far as she was aware, none were as pitiful and ramshackle as this. So, it was now and with a distinct sense of shock that Sybil realised that the picturesque clusters of whitewashed cottages and small farms she had glimpsed from afar from the passing train, in reality masked a gim truth.
And it was while she continued to look about her that Sybil became aware yet again that she was being watched. On this occasion, however, it did not take Sybil more than a matter of minutes to see who it was who was observing her, for, glancing about, she saw him almost at once. He had just come out of the byre on the opposite side of the farmyard, and from beneath the lintel of its doorway, now stood leaning against the jamb, his arms folded, watching her with open and undisguised interest. From this distance, Sybil judged him to be about fifteen.
Then, seeing he had been noticed, still at his ease, the lad now ambled slowly across the farmyard and came to stand beside the pony and trap. He nodded at Sybil, touched his cap respectfully and then pulled it off altogether, revealing beneath it a thick thatch of fair hair that glinted in the afternoon sunlight, fell forward over his forehead.
"Ah, she's a fine looking mare for sure, ma'am" he said, patting the horse's neck affectionately. Now, gazing directly up at Sybil, the young lad smiled a familiar lop-sided grin and, in that very moment, Sybil felt her heart skip a beat, heard herself gasp, as blue grey eyes stared down into blue.
Author's note:
The Cork IRA did indeed place a bounty on the head of Major Percival. While Percival may have earned the opprobrium of the Irish, later in his military career he earned the opprobrium of the British too when, in January 1942, as Lieutenant General and General Officer Commanding (Malaya) he surrendered Singapore to the Japanese.
Born in Sam's Cross near Clonakilty, as a boy Michael Collins (1890-1922) later Adjutant General for the IRA, attended the local boys' national school in the town.
Balbriggan lies about twenty miles north of Dublin and like many places in Ireland it was the scene of an atrocity committed by the Black and Tans. In September 1920 and allegedly by way of reprisal for the shooting dead in a local bar of two officers of the Royal Irish Constabulary, several lorry loads of Black and Tans mounted an assault on the place, burning and looting and causing widespread destruction. The incident received much coverage in the foreign press and did much damage to the reputation of the British authorities.
The British Secretary of State for War at this time was none other than Winston Churchill who was also responsible for the creation of the Black and Tans.
"As I walk along the Bois de Boulogne" comes from "The Man Who Broke The Bank At Monte Carlo" a very popular song of the British music hall.