Chapter One Hundred And Forty Four

Sybil Alone

Skerries House, Sunday 12th December 1920.

The following morning, which was a Sunday, when despite his telephone call made from Ryan's bar the previous evening, Tom had failed to return home to Skerries as he had promised and still with no word from him, Sybil knew in her heart that something was wrong; terribly wrong.

The first she heard of what had happened in Cork came from the unlikeliest of sources; the milkman who, churns rattling as usual, trotted up to the rear of the house in his horse drawn cart early that same morning. From him Sybil learned first something of what had taken place. According to the milkman, stories were already circulating down in Kinsale of what had happened overnight in Cork, of the terrible destruction wrought in the city, of the violence which had accompanied it; stories which only grew in the telling.

In the awful time which followed, during that Sunday, Sybil clung to the understandable belief that there must be some perfectly rational explanation to account for Tom's failure to return home or to be in contact, but as the hours slipped away, she realised with resignation that this time would not be like the last, when, having been abducted by the IRA at the Inchicore railway works in Dublin, after but a day, Tom had been released unharmed.

The reports from Cork had grown ever more terrible and, as time passed. With still no sign of Tom, no word from him whatsoever, Sybil began to fear the worst. It was being said that several people had been reported killed in the aftermath of what had happened, although in each instance, apparently, a body or bodies had been found by way of confirmation; there had been the case of the Delaneys, an uncle and his two nephews who had been shot in their own home by the Auxiliaries in the Blackpool area of the city, while an elderly Jewish woman had died of a heart attack in Tuckey Street when her house had been ransacked, again by the hated Auxiliaries. However, of darling Tom himself, there remained no sign at all; none whatsoever.

Eventually, Sybil was left with no choice; she duly telephoned the police and reported Tom as missing. On the Monday, three green uniformed members of the Royal Irish Constabulary, a district inspector and a pair of young constables, came out to the house by motor and took from her a detailed statement along with a physical description of Tom; even though these days he was very well known both in and around Cork. Sybil also provided the officers with a photograph, taken the previous year shortly after they had been married. She was assured that there were no reports of Tom having been arrested and the police did not, for the present, believe that he had come to any harm, which in itself was gratifying but which also made his disappearance all the more inexplicable.

Before they left the house, Sybil was assured that diligent enquiries would be put in hand immediately but given just how depleted their ranks now were, given what had happened in Cork, what was happening in the county itself, indeed throughout the whole country, the officers could give Sybil no indication of just how long her wait for news of what had become of Tom might be.

With the increasing lawlessness in the countryside hereabouts, the inspector even suggested that Sybil should seriously contemplate shutting up Skerries House completely and moving into the city for both her own safety and that of her young boy. To emphasise the seriousness of the position in which Sybil now found herself, the inspector went on to say that in the last couple of weeks there had been several further country houses burnt out by the IRA, including now Cullen Hall. Despite this unwelcome news, with a fleeting thought for the decidedly dim-witted Millie Anstruther, Sybil shook her head; said that given what had just occurred there in Cork, she felt far safer remaining where she was. She would do just that and take her chances. What would be would be.

Whether the three police officers were as good as their word and did as they had promised, Sybil never knew. Even so, whether or not diligent enquires were indeed put in hand, when yet another day had passed with still no sign of Tom and no word from him, Sybil telephoned his editor in Dublin and Mr. Harrington undertook to make enquiries of his own. These too proved fruitless, even with a reward now being offered for information leading to the discovery of Tom's whereabouts. So, it was then with a heavy heart that Sybil now wrote first to Ma in distant Dublin and then to Downton to let both the Bransons and the Crawleys know what had happened.

The result was all too predictable with both Ma and Mama penning further, frantic, heartfelt pleas urging Sybil to come home, either to Dublin or to Downton. Even Papa waded into the fray; offering to see if any of his own contacts with the British administration in Dublin Castle might bear fruit and help discover what on earth had become of Tom. When these too proved to be of no avail, Mama wrote again from Downton pleading with Sybil, for her own sake, for that of her unborn child and for little Danny to come back to England. To bolster her heartfelt entreaties, Cora went on to recount some of the horrors which the British press were reporting as being of almost daily occurrence over there in Ireland and of which she herself had read; adding that the pictures of the awful devastation wrought in Cork had made headlines around the civilised world.

Then there had come the discovery by the police of Tom's motorcycle, found hidden under an old tarpaulin in a narrow alley off the Lower Glanmire Road; whether the machine had been placed there by its missing owner remained unclear. More ominously was the further discovery, this time of his empty leather satchel, which had been found lying in the entry of a burnt out shop.

The inevitable conclusion, at least as far as the police in Cork were concerned, was that in all likelihood Tom had been killed in the mayhem which had erupted in the city that Saturday night, perhaps struck by falling masonry and his body burned beyond recognition in the raging fires which had swept along much of the south side of St. Patrick Street, and there the matter now rested.

Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, 7.30pm, Christmas Eve, 1920.

It had come as no surprise to the Crawley family that darling Sybil refused steadfastly to give up hope of Tom's eventual return, let alone accept that in all probability he was dead.

So it was that in response to the letters she had received from both Ma and Mama, Sybil stuck firmly to her guns; she wrote back resolutely both to Dublin and to Downton declaring that thank you very much but even with Christmas but a short time away, she would stay just where she was.

With, in her view at least, no firm evidence that Tom had indeed come to any harm, despite the contrary opinion now held by the police, Sybil clung stubbornly to the unshakeable conviction that he was still alive and that he would indeed come back to her; a belief which as the days wore on and then became weeks, here at Downton, Mary saw as increasingly irrational. Indeed, she said as much to Matthew on Christmas Eve, when, arm in arm they were already on their way downstairs to dinner.

Matthew's own response to the latest doleful news from Ireland was totally unexpected and took his wife completely by surprise, so much so that Mary and he both came to an abrupt and sudden stop half way down the main staircase of the abbey.

On account of what had happened, Cora had insisted that as a mark of respect to Tom and indeed also to Sybil's perilous situation over there in Ireland, the customary Christmas festivities here at Downton should be curtailed, with which Robert himself without demur had concurred. However, even so, in the hall, down below where Matthew and Mary were now standing, there stood the usual enormous, beautifully decorated Christmas tree; Robert having decreed that despite Tom's disappearance, in an attempt to raise the spirits of both the family and their servants, this particular tradition would continue.

With their dinner guests already arriving, keeping his voice low so as not to be overheard, Matthew said that knowing just how much they both cared for Sybil and for Tom, if Sybil would not listen to the family's written entreaties, then what was needed now was a rather more direct approach.

Matthew went on to explain that he had been giving the matter some considerable thought. He had contacts of his own over there in Ireland. Not like Robert in the British administration in Dublin, but in the military; officers whom Matthew had fought alongside with in France were now serving over there in the south of the country.

He therefore proposed that in the New Year he would travel there to Cork himself, to see what else could be done to find out what had become of his dearly loved brother-in-law. After all, given what Tom had done here at Downton on the night of the fire, shepherding them all to safety across the roof, Matthew owed him an enormous debt of gratitude and it was time he repaid it. Of course, Matthew expected that Mary would not see things his way, indeed he said as much to her, but in that he was to be proved wrong; learned that his beautiful, haughty, imperious wife could still yet surprise him.

Turning towards her husband, Mary bestowed upon him a dazzling smile; said that if Matthew owed dearest Tom a debt of gratitude, then so too did she; perhaps an even greater one. Mary did not elaborate further, at least not then; said that being so they would travel over to Ireland together. However, Mary was certain that if Sybil ever got wind of what they proposed doing, given her independent nature, then at the very least it was more than likely that she would tell them not to come; so it would probably be for the best if they did not write and tell her that they were intending to travel to Ireland to help in the search for Tom.

Once they were there of course, if things could not be resolved, or what they all feared indeed turned out to be the case, then the two of them would hopefully be able to make Sybil see sense and prevail upon her to return home to Downton. Matthew agreed with Mary that they should say nothing for now but later tonight, in the drawing room, once their other dinner guests had departed, they would tell Granny, Papa, Mama and Matthew's mother just what it was that they both proposed doing.

At that Matthew grinned broadly.

"I do rather seem to recall that it was another unexpected announcement in the drawing room which has led us to precisely where we are now" he said softly.

"How so?" asked Mary. She sounded genuinely perplexed.

"Surely you can't have forgotten?" Matthew smiled again, raised a quizzical brow and then for Mary, the penny dropped.

"Dearest Tom and darling Sybil! How could any of us, ever forget that!"

Downton Abbey, 9.30pm, Christmas Eve, 1920.

It was now after dinner and with the exception of Robert, they were all seated in the drawing room with the earl of Grantham standing, his hands clasped behind him and his back to the fireplace.

"Well, for once your grandmother, your mother and I are all in agreement" said Robert earnestly but all the same looking at both his mother and Cora for confirmation of what it was he was about to say; something which he would once never have done. However, since the war, times had changed. The Dowager Countess of Grantham merely smiled; inclined her head. Cora also smiled and likewise nodded, as indeed did Isobel who had always had a very soft spot for Tom; knew too just how much Matthew admired him, intuitively recognising in Tom the brother that Matthew never had.

"So, if I can't stop both of you from doing this, then I see no profit in a quarrel" said Robert. His own choice of words struck a sudden chord and Robert's brow now furrowed, as he tried to recall when it had been he had last said something similar. Remembering back, memory suddenly stirred. Of course! It had been down at the parish church, after Lavinia's funeral, when he had realised that darling Sybil and Tom would indeed do as they said they would and be leaving England for Ireland in the next couple of days. And now with what Matthew and Mary intended, history was repeating itself.

Matthew smiled broadly at his father-in-law. Since the war and with everything that had happened, Robert had mellowed considerably.

"And you may take my blessing with you, whatever that means".

"Thank you for that..."

"Well, if you're sure..."

"We are Papa" said Mary and then did something which she had never done before; at least in public. She kissed him gently on the cheek.

Skerries House, County Cork, Ireland, 8.00pm, Christmas Eve, 1920.

Despite the cards on the shelf above the range, sent from the Bransons in distant Dublin, from grandmama Levinson over in the United States and from Sybil's own family in England, along with the Christmas hamper despatched from Downton, here in County Cork, at Skerries House, Christmas Eve was being kept in considerably less style.

Down in the warm kitchen at the back of the house, with Danny seated on her lap, with her frugal supper eaten, Sybil was sitting quietly drinking a cup of tea. With money now beginning to run short, she would have to watch how she spent every penny. True, there were still the funds deposited in the Bank of Ireland on St. Stephen's Green which Papa had so grudgingly given Sybil as her dowry, but she was reluctant to touch any of it. That being so, if she remained here at Skerries, come the New Year, she would have to make further economies on top of those which she and Tom had already made. Of course, Christmas Eve last year had been so different; Sybil had but to shut her eyes and the memories of that long gone evening in Clontarf came flooding back.

Apart from the faint red glow from the grate of the range, and the pale light cast by two candles, set in a pair of brass candlesticks, and which stood in the centre of the humble, deal table, the warm, homely kitchen had been in darkness. Sybil had recognised the candlesticks; they normally graced the mantle in the parlour. The small table had been set for two, with china, cutlery, glassware, and also with two of Ma's best linen napkins, taken from the drawer in the dresser and something with which they never usually bothered.

Even in the darkness, Sybil had sensed Tom was blushing.

"I know it's not exactly the dining room in Downton, but ... well, it is Christmas Eve, so I thought I'd make it a bit ..." His voice had trailed off and he had fallen silent.

At that, Sybil recalled she had reached up and kissed him gently on his cheek.

"Tom Branson, you're a hopeless romantic and I love you for it!"

Later, when the meal was over, and when together, they had both washed up, with the lamps turned down low, the curtains drawn, they had sat together in the front room before a roaring fire, both drowsily content, Sybil on Tom's lap, her arms clasped about his neck, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder.

And while Tom had dozed fitfully, probably on account of the two glasses of whisky which he had drunk, poured from the bottle kept in the bottom of the dresser in the kitchen, while the fire flamed and crackled, Sybil now recalled that her thoughts had then turned to how different Christmas Eve 1919 was to that of the year before. Then they had both still been at Downton, still making plans for their future together, still unsure of what that would be. Tom had shifted in the chair; mumbled something incomprehensible, causing Sybil to look up at him. She had smiled contentedly; God how she loved him.

Tom had opened an enquiring eye.

"What?" he had asked.

"I was just thinking. With all that's happened, with the way things are, with Papa, I mean, if you had the chance to choose again, Tom ..."

"It would always be you" he had said softly, nuzzling her hair. "After all, I told you, Sybil, there are some things in this life worth fighting for. And, my love, if something is truly worth having then it usually involves something of a struggle".

Here at Skerries, lying before her on the kitchen table was yet another reminder of that last Christmas: the battered copy of Kenneth Grahame's "The Wind in the Willows" which Tom had given her and from which tonight Sybil had been reading to Danny. She opened the book at the title page. Before her, Tom's bold, firm hand marched across the paper:-

To Sybil

Gold, incense, myrrh, I canst not bring

Forever yours, and with all the love I possess,

Tom

Dublin, Christmas, 1919

Sybil's eyes misted with tears, wondered truly if she really could go on without him. Danny giggled, squirmed in her arms and for the umpteenth time that evening Sybil felt the baby move; knew then the answer to her unspoken question; for the sake of their son and their unborn child, she simply had no choice in the matter.