Chapter One Hundred And Forty Seven

A Time To Say Goodbye

The night voyage across the Irish Sea on the Great Western steamer from Cork to Fishguard in south west Wales proved to be both calm and uneventful with the S.S. Waterford docking as scheduled shortly before 6.00 am the following morning.

With all that had happened, especially over the last few days, understandably, Sybil was emotionally and physically exhausted and in no fit state to undertake the long train journey north back to Downton. Accordingly, with Mary's full agreement, Matthew had wired ahead to the house requesting that Carson make reservations for them all at the Fishguard Bay Hotel for the next couple of days so that Sybil might regain some of her strength.

Once their steamer had docked and they had all disembarked at the harbour station, Matthew, Mary, Sybil and Danny, along with Anna and all their luggage, were conveyed in a couple of motors straight to the luxuriously appointed hotel, where two suites had been reserved for their use by the ever assiduous Carson.

Matthew had chosen well; the hotel set within acres of sweeping terraced grounds, boasted sub tropical gardens and had magnificent views out across the wild waters of Cardigan Bay. Here they stayed for the next couple of days, although given the time of year and with the weather as it was, let alone everything else, none of them felt inclined to avail themselves of the three quarters of a mile of woodland walks placed at the disposal of the hotel's guests; the splendid billiards room served only as a painful reminder of the good natured rivalry and past matches played between Matthew and Tom in the far more grandly appointed billiards room at Downton Abbey.

After a couple of days' much needed recuperation they took the train northwards to Yorkshire. For everyone, especially Sybil and little Danny, the journey proved extremely tedious, punctuated as it was with several tiresome changes of train. Having a First Class compartment reserved to them, with luncheon served on the express, with porters on hand where necessary to attend to their luggage, included among Sybil's were the effects which Matthew had rescued for her from Skerries, thankfully, the long journey north was accomplished in as great a degree of comfort as was possible.

Their train pulled into the railway station at Downton shortly after 3.00pm, where they were met in the Renault, driven by the elderly chauffeur Farrar; the sight of the obligatory green livery the old man was wearing proving especially difficult for Sybil, who broke down in tears and had to be helped to the waiting motor by Mary. Thereafter, they all arrived back at the abbey in time for afternoon tea and for an emotional reunion upstairs in private between Mama and Sybil.

Before they all returned, Cora had given orders that Lady Sybil was to be given her old bedroom which had been made ready for her and where, for the next few weeks, while she rested and regained her strength, Sybil would also take most of her meals; she insisted, however, that a cot be placed in there for Danny. In this Cora acquiesced but only on condition that a nurse was engaged to help look after the little boy at least until Sybil had had her baby. Not surprisingly with his sunny disposition, a combination of his father's charm and his mother's kind disposition, Mrs. Hughes reflecting that he would undoubtedly break hearts when he was older, in a very short space of time indeed, Master Daniel Branson had become the darling of the entire household.

Given all Sybil had been through, that same evening, before dinner, Dr. Clarkson was summoned to the house. After examining her thoroughly, to everyone's intense relief, he pronounced that Lady Sybil's pregnancy was progressing well and that he did not foresee any problems, provided she kept herself quiet and well rested; saying by further way of re-assurance to Cora that he would come up to the abbey each day and that if they became at all concerned, to telephone for him immediately.

With Sybil keeping to her room, downstairs over dinner Matthew and Mary explained at length to the rest of the family, including both the Dowager Countess and Matthew's mother, all that had happened during their short but eventful stay over there in Ireland. With darling Sybil in her present condition, to have forced her, with her little boy in her arms, out into the wind and rain at the dead of a winter's night, before burning the house down was completely unforgiveable. But this, appalling as it was, paled into insignificance beside the news that there seemed little prospect this time that dearest Tom would be found alive and well. For his part, Robert was horrified at the lack of assistance afforded to Matthew and with the way he had been treated by Major Percival. Matthew was far less concerned with that; what mattered, he said, was that Tom was found, although as time went on, it looked increasingly as if any news on that score would not be what they all so desperately wanted to hear.

Below stairs everyone was equally agog to hear what had happened and, with the agreement of Mr. Carson, during supper in the Servant's Hall, with Mr. Bates seated beside her, to the very best of her knowledge Anna explained all that had occurred during their stay at the Imperial Hotel.

Firstly and very sad to relate, all Mr. Crawley's diligent enquiries had led nowhere; despite Lady Sybil clinging to the belief that somehow he was still alive, there seemed little doubt of the fact that Mr. Branson had been killed during the burning of Cork. All were aghast and Mrs. Hughes was visibly much distressed by the dreadful news. Naturally all were equally appalled to hear of the damage done to the city and horrified to learn of the subsequent burning of Skerries House by the IRA; especially when Anna told how Lady Sybil with her child in her arms had been led away in her nightclothes through the pouring rain while behind her the house had been set ablaze.

Mr. Carson himself was apoplectic, repeating the word barbaric several times over to convey just what he thought of what Anna had to relate regarding the treatment of Lady Sybil. For his part, Mr. Bates had a few choice words to say as to what he would do with the "bloody Shinners" should he lay hands on them and for once Mr. Carson let the open use of bad language in the Servants' Hall pass; instead merely nodding his silent acquiesence of all that Mr. Bates had to say upon the subject.

Like Mrs. Patmore, Mrs. Hughes clung desperately to the possibility that if Mr. Branson had been killed, then surely someone, somewhere would be able to confirm that. Apparently not, said Anna. Of course she did not know all the details, but from what Mr. Crawley had said, it seemed unlikely that anyone would ever know exactly what had happened to Lady Sybil's husband.

Of course, Thomas never had much time for Tom Branson. Whether that had anything to do with the spurning of his advances towards Tom during the war, well, only Thomas knew the truth of that. This evening, however, after supper was finished and everyone else had resumed their duties, enjoying a quiet cigarette in the yard, having heard Anna over supper tell that the streets of Cork were full of young soldiers Thomas reflected that a valet's position over there in Ireland suddenly sounded rather an attractive proposition. There was, he reflected, one slight problem. Whatever the undoubted "perks" on offer, given the rate at which the IRA were burning down the Big Houses, any such position might well turn out to be of extremely short duration. Maybe, there was something to be said for staying on at Downton Abbey. Ripon Military Camp lay just down the road, so why bother making a move to Ireland?

When he had made his pledge to Sybil kneeling there in the darkness on the aft deck of the steamer as they had sailed from Cork, Matthew had meant every word of what he had said. Following their return from Ireland, he redoubled his efforts and did everything in his power to try and find out what had become of Tom.

A matter of days after their return to Downton, Matthew wrote at length to the Colonial Secretary Winston Churchill who had responsibility for Ireland; the reply he received eventually was, in Robert's words "perfunctory" something for which the earl of Grantham never forgave Churchill. Matthew then went over Churchill's head and wrote directly to the Prime Minister, Lloyd George, whose policies, let alone his scandalous private life, were absolute anathema to Robert, but as Matthew said, he would sup with the devil himself if it led to Tom being found alive and well.

The reply from the Prime Minister's office was rather more sympathetic, but from the point of view of practicalities could offer neither assistance nor re-assurance; explaining that Ireland was the responsibility of the Colonial Secretary's office and so neatly passing the matter back to Churchill. "Never trust a bloody Liberal", was Robert's unequivocal response to that.

Matthew wrote other letters as well, to anyone he thought might be able to assist; he placed advertisements in newspapers and even, against Robert's express wishes, engaged the services of a private detective agency, but all were to no avail. It looked increasingly as if what Percival had told Matthew was the truth of the matter. That it was not the case and that what had happened to Tom was actually far worse than any of them could have possibly imagined, only came to light some three months after they had all returned home from Ireland.

Matthew himself had said it many times before and doubtless he would do so again; that since the Great War, given the way the world was now so changed from how it had been before that terrible conflict began, it was high time that all of them here at Downton considered living far more simply. Not, of course, that Matthew Crawley did not value history and tradition; undoubtedly he did. However, in his own views on this issue, the presumptive earl of Grantham was far more in tune with his dearly loved brother-in-law Tom Branson and indeed also with Cora's own mother, Martha Levinson; although to ascribe the onset of the Great War to have been caused by a slavish adherence to both history and tradition was, in Matthew's view, an over simplification as to how things had stood in August 1914 and why the war itself had actually begun.

Now, however, with Tom likely dead despite Sybil clinging desperately to the increasingly forlorn hope that he was somehow still alive and with Martha Levinson in Newport, Rhode Island, thousands of miles away across the Atlantic, Matthew was very much on his own. So, understandably, every time he made mention yet again of his views on this particular subject, the reaction from the rest of the family, at least from the Dowager Countess and from Robert, was predictable enough.

Violet bristled and seemed to consider Matthew akin to a Bolshevik commissar intent on sequestrating the estates of the Russian nobility while dear old Robert wanted a return to the way things were before the war, buried his head ever deeper in the sand and refused to accept that change, however painful, was inevitable if the Downton Abbey estate was to survive on into the twentieth century; something which, now that Mary was anticipating a happy event of her own, was very much a personal concern to Matthew.

One tradition that Matthew Crawley thought to be utterly ridiculous was the way in which female members of the family once married, took breakfast not downstairs but in bed. It was, he thought, patently absurd, that Mary and he could not breakfast together. However, as Violet had remarked on more than one occasion, that for every tradition there was a reason.

As things turned out, on this bright, sunny morning in April 1921, with Edith once again abroad, with Sybil and her children upstairs in the nursery, Matthew had every reason to be very relieved that neither Cora nor indeed Mary were present in the dining room when Carson appeared with the morning's post born on its customary silver salver.

On this fine spring morning, the letters which arrived for the family at Downton Abbey were not great in number. Two were for Robert, one from his club up in town, the other being from Murray requesting an urgent meeting with Robert and Matthew regarding certain financial issues affecting the estate; the others, as the earl of Grantham and his son-in-law found out later, had been addressed to both Cora and Mary: invitations to take tea with several friends and also to dine with the Braithwaites over at Morland Park the following week, that invitation extended not only to the earl and countess of Grantham but also to Lady Mary and Captain Crawley.

However, albeit with good reason, in admittedly, an appalling breach of both etiquette and good manners, that particular invitation was destined to go unanswered; causing those who then did in due course attend the dinner at Morland Park, to wonder quite what was happening over at Downton Abbey and reflecting at length during the various courses of the meal that things there were not as they had once been. In fact, despite the family's best attempts to hush it up, not since the youngest Crawley girl had run off with the family's Irish chauffeur, to live in squalor in a Dublin slum where it was said she was breeding like the proverbial rabbit.

Indeed, if the latest rumours on that score were to be believed, presumably on account of his drinking and violence towards her, the erstwhile Lady Sybil Crawley had left her Irish "husband" and come back here to England.

Opinion was distinctly divided as to whether a legal marriage between the two parties had ever taken place. Whatever the truth of that and most liked to believe that no marriage had ever been solemnised even if it had undoubtedly been consummated, recently, Lady Sybil had returned to live in seclusion at Downton Abbey under her own parents' roof. This particular revelation had caused the owner of Morland Park, Lord Ennerdale, to loudly voice his opinion on the matter, saying that if Lady Sybil had been a daughter of his, after such an escapade he would never have given her house room.

According to Lady Appleton, who had the story from her own lady's maid, the most recent news on this front was that Lady Sybil had arrived at Downton Abbey under the cover of darkness it was said, battered and bruised and was expecting yet another child.

In the absence of the Crawleys, it was the considered opinion of all those gathered around the candlelit dinner table at Morland Park, that given his antecedents, the disgraceful conduct of Lady Sybil's "husband" towards his "wife" was only to be expected. Obviously, he was an exceedingly bad lot, who had doubtless forced himself upon her and when she had resisted him had resorted to making use of his fists. Given what was now happening over there in Ireland, the shameful behaviour of the Crawley's former chauffeur caused a frisson of audible disgust to ripple around the dining table and merely served to confirm what most thought about the Irish; that they were habitually drunk and also violent.

Matthew was just buttering himself one final piece of toast when Carson appeared silently beside him.

"A package for you, sir".

"Thank you Carson" said Matthew taking the small parcel from off the salver. Seeing it was postmarked from Cork, immediately Matthew set down his knife and, while Robert watched him dispassionately from the end of the long dining table, Matthew began opening the packet. Within, enfolded within what turned out to be a covering letter, lay a small box.

Victoria Barracks,

Cork,

Ireland

12th April 1921

Dear Crawley,

I regret most sincerely to be the bearer of very bad tidings…

At last, his face chalk white, something which did not escape Robert, Matthew laid aside the letter and opened the small box. Within was a man's wristwatch, the hands stopped, the glass cracked. Picking it up, Matthew turned the watch over and read aloud the inscription engraved lightly on the reverse:

"Every Waking Minute"

"Oh, my God!" Matthew's blue eyes misted with tears.

"What is it?" asked Robert.

"It's from Ireland…" began Matthew, his voice breaking with emotion.
"Is it news… of Tom?"

Still holding the watch, Matthew could only nod his head.

"Not… bad news?" enquired Robert.

Now gently laying aside the wristwatch, Matthew turned to face his father-in-law.

"The worst there could possibly be," he said softly. Matthew buried his face in his hands; in the short time that he had come to know him, really know him, Matthew had grown to love Tom like a brother.

"May I?" asked Robert softly.

Matthew nodded, handed both the letter and the watch to Robert.

The letter was from a Lieutenant Edward Bentley of the 1st Battalion The Wiltshire Regiment (Duke of Edinburgh's) who had served with him in France and who, said Matthew, was one of the two officers who had been away from Cork when Matthew and Mary had travelled over to Ireland. In his letter Lieutenant Bentley explained that just over a fortnight ago, there had been an ambush mounted by the IRA on an army convoy not far from Bandon in County Cork.

The British casualties, some twelve in number, had all been members of the infamous Black and Tans and who, several months earlier had, it transpired, formed the guard detail in charge of a small group of civilian prisoners from both in and around Cork who were then being held in military custody and whose present whereabouts were unknown. The prisoners had simply disappeared, so much so that it was if they had never even existed. A search of the lockers and kitbags of the dead Tans, when their personal effects were to be repatriated to their next of kin, had brought to light other items, including both the wristwatch and various other personal possessions which had belonged to the missing prisoners.

Then, quite unexpectedly, there had come a report from Allihies, a remote village in the far south west of County Cork, of an army lorry having been seen late at night in the vicinity of one of the old mineshafts that littered the area. Although the shaft was over four hundred feet in depth and in a dangerous condition, a thorough search of it by the army had led to the gruesome discovery, at various depths, of a group of badly decomposing bodies. There was no doubting the fact that these were the remains of the missing prisoners

And there was something else too.

The prisoners had been alive when they had been thrown down the shaft. Grenades had then been dropped in after them, causing awful injuries to the bodies; all were terribly disfigured. Some remains had not been recovered and never would be but afterwards, what had been found, had been given Christian burial in in a mass grave.

"My God! How could anyone ever do such a thing?"exclaimed Robert hoarsely but a short while later and echoing Matthew's very own words. He shook his head in utter disbelief.

"Man's inhumanity knows no bounds" said Matthew softly.

"There's no doubt? No doubt at all, that this really is Tom's watch?" asked Robert.

Matthew nodded; then sadly shook his head.

"I wish there was. But with that inscription on the reverse? No, none at all".

Robert turned the wristwatch over.

"Every waking minute" he mused. "Do you know what it means?"

"It was... something... something that, when he asked her to marry him, Tom promised Sybil…"

Evidently bewildered, dazed by the awful news, Robert looked enquiringly at his English son-in-law for enlightenment, so much so that Matthew felt compelled to elucidate a little further.

"Tom promised to devote every waking minute to her happiness".

Robert nodded. Staring into space, it was only now, when it was too late, that finally did the earl of Grantham begin to understand something of the depth of the passion that had existed between his youngest daughter and the family's erstwhile chauffeur.

"Do you want me to tell…" began Matthew.

"Thank you for offering, my boy; but no, this… this is something which, as her father, I have to do myself, though how I begin to tell Sybil what actually…how he…" The earl of Grantham fell silent; shook his head in disbelief. Never, not in all the time he had known Robert, had Matthew ever seen his father-in-law look so despondent, so dejected and as utterly miserable as he did now.

As Robert reached the door of the dining room, he paused, half turned and, as if seeking inspiration, did as he often did and gazed up at the ceiling but not before Matthew saw the tears glistening in the older man's eyes.

"Difficult as it is for me to say this, given what happened, given all that went before, despite our many arguments, despite our many disagreements, I'd come to value his opinions, to see the true worth in him and to… to respect…Tom just as much as all of you".

It had been as close to a public declaration of love that Robert Crawley fifth earl of Grantham was ever like to make. A moment later, having closed the door to the dining room quietly behind him, Robert went in search of Sybil to tell her that her dearly loved husband was indeed dead.

Coming downstairs, Mary met her father; saw instantly by the expression on his face that something was wrong; terribly wrong.

"Papa?"

Silently Robert shook his head, said nothing by way of reply and, almost as if in a trance, now walked slowly past her up the main staircase of the abbey.

In the hall below, catching sight of Carson, Mary asked if he knew where Captain Crawley was.

"I believe he is still in the dining room, milady".

"At this hour?" Mary smiled. "Thank you Carson".

"Well, talk about eating a hearty breakfast" breezed Mary as moments later she swept into the dining room. "I've just seen Papa and he seemed rather…" Her words froze instantly on her lips as seeing Matthew standing by the window she now saw the anguished expression etched on his handsome features. Swiftly, Mary crossed the room and came to stand by her husband's side searching his dearly loved face for some clue as to what it was that was so very wrong.

"Darling, what on earth is it?"Then, catching sight of the letter in Matthew's hand, seeing the words "Victoria Barracks, Cork" she guessed at once what the letter might very well portend. Mary's hand flew to her mouth.

"Tom?" she asked falteringly and obviously now fearing the worst.

"Yes". Matthew shook his head, sank to his knees and, lacking Robert's aristocratic reserve, in what Mary would once have viewed as a show of emotion betraying his middle class antecedents, now promptly burst into tears. A moment later, likewise kneeling, Mary herself was in tears, as each sought to console the other in the light of the terrible news from Ireland.

A short while later and upstairs on the top floor of the house, Robert knocked gently at the door of the day nursery; a room which had not seen use since when Mary, Edith and Sybil had been children. On her return here to Downton, Sybil had appropriated it for the use of her own offspring. Now, in answer to his timid knock, Robert heard the voice of his youngest daughter.

"Come in," called Sybil briskly.

Opening the door to the day nursery and then closing it firmly behind him, the earl of Grantham walked wearily into the sunlit room to find Sybil seated in a decidedly threadbare armchair, not that she seemed to care or even notice. Held fast in Sybil's arms lay Robert's own grand daughter; quite how the little girl's name was properly pronounced, still managed to elude him.

At Sybil's feet playing happily with a group of battered wooden farm animals, there sat little Danny who in looks was the absolute image of his father. On seeing his grandfather, the little boy grinned, scrambled unsteadily to his feet and tottered across the worn carpet towards Robert and now, as he reached his grandfather, held out to him not as might have been expected a cow or a sheep but instead the decidedly shabby wooden figure of camel which evidently somehow had escaped from the Noah's Ark standing on the shelf above the fireplace and become mixed up with the set of farm animals Sybil had brought back with her from Ireland in Tom's childhood trunk and which now stood at the end of her bed. When Robert made no move to take the wooden animal from Danny, the little boy's face crumpled.

"He wants you to have it" said Sybil softly.

Robert smiled and at his daughter's gentle bidding now stiffly bent down, took the proffered wooden animal and put it in the side pocket of his Norfolk jacket, intending to replace it in due course aboard the Noah's Ark where, at least for Robert, it properly belonged. Then somewhat self-consciously Robert shook the little boy solemnly by his now outstretched hand. To Robert, it seemed the right thing to do; by way of thanking Danny for his gift of the wooden camel. Evidently not, for once again Danny's young face crumpled.

"Papa, he expected you to give it back to him, not keep it!" exclaimed Sybil, slightly exasperated at her father's complete inability to relate to the needs of a small child. But then again, was that really so surprising? After all, as children, Sybil and her two sisters had seen little of their parents who had been distant and remote figures, instead spending most of their time in the care of a succession of nannies and governesses.

In that very instant Sybil realised that right from the very start how much more understanding of young children darling Tom had always been; recalled how very much he had been beloved by all of Ciaran and Aislin's brood, how he had made the eyes of Padraig, Donal and Niamh's young son, light up with his tale of the fire-breathing dragon that lived on the Downton Abbey estate. And, as for Danny, well without any trace of self-consciousness on his part, with his jacket off, probably in his stocking feet, Tom would have been down on the nursery floor along with his young son making all kinds of ridiculous animal noises, instead of shaking him gravely by the hand as Papa had done. However, all of this escaped Robert, blissfully and singularly unaware of his own shortcomings in this particular regard and who now with the open palm of his right hand indicated the vacant, equally threadbare armchair facing Sybil.

"May I?" he asked.

"Of course you may, Papa".

Robert nodded and sat down, glancing out of the window across the park and to where the rooks cawed noisily in the trees.

"It's a fine day for the time of year" he said distractedly, looking anywhere other than at Sybil herself.

When they had all been children, their mother had come up here but rarely; their father, never; nor had he done so since her return from Ireland and it was this which gave Sybil some inkling as to possibly why it was that he had come. Her heart lurched.

"It's Tom, isn't it?" she asked softly.

Author's Note:

Once called Wyncliffe House and then on acquisition by the Great Western Railway for use with its steamer service to Ireland renamed and extensively re-furbished with crystal chandeliers and marble fittings and providing, when completed, some forty bedrooms along with other facilities, including the billiards room referred to above, the Fishguard Bay Hotel still exists.