Chapter Five
Triumph And Disaster Part II
Snaefell, Isle of Man, early morning, 19th June 1936.
Here, on the desolate slopes of the mountain, overlooking what was the highest point of the TT Course, exposed to the elements, with the mist at last now rising, hidden among the rocks, so as to avoid being seen from below, Fergal lay flat on his belly, stretched out full length on the short cropped turf, gazing down fixedly through his binoculars at the grey ribbon of empty road.
Earlier this same morning, when he had set off on foot from his temporary lodgings, at a remote farm in the vicinity of Kirk St. Michael on the northwest coast of the island, it had been dark. Fergal had arrived here late on the evening of the day before yesterday after a very productive reconnoitering tramp across the slopes of the mountain from where he had left the train at Lezayre. On encountering the out-of-the-way homestead at sunset for the first time, the low, stone walled house with its thatched roof, the midden steaming in the yard, the cattle lowing in the byre, and the sheep bleating in the fields beyond had reminded Fergal very much of the farm which his adoptive parents, the Ryans, had worked on the old Skerries Estate across the sea, in Ireland, down in County Cork.
When Fergal left the farm not only had it had been dark but, it had also been foggy. Indeed, almost the moment he had set his hand to the latch and closed the gate of the yard behind him, the house and the outbuildings had disappeared from view in an instant, all hidden from sight beneath a chill, damp blanket of mist. Thereafter, as he had begun his renewed ascent onto the bare slopes of the mountain, the mist had grown denser, seeming to grow ever thicker the higher he climbed, as he headed for the notch on the skyline which marked where the course of the track which he had seen earlier in his room, marked on his Ordnance Survey map, breasted the distant ridge.
As he plodded on, Fergal fell to thinking that what he had read was true enough, that up here, the highest part of the island was indeed prone to such sudden fogs; thick mists which could and did descend in an instant, quickly, and often without warning. That they were an unwelcome feature of the racing circuit too, for when the mists came down, visibility was reduced to zero and understandably all racing was prohibited until the fog lifted. Sometimes it did so almost as soon as it had descended, while on other occasions it would last for days.
Fergal was only too well aware here on the Isle of Man, these eddying, swirling mists touched a superstitious nerve in the people of this sea-girt island. Perhaps rather surprisingly, he understood too why this was so. For, despite being able to assume an air of cultivated urbanity, acquired as a result of the amount of time he had spent at the German Foreign Ministry on the Wilhelmstrasse in distant Berlin, if circumstances so merited, when it came to ghosts, ghoulies, and things that go bump in the night, being Irish, Fergal retained a long suppressed belief in the existence of the supernatural.
For, as across the Irish Sea, in Erin, here in the Isle of Man there were tales and legends, stretching back as far as the dawn of time, which told that such fogs were unearthly, that within them there lurked entrances into another world wherein dwelt dragons and a myriad of other fanciful creatures such as bugganes, glashtyns and fenodyrees, as well as the souls of the departed. That somehow, such fogs had the ability too to craft a curious atmosphere; to distort what was real and tangible, especially sound as well as to fashion likenesses, seemingly substantial, which, in reality, were of no more substance than what up on the summit of this very mountain but a couple of days earlier, unbeknownst to Fergal, even Tom Branson himself had taken to be the far distant coast of Ireland.
Well, thought Fergal with a grim smile, Josef Goebbels might seek to hold sway over the thoughts and minds of all those living in Nazi Germany, but while his powers were sweeping in their extent, they did not give him the ability to control the weather. With this thought in mind, shivering, Fergal plodded on through the enveloping murk. The dank air was both oppressive and still, there not being a breath of wind, the enfolding silence all pervasive, without birdsong or the bleat of sheep, the grasses beneath his booted feet sodden and un-stirring.
Sefton Hotel, Douglas, that very same morning.
It was probably nothing more than the early morning sunlight, now peeping with a dogged persistence between the curtains, which had caused Tom Branson to awaken with a sudden start. Then again, with four boisterous and lively children, down the years both he and Sybil had become very used both to waking and being woken early. Not that Tom was a morning person; he never had been and never would be. So it may have had more to do with the fact that while the bed was comfy enough, he was so unused to sleeping on his own. Perhaps even too, although he would never have admitted it, not even to himself, owing to having a slight case of nerves as to what the day itself might bring. Not that he had any allusions about his chances. After all, many of those riding in the Senior TT were far more practised riders than he was himself. No, as Tom had confided to Matthew the previous evening when they said good night, all he wanted to do was to complete the course safely and in as respectable a time as possible.
Then again, his waking early might also have had something to do with the dream he had been having; the precise nature of which he could not now recall, except for the fact that it had been exceedingly unpleasant. Knew too that it had left him with the very same sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach that he had experienced but once before; when by the skin of his teeth he had managed to bring the runaway Fiat Tourer to a stand beside the railway line on the plain below the Fiesole Hills back in the summer of 1932, thereby saving the lives of his mother-in-law, his wife, his children and also his own.
Now wide awake and sitting up in bed, glancing over to the other side of the room, Tom saw that Danny was still fast asleep which, in itself, was hardly surprising. Last night, some time after Max and his father had gone up to bed, Friedrich already having allowed Max to stay up much later than was normal, promising to honour the trust placed in them, with the permission of their own fathers, Danny and Robert had taken themselves out for a late evening stroll along the Promenade.
Sefton Hotel, the previous night.
And, like as not, thought Tom, making the very most of the opportunity thus afforded them to chat up the girls they found down at either the White Palace or else Derby Castle, then to dance, whisper sweet nothings, and to buy them all glasses of dandelion and burdock or cooling lemonade. All of which, no doubt, would be made the very much easier by the fact that both Danny and Rob had money to spend and, more importantly, had grown into a pair of exceedingly personable and handsome young men. Albeit that when it came to the opposite sex, Rob was not quite as self assured as Danny; at least not yet. All of which, while Tom was getting undressed and making ready for bed led to a brief period of idle speculation on his part as to just who the two young men might eventually choose to marry. It was with this thought still uppermost in his mind that he climbed into bed where, having turned out the light, shortly thereafter he fell asleep.
Much later, while Danny had done his very best not to disturb his father, and no doubt Rob had done the same next door, Tom was awoken by the sound of his son coming into the bedroom they were both sharing. Turning over, glancing swiftly at his watch lying on top of the nightstand, Tom saw that it was now well after midnight.
"Goodnight, son".
"Sorry, Da, I didn't mean to wake yous," whispered Danny.
"No matter, for sure. Did yous both have a good time?"
"For sure, Da. Yes, we did," replied Danny, his voice muffled as he pulled his vest over his head while he readied himself for bed.
Even though he could not see his son's face, Danny sounded well pleased with himself and at that Tom smiled.
"Well, goodnight, son".
"Goodnight, Da".
Sefton Hotel, the following morning.
It was now that Tom's eyes lit on Sybil's letter, lying beside his watch on top of the nightstand, and which had been enclosed with the silk scarf she had bought for him in Kennedy and Mcsharry's and then had entrusted to Danny to give to his father when they arrived here on the Isle of Man.
Having been married for some sixteen years, indeed it would be seventeen come the middle of next month, even though he knew her as well she did him, to Tom it still seemed a wonderful thing that he could have inspired Sybil to write him such a letter. Barring those hellish months, early in 1921, when he had been abducted by the Black and Tans back in December 1920 during the burning of Cork, imprisoned in an isolated police barracks, beaten savagely, and then along with several others, of whom he alone would be the only survivor, thrown alive down that abandoned mine shaft at Allihies in the far south west of Ireland, the amount of days which he and Sybil had spent apart could be numbered on the fingers of one hand.
Tom reached for the envelope, once more took out and unfolded the letter contained within. He had a little difficulty in deciphering some of Sybil's words, not on account of her handwriting which, as ever, was both clear and precise, but because some of the words were now slightly smudged by the tears he had shed upon reading it properly for the first time in this very room when they had all returned here to the hotel from viewing the Triumph.
Sefton Hotel, the previous night.
Seeing his Da's eyes wet with tears, Danny at once crossed the bedroom, sat down beside him on the bed, tentatively placed an arm about his father's shoulders, and asked if everything was all right, to which Tom had nodded his head.
"Of course. For sure!" he whispered.
"Then why are yous crying, Da?"
"Son, I love your Ma so very, very much," said Tom softly.
"Yes, I know yous do, Da," said Danny.
"And do yous recall the talk yous and I had, some years ago, when we were in Florence, about what it means to be in love?"
"For sure, Da".
"Do yous remember what I told yous?"
"Some of it, Da, for sure".
"Well, read this, and yous'll see that what I told yous is true enough".
"Jaysus, Da, what Ma wrote yous ... that's private!"
Tom smiled and nodded his head.
"Ay, son, it is for sure," he said softly. "And all things being equal, I wouldn't dream of showing it yous. But all the same, now that yous almost a man grown, I want yous to read it. Especially the last page. Here, take it". So saying, Tom handed Danny his mother's letter.
Having done as he had been asked, Danny glanced cursorily at the first two pages, most of which he saw was taken up with Ma's inconsequential chatter about Saiorse, Bobby, Dermot, and also himself, as well as about the forthcoming race over here in the Isle of Man, made mention of the fact that it was more important that Da take part than to win, echoing what Edith herself had written in the telegram she had sent Tom from Rosenberg. It was then, when Danny reached the final page and began to read in earnest what his mother had now written to his father, that Tom saw the colour flood across his son's face. In that very instant he knew that Danny had understood.
Oh, my very own darling, I know that by the time you read these few lines it will be only but a day or so since we parted on the quayside at Kingstown - even now after all these years I still can't think of it as Dun Laoghaire - I know too that I will be missing you so very, very much. Even with our three youngest here in the house, it will still feel so empty. And when at last I have to go upstairs to our bedroom I know I will feel so alone lying there in the darkness without you beside me in our bed.
Dearest Tom, despite all the trials and tribulations, I know that we have been incredibly lucky, first to meet the way we did, and then for everything we have both shared over the last sixteen years, including our four wonderful children. Thank you, my darling, from the very bottom of my heart for everything you have given me, have been to me, and I know will be to me in the years to come. How much I love you ...your gentle, tenderness, the physical way you show me your love ... our being together as man and wife ... when you take me in your arms ... Tom, my dearest, dearest dear ... I absolutely adore you!
Now my darling, I must end this letter which I am giving to Danny to pass on to you when he judges the moment to be right.
Saiorse, Bobby, and Dermot all send their love.
And so, my very own darling, do I.
Sleep well tonight.
I miss you so very much.
I kiss you, caress you, love you.
Ever your very own
Sybil
Danny had raised his eyes to find those of his father upon him.
"I hope that one day I find someone to love as much as yous love Ma and who loves me as much as Ma loves yous," he said softly.
Tom nodded.
"Yous will. Just give it time, for sure".
Dining Room, Sefton Hotel, later the following morning.
Here in Douglas, beneath a cloudless blue sky, the little town basked in glorious sunshine, there being every promise that it would be a beautiful day, while there was a palpable sense of excitement in the air as to what the main event of the day - the Senior TT - would bring.
Outside the Sefton Hotel, beyond the cast iron railings of the Promenade, sunlight glittered on the crests and ripples of the incoming tide, while high above the waters of the bay, screaming raucously, a screech of beady eyed, yellow beaked, black, white, and grey gulls swooped and dived on the surface of the sea, in a seemingly never-ending, search for food. Conversely, here, within the elegant dining room of the hotel it could be said that this morning's search for food was over; insofar as those individuals who made up the small party encompassing the Bransons, the Crawleys, and the Schönborns, had long since finished their respective breakfasts.
All that was, save one.
"What, for sure?" asked Tom with a grin, now glancing up from his plate, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his linen napkin, and, at the very same time, finding that five pairs of eyes were upon him; watching with obvious and undisguised interest while he finished his breakfast.
"I think I may safely speak for everyone else round this table," said Matthew with a merry twinkle in his eye and setting down his now empty tea cup in its saucer, "that we were all wondering precisely what it was that particular plate had done to so offend you?"
Tom looked perplexed.
Whether at home in Blackrock or when he was staying at Downton, Tom always enjoyed his breakfast. And so too in Douglas. Indeed, so much so, that this morning, here at the Sefton Hotel, he had proceeded to ask a startled waiter for another serving of sausages, fried bread, eggs, and bacon, and was presently engaged scraping his plate clean for the second time.
"Da, what Uncle Matthew means is that if you scrape that plate anymore you'll be scraping off the pattern for sure!" chuckled Danny.
"Oh, that!" Tom grinned. "Well, son, I've a heavy day ahead of me, for sure!"
"And if you eat anymore I have no doubt whatsoever that your motorbike will buckle under the strain of carrying you up over Snaefell!" chuckled Matthew. Everyone else laughed too. Smiling, Tom set down his knife and fork on the now empty plate; was on the verge of making a suitably pithy reply to his English brother-in-law, when it happened.
Just as it had done yesterday afternoon.
High on the windswept slopes of Snaefell.
And again, earlier this morning, over by the grandstand on Glencrutchery Road.
Both of which could have had perfectly prosaic explanations.
Only this time, it was here, over breakfast, in the commonplace surroundings of a hotel dining room.
Suddenly, although no-one else except Tom himself seemed to have noticed, the murmur of voices, the hushed conversations, the chink of cutlery on china, and all the other myriad number of sounds which one hears in a hotel dining room, faded into silence, as from somewhere beyond the window, as before, there came the same deep, throaty roar of a motorbike.
A moment later, beside them, on the next table, someone coughed, elsewhere a fork was dropped to the floor and just as hastily retrieved and replaced by an observant waiter, from the other side of the room there came the rustle of the pages of a newspaper, closer at hand another waiter asked if more tea was required, nearby steam spiraled languidly from the spout of a hot water pot, there was the clatter of cutlery, the mouth-watering aroma of food, the rattle of china, the whole dining room alive as before with the constant babble and chatter of voices.
Normality had returned and, seemingly, everything was as it had been before. And yet for all that ...
"Tom? Are you all right, old chap?"
"Yes, perfectly. Didn't any of you ..."
"Didn't we what, Da?" asked Danny who, obviously concerned, now regarded his father thoughtfully with his blue eyes.
"Nervous?" asked Friedrich setting aside his copy of the Times. "And, before you answer that, if it makes you feel any better, I know I always was, before going on a sortie, during the war".
"No, not at all. I'm looking forward to it. In fact, I ..."
Standing beside their table, holding a silver salver, the maitre d' contrived a discrete cough.
"Yes, what is it?" asked Matthew.
"Telegrams, Your Lordship. One for yourself, and ... two for Mr. Branson".
"Two? For me?" Tom sounded somewhat surprised.
The maitre d' nodded his head gravely and held out the salver.
The first telegram was from Sybil:
WITH EVERY GOOD WISH FOR A SAFE AND SUCCESSFUL DAY
The other was from Mary and which, when Tom opened it, while likewise wishing him every success, also reminded him to take the very greatest care of himself; Tom being very touched by his aristocratic sister-in-law's obvious concern for his well being.
The third telegram, which was for Matthew, was also from Mary. Its contents were somewhat briefer:
DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT
The laconic wording of which now required some explanation on the part of Matthew himself.
"Well, Rob will bear me out on this. On the night before we left for Liverpool, during dinner, I just happened to mention that, I thought next year, I myself might take part". Matthew smiled. "But I see now that is obviously out of the question! Ah, well, as Shakespeare said perchance to dream!"
Along with a deliberate slump of his shoulders, Matthew gave a theatrical sigh, both of which were worthy of Ivor Novello, the earl of Grantham contriving to cut a forlorn and dejected figure, while everyone around the table, Matthew included, joined in the laughter which followed.
Isle of Man, the previous morning.
After breakfast, before the public roads were closed to traffic, both for practice runs by competitors as well as for the duration of the Lightweight TT, the Bransons, the Crawleys, and the Schönborns, all went off on a motoring tour, around the island, over the whole length of the course; commencing at the start by the scoreboard, the pits, and the wooden grandstand on Glencrutchery Road, thence out of Douglas, heading west, in the direction of Peel.
With the hood of the hired Crossley Tourer down so as to enable them all to take full advantage of the warm sunshine, with Matthew driving, Tom seated beside him, and everyone else crammed together on the back seat, they motored on through a succession of quiet villages and hamlets by way of Bradden, Union Mills, Glen Vine and Crosby. Even though the roads they traversed were now properly surfaced, and so much improved since the early days of the TT, with traffic on them negligible, mindful of the presence with him in the motor of Max and everyone else, Matthew forwent his customary love of speed and instead took the very greatest care to drive safely.
When they reached Ballacraine, Matthew took a slight detour and brought the Crossley to a stop beside Tynwald Hill, close to St. John's, so that they could all see the grassy hill on which once a year, the Manx Parliament, established over a thousand years ago by Norse settlers, met in an open air ceremony, and where one could hear a reading of a summary of all laws passed in the preceding year, both in English and Manx. As they drove away, it was left to Friedrich to observe ruefully that now here in the early twentieth century, both in Germany and in Austria, parliamentary democracy was a dead letter.
Back at Ballacraine, they turned left, heading north, passing through Glen Helen, Kirk St. Michael, Ballaugh and Sulby as far as Ramsey, nearly twenty four miles from whence they had started, en route, the Tourer drawing admiring glances from many of those already beginning to fore gather for the start of the TT itself. Having reached Ramsey, after driving briskly along Parliament Square, and thence out of town, the motor began to climb, uphill along the Snaefell Mountain Road, which led southwards all the way to Douglas, and which, in the space of but a matter of a few miles, would take the Crossley and its occupants from sea level up to nearly 1,400 feet at Brandywell, the highest point on the road, hard on the eastern flank of Snaefell.
With some difficulty, rapidly changing gear, Matthew slewed the heavy Crossley round an uphill, right hand, hairpin bend, known appropriately enough as Gooseneck, from which, far below, there could be glimpsed the sea and Queen's Pier, the bend itself marking the limit of the tree line and the beginning of a long stretch of windswept, empty moorland. Then, having crossed over the line of the Snaefell Mountain Railway at The Bungalow, a few miles further on, beneath a gnarled hawthorn, bent almost double by the force of the prevailing winds, close to a metal milepost, at Brandywell, Matthew brought the Crossley to a stand for the second time that morning so that everyone could get out and stretch their legs and admire the wild, open scenery.
While everyone else stayed relatively close to the motor, Matthew saw that Tom, who for the last few miles had seemed unaccountably quiet, had walked off down the road; was standing stock still, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, evidently lost in thought, and gazing intently down the hill.
"What is it, old chap?" asked Matthew, now drawing level.
"That," said Tom.
"What?" asked Matthew, clearly perplexed.
"Don't you ... Can't you hear it?" asked Tom.
"Hear what?" asked Matthew, furrowing his brows, straining his ears to catch whatever it was Tom could hear.
But instead of explaining himself further, Tom merely shook his head, for the sound had ceased. All he could hear now was a faint creaking coming from the branches of the hawthorn and a slight rustle of its leaves.
Beyond him the road was completely empty.
There was nothing to be seen.
So, after all, what he had heard, the roar of an approaching motorbike, had been nothing more than a trick of the wind. And yet, for all that ...
Snaefell, the very same day.
Hovering hundreds of feet above the rocky outcrop, while it had seen the man far below, the kestrel had paid him scant attention, was intent instead on seeking its own prey. The grey ribbon of the mountain road was still deserted but then, from the direction of Ramsey, Fergal saw the heavy motor climbing the hill and a few moments later pulling to a stop. And, as it did so, something about the man seated next to the driver arrested Fergal's attention. He looked familiar. Reaching for his pair of binoculars, Fergal quickly adjusted the focus of the glasses, trained them on the man clambering out of the passenger seat and, in the very next moment, realised why it was he had looked so damned familiar.
Brandywell, Snaefell Mountain Road, Isle of Man, 19th June 1936.
Patience is a virtue which is often rewarded.
High on a rocky ledge, the kestrel sat tearing the now bloodied and lifeless body of the rabbit to shreds with its hooked beak and razor sharp talons, while far below him the man adjusted the telescopic sight of his hunting rifle and waited for his own prey.
Rosenberg, Austria, the very same day.
Of the Crawley women, as Tom and Matthew often laughingly called them, Edith alone could be said to have a sixth sense. After all, back in June 1919, in the aftermath of the bombing at the Shelbourne Hotel, with Tom, stripped to the waist, lying before them all on the settee in the sitting room of Mary's suite, being ministered to by Sybil following the roughing up he had received at the hands of officers of the Dublin Metropolitan Police, it had been Edith and she alone who had realised that Tom and Sybil had met before. Long ere ever he came to Downton as chauffeur to their parents; years ago, when both of them were but children, at the now ruined Skerries House, down in County Cork, across the sea in Ireland.
And, over the years that followed, Edith had experienced several presentments of things which subsequently came to pass; most of them inconsequential, and which Friedrich referred to as her "déjà vu", laughingly dismissed all of it out of hand.
It was early morning.
Holding young Kurt by the hand, the two of them were standing together, out in the warm morning sunshine, on the stone flagged terrace at Rosenberg. For once, if but for the present, Edith hadn't a care in the world. Forget the political chaos threatening to engulf Austria, she had a husband whom she loved to distraction and who adored her, Kurt had been born healthy, was thriving, and Max was well again and she could dare to hope that all would yet be well.
When it happened this time, she had been pointing out to the little boy the distant, snow capped peaks of the Alps. The sight before them was indeed a joy to behold. The mountains looked magnificent, the sky was bluer than Edith could ever remember it having been, the clouds sailing overhead feather light whispers of white.
Then, in an instant, suddenly everything changed.
It was almost as if a heavy bank of cloud had passed directly in front of the sun, as for one brief instant it seemed to Edith that all the warmth of the day had been drained away, while from somewhere she heard the unmistakable roar of a motorbike.
"Oh, my God! No! Tom!"
Author's Note:
For Tom's abduction in Cork and what came after, see my story Home Is Where The Heart Is.
Established over a thousand years ago, Tynwald, the parliament of the Isle of Man, is said to be the oldest parliamentary assembly in the world. The meeting on Tynwald Hill takes place annually on 5th July.
Down the many years that it has been run, the route taken by the TT has altered. Some of the locations have changed their names, others have been added, and roads allocated numbers - for example the Snaefell Mountain Road is now the A18. Those given in the story are as they were back in 1936.