A/N: Sometimes I begin a chapter with one plotline/theme in mind and something entirely different happens, which is why this promised chapter took so long (well, one of the reasons anyway). Part II is almost done, so no ridiculous lag time for the next update. Many thanks to everyone for the continued support; thoughts and feedback are always welcome. Enjoy!
THE WILD ROVER, PART I
Dublin, Thursday December 23, 1926
The hull of the TSS Cambria sliced through the Irish Sea at a brisk twenty-four knots. Standing on the starboard deck, with a cold mist spritzing his face, six-year-old Bobby Branson grinned with excitement. After all, it was the farthest he'd ever been from home. He'd been to London, of course, and his Mama and Da told him he'd once been to Scotland, but he was too young to remember that. Now, after listening to so many stories of the land where his Da was born, he was going to Ireland. At last!
And for Bobby, getting there was half the fun. His Aunt Edith had given him an early Christmas present, something called a "relief map," which he and Da had spent hours studying on the parlor floor. Together, they'd trace the rail line, through the hills and valleys and over the rivers, all the way from Downton to Holyhead, where Da said they would catch the ferry. It was all there beneath his fingers, with labels he'd punched out with his slate, so by the time they left for Ireland, Bobby knew every stop, every connection, almost as well as the engineer himself.
On his map, though, the sea was rather flat, which certainly belied the swells beneath his feet, and it told him nothing of how long it would take. "Are we there yet, Da?"
Tom barely heard his son's chirp over the wind and the sea. "Not yet, lad," he replied, mussing the boy's cap. "But we're just passing the light ship at Kish Bank, so we're getting close!"
"To Doone Leery?"
Tom laughed, his cheeks stiff in the winter breeze. Since becoming a Free State, Ireland had begun divesting itself imperial nomenclature. Kingstown had become Dún Laoghaire; King's County where he was born, was now County Offaly; old Sackville Street in the heart of Dublin was now O'Connell Street. Such changes also meant the English butchered the pronunciations, just like the ticket master had done with Dún Laoghaire.
"Dun Lay-ruh," Tom gently corrected, "if you want to sound like an Irishman."
Of course he did, and Bobby repeated the words until he'd mastered them.
Tom glanced down at his boy with a proud smile. Another half-hour, by his estimation, and Ireland would come into view. Six years, he thought, leaning on the rail, almost seven now. He'd left a wanted man, with no home, no income, no means of providing for his wife and unborn child. Now here he was, going back with not one, but two children in tow, and a respectable income in his pocket, at least enough to afford second class tickets for them all.
"Bobby!"
Tom whipped around. Sybil was bracing herself by the cabin threshold, glowering at her son who'd inched away from his father's side. "If he's to stay out here," she told Tom, "he mustn't wander off. Bobby, hold your father's hand, or come back inside."
"I'm not a baby," the boy muttered.
Tom gently flicked his ear. "That's enough cheek from you." He snuck a finger Bobby's collar and tugged him back to his side. "He's not going anywhere, love."
"See that he doesn't."
Tom sighed as she returned to the cabin, nudged Bobby's shoulder. "Now then, you've gotten both of us in trouble."
"Sorry, Da."
"She's right to worry, though, with the sea being rough. One wrong flip and you're over the rail. And it's too bloody cold to go swimming today."
"Mama sure has been grumpy lately. Is she not feeling well?"
Bobby's observation was tendered with boyish concern, but Tom knew very well the cause of her grousing and smiled despite the scolding. Sybil was expecting again. But they were keeping the news to themselves for now, savoring it like two people who'd been to hell and back on a treasure hunt.
"She's quite alright, little man. Nothing but a little travel fatigue." That, at least, was true. Her morning sickness had been taping off recently, but yesterday's train ride seemed to have reignited it. Today's trip across the swelling seas was certainly testing her mettle.
Huddling together in the blustery December winds, father and son remained on deck to greet the growing silhouette on the horizon and the welcoming bulwarks of old Kingstown. Through the gray mist, the horizon began twinkling with the lights of the pier, grew ragged with rooftops and spires, and soon the scene came alive with motors and a train chuffing down the shore. Bobby bulleted questions on everything his Da saw, bouncing enthusiastically to the joyous timbre of his voice. Tom described it all, from the Royal Marine Hotel up on the hill to the great spire of the Mariner's Church, and when he had to pause for breath, he found himself holding back tears.
As they steamed into the harbor, the noise of the engines roaring against the moorings, Tom felt a warm hand on his back. Sybil brushed his face, leaned into his kiss. "Welcome home."
"It's not such without you," he replied, his mouth quivering as he glanced down at their children. "Or them. But it is good to be back nonetheless."
Bobby had adapted to his lack of sight with a fearlessness that sometimes unsettled his parents. But, while he thought nothing of wandering up a train carriage or slipping away back at the ferry rail, jostling crowds were another matter. Nearing the gangplank, he clutched his Da's hand so hard on that Tom finally plucked him up. Safe in his Da's arms, Bobby relaxed, smiled at the shouting porters.
"GSR platform and Dublin this way!"
"Points south, switch at the station!"
"Motors for hire!"
"Everyone sounds like you Da!"
Tom puffed with a long-lost pride. "That's because you're in Ireland lad!"
When his Da put him down, Bobby took two mighty hops. "Hurrah for Ireland!"
With only minutes to spare before boarding the waiting train across the narrow platform, Sybil retrieved her brownie camera. She snapped her grinning family near a bollard, with the Dún Laoghaire skyline as a backdrop.
As Sybil reeled the film, Tom detained a middle aged woman passing by, never minding her slick fur coat and the rubies dangling from her ears. He begged her pardon, asking if she'd be so kind as to photograph his family.
The woman was dumbstruck at the accosting Irishman, now explaining the camera's operation, and then heard the wife's distinctly English apology. Peculiar pair these two, she thought as Tom blew off the lens and steered his family into position. Still, she couldn't help but smile at the pair of neatly dressed and grinning children as she peered through the viewfinder.
Tom half expected the twenty-four hours of near constant travel would wilt the children, but as he hoisted them one-by-one aboard the emerald carriage of the Great Southern Railway, Bobby and Saoirse found a reserve of excitement. Each twisted and churned in their seat, pinching and giggling and jostling one another until finally Sybil wedged herself in and gave a lecture on proper behavior for the rest of the trip. Saoirse's lip wobbled. Tom pulled her on his lap and distracted her with the sights.
"And there's the Booterstown Martello tower," he said, "and look how close we are to the water! I hope the engineer knows what he's doing or we'll all be in the sea!"
When the train chuffed to a stop at Sydney Parade, some four miles up the line, Tom recognized the hulking form of his brother-in-law leaning against the little brick station house. Michael Boyle, all six-foot-two and two hundred forty pounds of him, lumbered forward when the engine hissed to a halt. He hoisted his cap with a flourish, unleashing the thinning red hair on his scalp. His chubby jowls curled with an enormous smile as the Bransons descended from the carriage.
"Tommy m'lad! It's about time you came back!"
Sybil rushed over, with Saoirse bouncing in her arms, and hugged the burly Irishman's neck. By the time she finished kissing his cheeks, they were as red as his hair.
"Glory be to God, Sybil darlin', Betsey will box my ears when she sees that lip paste all over me!" Michael winked. "But I'll gladly take the punishment for you."
Tom oomphed as his brother-in-law pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. "I'll thank you to stop flirting with my wife," he grunted through the squeeze.
"Welcome back," Michael whispered in his ear, and Tom swore he heard a sniff.
Indeed he had. Michael turned away, swabbing and blowing his nose. Little Saoirse, unusually quiet with a finger plugged in her mouth, was soon swept up in his arms for a hug and a kiss. Clutching her doll, she glanced first to her uncle and then her mother, and then back again.
"She doesn't say much," Michael quipped.
"On the contrary, I assure you," Sybil laughed as Saoirse was passed back. "She can babble more than her father when she has a mind to."
Michael then peered down at the little boy standing dutifully at Tom's side, his smile wilting until Sybil gave him a reassuring nod. Taking a knee, his smile returned and he spoke softly. "Young man, you've the look of a Branson."
"Bobby," Tom said, "This is your Uncle Michael."
Bobby proffered a hand. "Hello, Uncle Michael."
Michael's large paw engulfed it before he gently hoisted the little boy into his arms. "What are they teaching you over there in England? That's no way to greet an Irishman!" He planted a noisy kiss on his nephew's cheek.
Bobby giggled and brought his hands to Michael's cheeks. "You're a giant!"
He laughed, gave him a great hug and kissed him again. "A right giant mess, your Aunt Betsey would say!"
Michael had always been the jovial sort – when there was a laugh or prank to be made, he was usually the one to start it – but as he drove them away from Sydney Parade, he seemed excessively so. He prattled on and on about Kitty's return for the holidays earlier that month, how he and Betsey were bursting with pride that their youngest daughter would start medical school next year, how "that stooge Kieran" couldn't bother to come, and how everyone else had been waiting for "our little Tommy's return."
Tom sensed something was off.
So did Sybil. "Michael, I still feel awful for putting you out this way," she said. "We could have easily taken the train into Dublin and the tram up to Cathleen's."
He bobbled around a reply. "It's a surprise – you're staying with us!"
"That's terribly kind of you, but there's four of us and what about Kitty..."
"Kitty's staying with her sister. Sharon's got a new little one, you know, and she's glad of the extra help..."
Tom's eyes narrowed. "Well as soon as we sort our things at your place, Sybil and I should take the children to see Mam..."
"Ehhh..." Michael scratched the back of his neck, his eyes flitting back to Sybil, but avoiding Tom altogether. He shifted awkwardly in the seat as they neared Donnybrook, and rumbled with a heavy sigh. "Tommy, there's something you should know."
Cathleen Branson's heart attack that summer had left her alive, but weak. Not weak enough, though, according to Michael, to wrench the old bird from her cottage. "At least not at first," he explained. "Me and Betsey took turns camping out in her parlor until she finally gave up and came to live with us."
Tom's stomach, already knotted at the news, sank anew. He knew his mother would never be forced from her beloved Inn's Quay cottage if she had another option. As Michael turned north over the River Dodder, Tom stared out the window. Once on the outskirts of Dublin, Donnybrook was a bustling suburb now, and one presently festooned with greenery and glistening seasonal trimmings. Children pressed their noses against shop windows, ogling objects they hoped to find in the stockings in two days' time. The excitement over his return felt hollow now.
The car puttered onto Morehampton Terrace and the Boyle's two-story endrow house. Tom's sister Betsey dashed across the stone flagged walk and landed in her little brother's arms. By the time introductions were made of the children, Saoirse was tugging impatiently on her mother's hand.
Betsey heard her urgent whisper. "It's just inside," she chuckled and led the little girl in.
Sybil directed Bobby's cane on the walk. "Go with Aunt Betsey, darling," she said, and then glanced back at Tom. "Aren't you coming?"
"I'll just be a minute."
She shot him a warning glare.
Tom snatched the straps from their cases, waited for the door to close before unraveling with an impressive collection of colorful phrases, first in English, then in Irish.
Michael knew it was coming – he'd been married to a Branson for more than thirty years and recognized the hissing kettle of a temper – so he didn't even flinch at the tongue lashing. He propped on the side of the motor, waiting patiently for Tom to sputter out of breath. "Are you quite finished now?"
"Why the feck didn't anyone tell me?!"
Michael jerked a suitcase from his hands. "Because she wouldn't feckin' let me, you little bastard!" He shoved a case in Tom's chest, nearly knocking him backwards. "And your mother, bless her weak heart, still has the strength to slice off my balls if she wanted to."
Two little boys passed by on the street, both gasping with horror until Michael shooed them off.
"She knew you'd come straightaway," he finally sighed, "and she didn't want you to, not until we all had a chance to talk with Joe."
Tom's throat thickened. "So he still hates me that much."
By escaping to the relative safety of his father-in-law's estate in England after the events of Drumgoole, he'd severed the political relationships he'd forged in his short time in Ireland. That extended his own brother, whose inflexibility over the treaty had driven him deeper into the resistance during the civil war. Joe had been thrown in Kilmainham with other republicans and released not long before De Valera in 1924. Since then, he'd been even more of a mystery. With the IRA in tatters, men like Joe, and others who didn't have a taste for politics, were shoved aside. Or underground.
Michael sighed, swiped a hand over his face before propping back against the car. "I'm not sure your brother knows exactly who or what he hates."
"Is he still part of...all that?" Tom couldn't bring himself to say the killing, not in reference to his brother, no matter what he'd heard.
Michael squinted towards a rooftop across the way where a fresh puff of smoke billowed up. "I don't ask. None of us do, and it's best you don't either." He waved his arm then, as if swatting some bothersome fly. "Eh, get on with ya. Cathleen's done nothing but talk about when my Tommy comes for the better part of the morning. She'll have my guts for garters if I keep you out here any longer."
When Tom creaked open the Boyle's front door, his heart lurched at the long overdue sight of his mother and children. Sitting on the sofa near the hearth, Cathleen had a child tucked in each arm, alternating kisses and cuddles between them. Bobby and Saoirse were clearly enjoying the attention, both giggling and prattling on about their trip.
He doffed his cap, twisted it in his fingers. "Mam?"
"You took your time."
"Well, I knew once you saw these two, you wouldn't give me a second thought."
"Hmph. I suppose Michael's been talking about me."
"He has."
"He's worse than an old woman not keeping his trap shut."
Tom hadn't seen his mother since the summer after Saoirse was born, more than two years ago, when Cathleen braved only her second trip to England. He tried to calculate her age – seventy four now? – and reconcile that with the woman in front of him. Perhaps she'd aged a bit, but nothing too severe, but given what Michael had told him about her heart, he wondered if this was the beginning of the end. He hated to feel so morbid on his return, but he'd hoped to finally spend time with her, now that he'd been granted a pardon. He shuffled over – she was still singularly cuddling her grandchildren – and leaned in to kiss her brow.
"It's good to see you, Mam."
Sybil heard the catch in his voice. "Darlings, let's put our things away and wash up. Your Aunt Betsey was holding lunch for our arrival." Both little Bransons groaned in protest. "You'll have plenty of time to catch up with your Grammy later. Off we go..."
The parlor had gone silent, save for the pattering of feet on the stairs and Michael's bumbling with the luggage. As Tom eased beside his mother, she studied his face, and he wondered if she'd lash out or cry or both. Instead, she brushed her palm over his cheek just as she'd done when he was a child, her fingertips caressing each of his features. She finally offered a slow smile and whispered, "My boy."
In his thirty-six years, Tom had never thought of his mother as less than a pillar of strength. But now, leading her upstairs on his arm on that first night back in Ireland, he noticed the subtle frailties: the extra breaths, the deliberate climb, the fragility in her voice. She kept dodging his attempts to discuss her health, so he finally gave it up, deciding he'd simply wait and talk with his sister tomorrow. Or perhaps Sybil would have more luck.
"Couldn't talk Kieran into coming over, then?" She'd already expressed her disapproval, but seemed more fixated on his absence than in the past.
"I'm afraid not."
"Does he ever bother to visit?"
"We usually visit him," Tom chuckled. "He still seems a bit put out that we're anywhere close to the estate."
"Never mind him," she huffed. "I love him dearly, but he's always been a stick in the mud."
Tom laughed.
"And, Tommy, I want to thank you for what you did for Bridget."
His other sister, the one wedged so oddly between Kieran and Andrew, had worked at a Drogheda estate until the aristocracy collapsed. Tom made inquiries for a position in England, but nothing was available. It was his chanced note to Martha Levinson, who turned out to be desperate for a new housekeeper, that sent Bridget to America two years before.
"It was the least I could do," he said, and then smiled. "I'm glad it worked out in more ways than one."
I'll be darned if she didn't fall in love with the gardener, Sybil's grandmother had written six months ago. An Irish one at that, though there's nothing green about his thumb...
Cathleen hummed her approval. "I wish we could have all gotten together one last time, though, before she left."
While Tom had often thought the same thing – God, the last time they'd all been together in the same room was before he'd left for England the first time, more than thirteen years go – coming from her it seemed almost a final farewell.
"I wish you wouldn't say such things."
She took a hearty breath at the top of the stairs. "When your own children are grown, you'll understand," she said. She brightened as her two youngest grandchildren, recognizing her voice, called out a gleeful goodnight from the washroom.
Sybil emerged, looking only marginally frazzled, and gave her mother-in-law a peck on the cheek. "I got them dressed and washed faces," she told Tom, passing him a pair of toothbrushes. "You've got teeth and toilet duty this evening."
"Lovely."
Cathleen issued a goodnight kiss and chuckled. "Enjoy them when they're young, Tommy."
Easy for her to say, Tom thought as he begged cooperation with his children by the sink, and then again at the toilet, which usually produced its own drama: No, Da, I don't have to go! and No peeking, Saoirse!
Once he'd tucked them in their pallet, the novelty of camping out on the floor outstripped fatigue and they giggled and chittered like a pair of little squirrels.
On the bed behind him, Sybil stirred and mumbled in her sleep. "Don't wake your mother!" he hissed. "Knock it off, the pair of ya!"
"Can't we put more coal on, Da?" Bobby asked, shivering mightily for effect.
Michael had explained the half-empty coalscuttle earlier that evening with a disgruntled kick – Can't get away from the bloody English. Delays in the final labor agreement following last spring's general strike had stagnated production at the mines until recently. Like elsewhere in the city, fuel was at a premium.
"May we," Tom corrected, mounding on an extra blanket, "and no, lad, we'll not waste it. We'll make do. Just tuck up with your sister." He dropped a kiss on each face, feigned nibbles at the hands that came up to his cheeks.
"Da?"
"Hmm?"
"Can you tell us a story?"
Tom groaned. As much as he loved his darlings, both now sporting angelic expressions, all he wanted was to collapse in bed with his wife. He yawned, offered a compromise. "How about a blessing your Grammy used to tuck me in with?"
Oh Holy Patrick, Ireland's Saint,
Pray for thy children here,
That God may keep us evermore
Firm in His faith and fear.
"That was awfully short, Da," said Bobby.
Tom chuckled, pinched his boy's cheek before snugging the covers to his ears. "A good blessing is one that's short and sweet, just like the two of you!"
Tom woke on the morning of Christmas Eve draped along the edge of the bed, his fingertips brushing the floor. Blinking the sand out of his eyes, he felt the mattress wobble. Then something small stabbed his hip. "Mmmphff…Jesus, Mary and…"
A pair of giggles erupted from his other side and when he rolled over, two small lumps undulated beneath the covers. Sybil smiled knowingly from her perch at the headboard. "Well," he said, pushing up, "what have we here?" He leaned over to kiss her, slowly, until one of the little lumps groaned with disgust. "Seems to me we've got monsters in our bed, love."
The covers giggled again and rumbled with a harmless growl.
"And d'ya know what they say about monsters in Ireland?"
"What's that, darling?"
"They say that if you tickle them in just the right spot, they'll turn into leprechauns!" He lashed into the little mounds, tickling and pinching and grasping until both children shoved back the blankets, snorting for breath.
"It's only us, Da!" Bobby crowed, his hair a nest of ruffled curls.
Tom feigned surprise, tugged both children into his lap. "Why – so much for leprechauns! And just what..." He growled kisses into their necks. "...what are you two doing up here with us?"
"We were cold!"
Saoirse pulled the covers to her nose, nodding pitifully.
Bobby shook theatrically with a "brrrrrr" and snuggled deeper into his father's chest. "Da?"
"Hmmm?"
"Do you promise Father Christmas will stop at home if no one's there?"
When his parents told him of the holiday trip, Bobby's initial excitement fizzled when he considered that jolly old St. Nick might bypass the cottage if they weren't at home. And Saoirse, who increasingly hung on her big brother's opinion, was even more distressed. Two blubbering children left Tom in the precarious position of "ringing" the North Pole to ensure Father Christmas (in the guise of the future Earl of Grantham, Mr. Matthew Crawley) would leave all Branson-designated loot beneath the cottage Christmas tree.
"He said he would," Tom reminded his son.
"Maybe Uncle Matthew could go check..."
Tom chuckled. "Bobby, I promise you, Father Christmas won't forget about you or your sister."
"All right, Da," he thoughtfully sighed.
Pots and pans rattled in the kitchen below and the little Bransons snapped to attention.
"Breakfast!"
Saoirse scrambled over her Da's lap, narrowly missing his groin, and Bobby slid off the bed, landing on the floor with a harmless thump. "Mama, where's..."
"It's by your pallet, darling...just there, to the right."
"Saoirse wait!"
Bobby slammed the door behind him, startling both his parents. "Jesus, the whole block will be up with that," Tom groaned and shivered beneath the blankets.
Sybil burrowed into him, dug her toes under his calves. "Mmm. This is nice."
"For you perhaps," he hissed. "Christ your feet are cold..." A moment of rubbing their limbs together at least knocked the chill off and they finally curled up like a contented pair of kittens. "You seem brighter this morning," Tom whispered. "You were out cold when I came to bed."
"Just not used to the travel."
Tom's stuttering sigh betrayed the promise they'd made not to fret.
"Three cycles now," she said, "including this week. I've not noticed anything out of the ordinary – I'm fine, darling."
His smile curled with a bit more confidence and he ran his thumb over her middle, where her hand caught it. "We won't be able to keep it to ourselves much longer."
"We might as well tell your mother and sister," she said, and then laughed softly. "With fifteen children and umpteen grandchildren between them, they'll guess soon enough, if they haven't already."
"It's finally starting to seem real," he grinned, and gave her breast a gentle squeeze. "It's not just your tummy that's getting bigger..."
"You would notice that!" She giggled, wormed her way on top of him. "I suppose I won't get my Christmas present this evening..."
"Well, we can't very well do that with my mother on one side, my sister on the other, and our children at the foot of the bed...or in it, as seems will be the case."
Her fingers tugged the neck of his shirt, where she fluttered kisses to the hollow of his throat. She bit her lip, grinned devilishly. "We have a bit of time now...we could be quiet."
"So says the town crier." When her hand started grubbing a happy path southward, his brows shot up. "You can't be serious...Sybil!"
"Your mother will never know a thing..."
"Please don't talk about my mother with your hand down there...oh Jesus."
"She won't miss us for a while," she said, nibbling at his cheek. "She's completely smitten with your children..."
Unlike her toes earlier, her hand was quite warm, and effective, too. For once he wished his anatomy wasn't so damned agreeable.
"Tommy m'lad," thundered Michael, along with his fist on the door. "Up and at 'em!"
"Oh, he is..." Sybil whispered huskily into her husband's mouth.
"Sybil," her brother-in-law wheedled. "You can have him all to yourself later, darlin'. Right now I need his help fetching a batch of beer from the brewery!"
Sybil made it as far as the bedroom door when a billowing cloud of frying sausage sent her bolting for the toilet, leaving Tom to wander down alone. When he arrived in the Boyle's small kitchen, flushing under his mother and sister's clearly amused expressions, Bobby and Saoirse were practically engulfing their food.
"D'ya not feed them at home, Tommy?" Betsey asked.
"Kitty feeds them quite well," he laughed, accepting a cup of tea. "But with her over here for the past month, they've been at the mercy of their mother's cooking."
"Mama burns the bacon," supplied Bobby as he crunched down on a piece. "But she bakes good pies!"
Seated beside Bobby was another little boy who greeted him with a grin mottled with sausage and eggs.
"Hiya Uncle Tom!"
"Boyle!" Betsey snapped. "Swallow your food!"
"Yes, Grannie."
Michael ruffled the child's hair. "Tommy, meet my grandson, well one of them at least. This is the oldest of Meara's bunch – Boyle Fitzgerald O'Rourke."
Good God what a name, thought Tom, and one that undoubtedly would come back to haunt the freckled boy. He had a devilish spark in his eyes, which were magnified behind a pair of spectacles that seem to have been fashioned from a bottle of stout.
"I collected him earlier. I thought he and Bobby could keep each other company while the two of us went to the brewery." He scraped a chair behind Tom, mounded a plate and dropped it in front of him. "Bobby m'lad, you're going to have a grand time of it tomorrow with all your cousins. My oldest grandson Mickey is coming too – he's seven," he said, tucking a napkin in his collar, "so that makes three of youse close in age."
Beside him, Boyle grumbled under his breath.
"What was that?"
"I said – he's a mean shit."
"Boyle!"
"He is, Grampy! I've heard you say it too!"
Fork in one hand, knife in the other, Michael sputtered under Betsey and Cathleen's murderous glares. "Well, that's for me to say, not you, boyo. You say that in front of your mother and she'll box your ears! Not to mention mine."
Across the table, Bobby sniggered when Boyle mumbled another epithet in his ear, and Tom prayed his son would have the sense never to repeat it around Sybil. Or boxed ears would be the least of his worries.
"My oldest boy, Danny, is a distributer for the brewery and he's on the road most of the time," Michael explained later as he and Tom navigated the southwest fringes of Dublin. "Mickey doesn't get much guidance, so he's...unpolished, you might say. And Boyle's a bit bookish like his da, but God help us he inherited his mother's temper. Betsey's the only one that can handle 'em when they're together."
Tom wondered what hell they might unleash on the morrow – or if they could hold a candle to the Crawley duo back at Downton. He glanced over at his brother-in-law, beefy arms and chest awkwardly scrunched behind the wheel of a borrowed lorry. Big Michael Boyle had a heart as big as himself and, in his marriage to Betsey more than thirty years ago, had unknowingly positioned himself as future patriarch of the Branson clan.
The Boyles had been neighbors on the Delderfield estate, and with old Mr. Boyle's habit for the bottle and Mrs. Boyle's early demise, young Michael had found surrogate parents with Dan and Cathleen Branson. He was brawny and gentle, with a wicked sense of humor that kept his own family demons at bay. Once old Mr. Boyle went onto a watery grave – he'd stumbled drunkenly in a rain-swelled brook – and the tenancy lost, Dan Branson marched sixteen-year-old Michael into Bernard Daly's distillery at Tullamore to beg a job for the fatherless lad. He proved a hard worker and never forgot the Bransons' kindness. Or their oldest daughter. Four years later, with a small savings in his pocket, Michael proposed.
The Branson siblings, right down to the petulant Kieran, had welcomed their new brother-in-law. But not little Tommy who, as a tow-headed two-year-old, squelched bloody murder at his sister's wedding. Reckon I should hide under the pews and scream today? Michael asked when he stood as best man for Tom nearly three decades later.
It was Michael who stepped in with guidance for Tom when Dan Branson died. While Mam had imparted him with the facts, his brother-in-law imparted knowledge and experience. The memory of Michael's man-to-man chat was still burned in Tom's memory, not the natural facts so much, but the disturbing context. Now, when your sister and I...
At the time, young Tom had been appalled, but Michael knew, better than any priest, that fear of hell or disease was a poor deterrent to the natural impulses young men. For the next few years at least, any wayward inclinations Tom had were scuttled by uninvited thoughts of his sister and brother-in-law.
Michael was an example of hard work paying dividends, as he proved not long after he and Betsey married when he landed a job at the Guinness Brewery. It was well known to all in Dublin that a job at the brewery was worth more than an equal paying job anywhere else. The company had long since invested in its workers, proving medical care, pensions, schools and training for its workers and their families. Then there was the added luxury of a beer allowance, which the employees enthusiastically patronized during breaks. Michael had literally worked his way to the head of the line and now served as one of the chief millers, a position that came with certain perks, including his annual "Christmas Cask." It also gave him the flexibility to save his own beer allotment for the end of the year, which he distributed as gifts.
As Michael and Tom loaded the stockpile, the borrowed lorry groaned under the weight.
"Are you planning on everyone being unconscious on St. Stephen's Day," Tom groaned as he arranged the last crate.
Michael rumbled with laughter. "Only one of 'ems for us," he explained. "I've got favors to return, Tommy – a tab at the pub and the grocer for starters – and then boxes for friends and such." He threw a length of rope over the back of the lorry to Tom. "Here, tie that down, will ya?"
They motored back through south Dublin, stopping here and there to distribute the liquid payment and cheer. Along the way, Tom was presented to one and all. Some remembered him. Some didn't. And some only knew him by reputation, which explained the occasional quirked brow. But that's when Michael worked his magic with backslaps, elbow prods and a few bawdy jokes.
On their return to Donnybrook, they popped in a pub near Irishtown. By then, the lorry's bed was empty, save for Michael's cask, so Tom could only assume this stop was for consumption. It was a quiet spot, muted by the fatigued patrons who'd probably worked extra shifts that week to make up for the holidays. Michael's neck craned this way and that, before jerking toward a back table.
Tom thought he'd seen a ghost. Or his father, at least. He wandered over cautiously for a closer look.
Joe's mustache twitched with a faint smile. "The prodigal brother returns," he said, and nudged forward a full glass of beer.
As a boy, Tom had revered his oldest brother. Stocky and always swiping at an unruly thatch of dark hair, Joe worked from the time he could carry a bucket. He was educated on Ireland's plight by their father, beside whom he sweated and slogged and cussed in the fields and, watching their father age prematurely against the land he revered, Joe had hardened against the ruling class. When he was seventeen, he'd left unannounced except for a scribbled note: Off to Dublin.
He'd married, had a pair of children, and cobbled together a life of fighting and striking, finding work where he could get it. Impulsive to a fault – he'd none of his father's pragmatism – he'd lost a stable job at Guinness by participating in Larkin's lockout. Three days later he came home from the pub to a suitcase waiting at the door.
Joe found a new home with the Irish Citizen Army, a self-proclaimed militia to defend Irish workers. It was during the ICA's support of the Rising in 1916, that Joe met his republican brothers and he never looked back. In fact, it was Joe's influence that landed Tom his old job at The Bulletin, placed Tom in the swarm of revolution that defined Ireland's first declared government. Admittedly, and perhaps foolishly, he'd shrugged off rumors of his brother's brutality and the two, while not necessarily becoming chums, had at least begun to forge a fraternal bond. Joe had been sick the night of the Drumgoole raid, wasn't there when the ominous message arrived that Tom was a wanted man. Once Tom had reached safety – with Sybil – back in England, he'd become a traitor in his brother's eyes.
But on that Christmas Eve in a little pub not far from the gas works at Misery Hill where Joe'd just finished a shift, the two brothers sipped warm ale in tenuous silence. Two tables over, their brother-in-law flipped through a newspaper.
Joe snorted, fished for a cigarette. "Think the bugger knows it's upside down?"
Tom laughed as Michael casually rotated the paper, pulled the corner down for a peek.
The end of Joe's cigarette flashed orange, and it was half gone when he finally spoke again, prefaced with a cough. "Are you happy? Over there, I mean."
"I am." And he was. He'd long since abandoned any shame he once felt for settling with his family in England. And no one, not Joe nor any of his family, would ever change that.
His brother winced, commandeered a last drag and thumbed the smoldering end on the table.
"Going to England had nothing to do with anything I felt for Ireland, Joe. If it had only been me, I'd have gladly faced whatever happened after that night. But I couldn't leave Sybil...or our baby," he finished quietly, coughing as tears threatened. "Not even for you."
Joe's eyes skittered sideways and back. "When Mam told me you'd be coming back, she damn near flogged me when I said you ought to have your arse kicked." A smile pricked his lips. "I was only joking of course."
"But there was a time you weren't."
"Aye," he nodded. "Aye, there was."
Tom downed a swallow of warm beer. "And what was it that changed your mind?"
Joe, still not looking at him, shrugged. "Would you believe me if I said a dead man?"
Tom had never thought of his brother as a sentimentalist, only someone who looked to the past to justify vengeance, so his confession of reading through an unearthed box of Da's letters surprised him.
"Clara found them," he explained, striking up another cigarette. "The woman may curse the air I breathe, but she was always fond of our parents." He broke the match in half with his thumb. "I hadn't thought on those letters in years. Da's last one to me..." He shifted suddenly, cleared his throat. "...he asked me to watch out for you if something were to happen. Take care of our little Tommy, he'd said. Mr. Foley is a kind soul and a right good coachman, but he's not a father." The inflection was so eerily like their father's that it made Tom's skin prickle. "God, brother, I was already fucking things up with Clara and my own children by then...I didn't have any business ruining someone else's life." He pulled on his cigarette and shrugged. "So I asked Michael, and of course he knew enough of me and my ways to see it coming."
For a fleeting moment, Tom wished things had been different, wanted to tell his brother I wish it had been you. But then he thought on the slow drain of happiness from Joe's life since those days, his soul feeding on imperial sins of the past. If he'd followed Joe, he might not have left for England, in all likelihood would not have met Sybil.
"Anyway," Joe went on, "I figured I could finally do my bit."
"By not killing me?"
"By at least not bashing your fool head in." He laughed again, bursting with a cloud of smoke.
"Are you coming tomorrow?" Tom smiled softly. "I know Sybil would like to see you..." Joe laughed but he ignored it. "And I'd like for my children to meet their uncle."
He seemed to ponder for a moment before throwing a glance at Michael. "That bloody fool invited me, of course, but I hadn't planned on it."
"We're leaving on Sunday, and I'm not sure when we'll have a chance to come back..." Tom grinned crookedly. "We're expecting another baby this summer, so it may be a while before we can travel again."
"I'll think about it." One brow went up with a shrug. "That's the best I can do."
"Do you think he'll come?"
When Tom and Michael returned from their meeting with Joe – late and smelling suspiciously of a pub – Betsey put them to work cleaning and organizing the house for the morrow's invasion of relatives. It wasn't until that evening when he and Sybil were bathing the children that Tom thought to mention his brother. Sybil didn't sound particularly worried, but she didn't seem prepared to unfurl the welcome mat either.
"I don't know," he shrugged. "He's always been a hard one to read, love, at least as far as his family is concerned."
She glanced down at the children. "Do you trust him?"
"I think I have to." Squeezing water over his daughter's shoulders, he said, "Mam does, or else she would have advised us not to come altogether."
"It's a mother's duty to trust her son, though," she sighed, and brushed off that worry until tomorrow. Right now, her own son was giving her fits.
Red-faced and sulking, Bobby faced away from his sister, fighting the indignity of sharing a bath with a girl. He'd protested mightily, of course, but Sybil wasn't about to monopolize what little coal was available for the hot water boiler in the basement. Saoirse was having a grand time of it. She kept trying to crawl all over her brother, which did nothing for Bobby's pride. Or his patience.
"Mamaaaa..." he whined when a pair of heels dug into his backside. "Tell her to stop!"
Sybil squeaked the girl around for the umpteenth time. "Darling, stay on your end of the tub, and Bobby, stop playing with the soap and finish up."
Tongue set firmly between his teeth, Bobby squeezed the bar between his hands. It spit skyward like a wet seed and landed with a Thunk! on the toilet seat, which was mercifully closed. His giggling ignited a rumble at the bottom of the tub, followed by a volcano of bubbles.
"Bobby!"
"Sorry Mama." But he was snorting and giggling so hard by then that the water burped again.
That made Saoirse laugh and she was soon sporting a ruddy complexion in an attempt to best her brother.
"Young lady, don't you dare!"
The little girl relaxed, grinned innocently and went back to charming her Da, whose attempt at a scowl failed miserably.
"Just a sign of a healthy appetite, love! Everyone does it." Tom nudged his foot toward hers. "Even..."
Sybil shot him one of her You're not helping glares, snatched up the soap and washcloth, and began scrubbing behind Bobby's ears.
"Right...I'll just get the towels..."
They were nearly finished toweling the children when Michael squeaked open the door with a bottle aloft. "Does it have to be Irish Whiskey?" he asked his nephew.
"Of course," the little boy emphatically replied. "But just a little or else he can't drive his sleigh."
Michael eyed his precious Tullamore D.E.W – he'd been saving it for Christmas Day – and huffed. "Seems a waste if you ask me!"
"But we always leave whiskey and biscuits!"
"Biscuits too? Jaysus, that's extortion for naught but a few trinkets! You'll not be wantin' champagne for the reindeer, will ye?"
Given their frosty experience on the floor the previous night, the littlest Bransons waged a successful campaign to spend Christmas Eve snuggled up in their parent's bed. Banished once more to the mattress edge as his family snored contentedly beside him, Tom only managed a light doze. By midnight, after a few solid kicks from his son and Saoirse flaying his head with her arm, he'd given up entirely. Father Christmas beckoned anyway. The jolly old man had wisely hidden a pair of small gifts in their luggage, so Tom hurried into his robe and thickest socks to make the delivery.
He and Sybil also brought a selection of sweets for the myriad of little ones expected to swarm on Christmas Day. He set those out by the tree in the corner of the parlor, along with small tokens for Michael and Betsey, and something for his mother. Cathleen had always eschewed gifts, but Tom supposed a framed portrait of his family – including the blasted cat – would at least earn him a smile.
With that done, he scarfed down the biscuits and whiskey, and finished by pinching a few crumbs onto the plate.
"It's not enough that you've tricked Michael out of his best whiskey," his mother chuckled from the stairway, "but you've got to leave a mess as well?"
Tom's gave a guilty smirk. "It's not a mess, Mam. It's evidence!"
Since her son's arrival, she'd not had much time with him, but with the house silent Cathleen pulled him to the sofa. She reached into the pocket of her robe and presented him with a sheet of paper, embossed with letters by her grandson. "He read it to me this afternoon. For a while, I forgot he couldn't see."
"He forgets himself sometimes," Tom said, "and gets fighting mad when he feels he's being left out of conversation or activities because of it. When we tell him he can't do a particular thing, he'll say Don't tell me I can't do that because I'm blind! And we have to explain it's because of his age not his sight."
"Sounds like a Branson to me," she chuckled. "And I suppose the new one will be just as stubborn."
"I thought Sybil might tell you," he said, eyes twinkling. "We'd both love it if you'd stay with us then. June, if all goes well."
"And it will, Tommy. Trust in the Lord to see you through."
"We've had our disappointments, Mam," he reminded her.
"You had Saoirse."
"But it happened again...early last year." Unlike the time before, Sybil hadn't shut him out, let him hold her as Dr. Clarkson confirmed the news. It was just one reason of many that led her into midwifery, to offer solace and understanding to others who suffered similar dashed hopes.
"Oh Tommy..."
"She'd only just suspected she might be pregnant. She wasn't that far along..."
"Still, it was a wanted child."
"Very much so," he said. "For both of us." He kissed his mother's brow, smiled wistfully at the soft skin there. "Are you really all right, Mam? Your heart, I mean. Why didn't you tell me?"
"As you told me about yours?" she snapped.
Indeed, he'd never written her of that mysterious murmur that kept him out of the Army. Sybil had been the one to let it slip, not a week after they'd arrived in Ireland together. Days passed before his mother spoke to him in full sentences again.
"I suppose I deserve that."
"But I love you nonetheless," she chuckled, smacking a kiss on his cheek. "You only wanted to protect me, just as I did you."
"What does the doctor say?"
"Take it easy, rest up in your old age."
Tom could only imagine his mother's immediate reaction to that and smirked. "And of course you've heeded all of his instructions. Mam, you had a heart attack..."
"I'm not going to sit around waiting to drop dead."
By then, his Branson temper threatened, but he erred on the side of sarcasm. "If you're so healthy, then, why did you move out of your cottage?"
"Andrew's getting married."
The shift silenced him into wondering perhaps her mind was slipping too. "I know. Michael told me."
"I'm giving him the house," she said, then smiled. "Andrew, not Michael. I hope you don't mind."
"Of course not, it's your house, but what..."
"I waited a long time to see your brother married, and I'm not going to risk him losing her over that Ballybough rat-hole he lives in now."
Furrowing his brow, it all started clicking into place. He flapped an indignant hand at the Boyle's parlor. "This was just a ploy to give Andrew the house?"
She chuckled, a bit devilishly. "Not the heart attack, of course, but once Michael and Betsey started clucking nonsense about my living alone, I might have played it up a bit. Andrew's too proud for charity, you know, so I told him it would ease my poor old mind if he took it off my hands."
Tom couldn't help but laugh then, and took her hand, feeling a strength that he'd missed before. "And here I was worried you were ready to gasp your last," he said. "I should have known better."
"Don't let on," she replied, kissing his cheek again. "Besides, I don't plan on meeting my maker until all of my children are married. There's still one left, you know."
Kieran.
"Well, Mam," Tom laughed, "If those are your terms, I suspect you'll outlive us all!"
A/N2: Following the British General Strike of 1926, Irish coal merchants assumed (and had even been assured) mining would be back on pace by late summer and so hadn't arranged for increased imports from other countries. A combination of production delays at the mines and an unusually cold October in Ireland resulted in a severe coal shortage that winter. Rich and poor alike lacked adequate fuel for heating, but the poor obviously felt it the most. Relief came by way of hauling in turf/peat form the countryside (at a penny a sod). Also, the information regarding corporate welfare at Guinness Brewery is all true, including the complimentary beer tap! Finally, Eamon de Valera is probably the most famous former resident of Morehampton Terrace; he lived there briefly during the 1910s.
Up Next: Christmas with the Bransons, one of which proves to have a mean right hook...