Chapter Five
On With The Dance
Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Ireland, December 1921.
On that cold, frosty December Sunday morning, less than a week after the signing of the Anglo-Irish Treaty in London, it may have been nothing more than the mournful scream of the whistle from the Dublin bound train as it steamed along the coast just below Idrone Terrace before rattling at speed through the deserted station at Blackrock.
Then again, it may equally have been the stinging blast of rain which spattered hard against Tom and Sybil's first floor bedroom window or it may have been nothing more than the clatter of hooves and the rumble of wheels of the milk cart in the road outside the Bransons' home.
Indeed, it may have been any one of these things or it may have been none of them at all which caused Tom Branson to turn fretfully in his wife's comforting arms, to shift uneasily in his slumbers as in sleep he found himself yet still languishing in his bleak cell in Dartmoor prison in the far south-west of England.
It was during this same time, that in July 1921 an uneasy Truce had come into being between the British Government and the IRA. Then, during the five months which followed, there had been an intense series of negotiations held between the two opposing sides in the hitherto, seemingly intractable Irish conflict.
Tom's release from prison had come unexpectedly, but a matter of weeks after the Truce had been agreed, at the end of that same summer, with almost no word of warning and no explanation, other than that suddenly, all charges against him had been dropped; he was left wondering if there was more to all of this than at first seemed apparent and which indeed proved to be the case.
On the morning of his release, having travelled down over night by train from York - despite her voluble protests her father had insisted that she take a sleeping compartment - Sybil was there to meet Tom at midday at the prison gates in Princetown. Safely back at Downton to a near delirious welcome from the rest of the family, over the next few weeks he and Sybil pondered their future, the course of which was determined by Tom receiving a letter from his former editor at the Irish Independent, offering him his old job back. This followed so hard on the heels of his release from prison that Tom was left wondering if the two things were somehow connected. The truth of the matter Tom would not learn until what came to pass many months later down on an isolated road in County Cork.
Eager to return to Ireland, the Bransons and their two children sailed for Kingstown on a glorious August day. After all their recent trials and tribulations, the sea crossing proved singularly uneventful, enjoyed especially by young Danny who proved now and as he grew older to have far better sea legs than his father. So, while a decidedly seedy feeling Tom stayed seated down in the main saloon caring for Saiorse, holding tightly onto an excited little Danny, it was Sybil who stood by the stern rail of the RMS Ulster and watched as the steamer pier and the London and North Western Railway Hotel at Holyhead once more receded into the distance.
Back in Dublin, after but a brief spell staying with Ma and meeting up again with all of Tom's adopted family, with Tom having resumed his job at the Independent down on Talbot Street, both he and Sybil decided that, with two small children, despite Ma's protests that they were welcome to stay in Clontarf for as long as they liked, it was high time that they found a place of their own. This they duly did, with the purchase of their first house on Idrone Terrace, overlooking the sea, at Blackrock, on the south side of the city.
Meanwhile the interminable peace negotiations continued their tortuous way, culminating, at long last with the Anglo-Irish Treaty being signed in London at 2.20am on Tuesday 6th December 1921, while it was still dark; a day which would eventually dawn dull beneath leaden skies.
On the face of it, the Treaty should have been welcomed by one and all on both sides of the conflict; a lasting peace ushered in between both Great Britain and Ireland, which put an end to the Irish War of Independence and consigned it to history.
All British troops were to be withdrawn from the south of Ireland, which henceforth was to be known as the Irish Free State and which was to be permitted to create its own armed forces and police force along with being given control over it fiscal policy, tariffs and customs.
So far so good.
But, said Tom, several nights later, while seated next to Sybil in front of the fire in the quiet of the sitting room of their new home, the granting of these concessions were a positive affront to many of those serving in the precarious coalition government of Prime Minister David Lloyd George over there in London. Whatever they might claim in public, in private the Unionist Conservatives who made up most members of the British Cabinet were in reality opposed to any form of independence being granted to de Valera's nascent Irish government-in-waiting, other than Home Rule and for some that was a step too far. As for the very idea of Ireland becoming a republic, that was utterly repugnant.
Acquiesce to Irish demands and grant a skein of freedoms to this one small part of His Majesty's dominions and where would it all lead? Where would it all end? After all there were already rumblings of discontent in other parts of the far-flung British Empire chafing under colonial rule, not least of all the jewel in the crown that was India.
Mindful of this and in order so as to bring the seemingly interminable round of negotiations on the future of Ireland to a swift resolution, it was now known that the wily Welshman Lloyd George had threatened the Irish delegation to the peace talks with "immediate and terrible war" if they did not agree to sign the Treaty as now framed; forcing them to accept the partition of island of Ireland into Northern Ireland and the Irish Free State in the south, which in turn was made to retain King George V as Head of State as well as accepting that the British government would have access for the time being to three ports for use by the Royal Navy.
Unsurprisingly, therefore, the terms of the Treaty failed to satisfy those diehard Irish republicans across the sea in Dublin who were intent on seeking full independence from Great Britain for all of Ireland, among them de Valera himself, who all viewed the emergent Treaty as a betrayal of the Irish Republic which had been proclaimed during the Easter Rising.
And it was this which Tom had been explaining to Sybil, sitting snugly together by the fireside in the sitting room of their new home in Idrone Terrace, while at the same time wrapping up Christmas presents for Danny and little Saiorse, as well as for their several nephews and nieces over here in Ireland.
Put simply, said Tom, it was a fudge and one which he very much feared would serve only to store up a legacy of both bitterness and mistrust; not only between the new Irish Free State and Great Britain but also between the Irish themselves. Admittedly, the Dáil here in Dublin had yet to ratify the terms of the Treaty but even, if that did come to pass, as indeed seemed likely, when Sybil asked what was really troubling him, Tom, with his head in his hands, observed mournfully that he was deeply worried by what the future might hold in store.
"There, that's the last of them," sighed Sybil contentedly and setting down a now brightly wrapped large box which inside contained what was Danny's first clockwork train set. "Oh Tom! Is that really the best you can do?" she exclaimed on viewing Tom's ham-fisted attempt at wrapping up a present for Padraig, Donal and Niamh's eight year old son. Sybil sighed. "Honestly, Tom, you've made a right pig's ear of it. Here, give it me!"
He grinned, shamefaced.
"Darlin', I'm not much good at it".
"I don't know why. You're usually so good with your hands".
"I'm very glad you've noticed!" He chuckled. "Especially good at unwrapping though! I'm expert at that for sure".
"And, may I say, Mr. Branson, so modest with it too. Anyway, I wasn't talking about that!" Sybil looked up at him and smiled; her face was flushed, albeit but only partly from the heat of the fire.
"Not my kind of thing".
"So I can see. You know, young Riordan could make a better job of this! And he's only four".
"Padraig won't mind".
"Tom, darling, that's hardly the point. There that's the best I can do with it". So saying, Sybil placed young Padraig's present - a book on myths and legends of Ireland - which even Tom had to admit now looked rather more respectable than it had done but a few minutes earlier, on the floor along with all the rest. Then she grew serious.
"Darling, we've weathered all manner of storms, you and I. And if this one comes, what ever it brings, we'll survive it just like all the rest!"
At her words of reassurance, Tom smiled.
"Jaysus, Sybil. What would I ever do without you? You know it's what I always dreamed of; a free and independent Ireland! But as de Valera said this... this so-called settlement is neither one thing nor the other for sure! Apparently, he was feckin' furious with Collins for agreeing to it, any of it!" Tom swilled his glass and drained it of whiskey.
"Well, from what you've already told me, Mr. Collins didn't have much option. Didn't you say also that he didn't want any part in leading the negotiations over there in London".
Tom nodded and smiled broadly on hearing his wife refer to Michael, the MP for Cork South, Minister for Finance in de Valera's Cabinet as well as holding a whole host of other appointments, among them Director of Intelligence for the Irish Republican Army, as plain Mr. Collins.
"That's true enough. That's what he told me himself".
Tom paused, sat gazing quietly into the fire thinking back to that very first time he had met Michael Collins, some years earlier, in a shed at the Inchicore railway works, when he had the misfortune to have been kidnapped by the IRA.
"Then... it would seem that de Valera only has himself to blame for what's now happened. Maybe..." Sybil paused.
"Maybe what?"
"Maybe... maybe he suspected this is what might happen all along. That he didn't want to play any direct part in the negotiations with the British himself so that if the deal struck was anything short of what he wanted – a republic – then he could disassociate himself from what had been agreed with no damage to his own standing".
Tom raised his head and grinned broadly at her in the firelight.
"You know, sometimes I do forget what a clever girl I married!"
"Only clever?" Sybil's voice had taken on a husky tone. Knowing of old what that betokened,Tom smiled. A moment later and he had her held fast in his arms. Shortly thereafter, if only for the moment, all thought of the Anglo-Irish Treaty now forgotten by the both of them, Tom carried Sybil swiftly upstairs to bed.
Later, as she lay comfortably naked and warm, held tight, safe within the comforting circle of his strong arms, both of them sated and utterly content from their love-making, Sybil smiled.
"Tom, darling..." she whispered
"Hm?" Tom was drowsy, at this hour, almost half asleep.
"You were right about one thing though".
"Only one?" Tom now opened an enquiring eye.
"Your skills in unwrapping!" giggled Sybil and promptly turned out the lamp.
Sadly, as subsequent events proved, Tom was right to be nervous and, with what came after, Sybil was left wondering if her handsome Irish husband was possessed of what Ma over in Clontarf on the north side of Dublin Bay called dara sealladh: the gift of Second Sight.
For, but a matter of months later, despite or perhaps because of the ratification of the Treaty by the Dáil, Ireland descended into the chaos and violence of civil war. For their part, the Bransons would find themselves unwillingly sucked into the vortex; the repercussions of which they would not feel fully until some ten years later when they and the Crawleys both had boarded the Rome Express at the Gare Maritime in Calais.
Skerries House, County Cork, Irish Free State, July 1924.
Tom spun round to be confronted by a fair haired young man standing squarely before him on the gravel in front of the gaunt, blackened ruins of the great house. For one, single, heart-stopping moment, he thought he was looking at a younger version of himself...
Langthorpe Hall, Yorkshire, England, June 1926.
First Tom and then Matthew had offered to do so. However, in the end, it fell to Farrar to drive the four of them over to Langthorpe Hall to attend the evening's festivities which, on reflection, was probably just as well.
As Matthew had observed, with Tom behind the steering wheel of the new green 6½ litre Bentley, a recently purchased and long overdue replacement for the elderly blue Renault which the former chauffeur had once driven, if Tom then ran true to form and maintained his usual lacklustre turn of speed, like as not they would all arrive at Langthorpe after the house had been shut up and everyone else had gone to bed. Somewhat miffed, Tom had countered by pointing out that given Matthew's love of speed, there was every likelihood of them not arriving at all. Admittedly, with the completion of what was now known simply and fittingly as the Memorial Ward, in honour of the sacrifice of those local men who had died in the Great War, the facilities on offer down at the Cottage Hospital in Downton had been significantly enhanced from what they had been in the past. In private, the family still referred to the hospital extension as "Tom's Room". None the less, said Tom, he did not want to find himself occupying one of the twelve new beds on account of Matthew having driven the Bentley into a ditch.
"Not even with darling Sybil in attendance to mop your fevered brow?" asked Matthew with a chuckle and a wink.
Tom looked horrified.
"Certainly not. You haven't seen the no-nonsense way she treats her patients: I have. If it was a choice between struggling into work with bubonic plague or being treated at home by Sybil, I'd opt for work. Do you know, the last time I was ill enough to stay in bed, she.." Out of the corner of his eye, catching sight of their elegantly dressed wives descending the main staircase of Downton Abbey, Tom deftly changed the subject.
"Jaysus, darlin', you look beautiful," he simpered.
"Do you really like it?" Sybil asked pirouetting on the bottom step of the staircase, revelling in her husband's earnest approval. She was wearing a beaded sapphire blue lace over champagne satin evening gown which served only to accentuate every part of her shapely female form.
Unfortunately, in his haste to compliment Mary, Matthew managed to say the wrong thing.
"Darling, you look utterly divine". So far, so good. Mary positively purred her delight. "Worth every penny". Before his last words were out of his mouth, Matthew realised that he had blundered; saw Mary's eyes narrow. Remembered too late that the cost of her Handley-Seymour gown, a lovely creation in stunning burgundy ribbon embroidered tulle, had been a bitter bone of contention between the both of them.
A warm summer's evening and the full length windows to the ground floor ballroom of Langthorpe Hall, the ancestral home of the Braithwaite family had been thrown wide open to admit the mild night air.
Much as the Crawleys had lived at Downton Abbey for some four centuries, so too the Braithwaites of Langthorpe had been here in the West Riding of Yorkshire since the mid fifteenth century. The present hall, the third on the site, had been built in the eighteenth century, a beautiful, elegant, sash-windowed, Georgian house of mellow red brick with ashlar chimney stacks and quoins, nestling beneath a slate roof and topped with an elegant cupola; possessed of commanding views of the surrounding countryside, with balustraded terraces and manicured lawns sweeping down to the banks of the River Ure. In all an estate of some fifteen thousand acres.
With Robert indisposed and Cora refusing to leave his side, it was here, on a beautiful June evening, some ten miles east of Downton, that Matthew and Mary along with Tom and Sybil found themselves representing the earl and countess of Grantham, attending the ball thrown to celebrate the marriage of the Honourable Algernon Robert - "Algy" - aged twenty five years, the second son of Lord and Lady Braithwaite.
Of the same generation as the three Crawley girls, there the similarity between them and the two Braithwaite boys ended. There had, of course, once been three of them but Captain Charles Braithwaite M.C. - the medal had been awarded posthumously - Algy's elder brother, who had been not only the earl of Grantham's godson but also in Robert's opinion "the best of all of them", had suffered the singular misfortune to encounter, at close quarters, a German whizz bang at Ypres on the Western Front in July 1917.
The result of Charles being quite literally, blown to pieces was that Algy was now heir to the family estate; not that he took any interest in the running of it. Indeed, these days, he came home as little as possible so as to avoid the constant, lengthy and repetitive parental sermons on doing his duty, settling down and taking his responsibilities seriously. In fact, all that mattered to Algy was that the Langthorpe estate continued to provide him with sufficient means to indulge his twin passions: fast motors and fast women and not necessarily in that particular order.
For several years now, flying visits back up to Yorkshire had become the definite order of the day, with Algy choosing to spend most of his time up in London but, even around Ripon, in the remote fastness of the West Riding, rumours of his dissolute conduct, centring on the Kit Kat Club in the West End, were rife. A favourite haunt of the smart set and said to number some thirty or so sons of the nobility among its members, the club played host to an eclectic mix of the rich, the aristocratic, the famous and the bohemian with drink, drug-taking and promiscuity being the norm.
Young Algy's membership of the Kit Kat Club apart, his attitude to life in general and to all its many and varied responsibilities was best summed up in the insouciant reply he had given to an absent-minded, elderly relative who, finding Charles apparently unaccountably missing from a family dinner party in December 1920, had asked Algy in all innocence where his eldest brother was and how he was faring.
"Rather difficult to say, old chap. Haven't seen Charlie in ages, don't you know. Last I heard, he was somewhere in France. In fact, all over the place, or so I've been led to believe".
Apart from the fact that Ypres lay in Belgium and not France, given the fact that after Charles was killed, understandably, given the circumstances, his body was never found, Algy's riposte was admittedly an accurate reflection of how matters then stood. It was also both callous and insensitive; both his parents were standing close by and within open earshot of what their younger son was saying.
Equally, the previous year, in 1925, while at Downton to celebrate Robert's sixtieth birthday, Algy had let his mouth run away with him once again.
At the time, Tom and Sybil had brought the children over from Dublin and were staying at the abbey so as to be with "Grandpapa" on his birthday. Of course, the children were all in bed and asleep when later, downstairs, with the evening's festivities well under way, in front of one and all, rather worse for drink, Algy, who was rumoured to have links to the British Fascist Party, as indeed did many others of his ilk, had berated Tom in the Drawing Room and loudly accused him of being a Communist agitator in the pay of Moscow. When Tom had denied the accusation and stood his ground, Algy, a drinking crony of Larry Grey, had tried another tack and, with Tom swimming in and out of focus before his eyes, with his forefinger, Algy had repeatedly jabbed the Irishman's right shoulder.
"Wait... wait a minute..." Algy slurred. " I know you. You're... you're that grub... grubby little chau... chauffeur chappie, Larry told me all about you. Do be a good sport and fetch the motor, old chap".
There was a moment's pause while Sybil, along with Matthew and Mary, all of whom were standing close by and thus overheard Algy's unpleasant remarks, fearing the worst, now held their collective breaths; waited for Tom to give full rein to the famous Branson temper.
Not that they need have worried. For, just as in the intervening years Robert had come to appreciate and value his Irish son-in-law, so too Tom had come to admire and respect his English, aristocratic father-in-law greatly. He therefore had no intention whatsoever of ruining Robert's birthday celebrations and it was now, instead of making a scene, that the natural dignity which was inherent in Tom prevailed.
Well, almost.
Taking advantage of the fact that a nearby pillar more or less shielded the two of them both from view, none too gently, grabbing hold of Algy by his shoulders, Tom shoved him hard against the wall. Immediately above their heads the large painting in its heavy gilt frame, a picture of one of Robert's forbears depicted on horseback at the battle of Waterloo, wobbled ominously.
"You're feckin' drunk, so I won't even dignify your last remark with a reply," hissed Tom. "What I will say is that you are a guest in the house of my father-in-law, the earl of Grantham. I suggest you remember that and start behaving accordingly. Understood?" Tom added in a menacing undertone.
He now suddenly released his grip on the inebriated Algy who, the instant he was deprived of the Irishman's support, now slithered in a heap to the floor where for a moment or two he simply sat huddled, gawking and blinking up at his assailant. No-one had ever spoken to him like that before, let alone in public. For a minute he said nothing. Then, as Tom stepped back, Algy, albeit with some difficulty, managed to pull himself to his feet where he gave his erstwhile opponent an insolent, leery smile, and laughed a harsh laugh.
"Well, if we can't stop the bloody revolution, let's have some fun instead," he slurred, making to grab another glass of champagne from off the silver salver held by Jimmy. As if from nowhere, a firm hand suddenly closed around his limp wrist.
"Oh, no you don't! I think you've had quite enough already!" This from Matthew who deftly snatched the brimming glass from out of a startled Algy's hand and replaced it carefully back on Jimmy's tray.
"Eh? What?" Algy staggered and almost cannoned into Jimmy; the glasses on the tray rattled noisily.
"I say, steady on!" Algy seemed not to have heard what Matthew had said; tried once again to take a glass from off the tray beside him.
"You heard me. I said no more," repeated Matthew, his voice now rising.
"Have it your own way, old bean!" responded Algy, insolently.
Leaving Tom and Matthew to exchange wry glances, none too steadily, the young man now sauntered slowly off into the crowd, to be swallowed up by the happy, milling throng of guests, come to toast the continued health and well-being of Robert Crawley, fifth earl of Grantham.
Tom shook his head in disbelief at Algy's retreating form.
"Were we ever like that, when we were his age?"
"I'd like to think not," said Matthew ruefully.
"Oh, knowing you two, I expect you had your moments!" laughed Mary.
Algy's younger brother Edward Henry - "Eddie" - was the third of the Braithwaite boys. Slightly more personable than Algy, having failed to complete his degree, Eddie had recently left Oxford, to pursue a career in journalism, although from what Tom had observed of him and his constant chum "Floppy", if Eddie Braithwaite was at all serious about becoming a journalist, which Tom somehow doubted, then he would have to apply himself to the task. With this thought in mind, this evening, on their way over to Langthorpe Hall, seated in the back of the Bentley, Tom observed pithily that it was his considered opinion that if ever there was one single reason for the wholesale elimination of the English aristocracy, then look no further than Algy and Eddie Braithwaite; dim as a Toc H lamp the pair of them.
Sybil smiled at the picture that conjured up; thought too that from what she had learned recently, it was debatable if the next generation of Braithwaites would be any more intelligent than the present. For her part, she was aware that recently Algy's louche life had revolved around a succession of country house parties, at one of which, down in Surrey he had met his fiancée. In fact, given who it was whom Algy had decided to marry it was, thought Sybil, highly unlikely that there would indeed be another generation of Braithwaites. For, Algy's fiancée turned out to be none other than the dim-witted, flat-chested, vacuous Millie Anstruther whose family home in Ireland, Cullen Hall in County Cork had, until it was burned by the IRA, bordered the Skerries estate. Now residing back in England, at her parents' home close to Alcester in Warwickshire, thinking back to what she could remember of her one and only meeting with the dim-witted Millie, Sybil thought that she and Algy Braithwaite were exceptionally well-suited.
A short distance away, outside on the stone-flagged upper terrace of Langthorpe Hall, the evening air heavy with the scent of both lavender and roses, the four of them stood together at the top of the steps which led down to the lower gardens.
"Dance with me, Tom? Please?" Sybil asked plaintively and with a coaxing smile.
"I don't think I …" began Tom. He grimaced and eased a forefinger gently between the stiff collar of his evening shirt and the soft skin of his neck. Of course, knowing how she so loved to dance, he hated to refuse her; especially given the way she was looking tonight.
"Tom, darling, you're an excellent dancer. You know you are," offered Mary now coming to the aid of her youngest sister.
"You're buttering me up!" chuckled Tom.
"Well, be that as it may, you know very well how Sybil loves to dance!" Then, threading her arm purposefully through his and steering Tom slowly across the flags of the terrace towards the house, Mary laughed as likewise arm in arm Matthew and Sybil followed close behind.
Clearly audible, even at this distance from the house, at a terrific tempo, the band was now belting out a spirited medley of tunes, among them"The Black And White Rag" which was followed almost immediately by"Yes Sir, That's My Baby"; the resultant din in all probability being heard by the occupants of the pair of stone lodges some two miles distant which flanked the massive wrought iron gates and which marked the entrance to Langthorpe Hall.
As the four of them stepped over the threshold and into the packed ballroom they were confronted by a scene of absolute mayhem. To Robert and Cora and probably also to Mary and Sybil, the word "ball" no doubt conjured up the image of gentlemen smartly attired in tails and wearing white gloves, with the young ladies present seated quietly by potted palms, discretely half hidden by pillars and pilasters, waiting decorously to be asked if they would care to dance.
However, the scene before them this evening in the ballroom of Langthorpe Hall resembled nothing short of a rugby scrum, or so said Matthew. By his side Tom shook his head in disbelief, looked horrified and gesticulated towards a scene of apparent mayhem, the air hot and sticky, thick with a pungent mixture of cigarette smoke and scent, where a melee of young people, the men in lounge suits and the women with bobbed hair, heavily made up, sporting bright shades of lipstick, wearing disgracefully short skirts which left very little to the imagination, many of them smoking and most clearly the worse for drink, pawed each other and were "dancing" if that was what it could be called to the syncopated rhythms being played with gusto by the musicians of the large jazz band occupying the temporary raised platform which had been erected at one end of the vast room.
"Oh, don't mind them, Tom. They're just some of the bright young things!" laughed Sybil.
"Did you say bright young things?" asked Tom aghast. He had to shout to make himself heard. "If you ask me, they all look rather dim!"He grimaced again. Some of the women present looked to be scarcely more than young girls. In the nursery back at Downton, hopefully fast asleep, Saiorse was now six years old; some of these "women" with their fashionable flat chests, bobbed hair and short skirts looked to be little old than fifteen or sixteen. Ten years hence, Saiorse would be the same age. Already wilful, something which, Tom insisted Saiorse had inherited from her mother - naturally Sybil did not agree - Tom found himself imagining his daughter at sixteen and inwardly he shuddered.
"I need some air!" he croaked.
"Don't be such an old stick-in-the-mud!" giggled Sybil prodding Tom in the back.
Behind him, Mary smiled. Darling Tom had often said she had mellowed and now it seemed that in his old age, he himself was becoming quite conservative.
So, in deference to Tom's sensibilities, instead of joining the throng on the dance floor, the two couples strolled slowly back across the upper terrace. Then, arm in arm, they followed a long flight of stone steps bordered by high box hedges which led them downwards towards the lower terrace and its orangery, a many windowed building built originally to house lime and orange trees but now affording shelter to all manner of delicate and exotic plants, many of them highly scented.
Having reached the lower terrace, entranced by the scene which opened before them, here they all paused on the gravel path close to a balustrade set with several large lead urns and half a dozen accompanying life-size figures attired in rustic costumes and which, Matthew knowledgeably informed them, had been sculpted by le Notre and represented a group of dancing shepherds and shepherdesses. In the soft evening light the view towards the Italian Garden below was stunning; the clouds and sky mirrored perfectly in the still waters of the circular pool surrounding its magnificent fountain while over the brick wall at the far end of the garden could be glimpsed the stone tower of the parish church. Behind them, the walls of the orangery were a riot of colour, awash with floral cascades of climbing roses; their mingling, myriad scents creating a heady blend of intoxicating perfumes.
Glancing briefly at the lead figure closest to him, Tom grunted, shook his head in disbelief and then, clearly embarrassed by something, hastily averted his eyes. Intrigued both Sybil and Mary now moved closer to inspect the statue. Having done so, the two women exchanged amused glances and nodded in mutual understanding.
"Tom? Are you all right, old chap?" asked Matthew solicitously and clapping him heartily on the shoulders.
"Perfectly," responded Tom crisply and rather too promptly without even bothering to look up at his friend. Instead, resting his chin in his hands, the Irishman continued to gaze glumly and steadfastly out over the stone balustrade to somewhere apparently in the far middle distance.
Long ago, on one of the Bransons' visits back to Downton, one evening, after dinner, with Matthew and Tom playing billiards, upstairs in Mary's bedroom when they were therefore alone and in the mood for exchanging confidences, Sybil had confided to Mary that for all his seeming bravado, when it came to matters sexual, while Tom was a wonderful and attentive lover, he was also an intensely private person. Had told Mary of her brother-in-law's shocked, almost Puritanical reaction to the sketches of male nudes by Patrick Hennessey which both he and Sybil had encountered years back in one of the rooms of the National Gallery of Ireland on Merrion Square in Dublin. Had told her sister too of the nude sketch Sybil herself had made of Tom out at the Rainbow Pool on Ciaran's farm.
Sensing the reason for Tom's present bout of acute embarrassment, Sybil now came to stand beside her husband and slipped her arm around his hunched shoulders.
"Darling, it's only art. Remember?"
Clearly he did as, once again, Tom grunted and sadly shook his head.
"Really? Is that what you call it? I mean, honestly, when have an you ever seen a shepherd dancing, let alone one dressed like that?" Without looking up, Tom pointed his forefinger and then waved his left hand in the general direction of the nearest of the lead statues.
This depicted the fine, muscular figure of a bareheaded young man playing a flute and attired in... well in fact attired in very little save for a thin strip of material presumably some kind of wispy scarf, casually flung round his shoulders. This apart, the well-endowed young man was stark naked with nothing whatsoever left to the imagination.
Sybil giggled and Mary stifled a laugh. It was not often that she had seen her cocksure, handsome brother-in-law so clearly discomforted.
"Oh, Tom, darling!" Sybil kissed him lightly on his cheek and chucked him under his chin.
Matthew now moved from where he had been standing beside Tom and considered the statue of the shepherd lad for himself. Clearly amused by his worldly-wise, Irish brother-in-law's obvious discomfiture at the nudity, not something that from their frank exchanges in the Billiards Room at Downton Matthew himself would ever for a moment have imagined would have caused Tom any embarrassment whatsoever, the putative earl of Grantham nodded his head.
"Excellently done; I'd say probably sculpted from life," Matthew said with a laugh and a wink to both Mary and Sybil, unaware that he was echoing the very words his sister-in-law herself had used to her own husband in respect of the sketches in the National Gallery of Ireland.
"And is that supposed to make me feel any better?" asked Tom morosely and straightening up.
"It's not supposed to make you feel anything, old chap. Merely an observation, that's all, although I agree not everyone, you obviously, like this sort of thing," said Matthew flatly.
"It's not that. Not what you think. Not that at all". Tom ghosted a smile.
"Well, what then?" This from Mary.
Tom sighed.
"I know it's foolish of me and you'll all think me feckin' stupid but I just find it utterly ridiculous that the English aristocracy imagine that working on the land, out in all weathers is some kind of pastoral idyll". Tom turned back to Sybil. "Darlin' you've seen the reality of it over there in Ireland! When we went down to Skerries that last time, you saw the farm belonging to the Ryans. And many over here in England, especially on the big estates are not much better; no investment, the tenants living in squalor while the feckin' aristocracy waste their money on this kind of bleedin' nonsense! Let alone what's going on back in there!"
Tom jabbed a finger in the direction of the mansion house, from attic to basement ablaze with lights and from which could be heard the unmistakeable beat of The Charleston.
"Well, darling, as a paid up member of what you term the feckin' aristocracy, Tom, while I do appreciate your Irish candour, there's another side to all of this," said Mary.
"Really?" Tom's eyebrows lifted heavenward in earnest surprise.
"Yes, really. Darling Tom, you can't expect to right all the wrongs in society single-handedly and, while I don't doubt the sincerity of your views, think of what Matthew has done for Downton over the last few years. Why, ever since he sunk his money into the estate he's been hell bent on all manner of improvements, seeing to long overdue repairs, not only to cottages down in the village, but out on the farms too, to the outbuildings, arranging re-roofing and the bringing in of piped water. Honestly, Matthew, the nights I've sat up waiting for you to come up to bed and then been treated to yet another exposition of what still needs doing to secure the future of the estate".
At this Tom and Sybil exchanged amused glances and which, not surprisingly, did not go unnoticed by Mary.
"Do either of you two know the difference between spring and winter wheat? Or which is the more powerful, a Ferguson or a Fordson?"
"They're different types of tractors," explained Matthew breezily.
"Well, neither did I," continued Mary, "but I do now; what with Matthew buying in new livestock and all the latest farm machinery, let alone paying for the construction of that petrol tank over beyond Home Farm. So, Tom, we're not all out to exploit the labouring poor!" She smiled warmly at her brother-in-law. "Matthew knows the estate better than Papa ever did".
Her husband chuckled.
"Possibly".
"No possibly about it, darling. You do! By the way, what's this I hear about the two of you heading off early in the Crossley over to Thirsk tomorrow?" asked Mary innocently.
"Thirsk?" asked Matthew nervously. "Why, whatever gave you that idea?"
The two men looked sheepishly at each other and then down at the ground where something now seemed to have simultaneously gained their undivided attention. Honestly, thought Mary, they looked just like two small boys caught red-handed in the act of scrumping apples. It was all she could do not to laugh.
"You won't find the answer down there. Either of you!" exclaimed Mary doing her very best to try and suppress a grin. Shamefaced, the Matthew and Tom men now looked up, met her gace and chuckled nervously. Mary's expressive dark brown eyes flicked first to Matthew, then to Tom and finally back to her husband.
"Sybil, darlin', you promised!" growled Tom.
"All I said was..."
In fact Sybil was being disingenuous. Last night, she had, in fact, said a very great deal, exchanging confidences with her elder sister and their mother.
It had been after dinner was over and the two boys, as her mother insisted on calling Matthew and Tom, had adjourned to the Billiards Room. With granny now too old and infirm to make the evening journey for dinner from the Dower House and with Robert feeling slightly out of sorts, nothing more than a touch of dyspepsia he had assured them, having made his apologies and retired early to bed, it had been just Cora, Mary and Sybil to whom Carson had served coffee in the Drawing Room.
"... and so how do you... I mean how do you... know, when Tom's being... evasive about something?" asked Mary.
"Well, he talks nineteen to the dozen about anything and everything; although come to think of it that's nothing new! He blushes and won't meet my eyes. And, if he's wearing them, he fiddles constantly with his cuff links!" laughed Sybil. "Why, whatever makes you ask?"
"The nods and looks those two were giving each other over dinner. And yesterday Matthew being just that much too attentive to my needs".
Cora lofted a brow.
"Mary, don't embarrass me, please".
"Don't worry, Mama, I won't. That was what I meant. Despite what he told Edith, both of you know that Matthew doesn't like riding that much? Well, yesterday afternoon, while you were with Tom and Sybil and the children, he rode all the way with me over to Great Linton without a single murmur of complaint!"
Mary paused briefly in the telling of her tale.
"And then, given how sniffy he was a month or so ago, you remember Mama, don't you? About me ordering that evening gown from Madame Handley-Seymour up in town for tomorrow's do over at Langthorpe? Anyway, down in the stable yard, when we returned from our ride, Matthew had the nerve to tell me that if I really wanted that positively divine hat I'd seen in Bonham's over in Ripon, he no longer had any objection to me buying it!"
She paused again.
"You know, the more I come to think of it, ever since you all arrived here at Downton, those two have been as thick as thieves. Mark my words, Sybil, Matthew and Tom are up to something, I'm sure of it".
"Well, if it's any help, Mary, while we were all dressing for dinner Tom casually mentioned something about him and Matthew going over to Thirsk".
"Oh?"
"Something about a lorry. He said Matthew was going to talk to you about it. Then just as suddenly he clammed up and promptly changed the subject. When I asked him again, what he meant, he said it was nothing definite; just an idea Matthew and he had. Something to do with the estate".
"A lorry?" Mary sounded thoroughly mystified.
"That was what he said, although to be perfectly honest, Mary, I really wasn't paying that much attention. But then, after dinner,when I went back upstairs later on, to look in on Danny and Saiorse, I found this on the floor of our bedroom". Sybil handed her sister a neatly folded newspaper cutting.
"I suppose it must have fallen out of the pocket of Tom's trousers when we..." Sybil blushed; she stopped what she was saying and grinned.
"Oh, spare me the details, please!" admonished Mary with a laugh, now unfolding the cutting which she scanned with undisguised interest. Her brow puckered with dawning realisation before handing the newspaper cutting to her mother who studied it with equal interest.
"So, that's what they're up to! And after Matthew had the nerve to lecture me about extravagance! Why, they're absolutely incorrigible!" exclaimed Mary.
"Are you going to ask Matthew about it?" asked Cora now passing the cutting back to Sybil. Mary reflected carefully for a moment before she gave her reply. Then, smiling happily, she shook her head vigorously.
"No!" she said decisively. "I'm not going to say a single word. And don't you say anything either, Mama. And, Sybil, don't you let on to Tom that you know what those two are planning! When the time comes, just follow my lead. Promise?"
Sybil giggled.
"I promise!"
A knowing smile now stole across Mary's flawless, ivory features. "Do you remember that phrase of Papa's? The one coined by Baden-Powell, that he liked to quote to us when we were children; the one which made all three of us laugh?"
Sybil shook her head.
"No, I don't think I do".
"Softly, softly, catchee monkey!" Mary laughed. "Well, trust me, darling, you and I can play the same game those two boys are playing and what's more, do so infinitely better than either of them!"
Cora smiled. She loved her two sons-in-law dearly; but she had to admit that, when it came to it, neither of them, not even darling Tom, were a match for her girls.
"Jaysus! Darlin' I asked you not to say anything, at least until Matthew had a chance to speak to Mary!"
"And in case you've forgotten, you still haven't answered my question. Just why are the two of you going over to Thirsk in the morning?" asked Mary.
"Well, er... there are a couple of old army lorries up for sale at Bull's garage. Aren't there, Tom?" asked Matthew and looking at his best friend and brother-in-law for something bordering on reassurance.
Tom nodded his head in agreement.
"Why, to be sure. Advertised in the local paper". Obviously looking for something, he thrust his hands into the side pockets of his dinner jacket and from one of them pulled out a neatly folded newspaper cutting which he proffered to Mary. "See, here..."
"It's all right, Tom, I don't need to see that, whatever it is".
"It's an advertisement, from the Ripon Gazette but if you're quite sure..."
"Perfectly, thank you".
Tom smiled broadly and now just as hastily stuffed the cutting back in the pocket from whence he had pulled it. Then something seemed to arrest his attention and he began to fiddle absent-mindedly with one of his cuff links. A sure sign, at least to Sybil, that he was nervous about something, which indeed Tom was; despite just having deftly played what he knew Matthew would have called a perfect blinder.
Well-informed though she might be, it was hardly likely, thought Tom, that his elegant, aristocratic sister-in-law would have been that interested in a critical and incisive analysis of the latest doings in the Dáil. The newspaper cutting was in fact one of Tom's own articles recently published in the Irish Independent. Quite what he would have done if Mary had taken him at his word and asked to see it, Tom didn't like to imagine. No doubt he would have managed to think of something. As Sybil had once observed, he was often at his best when he found himself up against things.
But where, Tom wondered, was the cutting taken from the Ripon Gazette. He knew it had been in his trousers when, the previous night, in her impatience to make love, Sybil had pulled them off. Thereafter, what precisely had become of it, was anyone's guess. It was at that moment that a worrying thought struck him. No, surely not...
"So, er.. anyway, I thought, well... if the lorries are in any way sound we might be able to make use of them on the estate and even if not, perhaps we might be able to make one good vehicle out of two," explained Matthew.
"Like I said last night over billiards, a very good idea, old chap for sure!" enthused Tom warmly and clapping his friend happily on the back.
"And, as you know," continued Matthew beaming, looking coolly at Mary, now sounding, he hoped, rather more confident than he had done a few moments ago in the explanation he was giving,"I'm absolutely positively hopeless with motors and with Tom over here at Downton, he knows all about them and so forth".
Exceedingly well pleased with the praise being heaped upon him by his brother-in-law, Sybil saw that Tom was now grinning broadly from ear to ear just like the proverbial Cheshire cat.
"So... well... it seemed... like rather a good idea," Matthew now concluded somewhat lamely.
"Hm!" Mary's aristocratic nose twitched. She still sounded thoroughly unconvinced. "Well that being so, since Sybil and I have some shopping to do... Of course, we were going into Ripon in the morning but Thirsk will do just as well, won't it Sybil?" Then not waiting for her sister to reply she breezed on: "After all, I'm sure neither of you will mind if we both tag along".
"Tag along?" gulped Tom. "You mean..."
Mary smiled sweetly and nodded.
"Yes, Tom. Tag along. Exactly so. An English expression, but since you of all people are so gifted with words, I'm sure you are more than familiar with what it means?"
"Do enlighten me?" chuckled Tom.
"I hardly think that will be necessary," said Mary loftily. "Assuming, of course, that you two have told us the real reason why you intend disappearing off to Thirsk".
"But why on earth would you want to come to Thirsk? I mean, after all, when I took you over to the cinema in Sowerby to see Valentino in The Sheikh you said it was all so thoroughly provincial". Matthew sounded aghast.
"Did I? Well, if I did, I must have been speaking of the clientèle. Not the place. After all, as I've often told you, darling, I say many things, mostly for effect and some of which you should instantly disregard".
Outwardly and it should be said solely for appearance, Mary now let her eyes narrow as if she was slightly displeased. Inwardly, she was rather enjoying all of this and find it increasingly difficult not to let the cat out of the bag before it became absolutely necessary to do so and thus reveal that she and Sybil knew precisely why it was Matthew and Tom were so keen to travel over to Thirsk in the morning.
Catching sight of the look of displeasure etched on his wife's face, realising that he had now completely lost this particular argument, Matthew did a sudden volte face.
"But, if both of you want to come with us, then yes of course, darling. We'd be more than delighted to have you along. Wouldn't we, Tom?"
Tom nodded and smiled warmly first at Sybil who merely shook her head in mock disbelief and then at Mary. There was something disconcertingly enigmatic about the expression she was now wearing. As for Matthew, he hastily nodded his assent too, then shot a beseeching look at his brother-in-law who once again came to his rescue.
"To be sure," said Tom and promptly smiled his familiar lop-sided grin.
"Less of the Irish blarney, if you please, Mr. Branson. So, I gather then, Sybil and I are to assume that your impromptu trip to Thirsk tomorrow morning is solely to do with the prospective purchase of two old army lorries which you consider may prove beneficial to the running of the estate?"
"Indeed. After all, what other reason could there be?" drawled Tom affably, his blue eyes dancing with mirth while Mary paused, seemingly to reflect on what she had just been told.
"Well, I suppose we could go into Ripon instead as we had planned," said Mary with a marked display of feigned reluctance. She turned back to Sybil who was now busying herself straightening Tom's bow tie. "What do you think, darling?"
"There that's better". Sybil placed her hands gently on Tom's broad shoulders, saw him grin smugly back at her, knowing how much she admired their breadth. "Me? I... well... To be honest, Mary... I haven't really given the matter that much thought. But, yes, if that's all right with you".
"Luncheon at the Unicorn Hotel in the Market Place and later you could take afternoon tea at the Guild House tea rooms," enthused Matthew. "And, if you really want to, you could buy that jolly hat, the one you so admired the last time we were there".
"You might like to do the same". Tom smiled at Sybil.
"How kind! Do I really need a new hat?" she offered disinterestedly. In the cool of the evening, seated on the moss-grown stone balustrade of the lower terrace, Sybil smiled broadly at Mary. Her sister had been right. Incorrigible and thick as thieves the pair of them!
"And there's positively no need to hurry back. Nanny Bridges will take good care of the children," chimed Matthew. He and Tom grinned enthusiastically and nodding their heads in unison.
There was a moment of absolute silence.
"Well, that's settled then," said Mary emphatically. "Luncheon at the Unicorn, afternoon tea at the Guild House and being permitted to buy myself a new hat! How utterly delightful. Matthew, darling, you spoil me. Thank you, thank you!"
They had the terrace to themselves and in the privacy that afforded them, in a rare display of public affection, Mary flung her arms around Matthew's neck and kissed him soundly. Then she drew back and suddenly became pensive.
"Of course, I suppose... none of this reckless extravagance in which we are both being so graciously permitted to indulge has anything to do with... what was it again, Sybil?"she asked guilelessly.
"A Brough Superior SS80" explained her sister helpfully at which revelation Matthew and Tom gulped and exchanged horrified glances.
Long ago, Matthew had observed that if Tom and he were "to take on the Crawley girls" then they would have to stick together but tonight, out classed and out gunned, they proved no match whatsoever for the combined forces of both Mary and Sybil.
"Yes that's right," continued Mary airily. "An SS80 and which, so I am reliably informed, is a... motorcycle. A high-powered motorcycle". Absent-mindedly, she brushed from off her dress a dust mote invisible to all except herself, then raised her ever expressive eyebrows.
"Well, er, I think that's for sale too..." stammered Matthew.
"So we thought we might..." began Tom lamely. Catching sight of the look on Mary's face, his voice trailed off into silence.
"... have a look at the motorcycle as well? What a coincidence," observed Mary archly.
"It is, to be sure," said Tom.
"No, it isn't. Not when there's only one garage in Thirsk". Mary reached into her evening bag and pulled out a newspaper cutting. Recognising it immediately for what it was, Tom swallowed hard. Rather like Sybil, Mary on the warpath was a force with which to be reckoned.
"Mea culpa," offered Tom and Matthew abjectly with downcast eyes, meekly awaiting their fate. It was all Sybil and Mary could do not to laugh. They had never seen their two husbands look so contrite.
"We'll talk about all this later. Meanwhile, maybe there is a way you two scamps can start to make amends". Mary smiled. She nodded towards the distant house.
"Listen, they're playing your tune," giggled Sybil.
"And Matthew's!" laughed Mary.
Tom and Matthew each cocked an ear. A moment later and broad grins spread across their handsome features as each in turn instantly recognised the catchy melody now drifting down from the house across the manicured lawns towards where they were all standing on the steps of the orangery: "What A Blue-Eyed Baby You Are".
"Perhaps". Tom laughed.
"Then don't you think..." began Mary.
She got no further as finally admitting defeat Tom now made Sybil a mock half obeisance, offered her his hand and led her through the open doors and into the building behind them. There, without further ado his wife moved forward into his arms and a moment later, midst the Tom had swung Sybil into the quick step in the centre of the orangery.
"And?" Mary raised an expressive eyebrow at her impossibly blond haired husband.
"I thought you'd never ask!" laughed Matthew as, following Tom and Sybil's lead, he now swung Mary onto the improvised dance floor midst an intoxicating, heady scent of honeysuckle, jasmine and citrus blossom.
"And I promise faithfully not to talk about either tractors or wheat!"
Author's note:
For Tom's adoptive family in Clontarf, see "Home Is Where The Heart Is", especially Chapters Five and Fifteen and for young Padraig's interest in dragons, see the end of Chapter Fifty Two.
The terms of the Anglo-Irish Treaty stored up a legacy of lasting bitterness and having been narrowly ratified by the Irish government early in 1922 led inexorably to the Irish Civil War of 1922-23. Considering himself foremost to be a soldier and not a politician, Michael Collins was indeed reluctant to take part in the negotiations with the British government.
Elizabeth Handley-Seymour (c.1873-1948) was a London-based fashion designer and court dressmaker. She is best known for, in 1923, having created the wedding dress worn by Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon the future Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother for her marriage to the Duke of York.
In the 1920s, the Kit Kat Club in the West End of London was as described.
The TOC H Lamp refers to the light kept burning in the chapel of Talbot House at Poperinge in Belgium on the Western Front during the Great War. Here, in 1915, in a large house vacated by a Belgian brewer for the duration of hostilities, a club was opened for British soldiers of all ranks, furnished and equipped by donations from those back home in England, to give them a respite from the horrors of the trenches. The lamp in the chapel upstairs - formerly a loft for drying hops - was considered to be very dim. and in time, the Tommies coined the phrase "dim as the TOC H Lamp" to refer to anyone who was, in their opinion, not that bright! The TOC H Movement still exists, as does the house in Poperinge where there is a museum telling its story.
Andre Le Notre (1613-1700) was a French landscape architect and principal gardener to Louis XIV.
The Ritz Cinema in Thirsk dates back to 1912 and is one of Britain's oldest cinemas. Now operated by a trust and run by volunteers, it is still open for business and shows modern films in a period setting.
One of Ripon's oldest inns, the Unicorn Hotel in the Market Place is likewise still in business.