Chapter Seven

The Letter

Skerries Estate, County Cork, Ireland, January 1921.

In the chaos which ensued in the immediate aftermath of the disastrous IRA raid at the Imperial Hotel on South Mall in Cork, Fergal eventually made it safely back out to the farm and, in the days and weeks which followed, wisely, he lay low; busying himself instead with his usual round of daily chores and stayed close to home - something which, of course, pleased his worried mother no end. With his former comrades in arms in the local IRA now either dead or else fled and with the worsening security situation here down in County Cork, there was little chance of the British soldiers coming after him; so equally also, very little likelihood of him being arrested. Compared to some, in fact, compared to most in the organisation, Fergal himself was small fry.

Hereabouts, the disappearance of the journalist from Dublin, Miss Maeve's cousin, from up at the Big House, the one with the motorbike and who, it transpired somewhat later had been killed during the burning of Cork, at the time had attracted some local attention. However, since the little family then living at Skerries had kept themselves very much to themselves and with no servants to impart gossip from the Big House to those down in the village, his seemingly inexplicable disappearance, for all that the rozzers had come making a nuisance of themselves bothering people with their enquiries, was nothing more than a nine days' wonder; most in the neighbourhood of both Skerries and Kinsale were far too busy getting on with their own lives, trying in this winter of 1921 simply to keep body and soul together.

Then had come the burning of the Big House.

On the night it had occurred, the ensuing conflagration had lit up the blackness of the sky so much so that it might just as well have been midday instead of shortly after nine o'clock on a cold, dark, wet January evening. After Skerries had been fired, once word had spread, of what was happening, despite the incessant rain, along with a group of other locals, Fergal had stood on the wide sweep of overgrown lawn at the front of the house and watched silently and impassively as the mansion swiftly became an inferno of roaring flames.

There had never been the slightest chance of it being saved; the telephone line to Skerries had been cut in advance of the fire being started and even it that had not been so and the alarm had been duly raised, by the time the fire brigade could have reached here from Cork it would have been too late to save the house. Both as landlords and as employers, the Bransons had not been liked and few, if any, save perhaps young Fergal himself and for reasons which, at the time, he did not then fully comprehend, had mourned the destruction of Skerries House.

From his vantage point, standing there on the long neglected lawn in both the pouring rain and in the fiery, flame-shot darkness, Fergal had witnessed also the arrival of the motor as it puttered up the drive and drew to a sudden stop at a decidedly safe and prudent distance from the burning house; saw too the English woman, the dark haired young wife of the missing journalist with her little boy cradled tightly in her arms being led from the old gardener's cottage and being helped into the motor; saw it driving away. Fergal was glad about that; he bore them no ill-will; at least, not then.

The morning after the fire, Fergal had bicycled over to the house to see what, if anything might be salvaged from the still smouldering ruins. In the cold grey light of day, the blackened, gaunt walls presented a sorry sight; the fire had raged with such an intensity that it had gutted the mansion entirely, in the process bringing down the roof. And so, for Fergal, as indeed for several others in the neighbourhood and who had the same thought as himself, of picking over the bleached bones of Skerries House, his journey proved singularly fruitless.

And then, had come the sad news of the unexpected death of Miss Maeve, the report of which in the Cork Constitution had been singularly lacking in detail; referring only to "a tragic accident which occurred at the Imperial Hotel". Not that this gave Fergal any great pause for concern, if indeed any at all; he did not connect her death with the bungled IRA raid at the same place on the same date and in which he himself had been involved - why should he? And, after all, he had not, on hearing his voice, heard her scream his name just before she had run headlong and precipitously out onto the landing of the hotel. Only to be instantly cut down in a murderous hail of bullets fired at close quarters from the staircase by the Black and Tans, one of whom afterwards and in cold blood, had murdered the very man Maeve was engaged to but did not love: Captain Miles Stathum.

Later that same month, her funeral had taken place; on a cold, drear, overcast and windy day, Given who both Miss Maeve and her family had once been hereabouts, it was a paltry, shabby little affair with but a scattering of mourners from Cork, and none of those present being relatives. Although he knew not why, Miss Maeve had always been very good to him and so Fergal felt himself duty bound to attend the sad obsequies; his fair hair neatly combed and wearing the new suit she had bought him last Christmas.

He had stood apart from all those others present, had he but know it much as Tom had done on the day of Lavinia Swire's funeral at Downton. Keeping out of sight, standing beneath the trees on the edge of the little wood that lay to one side of the neglected burial ground beside the forlorn chapel at Skerries, it was from here, holding his cap respectfully in his hands, that young Fergal Ryan watched quietly and in silence as Miss Maeve Branson was finally laid to rest.

And with this sad event, itself presaged by the burning of the Big House, an era here at Skerries could truly be said to have finally ended.

Ryan's Farm, former Skerries Estate, County Cork, Ireland, April 1921.

Letters were but seldom delivered to the farm belonging to the Ryans and if the truth be told, hardly ever. The reason was simple enough. With the exception of several cousins who long since had emigrated to the wide open plains of Nebraska in the United States during the Californian Gold Rush, all the other members of the Ryan family lived close by; the furthest being Uncle Declan, a fisherman, who with his wife and their ever growing number of children, lived over in Clonakilty, down on the coast, more than thirty miles away. So, when, several months later, on a bright April morning, young Harry Kennedy, the local postman, bicycled slowly into the muddy yard of the farm with a letter post marked from Cork and addressed to Mr. Fergal Ryan, the occurrence itself was so singular as to mark the day apart from all the others; a proverbial red letter day indeed.

Moments later, within the kitchen of the farmhouse, watched by his equally bemused father and mother, a decidedly mystified Fergal had at once torn open the letter and hastily scanned its contents. It was, he announced, from a firm of solicitors, on Patrick Street over in Cork, desiring his attendance at their offices where he was assured, that he would:

"... learn something to your advantage".

Fitzmaurice, Fitzmaurice and Simmonds, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths, Patrick Street, Cork, Ireland, April 1921.

The battered black strong box, bearing on its lid in painted white letters the faded legend "Skerries Estate", sat on the floor beside him; the contents of which, neatly ordered, now lay atop Mr Fitzmaurice's desk. The old solicitor glanced at the grandfather clock which stood in the corner of the room and then took out his gold pocket watch from his waistcoat. There were many things in this life of which he did not approve and of these unpunctuality was one. The clock had now struck two. Mr. Fitzmaurice snapped shut his watch, thrust it firmly back into the pocket of his waistcoat and scowled. A moment later and there came a timid knock at the door.

"Yes," he barked imperiously.

The door opened cautiously and Fitzmaurice's weasel-faced clerk, Scrips, put his head nervously around the corner.

"Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Fitzmaurice, sir. But there's a young gent asking to see you. By the name of Ryan. Been loitering outside in the street for nearly half an hour, he has. Says he has an appointment to see you?"
"And so... ahem... he does. Well? Don't...ahem... just stand there boy! Show him in!" exclaimed the old solicitor irritably. Another of Mr. Fitzmaurice's many and varied dislikes was incompetence and here, young Scrips quite took the biscuit. Why he kept him on, was a mystery, even to Mr. Fitzmaurice. Perhaps it was out of some misguided sense of brotherly duty to his dear departed sister, Alice; Archie Scrips was Mr. Fitzmaurice's nephew, his one and only, something for which the elderly, irascible solicitor was both truly and eternally ever grateful.

"Ahem!" Mr. Fitzmaurice sat back in his capacious, comfortable chair, pursed his lips and both figuratively and literally looked intently down his nose at Fergal, observing him closely through his gold rimmed pince-nez. Yes, the resemblance to Miss Maeve was quite striking and there for anyone who cared to see; startling really and he was rather surprised that it had not been noticed long ere since; not by him of course. After all, seated before him now was the kind of person who normally Mr. Fitzmaurice would not deign to even acknowledge ever existed. And, the more he looked, the more, thought Mr. Fitzmaurice, did the young man opposite, remind him of someone else whom he had once encountered in his professional capacity but, try as he might, for the life of him he could not think who it might have been.

"So, ahem, the town house situate on North Mall, here in Cork, the property, ahem, of the late Miss Maeve Branson, ahem, with all its contents, its outbuildings and its appurtenances, ahem, willed to her by her late father, ahem, is, ahem, in accordance with the terms of her last will, ahem, bequeathed to, ahem, you, young man".

Fergal said nothing; Mr. Fitzmaurice thought him to be exceedingly ungrateful.

Instead, Fergal sat nervously twisting the brim of his cap, gazing around the dark panelled room, at the furnishings, at the regimented leather bound volumes lining the numerous shelves. None of this made any sense; none whatsoever and so now, he said so.

"But why me? I don't understand".

Mr. Fitzmaurice spread his hands.

"Life, young man, ahem, is full of, ahem, mysteries and surprises," he offered wearily.

This was all so decidedly tiresome. How was it, Mr. Fitzmaurice wondered speculatively, had things come down to this? Skerries House burned to the ground and its once extensive estate, reduced to a handful of acres; even less since the farms had been sold in accordance with the wishes of that blasted journalist who, some months earlier, had been killed here in this very city in the burning of Cork. An estate which had belonged to the Bransons for centuries, its affairs, at least from a legal standpoint having been Mr. Fitzmaurice's own private concern for upwards of more than forty years; now willed away to someone he considered to be an illiterate, witless farm boy. Mr. Fitzmaurice shook his head in disbelief. A world turned upside down. "Perhaps this, ahem... will, ahem..."

The elderly solicitor now picked up a long white envelope from off his desk and held it out to Fergal. Mr Fitzmaurice had no intention of moving from his comfortable chair, certainly not for this cheeky young whipper snapper. So, with the solicitor's arms, like the rest of him, being both podgy and short, Fergal was obliged to stand up to take from Mr. Fitzmaurice the letter which he now proffered. That done, he sat down heavily once again in his chair.

"It is from Miss Maeve...ahem, and as you see, ahem, addressed... ahem... to you".

Fergal studied the envelope intently. It was clearly addressed to him, care of this firm of solicitors here on Patrick Street.

"You've read it?" he asked at length.
"No, certainly not!" snapped Mr. Fitzmaurice. He sounded appalled and his annoyance was such that temporarily it overcame his stammer. "If you look, young man, you will see that the seal is intact. It has not been opened". That this impertinent, insolent youngster should think that he would read the private correspondence of a late client was not to be suffered.
"Then how do you..."
"I... ahem... recognise... ahem... her script".

"Her script?" The young man sounded puzzled.

Mr. Fitzmaurice sighed; said, he thought, with great forbearance:
"Her hand... ahem... her writing".

Fergal tore open the envelope and began slowly to read the letter contained within. At the very first words, his brow puckered in disbelief.

"My dearest, darling boy...

The silence in the room lengthened as, watched by Mr. Fitzmaurice, mystified, Fergal read on.

The Four Courts, Inns Quay, Dublin, Irish Free State, midday, Friday 30th June 1922.

Within what, until the siege, had hitherto been the magnificent Four Courts, everything was a now a mass of roaring, searing flames. Thick black smoke was billowing through the buildings, making it difficult to breathe, let alone see what was happening, albeit the defenders had either surrendered or else long since made good their escape. All that was save one...

The Four Courts, Inns Quay, Dublin, Irish Free State, 6am Saturday 1st July 1922.

Here, on the north bank of the Liffey, having parked the motor out of sight just off Chancery Street, putting to good use the knowledge he had gained from the time he had spent as a boy living rough on the streets of Dublin, Tom now began weaving his way through the rabbit warren of decaying tenements.

Despite the fact that there had been a great deal of damage done to the streets surrounding the Four Courts, it seemed that some local residents hereabouts would not allow anything, not even the constant artillery barrages, the explosions and the rifle fire of the last three days to come between them and a pair of clean sheets. Shaking his head in disbelief at the incongruous sight that had greeted him, the grimy, flat fronts of many of the squalid houses festooned with fresh washing, hanging from windows and draped from poles, drying in the bright sunshine, Tom now hurried on.

Dodging hither and thither, this way and that, his route took him through a labyrinth of dark alleyways, along a succession of foetid, narrow passages and, in the process, eventually achieving what he had intended all along; managing to stay out of sight and thus avoid being stopped at the several check points and barricades established and manned by the ever vigilant soldiers of the new National Army.

Well pleased with himself and with his intended goal at last in view, having deftly also avoided the watchful eyes of those members of the Dublin Fire Brigade who were still in evidence and in the process of damping down the fire-ravaged buildings, hauling himself up and clambering through what had once been a window, knowing he was taking something of a risk, Tom dropped cautiously down inside.

He paused and looked on in utter disbelief at the scene which now greeted him; one of total devastation. It was, he reflected grudgingly, little short of a miracle that those defending the Four Courts, many of them who had been little more than young lads, had managed to hold out here for as long as they had.

For, despite having been in occupation of the buildings for some three months, from having yesterday questioned several of the survivors who had managed to escape being apprehended by soldiers of the National Army, Tom had learned that despite what he had observed from the other side of the Liffey, many of the windows of the Four Courts had been left unprotected. Thereafter, with few communications trenches having been dug, once the National Army had begun its assault in earnest, it had proved well nigh impossible for the defenders to move about in safety. And, when, on the orders of the National Army, the Post Office authorities had cut the external telephone wires, communication between the different parts of the court buildings had been achievable only by the defenders risking their lives and braving a hail of bullets and high explosive shells to deliver messages on foot.

The weakest point in the defences, Tom learned, had been on the north west side which had come under sustained fire from the Four Courts Hotel and from National Army positions on Church Street and the Bridewell, as well as coming under sustained artillery fire from Haymarket. Even so, with the Free Staters, the soldiers of the new National Army, unwilling to launch an all-out assault without continuing artillery support and with munitions running short, this had given the defenders a short breathing space.

However, with more shells eventually being made available, there was no doubt of the final outcome. With soldiers from the National Army at last penetrating the makeshift defences, having already announced that they would surrender, within the broken buildings of the Four Courts, even with the Free Staters swarming in through the shattered walls, at midday yesterday, on Friday 30th June, the Republican defenders had taken the decision to explode the massive mine which they had laid. The resultant explosion had been truly deafening, shaking buildings nearby to their very foundations and producing an enormous cloud of smoke which billowed forth across the city, bringing to an explosive end the three day siege of the Four Courts here in Dublin beside the grey waters of the River Liffey. And for the crowds gathered on the O'Connell Bridge and watching from a safe distance, through the ensuing murk, moments later, the sharper eyed among them now glimpsed, albeit faintly, a tattered white flag had been raised over the burning buildings.

Of course, if Sybil ever found out what he had done, he knew he would never hear the last of it. Maybe it was the washing he had seen earlier, drying in the early morning sunshine on Chancery Street which now put him in mind of the heartfelt words she had uttered to him earlier in the year when, one evening, early in February of this same year, they had a blistering row and which had arisen out of Tom's intention to head north, up to the new border with Northern Ireland. Once there he was to cover what had happened at Clones in County Monaghan, where had occurred an incident so serious that it had threatened to wreck the Anglo-Irish Treaty and which had prompted the British government to suspend withdrawing any more troops from the Free State.

Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Ireland, February 1922.

On this cold February evening, Tom had arrived home somewhat later than usual and it was that which had probably been the start of it; added to which Saiorse was teething and having a terrible time, unlike Danny, who when they had come through, had happily suffered very little trouble with the cutting of his baby teeth.

"Tom, darling where on earth have you been?"

Tonight, their kiss was perfunctory; little more.

"Something, er, came up". Although perhaps it would have been better for him if he had, Tom forbore to mention the explosion which had occurred by the side of the railway line just south of Sandymount and which had delayed his train; it would only cause Sybil to worry about him even more than she did.

With Saiorse in her arms, Sybil stood in silence in the narrow hallway and watched impassively as Tom took off his cap and gloves and then hung up his overcoat.

"It always does" came her matter-of-fact reply.

"Sorry!"

"Da!"

On hearing both the front door and his father's voice, little Danny had run pell-mell out from the kitchen straight into the tiled hallway. Sweeping the little boy up into his arms, Tom smothered him with kisses.

"Couldn't you have telephoned?" Their eyes met as he kissed the top of Saiorse's head.
"Darlin', I did. No reply".

"Hm!" Sybil sounded thoroughly unconvinced.

"There, there, darling. Hush, now". She walked ahead of Tom down the hallway, into the warmth of the kitchen where, resting Saiorse against her shoulder, having stirred the stew bubbling in the pan, Sybil sat down heavily on the Windsor chair beside the range. With Danny on his lap, Tom sat opposite her.

"Did you do this?" He smiled happily down at his young son who had thrust a crumpled drawing into his hands. Danny grinned.

"It's a train, Da!"
"So I can see. Very good!"

Tom looked up from studying Danny's drawing; wondered idly if in later years it would transpire that the little boy had inherited his mother's talent for sketching.

"Bad day, love?"
"What do you think?" Sybil sighed heavily. "Honestly, Tom, what with Saiorse teething and with that Eileen, why it's like having three children in the house, not two! I'd be far better off managing on my own!"

Aged sixteen, cheerful and willing but, it must be admitted, none too bright, Eileen was a young girl who, seeking work, had moved from Tralee to Dublin to live with her married cousin and whom, despite Sybil's initial opposition to the very idea, insisting that she could perfectly manage on her own thank you very much, something which Tom would no longer countenance, the Bransons had engaged to help with a variety of domestic tasks about the house.

After the children had been put to bed, with Tom reading The Tale of Tom Kitten by Beatrix Potter to little Danny while Sybil attempted - eventually successfully - to try and settle darling Saiorse, they had gone downstairs to the kitchen to eat their supper during which, Tom had broached the subject of his forthcoming trip north. This had immediately received a frosty reception from Sybil, with the temperature in the hitherto warm and homely kitchen plummeting like the proverbial stone; so much so that in but a matter of minutes it not only matched that outside but was in fact, probably colder by several degrees and with the result, that the latter part of their meal had been eaten in almost complete silence.

With supper over, while Tom washed up, Sybil busied herself taking pillowcases from out of the steaming copper with a pair of wooden tongs and putting them twice through the mangle. Standing at the Belfast, having finished washing the dishes, unwisely, Tom now ventured to raise again the matter of his journey north.

"Darlin', we've been through all of this before. It's my job! I'm a journalist, remember? It's what I do". Tom ran his damp fingers through his hair; a sure sign that he was upset. He so hated to see Sybil upset too; especially when he knew he himself to be the cause of her distress.

"Do you think I don't know that! Tom, there are men younger than you working at the Independent. You've said so yourself. There's... Connor and there's... Whelan for a start. Both of them unmarried and without the responsibilities of a family. Let one of them go".

"Sybil, darlin', Harrington asked specially that I cover this story. He trusts me. Nothing will happen to me. I promise". Tom smiled his familiar lop-sided grin but for once it seemed not to have the desired effect.

Having hung the pillowcases over the wooden airer, Sybil pulled it smartly up into position, tying the cord off over the cleat.

"Don't make me promises you know you can't keep. Tom".

"I'm not!"
"Yes you are!"

"Sybil, I have to do my job".

"Even at the risk of putting yourself in danger all over again?"

With hot tears coursing down her cheeks, wiping her hands on her apron, angrily pushing him away, Sybil moved swiftly out of reach, round to the other side of the kitchen table.

Taking the sad iron from off the range she now began ironing a pile of laundry, taking out her heartfelt fears and frustrations on a succession of Tom's shirts; thump, noting here a missing button, thump, a frayed hem, thump. Honestly, while Tom always looked very presentable, she made sure of that, some of his shirts, thump, this one in particular, thump, were almost threadbare. It was his birthday soon, thump; a visit to Kennedy and McSharry's on Westmoreland Street, thump, was clearly in order.

Arms folded, leaning against the kitchen door, silently Tom stood watching his wife. The rhythmic sound of the iron hitting the table had an almost hypnotic quality about it.

Thump.

"Darlin',"

Thump.

"I have responsibilities..." he began again; realised with his words he had blundered. What was worse, was the fact that ironing was something Sybil detested and was guaranteed to put her in a bad mood and she was in one now.

Thump.

"Responsibilities?" Sybil almost spat the word. "Really? And just what about your responsibilities to us, to the children, to me? I won't have it, Tom! I tell you! I won't!"

Thump.

With the heat from the range and the steam rising from the copper, her face flushed, Sybil slammed down the iron; stood tightly gripping the edge of the kitchen table, staring out of the window at the bare, black branches of the storm tossed trees in the garden at the rear of their house on Idrone Terrace. Somehow, a tendril of her dark hair had escaped from the tight confines of the headscarf she was wearing. Angrily she brushed it back with her fingers.

"Sybil..." With tears now welling in his eyes, Tom moved towards her. "Love, I don't want to argue. I didn't mean that I ..."

"Don't! Will you for once just listen! When you vanished, you have no idea what I went through... those weeks, months, without you. I can't Tom... I won't go through all of that again! Not now. Not ever!"

Mingling with the smell of soap suds, the unmistakable reek of burning filled the air. Sybil sniffed several times, looked about her before glancing down at the table, where she finally located its source. There was a large scorch mark on the back of Tom's freshly laundered shirt.

"Jaysus, will you look at what I've gone and done! Feckin hell!"

At his wife's untroubled use of Irish invective, Tom's eyebrows shot up. He would not take all of the blame – or should that be credit - as most of the choicest words, Sybil herself had learned whilst on duty at the Coombe. He wondered if, by some stroke of magic, his parents-in-law could be transported here from Downton to witness their youngest daughter - the former Lady Sybil Crawley – not only ironing but also swearing like a Dublin fishwife. The image that conjured up was so indescribably funny that it made Tom chuckle and helped defuse the mounting tension.

"Sybil, darlin', that was my favourite shirt!"

"What, this? Oh, Tom, really! It's only fit for washing the floor".

She held up the scorched, decidedly threadbare garment for their mutual inspection.

"Well, it is... now!" he grumbled good-naturedly. Sybil saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

Her own followed suit.

A moment later, laughter overcame them both and they were in each other's arms, the one apologising to the other.
"And, if you... think... you... can... do... any... better, do... your... own... bloody... ironing..., Mr. Branson!" Sybil managed to stammer between their deepening, ever lengthening kisses.

Nonetheless, Sybil had meant every word of what she had said and, lying awake in their bed later that night, Tom knew that to be the case. Both she and the children were his world and he would never do anything to threaten that.

Even so, lying here in the darkness, his arms around Sybil and with their two children sleeping soundly, Saiorse in her cot at the foot of their bed and Danny in his own room just along the passage, Tom knew equally well that he loved his job too; decided there must be some way of reconciling the very different and conflicting sides of his life. However, he was no nearer to reaching a decision as to how that might best be achieved when at length he drifted off to sleep and the next thing he knew it was dawn and the pale sunlight of a winter's morn was spilling in through the curtained window of their bedroom.

The Four Courts, Inns Quay, Dublin, Irish Free State, 6.15am, Saturday 1st July 1922.

Yesterday's massive explosion had played its part in much of the destruction which Tom now encountered; helping to bring down the enormous central copper dome and which had been such an impressive feature of the courts. As a result, the buildings were now roofless, gutted to the bare walls. Here within the still smoking ruins, there lay an enormous mass of debris; twisted iron work, fallen masonry, smashed columns, smoke-blackened timbers and broken glass, along with charred fragments of paper and vellum, these last being all that remained of a thousand years of public records and which had been stored here at the Public Record Office in the west wing of the building.

Mixed with the unmistakable smell of cordite, the stench of burning hung heavy in the bright morning air as, carefully,Tom cautiously picked his way slowly through the wreckage of the burnt out buildings, noting down as he went what he saw. About him, spent casings of bullets, spilled sandbags, entanglements of barbed wire, discarded ammunition belts, the bent barrels and smashed stocks of rifles - destroyed by the erstwhile defenders before the attackers broke through so as to ensure they did not fall into the hands of the Free Staters - blood-stained bandages and scraps of clothing, littered the ground, along with fragments of the ornate interior: smashed and broken statues of past members of the Irish legal establishment, fragments of decorative plasterwork and shattered pillars.

And yet, for all the terrible destruction which had been wrought during the bombardment and the siege, despite the intensity of the fire, despite the massive explosion, here and there, surprisingly, fragments of the magnificent buildings yet remained intact; completely undamaged. An elegant sash window, its glazing smoke blackened but for all that entire, a beautiful panelled door now leading nowhere but likewise undamaged and here, before him, hanging on the wall, at the end of the vaulted passage in which Tom found himself, a large mirror set within an ornately carved, gilded frame.

What arrested his attention about it first of all, other than the very fact of its miraculous survival, was that the mirror resembled very much the one which once had hung in the hall of Skerries House and which Tom assumed must have perished in the fire which had destroyed the house. Here, however, the heat of the conflagration had done nothing other than slightly craze the surface of the glass so that, as Tom stood and gazed at the mirror it was, as he would have expected, his own image that he now saw staring back at him; or, so he thought.

But then, from somewhere behind him in the darkness and the smoke filled shadows there came the sound of sudden movement and it was with a mounting sense of both disbelief and shock that he realised the face he saw looking back at him from out of the mirror was not his own.

Understandably unnerved,Tom whirled about.

At the same time, close by, a pile of smouldering debris flared into sudden flame, sending shadows coursing up the shattered walls while high above a pile of loose masonry now tottered and then fell with a resounding roar sending down in its wake a choking cascade of dust, smashed stone and broken plaster, sweeping the mirror from off the wall and smashing it to pieces.

The debris shifted for a while, then finally settled; in the eerie silence that now followed, there came the sound of a shot and, at the same time, at home asleep in bed in Blackrock, after a night of troubled dreams, Sybil awoke with a terrified start and screamed.

Author's Note:

Now almost forgotten, the bloody incident which occurred at the railway station at Clones, County Monaghan on 11th February 1922, involved a violent confrontation between members of the Ulster Special Constabulary and the Irish Republican Army in which one IRA officer and four Special Constables were killed. Many others, including civilians were injured. Viewpoints vary as to exactly what happened and who was really responsible for what ensued.

Established in 1890, Kennedy and McSharry, whose shop was then located on Westmoreland Street, are Dublin's oldest and finest gentleman's outfitters.

My description of what happened at the Four Courts is based on several sources. The loss of many of Ireland's public records was a totally unnecessary and wanton act of vandalism. There seems little doubt that those responsible were indeed the defenders of the Four Courts who it should be said probably had no idea what it was they were destroying. Fortunately, over the ensuing ninety years many of the losses have been made good as a result of copies and transcripts of the lost documents, made before the fire, having been sourced and gathered together.