Chapter Ten
A Deadly Summer Part I
Cottage Hospital, Downton, West Riding, Yorkshire, England, July 1929.
They were operating now.
Outside, here, in the narrow, dimly-lit, whitewashed corridor, with his hands clasped tightly together behind his back, he was pacing the floor as far as the firmly closed door where, each time he reached it, he turned and then retraced his steps; to and fro, to and fro. At length, he came to a stand, directly in front of where she was seated, on the hard, unforgiving, wooden bench; stood looking down at her, silently willing her to raise her head and meet his gaze although she did not deign to do so.
The silence between them lengthened.
"If the bleeding doesn't stop..." he began; his voice quavering with a mixture of both fear and emotion. Of the two of them he was, at least in the present circumstances, by far the more demonstrative of his innermost feelings; wore his heart on his sleeve and didn't care if anyone saw that he did.
"It will. It must," she said; nonetheless still not daring to meet the incisiveness of his penetrating gaze. Whatever her own feelings, her own misgivings, well aware of what could happen, what might happen, what in all probability would happen, she knew that one of them had to stay calm. So now, with her head bowed, her hands clasped in her lap, instead, she stared intently down at the brown linoleum covering the floor of the passage.
"The doctor mentioned the sub... something or other" He continued to look questioningly down at her, earnestly seeking confirmation of what he had been told.
"The sub-clavian artery," she said wearily, still without raising her head. Then continued in the same monotone almost as if she was quoting from a medical text book: "It feeds the brachial artery, the main artery of the arm, as well as the brachial plexus, the large bundle of nerves that control the movement of the arm." she said dispassionately.
"I see... Have you seen this kind of... What I mean is..."
"Have... have I seen injuries like this before? Then, yes, many times... during the war".
"And..."
"And?" It was now that slowly she raised her head; looked questioningly up at him.
"I..."
She saw him clasp his hands tightly together, as if in silent prayer.
"What you're asking me for ... is a prognosis... on the chances of his survival, on the likelihood of his recovery".
"I suppose so..."
"You suppose so?"
"I... " He hesitated, half fearful as to just what her response might be. She saw him swallow hard before nodding his head.
"Yes".
"It all rather depends..."
"Depends on what?"
"If there is any other damage..."
"Other damage?"
"To the nerves, to the bone..."
She saw him blanch; bite his lower lip so hard that he drew blood.
"But who ever would have done such a thing?"
"And to..."
"It makes no sense..."
The door to the operating theatre opened and the surgeon came out.
"I'm so very sorry..."
Downton Abbey, West Riding, Yorkshire, England, July 1929.
After a night of disturbing dreams, Sybil had awoken both with a start and to bright sunlight. As her eyes became accustomed to the harsh glare of the morning daylight, glancing across at the ornate ormolu clock standing on the mantelpiece and ticking quietly, she saw, and with initial incredulity, that the time showing on its face was half past seven; although there was no doubting that this was indeed correct.
Scattered though out the main rooms and family bedrooms, here at Downton the clocks came in all different shapes and sizes and in total numbered some fifty. Sybil knew this to be so as, years ago, she had once asked Carson precisely just how many of them there were and which having been informed of the number, found out were then the old butler's responsibility both to wind and keep maintained in working order and were, he had informed her, always wound once a week and on the same day. Since Carson's retirement this duty had fallen on his successor Barrow and Sybil had no reason to suppose that he was any less than punctilious in the performance of this aspect of his many and varied duties than had been his august predecessor.
Back across the Irish Sea, in Dublin, in their home on Idrone Terrace, there were but three clocks; one on the wall in the kitchen, and one each on the mantelpieces in the sitting room and Tom and Sybil's bedroom, this particular clock having been one of the few items Sybil had insisted be saved from the flames on that now long gone night some eight years ago when Skerries House had been set ablaze by the IRA. The duty of keeping the three clocks in the Branson household running had fallen initially to Tom and now, with his love of all things mechanical, albeit yet supervised by his Da, to young Danny; a duty which even at the tender age of ten years old he took very seriously indeed.
And, also in Dublin, except on Sundays and then rarely, neither Sybil nor Tom ever slept in; not simply because of the intense physical need they still had for each other, often even in the morning, but with the demands made upon them by their three children and their respective jobs, the more so since this year since Tom had been appointed Deputy Editor at the Independent and she had become a matron at the Coombe.
It was now, rolling over, with that same physical need uppermost in her mind that, to her surprise, Sybil found Tom's side of the bed to be empty. For a moment she felt both cheated and lonely and then remembered that last night he had told her that both he and Matthew were taking the early morning train into York; would not be back until later that afternoon.
Reassured, Sybil now sat up, plumped the pillows behind her, stretched contentedly and yawned. Glancing around at what had been her bedroom long before she and Tom ever met, let alone fell in love and married, it dawned on Sybil that even now, in 1929, despite what was happening out there in the wider world beyond the park gates of the Downton Abbey estate, the St. Valentine's Day Massacre in the United States, the opening of the newly restored General Post Office in Dublin by the President of the Executive Council of the Free State, the Graf Zeppelin flying from Friedrichshafen to the eastern Mediterranean and which had been photographed by Edith as it had flown high over Palestine, let alone the General Election held in the United Kingdom and resulting in the formation of a Labour government, here in the great house, nothing ever changed. Why, in this very room, the wallpaper, the furnishings and even the heavy curtains were exactly the same as they had been back in 1914.
Looking towards the open window Sybil saw that it promised to be another beautiful day. In the ensuing silence she heard hushed voices outside in the corridor and recognising them immediately, she smiled broadly. A moment later and there came a light knock at the door.
"Come in, my darlings".
Outside in the passage, on hearing the sweet sound of their beloved mother's voice, the three young children needed no further prompting. The door swung wide and both Danny and Saiorse, with little Bobby between them, bounded into the bedroom. Having helped their younger brother up onto the bed, the two older children joined him, snuggling down close alongside their mother.
A welter of both cuddles and soft kisses followed, just as they did each and every morning when they were all at home in Blackrock in Dublin. Showing physical affection was something that came naturally to everyone in the Branson household, not only both to Tom and Sybil but also to their children, nurtured as they had been in a heady atmosphere of deep and abiding love. This morning, however, one of the family's members was conspicuous by his absence and it was this fact that Saiorse now addressed.
"Ma, where's Da?"
"He left early this morning, darling. Along with Uncle Matthew. To go into York".
"What for, Ma?" asked Danny.
"I don't know, darling," said Sybil, stroking his hair while hugging little Bobby to her. Of her and Tom's three children, their youngest was the one who in looks most closely resembled his father. "At least, not exactly. From what I recall, your uncle said something last night about going to the bank. So I suppose it must be to do with the estate".
"The bank? Is that like the one on St. Stephen's Green?" asked Saiorse brightly.
"Nowhere near as grand as that, darling, but something similar, yes".
"When will they be back?" asked Danny.
"Some time later this afternoon".
"Great! Da promised that Grandps, Uncle Matthew and he would then play cricket with both Rob and me!" Danny grinned excitedly.
Downton Abbey, West Riding, Yorkshire, England, August 1928.
Danny's interest in cricket harked back to the previous year, 1928, when and for the first time ever, the summer visit of the Bransons to Downton Abbey coincided with the annual House v. Village Cricket Match. For all Matthew and Tom's heartfelt protestations of innocence, both of them insisting that it was purely a fortuitous occurrence, privately Mary and Sybil were firmly of the opinion that between them, "the boys" had engineered the whole thing.
Be that as it may, not only having played cricket for his public school but also having captained its First XI and with his father-in-law Robert beginning increasingly to feel his age, it was something of a foregone conclusion that Matthew would assume the captaincy of the house team. Nonetheless, the earl of Grantham still insisted in continuing to play his part in the proceedings, by proposing that this year he assume the duties as scorer previously ably performed for the last fifty years by old George Mainwaring but who, at eighty seven, was now getting on and whose eyesight, understandably, was not what it had once been.
Nonetheless, down in the village, Robert's proposed, seemingly innocuous assumption of the role of scorer for the match was met with deep suspicion, the reason for which was not hard to fathom. In this regard, it should be borne in mind that the 1927 cricket match had turned out to be a very close run thing indeed, with the village fielding a very strong side and the house team only winning by the slenderest of margins.
And when, that autumn, down at the Grantham Arms, during the defeated village team's lengthy post-match analysis of what had gone wrong that summer, all became aware of the fact that in his old age dear old George had become exceedingly partial to a mug or two of cider, "to lubricate the throat", citing the fact that out there on the cricket field it was "very hot and stuffy" in the scorer's hut, questions had inevitably arisen as to the accuracy of the scoring and therefore the final result of the match. And now this year, here was the earl of Grantham blithely offering to assume the role of scorer!
Nine years after the end of the Great War, deference to the established social order was no longer what it had once been and, admittedly fortified by their consumption of ale, more than one of the losing side now did what they would once never have done and loudly raised the thorny question of Robert's impartiality. All this duly reached the ears of Thomas Barrow. Never one to miss the opportunity of being the bearer of bad tidings, he had informed the earl of Grantham as to what had occurred, if for no other reason than to see the effect it produced upon his employer.
As might have been expected, Robert, understandably, had been exceedingly hurt; that his impartiality should ever be brought into question was not to be borne and not being in the best of health himself and to Cora's deep consternation thereafter he became exceedingly peevish and morose. And now, some months later, with this year's match almost upon them, the finding of someone to act as scorer who was deemed acceptable both to the village and to the great house as yet remained unresolved.
When, in August 1928, the Bransons had arrived at Downton Abbey for the start of their summer holiday here in Yorkshire, Robert was still smarting from what he saw as the wholly unjustified slur on his good name. Both Tom and Sybil had noticed immediately that Robert seemed somewhat out of sorts and that for once he was not even cheered by the arrival of his grandchildren from Dublin who, following the arrival the previous year of young Bobby aged all of but a year, named for his English grandfather and whom the earl of Grantham had not yet met, now numbered three. However, it was not until shortly before dinner on that very first evening that, having taken him aside for a quiet word, having duly sworn him to secrecy, that Tom had learned from his mother-in-law what it was that had happened to put Robert so out of sorts.
Dinner that evening was somewhat of a sombre affair, with Robert exceedingly morose, the atmosphere around the dining table made even more dismal by the fact that when Matthew had asked Tom if he would play for the house team, rather surprisingly, his brother-in-law had equivocated. Citing the fact that although he had played cricket at his school in Dublin, Tom said it was all a very long time ago and besides which, as the Bransons were not resident at Downton, in all honesty, it would, he said, be singularly inappropriate for him to play for the house team.
Thereafter, once dinner was over, saying he felt very tired, Robert had made his excuses and taken himself off to bed. Then, curious to relate, while Cora, Mary and Sybil were gathering in the Drawing Room for coffee, Tom had declined to play Matthew at billiards; had, instead, mysteriously taken himself off on his own, prompting Mary, when they all learned from Matthew of what had happened, to ask Sybil if everything was all right between the two of them.
"Yes, why on earth shouldn't it be?" replied Sybil defensively and Mary felt it wiser not to press any further in this regard.
"I haven't upset him, have I?" asked Matthew who, unexpectedly left to his own devices, had joined the ladies in the Drawing Room.
"You? Upset Tom? No, of course not! Why, whatever gave you that idea? When we're at home he often takes himself off on his own for a stroll along the sea wall just to think," laughed Sybil.
"Well, be that as it may, he's certainly got some Irish bee in his bonnet! In all the years we've known each other, he's never once turned down the chance of a game of billiards! No doubt he'll enlighten us on his return," chuckled Matthew.
But in that they were all destined to be sorely disappointed.
As it was, Tom did not return to the house until long after everyone else had gone to bed and even then, despite Sybil doing her amorous best to coax it out of him, while responding with obvious ardour to her physical need of him,Tom steadfastly had refused to say where it was he had been.
Oddly enough, that evening, the only one of the family who had seemed singularly unconcerned by Tom's seemingly inexplicable disappearance was Cora and for the very good reason that from the conversation she had with him just before dinner, she alone knew just where it was that her handsome Irish son-in-law had gone and why. Not that she chose to vouchsafe this information to the rest of them.
His mother-in-law apart, where in fact it was that Tom had been would have remained a mystery to them all, had it not been for the ever watchful eyes of Thomas Barrow who, at the very time that Tom himself was marching briskly down the High Street, was on his way back up to the house from an exceedingly convivial day spent with a merchant seaman in a second rate hotel room in York and who had happened to see Tom Branson turn in at the door of the Grantham Arms.
The following morning, at breakfast, and before Tom himself had come downstairs to join both Matthew and their father-in-law, Barrow had, seemingly innocuously and merely in passing, made mention of the fact.
"What's this I hear about you going down to the pub last night?" Matthew had asked when Tom had appeared, unaccountably late for breakfast.
"Pub? Oh, that..." Tom was helping himself to a generous helping of eggs, bacon and mushrooms from out of the battery of silver salvers placed on top of the mahogany buffet.
"Yes, that. Barrow says he saw you going into the Arms". Laying aside his copy of the Times, Robert lofted a questioning brow as Tom seated himself at the dining table.
Now, if looks could indeed kill, at this point, the end of Barrow's time on earth would indeed have come and he would have been stretched out both cold and lifeless on the floor of the room. Instead, Tom had to content himself with shooting Barrow a mutinous look while the butler remained impassively smug and silent.
"Er... tactics," offered Tom hesitantly and between mouthfuls of egg, bacon and mushrooms.
"Tactics?" chorused both Robert and Matthew, amazed.
"Mm, to do with the match". Tom ducked his head and applied himself with gusto to his breakfast.
The one with the other, Robert and Matthew now exchanged surprised looks.
"The cricket match?" asked Matthew crisply and buttering a piece of toast.
"Is there another?" asked Tom affably enough and now looking as equally smug as his would-be nemesis Barrow.
"But you said you wouldn't play..." began Robert, obviously surprised by what he was hearing.
"Indeed I did," offered Tom.
"Then..."
"What I actually said, was that I didn't think it right that I played for the house," explained Tom patiently and now taking a sip of tea.
"And?" asked Matthew, realisation suddenly dawning on him as to just where this conversation might be leading. His brother-in-law's next words served only to confirm his suspicions.
"So, I've offered my services to the village team instead," said Tom nonchalantly. "They've accepted... and asked me to be their captain".
"You've done what? Captain? Of the village team?" queried Robert utterly astounded and for a moment seriously doubting the evidence of his own ears. He set down his tea cup with a clatter in its saucer.
In the shadows, over by the door, busying himself with the silver salvers on the buffet, Barrow suppressed the urge to grin. He was enjoying all of this immeasurably.
"You can't have!" asserted Matthew equally aghast at what he was hearing but then, realising that Tom was in deadly earnest, added more calmly: "Why on earth would you do that?"
"Because, old chap, I really can't play for the house team".
"But you're part of this family!" exclaimed Matthew. He shook his head in seeming disbelief.
"By marriage, yes but, unlike you, not by birth".
"What difference does that make? You're a very dearly loved member of this family and there's an end of it!"growled Robert, again not believing the evidence of his own ears, this time as to what he himself had just said.
Tom blushed.
He smiled and promptly set down his tea cup, reflecting silently just how far it was they had all come in the nine years which had elapsed since that never-to-be-forgotten confrontation in the Drawing Room here at Downton Abbey when, before the assembled, startled family, he and Sybil had announced their intention to marry, to work in Ireland and, God willing, to raise children of their own, aspirations in which both of them had now succeeded ... and beyond their wildest dreams.
"Thank you for those kind words, Robert. This, I assure you..." Tom paused, for once, uncharacteristically, lost for what he was trying to say. His father-in-law's comments had moved him deeply. "This... What I mean is... This has as much to do with you, as it has to do with me. Let me try to explain..."
"I don't see how my boy..." began the earl of Grantham, his anger beginning rapidly to cool. It was the first time he had openly expressed what the female members of his family had long since freely admitted; their open and unequivocal love for this young Irishman.
"What I mean is, that being Irish, I genuinely wouldn't feel right playing for the house and what with you fielding such a strong team already, including Mr. Barrow here" - Tom jabbed his thumb in the direction of the silent form of the butler - "and whose skill with the bat is known to one and all at Downton, both here and in the village, I suppose I feel a natural empathy for the underdog. Does that surprise you?"
Over by the buffet and now with his back to those seated at the dining table, Barrow permitted himself the luxury of a smug, self-satisfied smile.
"Well I never..." began Robert. "But, knowing you as I do, Tom, I have to confess that no, it doesn't".
"Besides which, I insisted that if I agreed to take on the captaincy of the village side, then they had to accept my terms for doing so".
"Which were?" asked Matthew somewhat puzzled.
"Nothing that need unduly concern you, old boy!" Tom grinned. "After all, as captain of the other side, do you really think I'm going to tell you our plan of campaign?" He chuckled; then relented. "No, merely that they accept my judgement on certain issues... as did the other boys in the team, when I was at school".
"At school," echoed Matthew, another awful suspicion now beginning to take shape in his mind. "You said you played cricket?"
Tom nodded.
"When I was at Blackrock College, yes. What of it?"
"If you expected the other boys to accept your judgement, then that would mean you were..."
"Captain... of my year, yes". Tom smiled. "Mind you, I was only eleven..."
"Just... just how good a cricketer are you?" interrupted Matthew.
"Ah!" Tom tapped the side of his nose. "That would be giving too much away! Anyway it was all a very long time ago. But..." He grinned. "Ask me no secrets and I'll tell you no lies! Let's leave it at that!"
Matthew felt the muscles of his stomach suddenly tighten. Long ago, he had found out that there was no use whatsoever trying to wheedle information out of Tom when he was unprepared to volunteer it; one might as well try and coax blood out of the proverbial stone. Matthew grimaced; for some strange reason, which he could not yet fathom, he had the oddest feeling that this year's cricket match might not be the walk over that both he and the rest of them who made up the house team had blithely assumed it would be.
"And what else?" asked Robert. "You said that this concerned me. I don't see how it..."
Tom nodded.
"Oh, didn't I say?" He paused and then smiled. "I made my acceptance of the captaincy conditional upon the village team agreeing to you being appointed scorer for the match, both for this year and hereafter. Indeed for as long as you feel able to continue. And I made it clear to Ted Ackroyd and everyone else down there at the Arms that I wouldn't hear another word said that questioned your impartiality. A more honourable man I have yet to meet. And I told them so, for sure".
Unwittingly, Tom was echoing more or less the very same words that had been used about himself some six years earlier, in 1922, by the late Michael Collins. Nonetheless, Tom meant every word he said, for both he and his father-in-law had come a very long way in their relationship since they had metaphorically crossed swords back in 1919.
Clearly moved by what he had just heard, Robert's eyes misted.
"I don't know what..."
Tom cut him off.
"And so that you don't have to keep going outside in the heat to alter the score, I had them agree to you having the services of two youngsters to make the job less arduous for you".
"Youngsters? In God's Name, who?"
"Who the hell do you think? Danny and Rob, that's who".
"And will they?"
Tom raised his eyes heavenward in disbelief.
"Jaysus, Robert! Honestly! Don't you know by now just how much they both love you? Of course they will! They'll be delighted. In fact, I've already asked them. Up there in the nursery. That's why I was late down to breakfast".
"Well, I don't know what to say..." Robert's voice cracked with emotion.
Fortunately for all concerned, at that precise moment, the door burst open and both Danny and young Robert bounded into the Dining Room. Of course, years ago, such a thing would never have happened; it would not have been tolerated. Then, children were seen and not heard and neither Robert himself when a boy, nor indeed any of his daughters as children, would have ever dared to do such a thing.
But times had changed and, reflected the earl of Grantham, decidedly for the better. While Matthew and Tom exchanged amused glances, the two boys ran happily over to where their grandfather was seated.
"Grandps! Grandps! Has Da told you? We're going to help you score for the cricket match!" The two boys jigged excitedly up and down beside their grandfather. Now and in a rare display of open affection, his eyes shining, the earl of Grantham hugged his two eldest grandsons tightly to him.
"Yes, so I hear. Your Da's just told me!" Robert grinned at his two sons-in-law.
"Uncle Tom said you're going to teach us, Grandps!" This from young Robert.
"Did he, indeed?" The earl of Grantham smiled broadly at the two boys.
"Yes, he did!"
"If your Uncle Tom said so, then so be it!" Robert ghosted a smile at Tom.
"When, Grandps, when?" implored Danny.
"Well," replied his grandfather and with a merry twinkle in his eye, "with the match only a week or so away, there's not a moment to lose. So, how about we make a start this very morning, after breakfast?"
A short while later, flanked by two of her daughters and both her sons-in-law, her eyes glistening, Cora stood at the window and watched discretely from the Drawing Room. Before her, outside in the glorious morning sunshine, hand in hand with Danny and Robert, with Anubis the black Labrador, a birthday present from absent Edith and a much-loved successor to dear old Isis romping along beside them, with his good humour now restored her husband was striding cheerfully and purposefully across the gravel of the forecourt and towards the distant cricket pavilion which lay at the far end of the large meadow, close to Home Farm.
Cora smiled.
During the past forty or so years of their marriage, each and every day she had watched Robert as he set off on his daily rounds about the estate but, she thought, never with a greater sense of conviction and hope for the future than on this bright summer's morn, here in August 1928.
Author's Note:
Of the events referred to as occurring in 1929, the Graf Zeppelin did indeed fly over Palestine during its flight to the eastern Mediterranean.