Chapter Eleven
A Deadly Summer Part II
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, August 1928.
At last the day of the long-awaited House v. Village Cricket Match had arrived; the August morning dawning bright and fair, with every prospect that later on that afternoon by the time the match itself began, it would be both hot and sunny. As with the Statute Fair, once again Downton and all the surrounding district could truly be described as being en fête and on this auspicious day, above stairs, here at the abbey, everyone in the family had broken with tradition and risen early.
Not long after breakfast was over, sporting caps, cricket whites and their first pair of long trousers, Danny and Robert had come trooping proudly down the main staircase to find awaiting them in the hall not only as expected their grandfather resplendent in his white linen suit and straw hat but also their grandmother, parents and younger siblings who had also gathered at the front door of the great house to see them go. Forming an impromptu guard of honour, the entire family now watched happily as, along with Anubis, the earl of Grantham and his two eldest grandsons set off down to the cricket pavilion to satisfy themselves that everything was in order for this afternoon's match.
The early morning sun was already hot on their backs as, with their shadows running ahead of them, with Robert and Anubis following in their footsteps, the two boys skipped merrily on along the worn track that led down through the shade of the trees towards the distant cricket field. Even as a young man, the earl of Grantham had never liked discussing medical matters and it was, reflected Robert, just as well that he had said nothing to anyone, not even Cora. The tightness he had felt in his chest the previous evening after dinner seemed to have passed entirely; must, as he suspected initially, have been nothing more than a touch of indigestion; either that or else he had bruised himself more than he had thought when the sailing dinghy had capsized on the lake yesterday afternoon and all three of them had been thrown into the water.
Thinking of the dinghy and yesterday afternoon's mishap on the lake, Robert smiled broadly. Of course, had it not been for a chance remark made earlier to Danny and young Robert down in the village by old Adam Dalby who had once worked for the estate, he himself would never have remembered the Skylark, stored away under a tarpaulin for more than a quarter of a century in the loft above the old boathouse on the far side of the lake. Indeed, it had come as a surprise to the whole family but especially to Danny and to young Robert, to learn that not only did their grandfather know how to sail a boat, but that, in the form of a wooden, 12 foot, clapper built sailing dinghy, there was one stored away up in the loft over the boathouse.
On reflection, it was perhaps not surprising that the dinghy had been overlooked, for the boathouse, disused for many years, had been built for a more elegant era when the present earl of Grantham's grandfather had been alive. Given the care which had been taken in laying up the Skylark, she was in remarkably good condition with only a few minor repairs being necessary and which, once the dinghy had been brought down from the loft, were quickly put in hand by the estate carpenter. Thereafter, with the Skylark fully restored and once more out on the water, Robert had begun teaching his two eldest grandsons how to sail; not, it should be said, without serious misgivings on the part of Cora who, even if Robert would not have it so, realised that while the two boys had undoubtedly given him a new lease of life, her husband was no longer as young as he liked to think he was.
To begin with, however, all went well, with the Skylark and its happy, neophyte crew sailing gaily round the shore and then crossing back and forth to the small island in the middle of the lake, where on one occasion, with a picnic hamper provided by Mrs. White, the boys and their grandfather built a camp fire and had a feast fit for a king. It was hard to tell who enjoyed these excursions more: Robert or his grandsons. And then, yesterday, on their way back from the island, had come the mishap that Cora had feared. A sudden gust of wind had caused the Skylark to heel violently to port and then capsize, with Robert and the two boys being flung into the water. Fortunately this occurred close in to the shore and, with apparently no harm done, under Robert's expert guidance, the Skylark had been swiftly righted and beached about a quarter of a mile below the abbey.
As he walked onwards along the dusty,winding path beneath the trees and towards the cricket field, at the remembrance of the look of utter disbelief he had seen etched on his eldest daughter's face the previous afternoon, Robert chuckled softly to himself. With the Skylark beached, soaked to the skin, Robert and his two young grandsons had squelched their way back up to the abbey; at the same time drawing curious looks from several of the estate workers they had chanced to meet with Robert steadfastly declining all offers of assistance; secretly he was rather enjoying himself! Eventually, having at last reached the great house, the three of them strode purposefully in through the front door, into the high ceilinged hall, leaving in their wake across the hitherto pristine flagstones, a trail of wet footprints and pools of water.
At the time Barrow had been attending to the afternoon post on the hall table while, along with Tom and Sybil, Mary had been standing halfway down the main staircase of the abbey talking with Matthew, to suddenly be confronted by the sight of the aristocratic earl of Grantham and his two young grandsons, soaked to the skin, dripping wet, streaked with mud and looking decidedly bedraggled, walking in unannounced through the front entrance of the abbey. Momentarily, disbelieving the very evidence of their own eyes, everybody seemed to have lost their power of speech. For no-one, not even Mary, said anything at all. Needless to say, things did not remain this way for very long.
"Robert Crawley!" Mary thundered, at last regaining the use of her voice.
"Yes?" chorused her father and eldest son in unison, at which Matthew, Tom and Sybil all burst out laughing and even Barrow permitted himself the briefest of smiles.
"No, not you, Papa!" exclaimed Mary. "Just what on earth have you been doing?" She now pointed directly at her young son.
"Well, er... the boat... Mama, er..." stammered young Robert. He flushed red, squirmed and looked nervously up at his grandfather as if desperately seeking some kind of reassurance; smiled gratefully when his namesake did not then disappoint him.
"Don't blame the boys, Mary. It's entirely my fault".
"Your fault". Mary sounded thoroughly unconvinced.
"Mea culpa". With droplets of water now beading his brow, her father nodded his wet head and smiled. "You see, I was... captain of the ship". With water pooling at his feet, Robert grinned conspiratorially down at his two grandsons.
"Captain, of the... ship?" echoed Mary weakly. "What ship, exactly?"
"The Skylark," explained the earl of Grantham promptly.
"The Skylark? Honestly, Papa, it's a wooden dinghy, not the bloody Titanic!"
Beside her, Sybil raised her eyes heavenward and Tom and Matthew sniggered; Sybil silencing them with a single swift glance, with both men now doing their very best to look suitably chastened.
"Well, er...yes. I was at the helm. So I... er... take full responsibility... for what happened. The boat capsized and we..."
"... all got soaking wet, Da" concluded Danny with an impish grin to match that now lit upon his own father's face.
As Barrow disappeared swiftly through the green baize door to summon immediate assistance, while Mary continued to look on with disbelieving incredulity and Tom and Matthew, unable to prevent themselves doing so, now dissolved into fits of helpless laughter, Sybil hurried down the stairs to kneel solicitously in front of the three returning, unabashed and decidedly wet musketeers, if only to reassure herself that her father, son and nephew were all otherwise unharmed. Just then, disturbed by all the commotion, the countess of Grantham hurried out onto the landing. At the bannister rail she paused and looked down into the hall, like Mary, disbelieving the evidence of her own eyes.
"Robert! What on earth have you...," began Cora. She both looked and sounded completely horrified.
"Yes?" replied her grandson and husband in tandem and looking up. Here we go again, thought the earl of Grantham.
Oddly enough, thought Robert, he had never realised until now just how far it was from the house to the cricket field.
"Come on, Grandps!" sang out Danny happily.
"All right, boys, I'm coming," called out Robert just as cheerfully, reflecting that, as he was about so many things, Tom had been right when he had said just how much the earl of Grantham' was loved by his two eldest grandsons. Now, as he watched the two boys, gambolling on ahead of him like a pair of lambs, Robert found himself smiling; for his part, that feeling was entirely reciprocated.
A short while later, Robert and the two boys had reached the cricket field.
Beneath a cloudless blue sky, the stones of the abbey shimmered in the early morning heat haze while the summer air was heavy with the scent of freshly mown grass. Crows cawed in the elm trees edging the field, sheep bleated on the distant hillside, a bee droned fitfully past, butterflies flitted, while here, close to the lake, emerald dragonflies darted hither and thither and a sudden flash of iridescent blue and red marked the passage of a kingfisher bearing aloft in its beak a wriggling silver fish. In the adjacent cornfield, standing atop the clattering Marshall threshing machine, a group of men from off the estate were still busy with the very last of the harvest, the presence of the Aveling and Porter traction engine marked by a column of thick, black smoke.
With Anubis trotting by their side, Robert and the boys made their way slowly over to the centre of the cricket field. Midst a riot of buttercups, daisies and dandelions, the twenty two yard length of the pitch had been freshly mown, rolled. the creases neatly delineated with newly painted white lines and the large sighting screen, also freshly painted, had been wheeled into position behind the boundary. So far, so good. Robert beamed and nodded his head approvingly.
Then, accompanied by the two boys, with the practised eye of a professional, their grandfather began a painstaking examination of the pitch, looking, he said, for what he called undulations and depressions, seeing that the surface was what he termed well-consolidated. Exactly what this all meant remained something of a mystery to both Danny and young Robert, until their grandfather explained that the pitch needed to be firm and level, so that playing upon it conferred no undue advantage or disadvantage to either side. Eventually pronouncing himself well satisfied with what he had found, Robert and the boys set set off over to the cricket pavilion and the adjoining scorer's hut.
Close to the wooden buildings, its finials resplendent with bunting, a splendid canvas marquee had been erected. Inside and, reserved solely for members of the two teams, along with a couple of barrels, one of beer and the other of cider both supplied by the publican of the Grantham Arms, a number of wooden benches and trestle tables had been set up. The latter were covered with snowy white linen cloths upon which servants from the house were presently laying out third best crockery, glasses and cutlery, all sent down from the house by motor; packed in wicker hampers, the food and drink being prepared by Mrs. White and those in the kitchen up the abbey would be arriving later, towards the end of the day's proceedings. In front of the marquee, slatted wooden chairs had been placed to accommodate members of the Crawley family and their friends, while, clustered beneath a grove of nearby oak trees a semi circle of similar chairs. These were reserved for members of the Downton and District Brass Band who, resplendent in their scarlet and blue uniforms would, as was customary on this particular occasion, open this afternoon's proceedings by playing a selection of popular tunes.
So long, as seemed likely, the weather remained fair, all was now ready for the match. Looking down at his grandsons, Robert beamed again. Life was indeed good. It promised to be a wonderful day.
The House team won the toss and had elected to bat. The score now stood at seventy five for six and still the afternoon sun continued to beat down just as mercilessly. Indeed, to all those out there on the field, it now seemed hotter than ever.
God, if he walks any further, he'll find himself in Timbucktoo, thought Matthew with sweat beading his brow.
Resplendent in his cricket whites, grasping the handle of his bat firmly with both hands, keeping his head still and his eyes level, his knees slightly bent, his feet parallel and placed either side of the crease, Matthew Crawley, captain of the house team glanced down the length of the cricket pitch, towards where Tom Branson captain of the village side was presently still walking away towards the boundary, preparatory to beginning his run up to the bowling crease.
With his back to Matthew and the rest of the field, Tom walked purposefully away from the pitch. Not that he had any intention of walking as far as Timbucktoo; in fact no further than close to where Dick Garforth was standing at Straight Hit; for as Tom had said to Robert and Matthew at breakfast over a week ago, when he announced his intention to captain the the village team, it was all a question of tactics. And he knew just what effect his nonchalant stride off into the wide blue yonder would have on Matthew.
As he strode onwards out towards the boundary, to add to his seeming air of detachment, Tom continued to toss the leather ball in the air, catching it deftly in his outstretched hand and rubbing it against the side of his trousers. Finally, having reached his intended destination, he turned, stood completely still and looked towards the distant figure of Matthew hunched over his bat.
An expectant hush now descended upon the assembled throng; not only among each and every member of the two opposing teams whether out here on the field or else clustered around the cricket pavilion but also among the men, women and children from off the estate; from down in the village; from farms and hamlets further afield, some from as far away as Ripon and who were now gathered around the boundary of the pitch or else seated on the slatted chairs and wooden benches over by the marquee. Afterwards in that split second before everything changed, Tom thought even the crows in the elms had fallen silent and for a moment time itself seemed to stand still.
So as to get a clearer view of what was happening, the boys and their grandfather had come out to stand in the sunshine in front of the scorer's hut. If truth be told, Robert himself was exceedingly glad to be here out in the fresh air; not that either of the boys had seemed to notice it but as the afternoon wore on, their grandfather thought it had become increasingly hot and stuffy inside the small hut.
And then Tom began his run, gathering speed, pounding back towards the crease.
Tom's ball flew wide.
Matthew threw down his bat.
Cora, Mary and Sybil all rose simultaneously to their feet.
And then, as those on and around the pitch began to point, to gesticulate and to shout, all five were running towards the scorer's hut; to where Danny and young Robert were kneeling sobbing beside the prostrate form of their grandfather.
The following morning, heavily laden with sacks of freshly ground flour from the corn mill down by the river and on his way to the bakery in the village, the driver of the motor lorry, Bert Paylor, paused momentarily to drop off the two boys who had hitched a lift seated on the tailgate.
Shouting their heartfelt thanks to Bert, both young Robert Crawley and Danny Branson had set off at a run all the way up the long drive leading to the house. Quite what Robert's mother would have had to say had she seen her young son and his cousin sitting riding through Downton on flour sacks piled in the back of Bert Paylor's lorry does probably not bear repetition. So it was probably just as well that at the time this occurred, Lady Mary Crawley was otherwise occupied with something of far greater import.
"Now, Papa, you know what Dr. Bell said yesterday!" admonished Mary in a tone reminiscent of that which she used towards her eldest son now aged all of nine years. With her mother and youngest sister looking on, Mary was sitting on the side of her father's bed. "And there's nothing whatsoever to worry about. Matthew is perfectly capable of running the estate by himself. What you need now is complete rest..."
Robert grimaced.
"Don't fuss..."
Shortening their route somewhat by cutting through the orchard, ducking and weaving their way beneath the heavy laden, moss-grown boughs of the apple trees, some time later, the two boys emerged breathless out onto the broad sweep of lawn in front of the abbey.
A moment's pause , followed by a quick sprint across the gravel, now brought them to the main door of the great house, which was opened for them by none other than Mr. Barrow himself.
"Well, well, if it isn't young Master Robert and Master Daniel...," began Barrow in the usual half-mocking, obsequious, supercilious tone he reserved especially for the younger generation of the Bransons and Crawleys.
This time, however, the boys scarcely seemed to hear him, let alone even deigned to acknowledge his presence. Given the circumstance, this was hardly surprising. For now, catching sight of Danny's much loved mother standing in her nurse's uniform at the top of the main staircase, fearing the worst, the boys raced past a clearly annoyed Barrow and ran full tilt up the stairs.
"Is Grandps all right?" asked Danny breathlessly.
"Is he..." began Robert before bursting into tears.
Seeing the two boys' frightened faces, Sybil opened wide her arms and hugged them tightly to her in the fondest, warmest of embraces.
"Oh, my darlings!" she exclaimed.
That very same morning, shortly after breakfast was over, in response to a long-standing invitation and for which, in the circumstances, their parents were very grateful, Danny and young Robert had wandered off through the fields down to the river, as far as the old water mill which stood close to Downton Halt. It seemed wrong to be out enjoying themselves when Grandps was so very ill but Ma was a nurse and she hadn't told them not to go. Anyway, when they returned home, they could go up and tell Grandps all about what they had seen and try and cheer him up a bit.
Down at the mill they had gazed spellbound at the enormous, rotating cast iron wheel and listened intently while the miller, old Alf Cotterill, explained to them how water from the mill pond was fed through a sluice and onto the paddles of the wheel. This done, Alf had led the two boys inside the old building to show them how the huge wheel powered all the machinery within the mill, with Danny and Robert contentedly spending the next few hours happily clambering up and down a succession of narrow wooden stairways; ducking their heads beneath low beamed ceilings, wandering wide eyed among a bewildering, dusty array of belts, chutes, cogs, grinding stones, hoists, hoppers, pulleys and wheels and watching while Alf and his son Ben ground corn into both flour and bran. Later, the boys had played their part in helping to repair the inner workings of the pump which fed water from the mill-race into a large galvanised tank down in the cellar. Thereafter, before they left the mill, seated on a pile of sacks, sitting out in the warmth of the bright morning sunshine, they were treated to both lemonade and gingerbread made by Alf's wife.
Of course, with his love of machinery and all things mechanical, time spent in repairing the pump in the cellar of the old mill had proved of especial interest to Danny. At least it was rather more beneficial than his experiment the previous week with the enormous stop cock - not that he had recognised it as such – which he had discovered up at the house situated below stairs in one of the warren of rooms, many of which were disused. It was in one of these, Danny had espied a large brass tap and which he felt compelled to turn. This he duly did and was singularly disappointed when, apparently, nothing then happened.
At the time, in eager anticipation of receiving by way of a reward a piece of her delicious apple pie, both Danny and young Robert were being exceedingly helpful and fetching the cook, Mrs. White, a variety of supplies from her several storerooms required for the evening's dinner party.
Having given the stop cock one final desultory turn, shrugging his shoulders, finally admitting defeat, Danny sighed and, somewhat dejectedly, loaded with various jars of potted pastes and preserves had set off down the passage, in pursuit of a likewise over burdened Robert, back as far as the kitchen. Here, having deposited their range of supplies on the enormous table, each duly fortified by a portion of Mrs. White's excellent apple pie, having thanked her politely, the two boys, who were both very popular with the domestic staff, had run off outside to play and, as far as young Danny was concerned, forgetting all about the stop cock.
Below stairs, in the long-abandoned room, the precise purpose which it had once served being lost in the mists of time, the pipework associated with the stop cock gurgled and rumbled menacingly. Moments later, amid a further cacophony of grumbling sounds the entire water supply to Downton Abbey now came to an abrupt and complete stop. Not that this was noticed by anyone immediately as, from its attics down to its cellars, possessed of what must have amounted to several miles of antiquated pipework serving the great house, it was some time before the effects of the turning off of the stop tap by Danny produced any noticeable result.
However, in the kitchen and upstairs throughout the great house, eventually,this proceeded to cause nothing short of complete mayhem. Unfortunately, the first anyone noticed that anything was at all wrong was in the kitchen; when the water supply to the sinks and the cumbersome cast iron range failed but not before the base of the latter had been completely burnt out. Not that Mrs. White minded, for ever since her arrival at Downton as a replacement for Mrs. Patmore, the antiquated nature of the range had been a source of continuing complaint on her part to Mrs. Dalloway the new housekeeper.
Upstairs, there having been a dinner party the previous evening, held for the Braithwaites from Langthorpe Hall, here at Downton Abbey everyone in the family had risen later than was usual. Having finished shaving,Tom was in the process of swilling out the washbasin when the water streaming out of the cold tap came to a sudden stop while a few doors away Robert was in his dressing room cleaning his teeth when the same thing happened. And, yet further down the corridor, Mary was languidly luxuriating in the delights of a deliciously hot bath, gnawing on a raw carrot, for which, following Rebecca's birth, she had developed an intense, post partum craving.
Understandably, Mary had assumed that her craving for carrots would pass but it was now some months since Rebecca had been born. Indeed, in her continuing craving for raw carrots, Mary had even gone so far as to encourage young Robert to plant not one but two rows of the self same vegetable in his meticulously ordered patch in the kitchen garden. In this, much to the surprise of both her husband and their eldest son, Mary now took an inexplicable and inordinate interest; even going as far as to suggest to a disconsolate young Robert that it was probably rabbits which accounted for the loss of part of his crop. The bath water was just slightly too hot and Mary now reached for the cold tap, turned it, only to find that nothing happened. Mystified, she shook her head and, still nibbling, sank contentedly back into the water.
At least when the water ceased to flow into his washbasin, Tom had the good sense to turn off the tap. Not so either Robert or Mary. Thus it was, several hours later, long after both had vacated their bedrooms, when what it was that had caused the sudden cessation of supply had been divined, with its restoration water from the now overflowing basin in Robert's dressing room and the tub in Mary's bathroom began to cascade through the ceiling of the Morning Room, had it not been for the prompt action of Barrow and other members of the staff, the damage to this part of the house would have been considerably worse.
Fortunately, in the ensuing pandemonium, no-one ever paused to consider how it was the stop cock came to be turned off in the first place, that being attributed solely to the age of the valve which was duly replaced and at a not inconsiderable expense by a plumber from Ripon; Mrs. White received the benefit of the installation of a splendid new range and Danny, singularly unaware that he was the culprit who initiated the whole debacle, happily avoided any form of retribution.
"And it's all our fault," had sobbed Danny inconsolably. "If... if we hadn't gone out in the Skylark..."
Along with Robert, he was sitting on his parents' bed while his mother hugged him and his cousin just as tightly as when she had met them but a short while ago at the top of the stairs.
"It's no-one's fault, my darlings. Sometimes these things just happen".
"But Grandps will be all right, won't he, Ma?"
Sybil nodded.
"Yes, my darling. But it will take a long time. You can go in and see him now but you must promise me you'll both be very quiet. He's very, very tired".
"We promise,"replied the boys solemnly.
Heidelberg, Baden, Germany, May 1929.
"And just how long will you be gone this time?" With little Josef held fast in her arms, Margarethe stood back on the door step and looked thoughtfully at her husband.
Fergal smiled broadly.
"A couple of months at most; no longer. I'll be back in time for our trip to Obersalzberg at the end of July, for sure. I promise". He smiled broadly; an endearing lop-sided grin.
"And there's no point me asking..."
Fergal shook his head.
"No, you know there isn't for sure". He fondled the flaxen head of his eldest son. Of their three children, Ronan now aged five was the most like him in looks. Aidan aged four favoured his mother, while little Josef was a sum of them both.
"Well, if I'm to catch the train for Berlin, I'd best be off".
And, moments later, he was gone.
Inside the house on Zähringerstrasse, for a moment Margarethe leaned heavily against the closed front door and sighed, thinking that with Fergal it had ever been thus; here today, gone tomorrow.
No, on reflection, that was neither right nor fair.
It had only been so since a couple of years ago.
Not that they ever spoke of it.
As far as anyone, both inside and outside the family, knew, Fergal still held some minor post in the Ministerium für Auswärtige Angelegenheiten, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs; although exactly what it was that he did remained something of a mystery to one and all. It was understood that Fergal had secured his position through a mixture of bluff, charm, good looks, innate intelligence and thanks also in no small measure to the munificent influence wielded by a family friend of Margarethe's late father; or so at least it had been assumed at the time of Fergal's appointment.
The reality was somewhat different.
Here in Germany, at least in certain circles, the antipathy of the Irish for the British was widely known, so unsurprisingly it was not long before someone in authority in provincial Heidelberg had alerted the Foreign Ministry on the Wilhelmstrasse in Berlin that in the Irish born son-in-law of the late Professor Rieck they had the makings of a keen ally. True the Irishman was quick tempered and on occasions a little rough around the edges but putting all that to one aside, it was considered his connections with the IRA, his hatred of the British and a what turned out to be natural talent for deception could, in due course, all be made to serve a purpose beneficial to the Fatherland.
Amongst those persons who were of this opinion were several individuals who had links to those who were intent on circumventing the provisions of the Versailles Treaty which severely limited the size of the German army and navy and which in turn had led Fergal to being recruited not as was believed into the Foreign Ministry but, in fact, into the ranks of the Abwehr: German military intelligence.
Now, had it not been for a single moment's carelessness on the part of Fergal the previous Christmas, Margarethe would not have discovered that during these last two years, when she had assumed him to be at his desk in the Foreign Office building on the Wilhemstrasse in Berlin issuing visas and so forth, in reality her young husband had often been absent abroad.
Indeed, she would have continued in her state of blissful ignorance was it not for the fact that, when having partaken rather too freely of a bottle of Irish whiskey given to them by one of their friends, Fergal had left the desk in his study both open and unlocked, whereupon Margarethe had chanced upon the letter from von Schliecher and all had become clear.
That Fergal had kept from her the fact that he was working for the Abwehr came as no particular surprise. He had always been secretive and while Margarethe loved him desperately even now, after nearly five years of marriage and three children, on a personal level,there was some distant part of him which she could never reach. From a chance remark he had once made, she knew it was something to do with his father; how he had abused and abandoned Fergal's mother, deprived Fergal of his birthright and understood also that this man was somehow related to an English aristocratic family but more than that Margarethe knew not.
In the hall, time seemed to stand still and with that in mind, Margarethe now did what she always did when Fergal left on one of his journeys; she stopped the pendulum of the clock and kept it so until he returned. For some unfathomable reason she thought it kept him safe.
Cork, Irish Free State, June 1929.
While en route from Bremen to Bordeaux, engine trouble was the official reason given for the SS Ostpreussen thereafter altering course and putting in at Cork and so it was entered in the ship's log. Not of course that there was any truth in it. And none but her captain and first officer were aware of the existence on board of her single passenger.
In the cold grey light of dawn, as seen from the gently heaving deck of the nondescript cargo steamer which had brought him here from Bremen, the view of Cork had changed little if at all in the past five years. On the opposite side of the river both the City Hall on Albert Quay and the nearby Carnegie Library, each set alight and gutted on the night when the Black and Tans had fired the city back in December 1920, had still not been rebuilt. Now, while the city yet slumbered, unobserved and without so much as a single backward glance, the man heaved his heavy rucksack onto his shoulder and marched briskly down the gangway to where the motor awaited him.
While his passport gave his identity as Connor McCarthy, hailing from Tralee, Fergal had not been back to the Free State since he and Margarethe had sailed from Cobh back in 1924. During the intervening five years, he had written to the Ryans, sent them photographs of his and Margarethe's children, birthday good wishes and so forth.
However, when several hours later, he turned in at what, a lifetime ago, had been the main entrance to Skerries House, he had no intention of paying a visit to the farm to see his adoptive parents and brothers. It was better for all concerned, not least himself, that no-one known to him became aware that he was back here in Cork.
In any event his time here down in the south of the country would be of but brief duration. No later than tonight he would be catching the express train from Cork, first to Dublin and then eventually crossing the border into Northern Ireland at Dundalk by which time he would have assumed the identity of Joseph Lynch a commercial traveller for Caffrey's Ulster Brewery on Queen Street in Belfast.
Then north westwards to Londonderry on the banks of the River Foyle to ascertain how much mischief could be caused to the British government by exploiting a bitter legacy of partition; the ongoing sectarian strife in the city. Further westwards still, to Buncrana on the eastern shore of gale swept Lough Swilly, to make a surreptitious reconnaissance of the British fortifications at Lenan and Dunree protecting this the most northerly on the three Treaty Ports.
And, providing all went well, back to Belfast from where and still in the guise of the ever useful Mr. Lynch, Fergal would be taking ship for Liverpool and England; heading east by train, across the Pennines, to Manchester and thence north east to Newcastle-upon-Tyne, there to photograph covertly the harbours, the munitions factories, the ship building installations and the batteries protecting the naval bases.
Information and photographs which if found upon him by the British authorities would undoubtedly lead to Fergal being charged with treason and an early appointment either with the hangman Thomas William Pierrepoint or else a military firing squad; after all, like it or not, the Irish Free State was still very much a part of the dominions of His Majesty King George V.
But Fergal had no intention whatsoever of being caught by the British.
Whether or not the passport on which he was travelling was forged – indeed it was and a damned fine forgery at that - here in the Irish Free State, in the far south of Ireland, he was safe enough. In any case, now, for the time being at least, another rather more important matter claimed his full attention.: that of paying his respects at his late mother's grave. While he would leave neither wreath nor flowers - to do so would betray that someone had been there - one thing he did intend doing was renewing the vow he had made here some five years since: of wreaking vengeance upon Tom Branson and all whom he held most dear.
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, July 1929.
Dressed in white shirts, their sleeves rolled up, wearing khaki shorts with ties for belts, bare legged and in canvas shoes, carefree, giggling and laughing, the two young boys ran on happily through the woods, the sunlight dappling down through the leafy canopy of the trees.
To one and all here on the Downton Abbey estate, that they were inseparable was well known ; indeed, unbeknownst to the both of them, their maternal grandparents and parents had remarked upon this singularly unassailable fact over dinner the previous evening, provoking much amusement and merriment all round the dining table. Similar in age, the two boys were like the opposite sides of the very same coin, with young Danny Branson being but a year or so older than his much-loved cousin Robert Crawley who, somewhat surprisingly for someone who, all things being equal, would one day inherit the Downton Abbey estate, was, at least for now, rather a natural follower than a leader.
Both boys were fortunate in that they possessed the good looks and charm of their respective fathers but although Robert's colouring matched that of Matthew, as Danny had grown older, while in all other respects he was the image of his Irish father, his hair had darkened to match that of his mother. Much as Tom and Matthew were not only brothers-in-law but also the closest of best friends, their two sons were likewise not only first cousins but equally utterly devoted to each other.
Whenever the Bransons were staying at Downton Abbey, Danny and Robert invariably shared a bedroom and spent the long summer days roaming about the estate together, wandering into the barns and stables of Home Farm, helping the gardeners both in the walled garden and in the hothouses and sharing a fascination for all things mechanical could also be found each year, much to Robert's mother's chagrin, helping out with the harvest, coming home happy as sand boys, tired, hot and dirty, begrimed with soot and oil from the traction engine being used to power the pulsating, rattling threshing machine.
This year, one evening after dinner was over and it was time for bed, neither of the two boys could be found anywhere in the house; nor, indeed, could Tom and it was this fact and something which he had said to her earlier in the day which before a general search began had suggested to Sybil where the errant trio might now be found. A short walk down to the old garage, with Matthew and Mary in attendance, proved the truthfulness of Sybil's suspicions.
Here in the gathering dusk in front of the garage they saw several lighted hurricane lanterns had been placed on the ground; at the same time were greeted by the sound of voices and the amusing sight of three pairs of feet, one large and two small, surrounded by a selection of neatly ordered tools, protruding out from beneath the elderly Renault. Sybil smiled. Tom was nothing if not methodical.
These days, the elderly Renault which, while it undoubtedly held exceedingly fond memories for both Tom and Sybil, was now only used on short journeys to take members of staff to neighbouring houses, down to the station to collect the luggage of house guests and so forth.
Matthew, Mary and Sybil had listened silently, amused, while, singularly unaware that they were there, Tom explained to the two boys what it was he was repairing and why. A moment later and something metallic clattered harshly onto the cobbles beneath the motor, which in turn was followed quickly by an Irish expletive mouthed and then smothered by Tom.
"Now, don't either of yous go repeating that word. Not unless yous want Ma or your Mama to skin me alive!" he hissed.
"We won't Da! We won't Uncle Tom! Promise!" earnestly chorused the two boys.
"Well, that's all right then for sure". They heard Tom breathe a distinctly audible sigh of relief.
"Actually, Branson, it isn't," said Sybil leaning down and at the same time rapping smartly on the bonnet of the motor.
"No, indeed it isn't, Branson," echoed Mary, who in spite of herself was desperately trying to keep a straight face, while Matthew failed miserably in trying to suppress a laugh.
On hearing his wife's voice and then that of his sister-in-law, blushing red, grinning self-consciously in the lamplight, followed by Danny and then by young Robert, Tom slid out from beneath the motor, the faces and hands of one and all liberally smeared with both grease and engine oil.
"We've been fixing the... er... Renault". Wiping his hands on an already soiled piece of cotton, his eyes sparkling, tossing the scrap of rag to the two boys and nodding for them to do likewise, Tom grinned broadly.
"So we heard. Honestly, Tom! Just look at the state of you all!" exclaimed Sybil.
"I think you two boys have some explaining to do. Worrying both your mothers like that," chided Matthew gently.
"And you owe Nanny Bridges an apology too," added Mary.
"Come on now, you two. Back to the house; then straight upstairs and into the bath the pair of you. Yes, yes, you can tell me all about what you and Uncle Tom have been doing but on the way". Smiling, Matthew placed his arms gently about the boys' shoulders and, followed by Mary, shepherded the two excited, talkative youngsters up the path which led back to the abbey. The sound of their footsteps and voices dwindled and faded into silence.
A short while later, having put away the tools, extinguished the lanterns and closed the garage doors, with his sleeves rolled up and his jacket swinging nonchalantly over his shoulder, arm in arm Tom and Sybil set off slowly up the narrow path. At a bend in the track, he paused, took her in his arms and kissed her deeply, leaving, when they broke apart, as Sybil found, a dark smudge of engine oil upon her cheek.
With the tips of his fingers, gently he rubbed the affected cheek but given the state of his hands, this only served to make things worse.
"Honestly, Tom, you're absolutely filthy!" She giggled.
"There now, yous look like an abandoned woman for sure!" He laughed; brushed back a stray tendril of her hair.
"And you, Branson, need a bath!"
"Offering to strip me naked and scrub me down, your Ladyship?" he asked with his cheeky lopsided grin.
"I might be," she said coyly. A moment later and she felt the familiar yearning begin to stir. She found herself thinking back to another time, years ago, on the front steps of Skerries House, when in the sunshine she had come upon Tom stripped to the waist beginning repairs to his beloved motorcycle.
When he was missing, presumed dead by everyone except for Sybil herself, she had told her mother that with Tom sometimes all it took from him to arouse her was a single word; a simple look across a crowded room. Here in the soft darkness of a summer's evening, it was but a thought: the thought of Tom naked, the muscles of his bare back rippling beneath her practised fingers.
"Well, then, Mrs. Branson, lead on! I'm putty in your hands!"
Laughing, once more arm in arm, they set off again up the path in the gloaming towards the distant house.
Two against the world.
Apart from being well liked up at the Big House, Danny and young Robert were equally well known and liked down in Downton too, with their repeated visits to the handful of retired members of the abbey's domestic staff who had been given cottages at a peppercorn rent in the village as well as calling in to see the wheelwright and Harry Clegg the smith at the forge. Indeed, Harry had been heard to remark over a pint in the Grantham Arms that he would have been proud to have had either boy for a son of his own. Given the fact that Harry's only son, Ernest, aged just seventeen, had gone down in HMS Queen Mary at the Battle of Jutland, this was praise indeed.
A matter of days after the incident involving the repair of the Renault, the two boys arrived back at the abbey just in time for afternoon tea, their faces flushed, both pleased as punchand each carrying a horseshoe which, helped by Harry they had made down at the forge. Their grandparents and fathers were all much impressed with Danny and Robert's combined endeavours, Tom observing wryly that if ever the Downton abbey estate required a new blacksmith, it need look no further than his young nephew. Mary looked horrified at the very suggestion and while doing her best to follow Sybil's lead in complimenting the endeavours of their two young sons, firmly drew the line at Matthew's suggestion that Robert's lovingly crafted horseshoe be nailed to the wall over their marital bed. Instead, flanked by paintings by both Gainsborough and Reynolds, it was allowed to take pride of place over Matthew's desk downstairs in the Small Library.
Later that same day, after dinner was over, with the younger children long since having been put to bed, having washed and changed into their pyjamas and dressing gowns, the two boys came downstairs to the Drawing Room to say goodnight to their parents and grandparents.
"Goodnight then boys..."
With evident reluctance, Danny and Robert now turned to leave the room. Catching sight of their mournful faces, Tom grinned. He let the boys reach the door before he called out to them, stopping them in their tracks.
"Did yous think I'd forgotten? Come here and sit down the pair of yous".
Doubtfully, the boys turned back. "I promised to read them a bedtime story," explained Tom. He shot a questioning look at Sybil; saw her incline her head and smile. Tom grinned broadly at the boys, then nodded in turn at Danny who, knowing what this betokened, now scrambled happily onto his Da's lap resting his head comfortably against his father's shoulder.
Seeing Robert momentarily hanging back, Tom patted the sofa beside him whereupon the boy smiled contentedly and without further ado promptly sat down next to his uncle who slipped his arm comfortingly around his nephew's shoulders.
Amused in spite of himself, the boys' grandfather, moved slowly across the room to stand quietly beside the fireplace next to with his English son-in-law Matthew, while Cora, Mary and Sybil all took seats on the sofa opposite Tom and the boys, each and everyone, now waiting for Tom to begin reading. Seeing the look of anticipation upon their faces,Tom smiled his endearing lop-sided grin.
"Perhaps I should put my cap down and charge for this for sure!" laughed Tom picking up a book from off the table beside him. Danny's head popped up in alarm.
"Da! That's not fair!"
"How so?"
"For one thing, Da ... Rob and me, we don't have any money. And... and anyway, you're always telling Saiorse and me... that we have to do our chores before Ma gives us our pocket money!"
"Uncle Tom..." began young Robert doubtfully. He paused; looked for reassurance towards his father. Matthew nodded his head encouragingly.
"Yes?" asked Tom.
"Well, my father... he's a solicitor and he... he only sends bills to the people he does work for... when he's done it". This from Robert now coming to the aid of his cousin and friend.
Tom glanced at Matthew; saw him nod his head and smile in amusement.
"So, come on Da, read us the story first, then you'll get paid!" demanded Danny insistently, his reasoning and obvious heartfelt indignation at what he saw as rank injustice drawing smiles all round.
"Hoist by your own petard, I think, Tom!" The earl of Grantham laughed, then smiled broadly at his grandsons."Don't you worry, you two, I won't pay him a penny, not until he's read you your story! And then, only if I like it!"
"I'll second that!" chuckled Matthew
"Now wait just a minute, you four! You're all joining forces against me!" exclaimed Tom with mock indignation.
"Indeed we are!" chuckled his father-in-law.
"Sybil, love, say something!" pleaded Tom.
"Don't go dragging me into this!" giggled Sybil.
"But you're my wife! I expect you to support me!"
"Really? Then think again Mr. Branson. You're always telling me to make up my own mind about things. And in this, I'm maintaining a position of strict neutrality".
"And, before you ask, so am I!" laughed Cora.
"As for me, don't even ask!" exclaimed Mary. She shot a fond glance at her husband. Matthew winked broadly at her and young Robert grinned. His father always seemed so much happier when Uncle Tom was around.
"As an ex-military man, may I offer you some advice, old chap?" asked Matthew with mock solemnity.
"Which is what?" asked Tom suspiciously.
"In the face of overwhelming odds, I suggest unconditional surrender!"
Danny and Robert exchanged glances; while both of them understood the word surrender, neither were at all sure what unconditional meant.
Tom ruffled his son's dark hair; grinned broadly at his nephew.
"All right, you two, you win," said Tom softly. The two youngsters cheered, their cherubic faces lit in boyish epiphany; Danny snuggled against his Da while Robert rested his head against his uncle's shoulder. Silence enfolded the room and outside the darkness drew down as everyone waited for Tom to begin.
As Sybil knew well, Tom was a gifted storyteller; his handsome features capable of assuming a variety of expressions and his voice possessed of an exceptionally wide range, enabling him to take on convincingly the guise of all manner of characters. And, as Tom continued to read the first chapter of "The Mystery of Dr. Fu-Manchu", Sybil found herself reflecting on the countless times she had sat and listened to Tom while he read or told bedtime stories to each of their three children: first to Danny, then also to Saiorse and now as well to dear little Bobby, aged three, the baby of the family, in their modest home in Idrone Terrace, across the sea in Ireland.
Like her youngest daughter, Cora sat entranced, smiling fondly at Tom, thinking back to what Sybil had told her about him years ago, while he was missing, then presumed dead, how in his work as a journalist, he nearly always managed to strike up an instant rapport with all manner of people from different walks of life, with both young and old, but especially with children. Cora reflected too on how nearly it was that they had come to missing all of this when, a lifetime since or so it seemed now, the family had so bitterly opposed Tom's marriage to Sybil; a couple who, Cora knew could not be more suited.
Mary too was in a contemplative and reflective mood; remembering back to the evening which followed Tom and Sybil's marriage recalling how he had held his young nephew Padraig spellbound with his story of a dragon called the Dowager Countess and who lived in a deep, dark cave called the Dower House somewhere on the Downton Abbey estate.
That summer's evening, sitting quietly on the sofa in the Drawing Room here at Downton, watching and listening to Tom weave his magic, Sybil smiled with absolute contentment. Here she was, having been blissfully married for over ten years to a man who absolutely adored her and whom she loved beyond measure, blessed with three happy, healthy children, with Tom a rising star in his chosen profession just having been appointed Deputy Editor of the Irish Independent and she herself having resumed her nursing career at the Coombe.
With the manifold difficulties the two of them had encountered, faced together and surmounted, with the heartbreak caused by Tom's disappearance and presumed death, the destruction of Skerries and the death of his cousin Maeve now all but distant memories and with each passing year fading further into history, Sybil was left wondering just how much better life could possibly be. Had she stopped to think, Sybil might just have recalled that sometimes as flies to wanton boys are we to the gods.
Cricket?
Seated on their mother's bed, Saiorse sighed heavily and now pulled a face akin to the one she normally assumed when Ma made her swallow a dose of cough medicine. Cricket was bad enough but what was even worse was that this afternoon, with Danny and that insufferable boy Robert off enjoying themselves playing cricket with Da and Uncle Matthew, that would mean she herself was left with no-one else to play with except for silly, stupid Simon.
"Darling, I think what Da actually said was he and Uncle Matthew would play cricket with you, if they were back in time to do so. And as for your grandfather, well you know that since last year, he hasn't been very well..."
"Grandps is fine now!" insisted Danny. For a moment, his eyes glistened. He loved his grandfather so very much.
Sybil nodded her head and smiled.
Last year, in the aftermath of her father's heart attack, to Downton at the request of the Crawleys had come Sir Henry Souttar, the eminent surgeon from London. In private he had warned them all that even with a long period of complete rest as prescribed by the local doctor and then no physical exertion whatsoever, nothing could be done; it was only a matter of time. So, although Sybil knew differently from her young son, why, thought she, destroy his boyish belief that his beloved grandfather had made a complete and full recovery?
"Cricket's boring," said Saiorse. She folded her arms and pouted.
"No, it isn't, sis".
"Yes, it is!"
In the distance, through the trees, a plume of white steam pulsed upwards into the still afternoon air and a whistle sounded; followed moments later by the rhythmic exhaust beat of the engine as it began labouring up the 1 in 62 gradient towards Downton Halt.
"Come on, Rob! If we're quick we can give a wave to my Da and your Dad on the 4.30. I'll race you!" shouted Danny joyfully with a backwards grin over his right shoulder.
Close to the edge of the woods, where the trees began to thin, clearly visible ahead of the two carefree, laughing boys, the damp, narrow track wound its way ever onwards, twisting among high banks of fern, across the greensward of the meadow with its carpet of wild flowers and towards the post and wire fence bordering the railway.
Up on the hillside overlooking the line, hidden in the dense bracken, just below Bluebell Wood, alerted to the boys' presence by the sound of their gleeful, treble voices, now, having made one final adjustment to the telescopic sight of his 9mm Mannlicher rifle, the man lay and waited.
Moments later and the shrill blast of the locomotive's whistle served conveniently to mask the sound of the single shot. With blood streaming from his shoulder, young Danny Branson dropped like a stone and sank into unconsciousness.
Cottage Hospital, Downton, Yorkshire, England, July 1929.
"I'm so very sorry... for all you've had to go through. The operation went well. He's young and strong and, given time, he'll make a full recovery," explained the kindly surgeon.
And in that, eventually, he was proved right, although it was several months before Danny regained complete use of his arm. Despite the best efforts of the local police, the whole incident remained a complete mystery. In the end it was put down to a tragic accident. Whoever had pulled the trigger, a poacher seemed the most likely explanation, who was, in all likelihood, singularly unaware of what had happened. The shot must have missed its intended target, ricocheted and hit Danny by mistake. After all, who in their right mind would deliberately target a ten year old boy?
Heidelberg, Baden, Germany, July 1929.
Well pleased with the way everything had gone, Fergal returned safely to Germany, made his report to his superiors in Berlin and, as he had promised, took Margarethe and the children on holiday to Obersalzberg.
Author's Note:
General Kurt Ferdinand Friedrich Hermann von Schleicher (1882-1934) saw military service during the Great War and eventually served as the second to last Chancellor of Germany during the Weimar Republic. With others in the Black Reichswehr, he successfully worked to circumvent the provisions of the Treaty of Versailles which limited the size of Germany's armed forces. In 1934, during the Night of the Long Knives, he was assassinated on the orders of Hitler.
There really was a cargo ship named the SS Ostpreussen. Built in 1920, she was sunk by torpedo, in 1941, off the coast of Norway. Whether she made an unscheduled visit to Cork in the summer of 1929, the records are silent!