Chapter Thirty Four
A Scrap Of Silk
"As the train approaches Aix-les-Bains from the north, it passes through a series of several short tunnels, the railway line now running along the eastern shore of the Lac du Bourget the deepest lake in France, the northern end of which drains into the River Rhone. From the comfort of their train, passengers are thus afforded views of unparalleled natural magnificence and mountain splendour. Likewise situated on the eastern side of the lake, nestling in the foothills of the Alps, the refined spa town of Aix-les-Bains lies at an altitude of just over 800 feet. The medicinal properties of its thermal baths have been known since Roman times and in the nineteenth century the town welcomed the likes of Queen Victoria, Napoleon III and John Pierpont Morgan".
However, while the above description is indeed true enough, in the summer of 1932, in the early hours of that July morning, on board the luxuriously appointed carriages of the Rome Express, the handful of passengers who had been awoken by their train drawing to a sudden and unexpected stop, several miles to the north of both Aix-les-Bains and its beautiful alpine lake, would have seen nothing of the natural wonders of the region so extolled in guidebooks produced both by Baedeker of Leipzig and also by other travel publishers. And, even if they had taken the trouble to peer beyond the curtained windows of their sleeping compartments, at the very most all that those self-same passengers would have glimpsed would have been the shadowy outlines of the rapidly approaching Alps.
There was the long mournful shriek of a whistle, followed by a sudden hiss of escaping steam, while outside their window several pairs of footsteps crunched noisily on the ballast. A moment later and the catch to the door of Tom and Sybil's compartment snicked up; the harsh glare of electric light flooded in from the corridor and, his dark hair tousled, barefoot, dressed in vest and pyjama bottoms, Danny Branson now bounded into his parents' darkened compartment.
Visible over his shoulder, behind him in the corridor his cousin, fair-haired Robert Crawley hung back in the doorway; stood watching from the shadows, momentarily unsure as to whether he really should follow Danny into his parents' sleeping compartment. At Downton he had been taught that the inviolability of his own parents' bedroom was sacrosanct, strictly out-of-bounds to all the Crawley children unless they were invited in by either Papa or Mama; a prohibition which applied even on their birthdays and at Christmas.
"Da, da! Wake up! Wake up! Uncle Matthew says that someone's tried to blow up the train!"
Hastily flicking on the nearby light switch, Tom scrambled quickly out of bed, while, equally startled, Sybil sat up in bed clutching the bedclothes tightly to her to hide her nakedness.
"Danny! What the...? Now, calm down, son! What on earth are you talkin' about? Blow up this train? Who has?" Tom placed his hands on Danny's young shoulders, looked questioningly down at his elder son.
"It's true Uncle Tom! Really!" called Robert excitedly from the doorway; pyjama clad, his hair equally tousled. A moment later Matthew himself appeared, neatly groomed as always, clad in a silk dressing gown, pyjamas and slippers. The earl of Grantham nodded his head, smiled and quickly averted his eyes from the sight of his sister-in law's all-too-obvious state of déshabillé.
"According to what the steward was telling me a few minutes ago, believe it or not, that's exactly what's happened". Matthew nodded his head again, placed his hands on Robert's shoulders, spun the startled boy about to face him, in part to spare Sybil yet further embarrassment. "And just what are you doing out of bed, my lad?"
"I, well... er... Danny came in here, father, and I... well, I just sort of... followed him". Matthew smiled down fondly at his son. Wherever his young nephew Danny went then Matthew could be sure of one thing: that his son Robert would not be far behind, trailing devotedly after his cousin, not that there was anything in any sense soft about Robert.
"But who... why... ?" began Tom.
"As to who, or why, well old chap, the possibilities are endless. Anarchists, Communists, Fascists or another nut case like the maniac who derailed the Orient Express in Hungary last year. The main thing is there's only a small amount of damage, apparently to a bridge just up ahead. The steward assures me that we will all be under way as soon as possible".
"But what on earth for? Derailing a train? Killing innocent men, women and children? Sweet Jaysus! Why, I saw enough of that in Ireland to last me a lifetime. And what does that achieve, Matthew? Any of it?"
Tom's series of rapidly fired questions were briefly muffled by the fabric of his vest as, suddenly acutely conscious that he was half-naked, casting around and having at last having found the misplaced garment, he now quickly pulled it on over his head, then slipped his arm protectively about his son.
For his part, Danny's alert blue eyes had missed nothing; flicking briefly from his father's half-naked torso, then to his mother who flushed scarlet under her twelve-year-old son's momentary, guileless, open gaze, and then back again to his father. There was, thought Sybil smiling ruefully and hugging the bedclothes around herself even more tightly than before, a price to be paid for everything; most certainly for honesty and sometimes even for innocence.
"Da, da! Can we go and see? Please?" Danny wheedled coaxingly. Tom grinned pulled Danny closer to him, chuckled at his son's youthful exuberance, ruffled the boy's dark hair fondly; shook his head.
"May we, Papa?" asked Robert just as enthusiastically.
"I don't think that's really a very good idea, son". Tom shook his head at Danny.
Along with Robert, Danny looked crestfallen. Behind them, Matthew smiled fondly at the two boys, first at Robert and then at his nephew; a moment later his knowing eyes met Tom's over the heads of their two sons.
"I think it's for the best if, as Uncle Tom says, we all stay on the train". Matthew nodded towards the window. "Besides, it's still dark outside. There won't be anything to see. And, anyway, like as not, we'll be under way again in a jiffy".
Then, from somewhere in the cloying blackness just beyond the carriage window and close at hand, there came a series of excited shouts in French, which in turn were followed by the unmistakable sounds of a short scuffle. A few moments passed and then, as if to prove the veracity of Matthew's own words, but a minute or two later there came another long blast on the engine's whistle, a slight jolt and the train began to move slowly forward at the proverbial pace of a snail. Matthew smiled again.
"There now! What did I tell you?"
"C'mon the two of you; back to bed and let's all of us try and get some more sleep. You'll both be tired come morning" admonished Tom gently.
It was at this point that, equally unexpectedly, Saiorse now appeared in the doorway of the compartment. Barefoot and dressed in nothing but her nightgown, she stretched and yawned in a most unladylike fashion.
"You two make more noise than a herd of elephants!" She scowled angrily at Robert.
"There's a bomb, on the line, sis…" began Danny excitedly.
"It's true" added Robert, nodding his head in confirmation of what Danny had just said.
"Really? Well ,when it goes off just make sure you're sitting right on top of it!" Saiorse scowled again at Robert, but from her tone, it was also obvious that she was decidedly uninterested in what either her brother or her cousin, especially her cousin, had to relate. She yawned once again.
"Saiorse! For goodness' sake, do please put your hand across your mouth when you yawn! And what's that you're wearing on your head?" asked Sybil peremptorily.
Saiorse flushed; recognised that particular tone of her mother's. It was the one that usually betokened a sound telling-off.
"What? This?" she asked evasively. Nonchalantly Saiorse twirled the end of a piece of floral patterned silk, now tied about her head in the form of a makeshift scarf. "It's pretty, isn't it, Ma?"
"Yes, that!" For the moment, Sybil chose to disregard her daughter's observation on the prettiness or otherwise of the improvised head scarf.
"Oh! I just found it". She smiled.
"And where did you just find it?"
"Out there, in the corridor". "
"In the corridor?" repeated Sybil lamely.
Saiorse nodded her head.
"Where exactly?"
"Up at the far end of the coach. Near the bathroom. Just by that empty compartment. I think someone's been in there" said Saiorse knowingly. She smiled.
"In where?"
Saiorse seemed not to have heard her mother's question.
"It's ever so pretty, isn't it, Ma? I think it's Aunt Edith's".
"What do you mean, someone's been in there?" repeated Sybil.
"Well, I'd rather not say…" began Saiorse evasively.
"I suggest you do, young lady".
Saiorse looked down at the floor.
"You won't find the answer you're looking for down there!" flared Sybil crossly.
"I'll help Matthew see the boys back to bed" said Tom.
"Matthew can do that perfectly well by himself. He doesn't need you to nursemaid him" snapped Sybil tartly.
In all the years he had known the two of them, never once had Matthew ever heard Sybil speak thus to Tom. Of course, from his long fireside chats with his brother-in-law both during and after their interminable games of billiards up at the house, or else at the Grantham Arms down in the village, he knew the two of them had their moments; had their arguments. After all, what couple didn't?
As Matthew had freely admitted to Tom, and on more than one occasion, over the years, both he and Mary had their own fair share of spats. And who would understand that better than dearest Tom? After all, each of them had married a Crawley girl, which in itself spoke volumes. As Matthew could attest, Mary on the warpath was not a force to be trifled with, and from what Tom had told him, Matthew knew that darling Sybil, for all her undoubted gentleness and sweetness of spirit, was cast in very much the same mould as her eldest sister. Obviously he did not know about Edith, but both Tom and Matthew suspected that she too had her moments.
For all his bluster, dear old Robert had been a gentle soul, his bark far worse than his bite, and in his later years as putty in the hands of both his daughters and all his grandchildren. So, quite how it was that both he and Cora, who was kindness itself, had between them managed to produce such a trio of firebrands remained an utter mystery, both to Matthew and to Tom. Perhaps the fiery Crawley temper had skipped a generation from a haughty, imperious grandmother to, on occasions, equally haughty, imperious grand daughters.
However, this time, sensing instinctively, that something was seriously wrong between Tom and Sybil, feeling very much in the way, deciding discretion was indeed the better part of valour, Matthew now said nothing. Instead, he simply nodded his head, looked sorrowfully first at Sybil and then at Tom; hoped in his heart most fervently that this contretemps, whatever it was that had occasioned it, would blow over as quickly as a passing summer storm. He had never ever met two people more in love than Tom and Sybil; he and Mary included.
"C'mon boys, now back to bed" drawled Matthew affably. "Yes, yes, you can tell me your theories about foreign agents and spies, but only when you're back in bed" he added in answer to the two boys now beginning simultaneously to voice their own ideas about just who might have been responsible for placing the bomb on the line. So saying, and without further ado, Matthew shepherded Danny and Robert hastily out through the open door and along the corridor.
"Well, I'm waiting" said Sybil flatly.
Saiorse shifted on her feet.
"The bed's all messed up" she said quietly, still looking down at the floor.
"What bed?"
"In the empty compartment".
"And just how do you know the bed in there's all messed up?"
"I saw" said Saiorse laconically.
"Saw what?"
Sybil heard Tom gasp audibly; chose for the moment simply to ignore it.
"What did you see? How did you see?" she demanded.
Saiorse glanced nervously at her father.
"Don't look at your Da! Look at me!"
"The door came open" said Saiorse just as curtly.
"And you say that's your Aunt Edith's?" Sybil pointed again to the piece of silk on her daughter's head.
Saiorse nodded in agreement.
"Your Aunt Edith's?" repeated Sybil woodenly.
Saiorse nodded her head vigorously.
"She won't mind, Ma. I'll give it her back in the morning" her daughter added brightly.
"There's no need" said Edith appearing in the open doorway. "I was wondering where on earth it had gone".
Saiorse smiled happily, quickly untied the creased, makeshift scarf from around her head, and then handed it over to her aunt. Likewise smiling, Edith knotted the sash of her brightly patterned kimono about her waist.
"Oh, Miss Saiorse! Why, there you are!" A clearly exasperated Nanny Bridges now appeared out in the corridor just behind Edith.
"I'm so very sorry Mr. Branson… Mrs. Branson. Lady Edith asked that I keep an eye on her poor boy while she went..." The portly woman flushed red; looked distinctly embarrassed.
"It's quite all right" said Tom.
"Nanny, would you please be good enough to escort Miss Saiorse back to bed" observed Sybil coldly.
Ignoring the curtness of his wife's tone, Tom smiled fondly at his daughter.
"Off to bed now darlin'" He smiled again. At that, Saiorse reached up and kissed her beloved father lightly on his cheek. A moment later and in the company of Nanny, she too had left the compartment.
"Well?" asked Sybil, who had now slipped on her nightgown and had clambered out of bed. She stood squarely facing Tom and Edith, her hands laced together and placed protectively over her belly.
"Well what?" asked Tom now closing the door to the compartment firmly behind him.
"Don't you play games with me, Tom Branson!" flared Sybil. "I tell you we're expecting another child, and now this!"
"You're pregnant? This?" asked Edith in genuine wonderment. "Sybil, darling, why that's absolutely marvel…"
"Don't you Sybil darling me!"
"Sybil, love. Please, please be careful" pleaded Tom, sensing where this conversation might now be heading.
Sybil took no notice whatsoever; chose instead to disregard her husband's veiled warning.
"Well?"
"It isn't what you think…" began Edith, but then seeing the look of mute rage upon her sister's face, she recoiled, stopped what she was saying; instead, fell silent.
"Isn't it? And just what do I think, Edith? You tell me! Answer me that!My own husband disappears off into the night to God knows where… and then I find he's been seeing another woman… who just also happens to be my own sister! What were you doing for him this time? Translating the breakfast menu?" she demanded scornfully.
"Sybil!"
Tom blanched. He sounded absolutely horrified, while Edith looked utterly aghast at both her sister and brother-in-law.
"Well?"
Tom and Edith shifted uneasily on their feet, while Tom himself looked down at the floor just as but a short while ago Saiorse herself had done.
"I'm so very, very sorry, Edith" he said at last, now meeting her steadfast gaze.
"It's all right, Tom. Really it is. We both knew this might happen…" began Edith hesitantly. "Perhaps it's for the best if we tell her what…"
"You're bloody right, Edith! It damned well is!" flared Sybil.
"Darlin', I can explain…"
"Can you, Tom? Can you really?" Sybil's blue grey eyes smouldered. Her furious gaze flashed from Tom, to Edith, and then back to her husband. "Well then, tell me, both of you, just what the bloody hell is going on! I've a right to know!"
"Yes" said Tom softly. "I suppose you do".
"Well, I'm waiting…"
"Sybil, darlin' please, I'd give anything not to have upset…" Edith smiled weakly at Sybil. Then, she reached out her hand; not, as might have been expected towards her sister, but instead to Tom, who took it, enfolded it in his own. He smiled gently at her; turned back to Sybil.
"This, my darlin', is something neither of us wanted to have to tell you".
Author's Note:
From the nineteenth century onwards, the detailed travel guides produced to numerous cities and countries by the then Leipzig based publishing house of Baedeker became world famous. The golden age of the company really ended with the outbreak of the First World War. However, the guides are still being produced today and cover most of the world's popular tourist destinations.
The spectacular derailment of the Orient Express, as referred to in passing by Matthew, did actually happen when, in September 1931, a Hungarian mass murderer by the name of Szilveszter Matuska blew up a railway bridge west of Budapest and just ahead of the fast approaching world-famous express. In the ensuing crash, which saw most of the train topple into a ravine, 22 passengers were killed and 120 injured. Matuska's motives remain a mystery although he is said to have told the police that he derailed trains because he liked to see people die and hear them scream. Clearly homicidal maniacs are not just the preserve of the twenty-first century!