Chapter Fifty Three
Death Among The Pines
Florence, Tuscany, Italy, August 1932.
All things considered, there was, decided Fergal, much truth in the old, oft repeated maxim that revenge was was a dish best eaten cold.
Apart from causing utter consternation among the whole family, Mary's accident on the terrace steps of the Villa San Callisto had also been a source of annoyance: to none other than Fergal Branson. This was occasioned by the fact that, until the countess of Grantham was well on the road to making a complete recovery, the Crawleys and, as far as Fergal was concerned, more importantly, the Bransons, all remained sequestered at the villa, save that was for when, quite by chance and at the last minute, Tom had driven Edith down into Florence to the English Church on the Via Maggio, close to the Santa Trinita Bridge.
So, with his man, Luigi, now working as a gardener up at the villa and relaying, on a more or less daily basis, what was happening beyond those high, wrought iron entrance gates, Fergal could do little, except wait. Biding his time to put into effect what he had planned; consoling himself with the fact that the continuing delay meant merely that there was more time to organise matters and therefore far less chance of things going awry and Tom Branson failing to exit this world.
The news that Tom Branson was intending to take his family up into the hills for an afternoon excursion presented Fergal with the opportunity he had been awaiting; this fact having been conveyed, in all innocence, by none other than young Danny Branson who, like his father, being someone who easily made friends, was happy to chat to one and all, including Luigi, the affable, dark haired gardener.
"And, a when a you go?"
"Tomorrow; tomorrow afternoon," explained Danny excitedly; which was how, when the blue Fiat 522L Torpedo Tourer pulled sedately out from the gates leading to the villa and onto the road to Fiesole, Fergal's men were waiting.
Somewhere in the Fiesole Hills, Tuscany, August 1932.
Not only Danny but also Saiorse and little Bobby had been absolutely delighted by the news that, with their beloved Da and Ma, all three of them would be going on an outing up into the hills. After all, back in Ireland, such family excursions, whether to Uncle Ciaran's farm at Clontarf on the north side of Dublin Bay, over to Howth, out to the Hill of Tara, or much further afield, to the Wicklow Mountains, or even the far distant shores of Bantry Bay, always proved such fun. That on this occasion their grandmother would be coming too made things even better.
Below them in the valley of the Arno, the distant domes, towers, terracotta roofs, and honey coloured walls of Florence glistened and shimmered in the afternoon heat haze. Here, somewhere to the north east of Fiesole, with the canvas hood of the rented Fiat still in place so as to protect everyone from the heat of the sun, above the doors the open sides of the motor enabling full advantage to be taken of what little breeze there was, the air was heavy with the scent of hay and herbs.
Midst the constant chirping of the cicadas, weaving its way, among the dark, pencil shaped cypress pines, gnarled olive trees, the golden fields of wheat awash with scarlet poppies, and the rows of neatly ordered vines hanging heavy with grapes, between white dry stone walls, now passing a dilapidated, shuttered farm house, then, to the delight of the children, splashing through a stream, driven expertly by Tom, the powerful blue Fiat Torpedo nosed its way slowly and steadily along the dusty, narrow, twisting road, climbing higher and higher, up into the verdant Tuscan hills.
"What's making that loud noise, Da?" asked Danny leaning out of the car and looking about him.
"Hundreds and hundreds of crickets. What in Italy, they call cicale, cicadas. Not that you can see them from down here but they're up there, in the trees," Tom replied.
"What are crickets, Da?" asked Bobby wide-eyed.
"Insects, Button. A bit like grasshoppers," explained Sybil turning round and chucking him under the chin.
Bobby giggled.
"Sometimes, people keep them in cages as pets".
"Do they really Da?" asked Saiorse.
"Yes, darlin', I believe they do, for sure".
"I think I'd like to keep a cricket," said Saiorse.
"Would you dear?" asked Cora, impulsively hugging her granddaughter to her.
Saiorse nodded her head emphatically.
"Yes, Granny Cora. I'd keep it in a little cage … beside my bed".
"What would you feed it on, sis?" asked Danny.
"Oh, I wouldn't bother about that. I'd call it Robert and let it starve!" offered Saiorse dismissively.
"Why, Saiorse! That's a terrible thing to say!" exclaimed her grandmother, clearly horrified. As a sign of her displeasure, at the same time Cora promptly extricated her arm from around Saiorse's shoulders, thus emphasising her disapproval. In the front of the motor, Tom and Sybil smiled broadly; exchanged knowing glances.
"What about a story Da?" asked Danny.
"You want a story for sure?"
"Yes, please, Da!"
"Very well then. Once upon a time," began Tom. He paused.
"Yes, Da? Once upon a time, what?" asked Bobby excitedly.
"That's a fairy story!" exclaimed Saiorse with a dismissive sniff.
"So what if it is, sis?" asked Danny.
"Fairy stories are for babies". Saiorse closed her eyes, contemplating instead the delightful prospect of Master Robert Crawley confined in a cage and slowly starving to death or else being torn to pieces by wild animals in the amphitheatre which they had seen earlier.
"What about the story, Da?" pleaded Bobby, who loved to have Tom read to him and tell him all manner of tales and stories at bedtime.
"Well, once upon a time there were no cicadas".
"Really, Da?"
"Yes, really".
"And?"
"Well, as I said, once upon a time, there were no cicadas. Then, one day a very beautiful, clever woman was born".
"What was she called, Da?"
"Er …" For a moment, Tom was genuinely flustered. Then, inspiration suddenly dawning, he grinned. "Sybil, for sure!"
"Like Ma?"
"Yes, Bobby, just like your beautiful Ma!"
"Oh!"
Behind them, little Bobby gurgled his obvious delight.
Seated beside her husband, her eyes sparkling, Sybil smiled happily, listening to Tom as once again she heard him weave his magic just as he had done so countless times before; found herself recalling to mind a long gone summer's evening at Downton Abbey when darling Papa had still been alive ...
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, July 1929.
With the younger children long since having been put to bed, having washed and changed into their pyjamas and dressing gowns, both Danny and Robert had come downstairs to the Drawing Room to say goodnight to their parents and grandparents.
"Goodnight then boys..."
With evident reluctance, Danny and Robert had turned to leave the room. Catching sight of their mournful faces, Sybil saw Tom grin as he let the boys reach the door before calling out to them and stopping them in their tracks.
"Did yous think I'd forgotten? Come here and sit down the pair of yous".
Doubtful, the boys had turned back. "I promised to read them a bedtime story". He had shot a questioning look at her; saw her incline her head and smile. Tom had grinned broadly at the boys, then nodded in turn at Danny who scrambled happily onto his Da's lap resting his head comfortably against his father's shoulder. Seeing Robert momentarily hanging back, Tom had patted the sofa beside him whereupon the boy had smiled contentedly and, without further ado, promptly sat down next to his uncle who slipped his arm comfortingly around his nephew's shoulders.
Sybil had watched as her father, moved slowly across the room to stand quietly beside the fireplace next to Matthew, while Cora, Mary and herself all took seats on the sofa, opposite Tom and the boys, everyone waiting for Tom to begin reading.
Seeing the look of anticipation upon their faces,Tom had smiled his endearing lop-sided grin.
"Perhaps I should put my cap down and charge for this for sure!" Tom picked up a book from off the table beside him. At that, Danny's head had 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; looking 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!" had 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 had laughed; 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!" Tom exclaimed with mock indignation.
"Indeed we are!" chuckled Papa.
"Sybil, love, say something!" pleaded Tom.
"Don't go dragging me into this!" She giggled.
"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 Mama.
"As for me, don't even ask!" exclaimed Mary. Sybil saw her shoot a fond glance at her husband. Matthew winked broadly at her and young Robert grinned.
"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!"
At that, Danny and Robert had 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 while outside the darkness drew down, here within all 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 had 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.
She saw her mother was equally entranced, smiling fondly at Tom. Not that Sybil knew it but Cora was thinking back to what Sybil herself had told her, years ago, while Tom 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 was also reflecting on how it was that they had so very nearly 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.
That evening, Mary, too, had been in a contemplative and reflective mood; recalling the evening which followed Tom and Sybil's marriage remembering how he had held his young nephew Padraig spellbound with his story of a dragon called the Dowager Countess 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 broadly and 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. Could life be any any better than this?
Somewhere in the Fiesole Hills, Tuscany, August 1932.
Now, some three years later, here in Italy, up in the hills overlooking Florence, Sybil found her thoughts running along similar lines. What it was that she had ever done to deserve the devoted love of this man, she couldn't say. Nevertheless, she knew instinctively that with all they had experienced together down the years, both the good and the bad, except for that terrible time back in 1921 when she had believed Tom to be dead, murdered by the Tans, Sybil knew she wouldn't have missed any of it for the world. Reaching across she squeezed and patted his thigh. Turning his head, Tom grinned.
"What was that for, darlin'?"
"Does there have to be a reason?"
"No, I suppose not, for sure".
"Just for being you!" Sybil smiled.
"And, Da?" Bobby persisted, desperately wanting to hear what it was that happened next.
"Well, this beautiful, clever woman …"
"Called Sybil," added Bobby helpfully just in case his Da had forgotten.
"Yes, Bobby. She was called Sybil and had the most beautiful singing voice for sure".
Bobby giggled.
"Da, Ma can't sing," said Saiorse flatly.
"Well she can in this story," Tom said, through gritted teeth; he was beginning to wish he had never started with his tale.
"And, Da?" asked Bobby.
"Sybil's singing was so beautiful that even the Gods of Ancient Rome were enchanted".
"It can't have been Ma then, for sure" said Saiorse dismissively. "That ginger cat from next door at home can sing better …"
"Shut it, sis!"
"Any way, Sybil's voice was so beautiful that when she died the world seemed such a sad place without the sweet sound of her singing that every summer the Gods allowed her to return to life as the cicadas just so that her singing could be heard all over again," said Tom. All of what he had left to tell came out in a rush so as to avoid the possibility of any further interruptions.
In the rear of the Fiat, Cora smiled.
While she ought to have known better, for her part, Cora had to admit that so far this afternoon's jaunt had been unlike any other journey she had made by motor and not only on account of her immediate surroundings, beautiful, even breathtaking, though the countryside of Tuscany undoubtedly was. However, given the fact that here she was travelling in the company of Tom and Sybil and sitting seated between their three lively, unpredictable children, she ought to have realised that things might be somewhat different. On the few occasions she had joined Matthew and Mary in the Rolls with their three children, the chauffeur driven journey to wherever it was they had been bound, was accomplished just as sedately as this afternoon's outing but with the Crawley children all on their very best behaviour and sitting bolt upright on the back seat of the motor. This afternoon, here in the Fiat, things were turning out to be decidedly less decorous.
"Talking of singing, what about a sing-song everybody?" Tom suggested.
"What shall we sing Da?" chorused the three children excitedly.
"Let's ask Ma!"
"Let's not!" replied Sybil.
"Oh Ma, please!" wheedled Bobby.
"According to your sister back there, I can't sing a note, so count me out, for sure!"
"Oh, Ma, please. Saiorse didn't mean it. Any of it! Did you sis?" cried Danny.
Saiorse herself said nothing.
With another grin, Tom glanced sideways at Sybil.
"Well, don't look at me, Mr. Branson. It was you that suggested it".
Tom chuckled.
"Very well then. I know.
"I'll sing you one, O"
Immediately the three children and Sybil, whose singing voice, despite Saiorse's criticism was more than adequate, joined in resoundingly with the next line:
"Green grow the rushes, O"
To which Tom responded with:
"What is your one, O?"
Sybil, Danny, Saiorse and Bobby came back with:
"One is one and all alone and evermore shall be"
To which Tom, possessed of a striking tenor, replied:
"I'll sing you two, O"
Sybil, Danny, Saiorse and Bobby responded promptly with:
"Two, two the lily white boys
Clothèd all in green, O, O"
And so, as the Fiat Tourer climbed into the hills, the song continued, all the way through the twelve verses and responses of Green Grow The Rushes, with the happy occupants of the motor singing along at the tops of their voices, and drawing curious looks from those they happened to pass along the road. Much to the delight of her grandchildren, even Cora joined in singing; hesitantly and self consciously at first, but then with ever increasing confidence.
With the song at last ended, bright eyed, their faces flushed, everyone now fell silent. As she sat back, Cora now found herself in a contemplative mood and fell to considering. The exchanges she had both overheard and witnessed at first hand, between her youngest daughter and her Irish son-in-law, as well as their loving and open relationship with their three children were much more natural, far less guarded, and certainly far more spontaneous than those which, at least in company, she had seen pass between Matthew, Mary and their offspring. Cora found herself falling to wonder about her prospective Austrian son-in-law, Friedrich and Edith. Somehow, from what she had observed of them so far, in the admittedly short time that she had seen them together with their darling little boy, young Max, the Dowager Countess of Grantham imagined that in their relationship they were rather more akin to that which existed between darling Tom and Sybil.
Young Max.
Despite his less than perfect English and with her German being non existent, Cora had found him delightful; such a happy little boy who obviously delighted in the company of his new found cousins, especially Danny and Robert. On reflection, from what Cora herself had learned, that, of course, was only to be expected. With, as yet, no brothers or sisters, like his own mother, very soon, Cora had realised that what her Austrian grandson wanted most of all was friends with whom he could play.
Understandably, Edith, and to a lesser extent Friedrich too, was extremely nervous of all such encounters, watching her young son like a hawk so as to lessen the chance of an accident. And, given what had happened to Max on the steps at the villa, Cora acknowledged that such watchfulness on the part of Edith was by no means misplaced. An accident, could so easily happen; something which, in any other child not afflicted by the disease from which young Max suffered, would cause no more than passing concern; perhaps a bumped or scraped knee or a knocked elbow but which in Max could lead to all kinds of awful complications as well as excruciating pain, injections of morphine. Perhaps even a lengthy, equally painful blood transfusion, and long, enforced periods of bed rest. Thank God both Mary and Max had escaped relatively unscathed from what had happened to the both of them down there on the terrace steps; he with some bruising which, this time, had caused him no further problems and she with concussion and a badly cut head; both exceedingly unpleasant but it could all have been so much worse.
Yet sadly, none of this altered what was more than likely to happen to dear little Max in the future.
Naturally, Cora had been devastated to learn of Max's haemophilia, the more so when she learned too that in all likelihood he would be lucky to survive beyond twenty. Of course there were instances of where, against all the odds, boys with the illness survived the dangerous years of childhood to lead more or less normal lives but they were in the minority.
And, despite all the advances in medicine, it seemed unbelievable that there was neither a cure nor any effective treatment. Not that Cora had been able to shed any light on why Edith herself was … How had she and Sybil described it? Oh, yes. A carrier. That was the word Sybil had used.
And, there was nothing in her own medical history to suggest that she herself was in any way to blame for what had occurred. There were, to the best of her knowledge, no previous cases of it recorded in the Levinson family. The only explanation seemed to be what Sybil had described as an otherwise, inexplicable change in Edith herself as she had grown to womanhood and which as his mother made Edith feel even more responsible for all the suffering young Max endured.
Fiesole, Tuscany, August 1932.
Earlier that afternoon, shortly after leaving the villa, they had stopped for a while in Fiesole, in order to buy ice creams for all the children and also for Tom, with his love of all things historical, to inspect the ruins of the nearby Roman amphitheatre cut into the hillside below, Tom parking the motor close to the cathedral.
In the warm afternoon sunshine, the ancient hilltop town looked especially picturesque; a riot of old buildings, built of honey coloured stone nestling below roofs of terracotta tiles, the houses shuttered against the heat, many covered with vines, linked by a maze of narrow, steeply winding streets, quiet squares and flights of steps. And, in whichever direction one looked, there were breathtaking views, either of Florence or else the surrounding Tuscan countryside. However, for Tom, the icing on the cake was when, with Danny, having wandered into the cool interior of the cathedral, from a helpful Italian priest Tom had learned that, centuries ago, an Irishman, St. Donatus, had been Bishop of Fiesole.
"The best of them all, for sure!" chuckled a delighted Tom, winking broadly, his arm around Danny's shoulders, as they both came out into the little sunlit square beside the cathedral before, with the rest of the family, then wandering over to view the remains of the old amphitheatre.
"For sure, Da!" echoed Danny.
While Cora, Tom, Danny and Saiorse made their way down to the centre of the ancient theatre, the two children skipping on ahead of their father and grandmother, along with young Bobby, Sybil remained seated at the top of the steps.
Down below, as might have been expected Tom proved to be a knowledgeable guide, regaling his captive audience with what he hoped were interesting pieces of information. Cora was politely attentive, while Danny, whose own fascination with history was no less than that of his father, was enthralled, in awe of his Da's seemingly endless store of knowledge. As for Saiorse, the only thing which seemed to interest her was when Da made mention of the fact that once fights to the death had been staged here between men and wild beasts.
"Just men, Da? Or boys as well?"
"Just men, I think, darlin'".
"Oh!" Saiorse sounded thoroughly disappointed.
Sitting in the afternoon sunshine, on the warm stones of the ancient theatre, with her arm placed protectively around young Bobby's shoulders, as with gusto the little boy applied himself to his ice cream cornet, Sybil was reflecting contentedly on just how lucky she and Tom had been. She found herself wondering just how much better for them life could be, given what they enjoyed already. With Tom, who she loved beyond measure, she had a marriage that had proved to be everything and more than Sybil could ever have wanted. For his part, Tom had proved himself to be a devoted, loving husband, an attentive lover, as well as a wonderful father who, by his own admission, "loved being a Da for sure!"
Danny, Saiorse and Bobby.
Three beautiful and healthy children.
Thank God that her fears over her own and Bobby's nosebleeds had been entirely misplaced and were nothing at all to do with what, since she had met Max and then learned from Edith of what was wrong with him, Sybil had feared might well be the cause.
And now, here she was with another child on the way!
Although to be scrupulously truthful, with Danny and Saiorse growing up fast, and eventually little Bobby too, while Sybil adored all three of their children, a small, inner selfish part of her cried out against the prospect of another child; rebelled against the demands he - Sybil was convinced it would be another boy - would make upon her time. For, as the children grew older, she had been looking forward to her and Tom being able to spend more time together.
In eight years time, in 1940, another decade would have begun; Danny would have turned twenty, Saiorse nineteen, Bobby, bless him, would be thirteen, and the child she was now carrying would be seven, going on eight. Not much older than darling Bobby was now. Impulsively, she hugged her youngest to her. Of the three children, Bobby was the most like Tom in looks. Sybil turned her head and smiled down at the little boy, still enjoying his ice cream.
Bobby beamed up at his Ma; his small mouth circled with chocolate.
"Look at you! Is it good?"
Bobby nodded his head.
"It is, Ma, for sure!"
"Well, after you've finished, darling, it'll be over to that fountain we saw, near where Da parked the motor, so I can wash your face and hands!"
Unabashed, young Bobby shook his head and giggled while Sybil proceeded to take several photographs both of the ruins and of her mother, of Tom, Danny and Saiorse all standing down in the middle of the amphitheatre. Setting down her camera, Sybil saw that Danny and Saiorse were now running back up to where she and Bobby were seated, leaving both their grandmother and father down below, with Tom, who was busily pointing this way and that, still engaged in explaining something about the history of the ancient place to her mother. Not that Mama was especially interested in ancient history but Sybil could see that her mother was doing her very best to follow Tom's evidently detailed and enthusiastic explanations, now saw him offer her his arm, as, with Tom still talking, they walked together over towards a broken archway.
In the middle of the amphitheatre, arm in arm, Tom and his mother-in-law continued contentedly with their stroll around the ruins in the afternoon sunshine, although, for the present, Tom thought Cora uncharacteristically quiet.
"I hope I haven't bored you. Sometimes I get a bit carried away for sure!" Tom grinned.
"No, not at all".
"Then ... penny for them?" asked Tom at length.
"Darling Tom. They're not worth even that". His mother-in-law patted his arm gently.
"Maybe. But it's not like you to be so quiet!"
"Well, if you must know, I was just thinking ..."
"About what?"
"Something Sybil once told me, after you vanished, when she was back and living at Downton ..."
"And?" Tom sounded decidedly intrigued.
"How much she adores you, how much the two of you love each other. Thank you, darling Tom, from the bottom of my heart, for everything you have been and are to Sybil".
Tom blushed.
"It's no more than she deserves, I assure you," he said softly. "Sybil and our children are my life. And talking of the children ... I think ... it's time we were off". Tom pointed to Sybil who was beckoning to them from where she was seated.
A moment later and still arm-in-arm, Tom and Cra began their slow ascent of the steps of the ruined amphitheatre. As they did so, while Cora had no intention of betraying a confidence, she was remembering vividly those revealing fireside chats between her and her youngest daughter which had taken place back in the spring of 1921.
The picture that Sybil had painted to her mother of her and Tom's relationship was of a couple who were ideally suited, who trusted each other implicitly and who were absolutely devoted to each other. That Tom loved Sybil deeply and that she in turn adored him, that they were pledged to each other, heart and soul, and that also they shared an intense physical need of each other. That Tom had but to smile at her, even just to glance at her across a crowded room and Sybil would find herself suffused with an irresistible desire for him, a passion that was, at times overwhelming and something which she could never see changing, even as they grew old.
"Was this how it was for you and Papa?" had asked Sybil softly as, having crossed the room to check on little Danny, she returned to sit by the fire. In the quiet of the lamp lit bedroom, Cora had stared intently into the flames for a few moments before replying. She lifted her head and then ghosted a smile.
"Don't embarrass me …" Then, quite unexpectedly, she stopped what she had been about to say; instead looked directly at her youngest daughter. Sybil had been candid with her and she deserved an honest answer in return.
"That part of our marriage, has always been… satisfactory but have either your Papa or I ever experienced the depth of feelings for each other that you and Tom share?" She gently shook her head. "No, never but then I suspect that very few couples are as blest as the two of you have been".
Somewhere in the Fiesole Hills, Tuscany, August 1932.
Some time later, Tom brought the Fiat to a stop in a shady grove beside the road and everyone climbed out of the motor. Below them, and inviting exploration, certainly as far as the children were concerned, a narrow path led downwards through the cypress pines, towards where a babbling stream trilled its way through the wood.
At length, reaching the stream, grateful to escape the heat of the afternoon, Cora, Tom and Sybil seated themselves on a large flat rock while, slipping off their shoes and socks, the children all went paddling in the stream, with Danny and Bobby soon busily occupied in building a small makeshift dam out of pebbles and stones.
"Does it remind you of anywhere?" asked Tom sitting beside Sybil, his head resting on her shoulder while they watched the children playing happily in the stream.
Sybil looked about her; saw where sunlight glinted off the water as it trickled over a worn lip of rock, spilled in a small waterfall, splashing down into a small pool, before babbling onwards between moss encrusted rocks.
"Of course: the Rainbow Pool!"
A soft look passed between them.
A moment later and Tom was on his feet, holding out his hand.
"Come," he said quietly.
"Mama, will you be all right, if Tom and I go for a walk?" asked Sybil, now also rising to her feet.
"Of course". Cora smiled up at them.
"Where are you going Ma?" asked Saiorse from the stream.
"Just for a walk," said Tom.
"We won't be long".
"Can we come too?" asked Bpbby.
"Darling, why don't you come and sit by me and I'll tell you a story," suggested Cora brightly. At the delightful prospect of yet another story, two in a single afternoon, Bobby needed no second bidding. Leaving Danny and Saiorse still building the dam, he trotted happily over to where his grandmother was sitting and sat himself down. "Go on, you two". Cora nodded. "Now, once upon a time ..."
Unobserved, on the road up above, the motor with the two men in it pulled to a stop behind the blue Fiat.
Across the stream, then still following the winding, narrow path, hand in hand, Tom and Sybil set off slowly through the trees, towards a distant patch of sunlight. After a short while, the path began to rise and at length, they found themselves on the edge of the wood, looking down on a sunlit field of barley.
Still hand in hand, they wandered slowly down through the sea of gently waving, waist high stalks, the field awash with wild flowers. In the middle of the field they paused, to take in the view. Above them, with not a cloud to be seen, the sky was a vivid blue while spread out before them in the middle distance, the domes and towers of Florence glistened in the afternoon sunshine.
"Matthew told me that, according to Forster, there is something in the Italian landscape that lends itself to romance," said Tom softly.
"Seeing all of this, I can well believe it". Sybil turned her head, to see Tom gazing at her.
"Sybil, darlin', I absolutely adore you!"
"Then, show me," she said huskily.
At her invitation, but a moment later Tom had her in his arms, his lips hard upon hers, kissing her with a passion that surprised them both, before the two of them drifted down, lost to sight from prying eyes, among the ever wavering sea of barley.
"Now, is everybody in?" called Tom cheerfully.
"Yes, Da!" chorused the children happily from the back seat.
"Where's your Ma?"
"She's beside you Da!"
"Ah! So she is!"
It was a game they often played.
"Right!"
Tom released the handbrake and the Fiat moved smartly off along the winding road which now led ever downwards, wending its way through a dark mass of tall cypress trees while, some distance behind them, unheard by the occupants of the Fiat, a single shot rang out.
A short while later, approaching a bend in the road, Tom depressed the brake pedal but nothing happened. He repeated the procedure once again, to find that there was no lessening in the speed of the motor and it was only thanks to his excellent skills as a driver that he managed to steer the motor through the ever tightening curvature of the bend.
"Darling ..."
"I know ..."
The road bore sharply to the left.
Tom slowly depressed the brake pedal once again.
"Tom! I told you! Please! The children! Slow down!"
"I'm trying to ... "
Sybil caught an unexpected intonation in Tom's voice; something which she had never heard before: that of naked fear.
"Darling, what on earth is it?"
"The brakes ... they don't seem to be ..."
Another bend in the road, this time to the right. Then, almost immediately, another to the left.
Again Tom managed to steer the Fiat through the two bends but with difficulty, the wheels of the car screeching their protest, while a cloud of dust, earth, and stones shot over the edge of the road into the tops of the trees below.
"Wheee!" called Bobby excitedly, seated in the middle of the back seat between his grandmother and brother and understandably unaware of what was now happening.
"Da?" called Danny. Seated on the same side and behind his father, Danny was only too well aware just how close to the edge of the road and disaster the speeding car had come.
Sybil turned in her seat, aware that the motor was still gathering speed.
"It's all right, darling". She saw Danny looked ashen. He was holding tightly onto the back of his father's seat with both hands; of the three children, old enough to realise that something was wrong and seriously so. Sybil caught sight of her mother, clearly frightened, her arms clasped tightly around both Bobby and Saiorse, clutching them to her, trying to calm their fears.
"What is it? What's wrong? Why doesn't Tom slow down?" asked Cora trying to keep her voice neutral.
"He can't. He says ... there's something wrong ... the brakes ..."
The Fiat slewed hard into yet another bend, this time, the side of the motor scraping the face of the rock with a sickening rending of metal. Bobby was violently sick, Saiorse screamed, and Sybil clutching at the door of the car, lost her hat. Sensing that something was wrong, that this was no longer a game, not of course that it ever had been, the three children began to sob inconsolably.
Doing his very best to ignore the cries and screams of his family, his hands clenched tightly round the steering wheel, his knuckles white, Tom did everything he could to keep control of the careering motor. Yet, on a steep downhill gradient, the speed of the runaway continued to increase, Tom praying fervently that there was nothing climbing up the hill from the other direction; the unbroken stone walls and thickly crowding pine trees on either side making it impossible for him to even risk attempting to try and turn off the road.
Then suddenly they were at the foot of the hill, racing out of the pine trees, and onto the plain. Fields, a farmhouse, a chapel, its bell tolling dolefully, all flashed past in a blur.
And then, ahead of them, Tom saw it, and breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief.
At last!
A rising gradient.
Which would help lessen the speed of the careering runaway.
Then, at the top of the rise, Tom saw also, signs indicating the existence of a level crossing.
A moment later and there came the ear splitting shriek of a whistle.
Away to his right, close at hand, just across the fields, Tom saw a thick black plume of smoke.
Which could mean only one thing.
A train was approaching.
At last, the powerful Fiat was beginning to slow down but was still closing fast upon the level crossing.
So too was the train.
The engine loomed large.
A collision was inevitable.
Author's Note:
Green Grow The Rushes, O is a very old English folk song of which there are several versions. The meanings behind some of the lyrics, most of which seem to have a Christian origin, in some cases are disputed.
St. Donatus, an Irishman, was indeed Bishop of Fiesole (c. 829-876).