Chapter Fifty Four
Of Gods And Men
Villa San Callisto, Fiesole, August 1932, the previous evening.
Happiness is a dangerous thing; it can blind one to lengthening shadows, even to impending disaster and which, perhaps one might otherwise have seen.
Seated at her dressing table, behind her, reflected in the ornate mirror, Sybil saw little Bobby, sitting cross-legged on the bed, playing contentedly with his wooden dragon puppet. It had arrived yesterday morning, in time for his sixth birthday, sent up from the toy shop on the Por Santa Maria close to the Ponte Vecchio. Sybil smiled and, at the sight of the bed, Sybil's smile deepened into a wide grin. It was there, after making love the previous evening, in the stillness of the summer's night that she had lain happy and content, then fallen asleep, safe and secure in Tom's strong arms. Sitting in front of her dressing table, Sybil found that she had but to close her eyes and she could imagine she was in his arms once more, delighting in his tender, loving maleness.
After some thirteen years of marriage, three children, and with a new baby due early next year, how much she enjoyed being Tom's wife, how she revelled in his unfailing adoration of her, was something which Sybil still found difficult to put into words. All she knew was that, more often that not, it took nothing more than a simple look from Tom, a single word, a gentle caress, and she was consumed with desire for him, as indeed had been the case last night, whilst they were at dinner; knew too that as soon as they were alone and Tom touched her, and in ways which he knew were calculated to give her the most pleasure, her need for him would become overpowering. And when that happened, Sybil would have been the first to admit that as Tom began to possess her, she freely threw caution to the winds, caring little for propriety or what would have been thought proper, writhing beneath him, crying out his name, as she gave in to the gratification of her own sexual desires. Perhaps that explained why, out on the terrace, earlier today, after breakfast, when Tom and Matthew had been discussing how they would all spend the day, Mary had given her that knowing smile and suggested that perhaps some of them might prefer instead to have a restful day.
Sybil thought that on the whole the passing years had been kind;not only to Tom but also to herself. Continuing to gaze at her reflection in the mirror, she was well satisfied with what she saw. True, there was the odd fleck of grey in her hair but her breasts were still firm, her legs long and shapely, and her body supple. Three pregnancies had resulted in a slight thickening of her waist; at least, she thought so. Unsurprisingly, Tom disagreed. So, when she had casually mentioned the matter to him once again last night when they were in bed, as he was gently nudging her legs apart, he told her that she was imagining it; that she looked no different to him from the girl he had married back in June 1919, which had led Sybil to tweak his left nipple and ask him if he was implying that secretly he had always thought her to be fat.
"Well, darlin," chuckled Tom, beginning to kiss her neck, making her giggle, "compared to your sisters, now you come to mention it …"
Feigning mock outrage, Sybil responded by beginning to tickle his sides mercilessly, causing Tom to yelp out loud and roll away before, mindful of the baby, just as swiftly rolling gently back on top of her, pining her hands firmly beneath his own. What he did next left Sybil in no doubt whatsoever that, as Tom said, whatever she herself might think, she was just as beautiful and desirable as she had been on their wedding day. At this delicious remembrance, Sybil smiled once more. Tonight she would see to it that Tom was amply rewarded for his kind words. She would hold nothing back; she would do whatever came into her head, however wanton, perhaps even …
The door flew open, banged back hard against the stone wall, and, waling like a banshee, with the full force of an autumn gale blowing into Blackrock from off the Irish Sea, an angry, tearful Saiorse stormed unexpectedly into the bedroom
"Oh, Ma!" she cried.
"Saiorse, darling, whatever is it?" asked Sybil, the sudden appearance of her daughter serving to jolt her back harshly to reality.
"It's just not fair!"
"What isn't?"
"Look, Ma! Look sis! I can make him walk!" Completely oblivious to Saiorse's tears, little Bobby raised his head to see if he had the full attention of both his mother and his sister. Satisfied that he had, Bobby proceeded to work the strings, and the dragon jerked his way along the floor, his black felt wings flapping and his head nodding from side to side.
Watching from her dressing table, Sybil laughed and clapped her hands delightedly.
"Why, so you can, darling! How clever of you! Does he have a name yet?"
Bobby grinned and nodded his head excitedly.
"Da said I should call him Paiste, like the one in the story he read to me last night about St. Murrough. Sis! Will yous look at my dragon for sure! He's making a bow!"
Saiorse spun on her heel and momentarily vented her annoyance on her hapless younger brother.
"Puppets are silly! They're for babies, stupid!"
Now just all of six years old, little Bobby's face puckered; his bottom lip quivered, and he seemed to be on the verge of tears himself.
"It's all right, darling, Saiorse didn't mean it. She's just upset," Sybil said, doing her very best to pour oil on clearly troubled waters.
Bobby beamed a smile at his Ma, who now turned her full attention to her tearful daughter.
"Saiorse, darling, come over and sit with me". Sybil patted her lap and a moment later, she had enfolded Saiorse in her arms.
Seeing her daughter's obvious distress, Sybil sighed, recalling to mind the Jewish proverb, which Edith had taught her on the Rome Express:
God could not be everywhere and therefore he made mothers
"Now, darling, however upset you are, there's no need to turn on Bobby. What you just said ... that was hurtful and completely uncalled for. Please say you're sorry!"
"Sorry, Bobby! Oh, Ma!" she sobbed.
"Now, tell me all about it, my darling". This time, her mother's tone was kindness itself. "What is it, sweetheart? What isn't fair?" Sybil asked gently continuing to hold Saiorse comfortingly in her arms while softly stroking her hair.
A moment later and the lights in the bedroom suddenly flickered, dimmed, and then went out altogether.
"Oh, no! Not again!" exclaimed Sybil.
"Is it the bulb?" asked Bobby from out of the darkness.
"No, darling. It's the power. Bobby, stay where you are, while Saiorse and I light some candles".
Having fastened in place the beautiful copy of the Tara brooch, which back in the summer of 1929 Tom had bought her as a present for their tenth wedding anniversary, the very same year in which he became Deputy Editor of the Irish Independent, wearing her pale blue embroidered silk net Vionnet evening gown, Sybil was almost ready to go downstairs and join the others outside on the terrace for cocktails. The one she had enjoyed last night, limoncello, had been positively divine. However, before that there still remained one final task.
Reaching forward, from off the cluttered top of the dressing table, Sybil now carefully retrieved the delicate gold pendant, the one which these days she always wore, engraved on the reverse with the very same words which were inscribed on the back of Tom's watch: Every Waking Minute. But when it came to try and re-fasten the tiny clasp, Sybil found herself all fingers and thumbs. Calling to Saiorse, who was still standing by the window gazing disconsolately down into the garden, to come and help her, Sybil put her clumsiness down to her pregnancy, to the lack of electric light, although in her heart, she knew that neither had anything to do with it at all; had more to do with something which had happened several days earlier down there in Florence on the Por Santa Maria. And then there had also been that ...
Florence, August 1932.
While Mary had continued to make a good recovery, one of the rare occasions on which the Bransons had ventured out of the villa had been but a couple of days before the occasion of Bobby's sixth birthday when, along with Friedrich, Edith and Max, Tom, Sybil and their three children had all motored down into Florence.
From a previous visit to Florence back in the 20s, Edith knew where an excellent toy shop was to be found, on the bustling Por Santa Maria, not far from the Ponte Vecchio. So, on the appointed day, in glorious sunshine, but before it became too hot, a short while after breakfast, with Cora and all the other members of the Crawley family remaining behind at the villa, promising to return in time for luncheon, with Tom seated beside her, Friedrich and Sybil in the rear along with the children, the youngsters all chattering like crickets, it was Edith who drove them into the city in the Ansaldo 6c. At this early hour, as the heat was still yet quite tolerable, they drove into Florence with the hood down, and along the very same dusty road up which they had driven to Fiesole when first they had arrived. With a grin and a sideways glance, Tom remarked to Edith that she was clearly an accomplished driver; said that whoever it was had taught her to drive had obviously done an excellent job of doing so. Edith smiled and rising to the occasion said that for Tom's information it had been a handsome young Irishman, who was himself a very good driver.
"That wouldn't by any chance just happen to be the same Irishman who enjoys a ... how was it he put it ... oh, yes, a good turn of speed ... and who has to be told to slow down?" called Sybil from the back seat.
At this Tom and Edith both exchanged amused glances.
"I don't know, but certainly he was very handsome. That I do recall!" laughed Edith.
"Ah, me darlin'," chuckled Tom, turning round, looking at Sybil and lapsing into the thickest Irish brogue he could muster, making all of the children giggle, "t'at must be someone else yous be t'inkin' of, for sure!"
But Tom was being somewhat disingenuous ...
County Cork, Irish Free State, July 1924.
The green Cubitt 16/20 Tourer positively purred along the road. With Sybil seated in the rear of the motor and with Tom in the driver's seat sporting both goggles and leather gauntlets, it was, she thought, just like a return to old times; a warm summer's day, sitting here on the back seat and being driven sedately along in the Renault on the way to Ripon. Then suddenly, out of the blue and quite unexpectedly, the motor lurched, violently.
Old times? Sedately? Ripon? Well, actually, no. Not at all. Not now. Not with two young children seated either side of her. Glancing first at Danny and then at little Saiorse, Sybil smiled and shook her head in amusement. The country road they were driving along now led not north to Ripon, but south from Cork; towards Kinsale and to what, if anything, three years after it was set alight and burnt out by the IRA, still remained of Skerries House.
"Feckin hell!" yelled Tom loudly as he now slewed the vehicle forcefully to the left to avoid yet another pothole.
"Tom! Language, please!" reprimanded Sybil loudly from the rear of the motor.
"Sorry!" Tom sang out cheerfully and managing at the same time to sound thoroughly un-contrite.
Beside his mother young Danny giggled and bounced enthusiastically up and down on the leather seat.
"Go on Da! Go faster, Da! Da, go faster!" implored the little boy excitedly and at the same time clapping his hands enthusiastically.
"Daniel Robert Branson! Will you please sit still!" admonished his mother. She ruffled his hair and shook her head. If darling Mary mistakenly believed that children became easier as they grew older, then she was in for the rudest of awakenings. Not, of course, that Mary was as involved in the bringing up of young Robert as Sybil had been with her and Tom's two. Little Robert, named for his grandfather the earl of Grantham, Matthew and Mary's young son, was now aged all of three years.
"Darling, that's what Nannies are for," had explained Mary wearily once more to Sybil when for the umpteenth time her youngest sister had suggested yet again that she ought to become more involved with the upbringing of her offspring. Sybil sighed; it was clear that some things would never change.
Danny 's excitement seemed to be highly contagious as now his Da also chuckled delightedly. Just like influenza, thought Sybil, doing her very best to keep a straight face. Then, just as unashamedly, her young son giggled again; gave his mother another cheeky grin. Honestly, two peas in a pod! Although Danny's hair, fair when he was born and for a year or so thereafter was now beginning to darken, the little boy was so like his father, not only in his looks but in his interests; anything mechanical absolutely fascinated Danny and he did love it so when his father was driving and then hit the accelerator. However, where they lived now, in Blackrock, there was, thankfully, very little opportunity of that; especially if Sybil was riding in the family motor as well, which, almost invariably, was the case.
Piazza della Signoria, Florence, August 1932.
With Edith having parked the Ansaldo close to the Duomo, they all arranged to meet up again in front of the cathedral at midday. Leaving the Schonborns to wander around the enormous building, with Edith having given clear directions to Sybil, the Bransons set off along the Via del Calzaiuoli; thence across the wide sweep of the Piazza della Signoria dominated by the Palazzo Vecchio with its tall crenellated tower and the Uffizi Gallery, in search of the toyshop on the Por Santa Maria.
The narrow streets and the broad squares were very busy, thronging with pedestrians, both Florentines as well as others who, like themselves, were obviously foreign visitors. The allure of running water invariably proves irresistible to young boys and so, on seeing the octagonal fountain in the middle of the Piazza della Signoria, Danny and Bobby both said they wanted to go over and see it. When the Bransons reached it, they found the fountain to be surmounted by a huge, naked, extremely well-endowed figure of the god Neptune, brandishing his trident. Understandably, Tom was absolutely mortified. Even more so when, without any trace of embarrassment whatsoever, Bobby piped up, announcing loudly,for the benefit of anyone in the immediate vicinity, that his Da's mickey was bigger than that which graced the figure of Neptune. It was at this point in the proceedings that Tom's face turned a shade akin to the colour of the terracotta tiles on the dome of the cathedral.
Unaware of the embarrassment he had caused his father, off ran Bobby, hot on the heels of both Danny and Saiorse who had run round to look more closely at the reclining bronze figures of river gods, satyrs, and marble sea-horses on the other side of the fountain. Meanwhile, Tom and Sybil remained standing where they were, he with his arm around her still slender waist, looking anywhere but meeting her eyes, while she continued to gaze pointedly and with unfeigned interest up at the enormous statue.
"Actually, I'm not at all sure," she said at length and with a broad grin.
"Not sure about what?" asked Tom.
"What Bobby just said".
"Sybil!" hissed Tom.
She laughed.
"Mind you, you're still a very fine figure of a man for sure!"
"Well, thank you for that vote of confidence!" chuckled Tom. A moment later, his lips closed on hers.
"Oh, yuck! Do you two have to?"
Instantly Tom and Sybil broke apart, to see Danny, Saiorse and Bobby all standing close by, watching them with undisguised interest.
Tom grinned. He looked directly at Saiorse.
"In answer to your question, darlin', it's an obligatory part of my duties as a Da!"
Danny smiled.
"What's obl ... oblig ... what you said?" asked Bobby.
"Obligatory," offered Sybil helpfully. "If something is obligatory, it means you have to do it".
"And Da has to kiss you?" persisted Saiorse.
"For sure!" exclaimed Sybil and everyone laughed.
"Amore, amore! The birth of a child, tis a wondrous thing!" said a voice close at hand. Sybil spun round but with the press of people close to the fountain she could not be certain who it was had spoken; only that the voice had sounded strangely familiar.
Along the Por Santa Maria.
With Tom holding Bobby firmly by the hand, and with Sybil Danny and Saiorse following close behind, the Bransons threaded their way along the narrow pavement in the Por Santa Maria towards the Ponte Vecchio. A short while later and they found the toy shop. Then, while Sybil and Bobby went inside, the little boy's eyes as large as saucers from staring at the display in the window, promising to return in half an hour or so, Tom took Danny and Saiorse to see the ancient bridge, lined on either side with shops and houses above.
When it happened, Sybil had been thinking of nothing in particular; had been standing in the sunshine outside the toyshop, listening to Bobby chattering on about the wooden dragon puppet which, after considerable deliberation on his part as to what it was he would like, she had just bought him for his birthday. Holding the little boy by the hand, the two of them now stood waiting for Tom, Danny and Saiorse to return from the Ponte Vecchio.
"There's your Da!" exclaimed Sybil, eagerly pointing over to where a man wearing a trilby was crossing the street towards her. "But then where on earth are your brother and sister ..." she began.
"Darlin'!"
Sybil spun round to find Tom along with Danny and Saiorse, now standing beside her.
"Tom!"
Evidently distrait, Sybil continued to look up and down the narrow street.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes, darling, of course. Only ..."
Of the other man there was now no trace; none whatsoever.
"Only what?"
"I thought I saw ... It doesn't matter" Sybil shook her head.
"Da! Ma's bought me a dragon for my birthday! He's got big teeth, wings, and a tail!" explained Bobby excitedly.
"Dragons don't exist," said Saiorse flatly.
"Yes they do, sis," said Danny winking at Bobby.
"A dragon?" echoed Tom. His blues eyes sparkled.
"It's a wooden puppet," said Sybil. The shop is wrapping it up as a present and then delivering it to the villa".
Tom nodded. He glanced at his watch.
"I suppose it's time we were getting back".
Villa San Callisto, Fiesole, evening, several days later.
"Darling, would you be an absolute dear and help me with this, please?"
By the flickering light of several candles, Saiorse pouted her obvious and continuing displeasure.
"Oh, Ma! Really! Can't you do ..."
Sybil half turned on her chair.
"No, Saiorse, I can't. That's why I am asking you to help me," retorted her mother sharply, more than a little exasperated by her daughter's unhelpful attitude, given the fact that not half an hour since she had listened sympathetically while Saiorse had poured out her own tale of woe.
"Oh, very well!"
Unwillingly Saiorse detached herself slowly from the window and, at the pace of the proverbial snail, crossed the floor of the room and came to stand behind her mother. Glancing up, Sybil saw by the sulky, truculent expression etched across her face, Saiorse was clearly still annoyed by what had happened downstairs but a short while earlier and which had reduced her to angry tears.
Entrance Hall, Villa San Callisto, earlier that same evening.
It was a very rare thing indeed for Tom ever to resort to disciplining any of their three children; he usually left that, unpleasant side of things, to Sybil. It was even rarer for him to say No to his daughter. However, earlier this evening, with Tom already dressed for dinner and standing at the foot of the main staircase, when, appearing as if from nowhere, Saiorse had promptly slipped her arm through his and asked plaintively if she too could go with him and Danny down to the lower garden, Tom had done just that. Smiling, extricating his daughter's arm from his, he had patted Saiorse's hand and had then shaken his head.
"No, darlin'. Not tonight, for sure".
Saiorse looked quizzically at her beloved father, uncertain if she had heard him quite correctly.
"Da?"
"No, darlin'".
"But why can't I come, Da?" she asked, evidently clearly both mystified and surprised by his unexpected refusal.
"Because your brother Danny and I have things to discuss; man to man. And here he is, for sure".
Smiling, his eyes sparkling with obvious pleasure, Tom nodded towards where, freshly scrubbed, his dark hair both combed and neatly parted, dressed in a fresh white shirt and a pair of long knee length grey shorts, whistling happily, Danny was, at this very moment, trotting down the stairs in search of his father. While Tom and Sybil loved all of their children in equal measure, if Sybil had a tacit, unspoken fondness for young Bobby, Tom was inordinately proud of his eldest son and loved Danny beyond measure.
Almost at the foot of the main staircase, clearly very much surprised to see his sister standing there, Danny now came to an abrupt and sudden halt on the last step. Singularly unaware of what his father had just told Saiorse, clearly perplexed, the boy looked questioningly first at his sister and then at his father.
"Hi, sis. Are you coming too?" Danny asked. He sounded doubtful.
Saiorse smiled.
"I might be," she said artfully.
"Da? I thought it was just going to be you and ..." Danny began hesitantly.
"Saiorse, darlin', I told you ..."
"Da, can't I, please," wheedled Saiorse at her most coaxing.
"No, darlin. You can come with me another time".
"Da!"
"Saiorse, darlin', I told you, no," repeated Tom and this time in a tone which brooked no further discussion on the subject.
At her father's repeated refusal, something which Saiorse saw as an unpardonable lapse on the part of her beloved Da, her ready temper flared.
"Well, I didn't want to go for a silly walk any way!" she stormed. She scowled angrily at Danny, burst into tears, and, her face flushed, unseeing, had fled past him up the staircase, leaving both her father and brother to exchange surprised glances.
Lower garden, Villa San Callisto.
A short while later found Tom and Danny seated companionably next to each other on a marble bench beside the balustrade of the lower terrace. Spread out below them in the gathering dusk lay all of Florence, the city a myriad of twinkling lights, that was at least until yet another power cut plunged both it and the villa behind them into sudden darkness; something which had happened several times since their arrival here in Italy.
"So much for Il Duce and his Fascists!" said Tom softly. He grimaced and then chuckled.
"Aunt Mary says Musso ..." Danny paused, struggling with the unfamiliar name.
"Mussolini," said Tom helpfully and with a smile.
Danny nodded his head.
"Yes. Mussolini. Well, Aunt Mary told Aunt Edith that he's done a lot for Italy …" Danny sounded doubtful. He looked up; fell silent as he saw his Da shaking his head.
"There are many who would disagree with that, son".
"Why Da? Aunt Mary told Aunt Edith that he's given a lot of people jobs who didn't have them. And he's built lots of bridges and roads. And made the trains run on time. At least that's what Aunt Mary said. Is all of that a bad thing?"
"Good boy! Never be afraid to ask questions, to politely disagree. No, of course not. But Mussolini's also made Italy into a one party state".
"What's that Da?"
"Well, you know back at home in Ireland there are two political parties in the Dáil; Fianna Fáil and Cumann na nGaedheal".
"Yes Da. You support Cumann na nGaedheal, don't you?"
Tom nodded his head.
"Yes, I do. Well, here in Italy, under Il Duce, only one political party is allowed. The Fascist Party. And no-one is permitted to criticise the government. If they do, then they are put in prison".
"Oh! That's silly. Why, if it was like that in Ireland, Da ..."
"I'd be put in prison too? Yes, exactly".
"That's not right Da".
"No, it isn't. And sometimes, even worse things happen here in Italy to those who disagree with Mussolini".
"What do you mean, Da?"
"Well, do you remember ever hearing your Ma and I talking about Mr. O'Higgins?"
"The one who keeps the grocer's on Main Street?"
Tom laughed.
"No, not him. The Mr. O'Higgins I mean was a politician. In the Dáil. Some years ago, he was murdered, while on his way to Mass, by three men who disagreed with him on a political matter".
"Why Da?"
"Well, Mr. O'Higgins supported the Treaty with Great Britain, as do I. The three men who killed him didn't; so, they shot and killed him for that and ... well, for other things too. Things that happened when you were very young".
"That's wrong Da. I mean, to kill someone, just because they disagree with you".
"Agreed. In a few years from now, you'll be a young man, Danny. I'd like to think that if I've taught you anything at all that you've learnt that violence is never right. It solves nothing. It never does. And certainly not in politics".
"Yes, Da.
Danny nodded.
"So what did your Aunt Edith have to say to Aunt Mary?"
"She told Aunt Mary to speak to you and you'd soon put her straight".
"Did she now!"
Danny nodded again.
"For sure, Da".
"Very intelligent woman, your Aunt Edith". Tom chuckled.
"And will you, Da?"
"Will I what, son?"
"Put Aunt Mary straight?"
"We'll have to see. So then, you want to know what it's like to be in love, for sure?"
Danny smiled; blushed to the roots of his dark hair, looked down at the ground.
"Yes, Da".
"Well then …" Tom paused. For one brief moment, it seemed that his skill with words had deserted him. How on earth did one begin to try and explain something as nebulous as the concept of being in love; that there was a difference between that and loving someone, that … Then as realisation dawned as to how he might best approach this, Tom smiled fondly at his eldest son. He reached over and ruffled Danny's dark hair. "Do you remember when you were a little boy I read you stories about Winnie the Pooh?"
Danny smiled.
"For sure, Da".
"Well, Piglet asked Pooh, How do you spell 'love'? Do you recall what Pooh told him, son?"
Yes, Da. Pooh said "You don't spell it…you feel it."
Tom smiled.
"Clever boy. So let's go from there …"
"So, does all of that answer your question, son?" asked Tom softly.
"Yes, Da. It does for sure". Danny smiled. "I love you, Da".
"And I love you too, son. More than you can possibly imagine".
Not that Tom could have known it at the time but within the short space of but a couple of days, his love for Danny was to be put to the ultimate test.
With Saiorse at last mollified, and now sitting playing calmly with Bobby and his dragon on the bed, Sybil walked over to stand beside the bedroom window. Smiling contentedly, her hand resting protectively on the gentle swell of her belly, she gazed out into the dusk, watched unseen as, in the gloaming, both Danny and his father strolled slowly back across the lawn below, Tom's arm around his son's shoulders. Even before Saiorse had breezed into the bedroom, Sybil knew where they both had been and why; to the gazebo on the lower terrace, and in the fulfillment of a promise that Tom had made to Danny several weeks ago and which this evening, she knew he had now honoured.
Long ago, in Antiquity, each of the numerous gods and goddesses in the Roman pantheon of deities had their own individual responsibilities towards mankind. At the Villa San Callisto, it had been over dinner, on the evening of Bobby's birthday, that this particular subject had arisen, prompted in part by the busts of Roman gods and goddesses which adorned the dining room and also as a result of Edith regaling the assembled company with some of her and Friedrich's more entertaining experiences out in the Near East, including the excavation they had worked on together at Palmyra in Syria.
Night had long since fallen but even though it was dark, it was still very warm. Following dinner, Matthew had suggested that they all adjourn outside to the terrace where coffee was afterwards served to them beneath the stars. A convivial, light hearted discussion had ensued, as to with which ancient deity those present most identified. For his part Matthew had said that as far as he was concerned he considered himself closest to Jupiter, the king of the gods, prompting Tom with a wink to mutter in jest an all too audible aside that, whether by birth or by adoption, these aristocrats were all the bloody same; expecting to lord it over everyone else.
Matthew smiled; said that had nothing whatsoever to do with it. His alignment with Jupiter was not because mighty Jove was king of the gods but was prompted instead by his association with law, with order, with justice and with good governance. For her part, Mary had laughed and with little prompting had said that if Matthew identified with Jupiter that by extension then she must be Juno, Queen of the Gods; this drawing amused looks from all those present, in particular Tom and Sybil, Tom whispering that Mary was certainly regal enough to play her part to perfection. Edith stated her affinity for Minerva, goddess of Wisdom while Friedrich said that he had no particular preference but that given his love of the past perhaps Saturn, the god of Time, seemed the most apt.
As for Sybil, she declared that had Edith not chosen Minerva she would have done so herself, given the connection of the goddess to both medicine and healing. However, having to choose another deity, she laughingly declared promptly for Venus, causing Mary to raise her ever expressive eyebrows while Tom with a chuckle, evidently having given the matter some thought, stated that as a journalist he could do no better than declare his affinity for Mercury, the winged messenger of the gods.
But the Roman pantheon was far wider than just the Di Selecti, the twenty main deities, and included lesser gods among them those of the Sabines among which was Fortuna; the goddess of both fortune and the personification of luck which could be for good or ill. Fortuna could be represented as veiled and blind, as in modern depictions of Justice, and came to represent life's capriciousness. She was also a goddess of fate and so linked to Nemesis, something which Fergal Branson would have done well to realise.
Afternoon, Villa San Callisto, several days later.
Given the intensity of the summer heat, once Cora and the Bransons had departed on their leisurely drive up into the hills, the rest of the family had proceeded to enjoy a quiet afternoon while awaiting the return of the Fiat Tourer and its group of happy occupants. Having discussed some further details regarding the forthcoming wedding, with Innocenti having been summoned to bring them cooling glasses of lemonade, both Mary and Edith sat reading together in the shade on the upper terrace while down below on the lawn, much to the delight of young Max, his father and Matthew had agreed to supervise another round of cricket but only on the strict understanding that, so as to avoid there being any chance of a mishap, it would be a gentle affair. And so, as the afternoon wore on the cypress studded garden echoed once more to the sound of leather on willow; with those here at the villa all blissfully and thankfully unaware of the drama that was now unfolding elsewhere; until that was some time later Innocenti came back out onto the terrace to announce that there was an urgent telephone call for the earl of Grantham.
Having been hailed by Mary from the terrace, while mystified as to who it might be that was telephoning, still unsuspecting that anything was amiss, Matthew duly made his way up from the lower garden and disappeared inside the villa, from where he emerged but a short while later, his face ashen, to announce, haltingly, that there had been an accident. It appeared that the Fiat Tourer had been involved in a collision with a train. The details were still extremely sketchy so, it was agreed among the adults agreed to say nothing to the children until exactly what it was that had happened became more fully known.
Near Fiesole, Tuscany, Italy, August 1932.
At the very last moment, the train, its whistle screaming, with a deafening, thunderous roar, clouds of steam and smoke swept across the level crossing directly in the path of the runaway Fiat, with terrified screams from his family ringing in his ears, for some strange reason, Tom suddenly found himself thinking of Matthew...
County Cork, Irish Free State, July 1924.
In the Tourer, little Danny now giggled again and, seated on Sybil's other side, Saiorse began to whimper.
"It's all right, darling". Sybil hugged the little girl tightly to her. "Da will drive more slowly now. Won't you, Da?"
"Sorry, love," called Tom over his shoulder and sounding contrite while, at the same time and invisible to Sybil, sporting a decidedly unabashed lop-sided grin. "For sure, independence certainly hasn't improved the state of the ruddy roads down here in the south. They were as bad as this when I was using the 'bike! Jaysus!"
The motor lurched again; Sybil grimaced, gave a quick tug to her hat and hugged both of the children tightly to her.
"Tom, darling, please!"
The speed of the Tourer now slowed noticeably.
"Good turn of speed though! Fifty miles an hour tops! When I spoke with him on the telephone, Matthew said he envied me!"
"Yes, well Matthew would, wouldn't he?" Sybil shouted, endeavouring to make herself heard over the constant noise of the slipstream. Evidently she had been, as she now saw Tom nod his head. His hair dishevelled by the wind, briefly he turned to glance at her before returning to concentrate his gaze on the road ahead.
"And?" called out Tom, realising intuitively that Sybil had something else to say to him upon the subject now under discussion.
"Darling, you know Matthew's always been the same; in fact, ever since you taught him to drive and on your recommendation bought that Crossley in York not long after he and Mary were married!"
"So it's all my fault then?" chuckled Tom loudly. "Jaysus! I thought we were over all that long since!"
"Over all what?"
"Of course, I blame Branson!" laughed Tom and mimicking his father-in-law's voice to perfection.
Sybil giggled.
"Darling, I'm not blaming you for Matthew's love of speed. All I'm saying is that you know just as well as I do how Mary feels about it, especially with what happened just after little Robert was born when he put the Crossley through that gate and into that hay rick on the far side of the estate".
In the immediate aftermath of the happy birth of his son, Matthew's near head-on collision with a traction engine had now passed into the annals of Crawley family history.
By his own freely-given admission, Matthew had been distracted, musing contentedly over the events of the past twenty four hours which, with Dr. Clarkson in attendance, had seen Mary give birth to Robert James Crawley weighing in at a healthy 8lb 7oz. Thereafter, pressing estate business had taken Matthew over to West Fell Scar.
A beautiful late summer's day, absolutely delighted with the birth of his son and heir, grateful that Mary had come through the whole business with flying colours as Matthew himself termed it, the reforms in the management of the Downton Abbey Estate he had instituted at last beginning to show results, the putative earl of Grantham had hit the accelerator.
The narrow country road which led over to West Fell Scar and along which Matthew had been driving was such that, had he seen it, would have provided G. K. Chesterton with the inspiration for his well-known poem "The Rolling English Road" as it twisted and turned its way across the slopes of Lower Whernside Ridge. His mind understandably on other things, paying no attention whatsoever to the speed at which he was driving, Matthew headed swiftly on. When his business over at West Fell Scar was completed all he wanted to do was to return home to Mary and their baby son as quickly as possible. Matthew grinned broadly; his much loved brother-in-law Tom had been decidedly right about this family lark.
Now, had it not been for the cloud of steam and smoke, suddenly clearly visible above the hedges further on down the deeply banked lane, Matthew would have run straight into the lumbering, snorting traction engine slowly proceeding the other way. As it was, at the very last minute, alerted to the presence of the oncoming Fowler steam engine and its heavily loaded trailer labouring up Deepdale Lane, with no time whatsoever to apply the brake, Matthew had wrenched the Crossley violently to the left. The motor had careered through a wooden gate and into the field beyond, ending up with the front end of the Crossley buried in a hay rick. Fortunately, other than some minor scratches and dents there was no real damage to the motorcar and thankfully none to Matthew either; except that was, to his pride.
When next the Bransons were over in England from Ireland, for the happy event of young Robert's christening, on learning exactly what had happened at first hand from Matthew himself, overcome with concern for his best friend, forgetting where he was, seated at the dinner table in Downton Abbey,Tom's comment had been pithy and to the point.
"Jaysus! Yous might have been killed, yous feckin eejit!"
All conversation round the dining table had ceased immediately.
There followed a moment's pause of absolute silence; this was ended by the aristocratic voice of none other than the Dowager Countess herself.
"And what, pray, is a feckin eejit?" asked Violet drily.
Tom flushed red, the earl of Grantham's mouth gaped and a shocked Carson found himself pouring wine into a non existent decanter.
"Carson, are you all right?" asked Robert turning in his chair.
"Forgive me, my Lord. I have been singularly inattentive". The elderly butler scowled at Tom and began mopping up the wine spilled over the top of the mahogany buffet. Sybil thankfully now came to her embarrassed husband's assistance.
"An Irish term of endearment, Grandmamma," she said quietly.
"Oh, is that what it is? Really?" observed Violet coolly, managing at the same time to sound thoroughly unconvinced.
Near Fiesole, Tuscany, Italy, August 1932.
Afterwards, no-one could say with any degree of certainty as to whether the existence of the recently discovered temple of Fortuna, presently being excavated by archaeologists from the American Academy in Rome, lying close to both the railway line and the level crossing, had anything to do with what then happened. Perhaps it did; perhaps it did not. Certainly, as Shakespeare put it:
"There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune"
With a collision between train and the runaway Fiat seemingly inevitable, it was at the very last possible moment, that Tom saw it; off to his right, a gateway leading into a field bordering the line. Wrenching the steering wheel to the right, tyres squealing, Tom slewed the motor violently off the road. With steam pouring from the radiator, amid the screech of metal, the smell of burning rubber hanging in the air, the powerful Fiat bounced on along a rough, sun baked, rutted track for some considerable distance, throwing its terrified occupants from side to side, before finally, and in a cloud of dirt and dust, thankfully, coming to a complete and final stop.
Tom turned quickly in his seat, to see behind him an array of white, tear-stained but now clearly relieved faces.
"Is everyone all right?" he asked nervously.
"Yes, I ... I think so, Tom," stammered Cora, hugging Bobby tightly to her, heedless of the little boy's vomit staining the front of her dress, while both Danny and Saiorse mutely nodded their joint assent.
"All of you were very, very brave". Tom smiled; then turned instantly to Sybil. "Love?" He saw her likewise nod her head; place her hand across the gentle swell of her belly.
"Thank God!" Tom's voice cracked, betraying the emotion he was feeling, not least because as he now saw and which the others seemed not to have noticed, but a matter of a few feet ahead of the Fiat, the dirt track ended suddenly and precipitously at the edge of a deep ditch.
In the distance, Tom now saw, from out of a clutch of white bell tents and from what appeared to be an archaeological excavation taking place close to the railway line, scurrying like ants, a group of people, both men and women, hastening towards the wrecked motor. Gently resting his forehead against the steering wheel of the now stationary Fiat, momentarily, Tom closed his eyes, exhaled a heartfelt sigh of obvious relief, at the same time communing a silent prayer to whatever deity it was who had saved all of them from otherwise certain disaster.
"Tom, darling?" asked Sybil.
He opened his eyes, raised his head, and smiled at her; reached over and gently brushed back a stray tendril of hair from off her face.
"Hm? Yes, yes, I know, darlin'. Next time, I promise you, I'll drive more slowly".
Author's Note:
Paiste is said to be still about and, thanks to the efforts of St. Murrough, residing under the waters of Lough Foyle.
Ansaldo motor cars were produced by the armaments manufacturer, Giovanni Ansaldo and Company, 1921-31.
Dating from about 700 AD, the Tara Brooch is the finest of all Celtic brooches discovered to date. Found in 1850, exactly where is not quite clear, it is now on display in the National Museum of Ireland in Dublin. During the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries many fine copies of it were made.
Kevin Christopher O'Higgins (1892-1927) was an Irish politician who served as Vice-President of the Executive Council and as Minister of Justice in the Cumann na nGaedheal government. Pro-Treaty, in his capacity of Minister of Justice he signed some seventy execution orders in respect of IRA men convicted of murders committed during the Irish Civil War. It was this fact that led to his own murder by the IRA, in Booterstown in July 1927.