Chapter Fifteen

A Little Town Called Guernica

As with the previous chapter, some of what now follows is not for the faint-hearted.

The Irish Chauffeur


Calle Santa María, Guernica, Basque Country, Northern Spain, late afternoon Monday 26th April 1937.

Apart from the appalling toll in lives lost, along with an equally awful tally of those injured and maimed, as well as all the needless and senseless destruction, what sets a civil war apart from other kinds of armed conflict is the overwhelming tragedy of the people unfortunate enough to be caught up in it. Those who, in normal circumstances, would be close to one another, bound together by race, kinship and familial ties, possessing a shared culture and heritage, but who instead find themselves enemies, a people divided, torn apart by war.

And on this late April afternoon nowhere was this more evident than with what was now taking place in a sleepy little market town nestled between the hills and the sea in Northern Spain, where from out of a cloudless, clear blue sky, death and destruction rained down upon the helpless townspeople of Guernica. And for a shocked and dazed Danny Branson, caught up in the maelstrom of what was happening, it was as if the whole world had gone insane; completely insane.


When the first of the bombs hit the town, along with Liam and Dev, Danny joined everyone else in running for the air raid shelters, these hurriedly and newly built following the Nationalist attack on nearby Durango scarcely a month since. Not that the three young Irishmen had any idea where any of the shelters were situated so, in this, all they could do was follow the lead of everybody else.

However, while many of the townsfolk indeed made for the shelters, took refuge in cellars whether or not they had been designated as refugios, and so forth, others tried to make it out of Guernica and seek safety elsewhere; whether in isolated farmhouses, in the fields, beneath hayricks and wagons, or else in the surrounding forests. But with what then happened this proved to be a singularly ill advised choice; for trying to shelter in the surrounding countryside soon proved to be no safer than trying to find refuge somewhere in the town itself.

Here in Guernica, when they reached the nearest air raid shelter - that on Calle Santa María - it was to find it already filled to capacity, its heavy door shut and barred, and no amount of frantic banging upon it with fists and the palms of hands would persuade those inside to open up. So, like everyone else still outside on the street, men, women, and children, Danny, Liam, and Dev ran blindly on.

Not for an instant did they stop and they did not look back, nor cast glances either left or right of the street down which they were now running; spurred on in their headlong flight by terrified screams and shouts, by the near constant explosions, the crash and reverberation of falling buildings and masonry, and the crackle and roar of flames.


Drawing Room, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, the very same time.

For once, Matthew had come home early from the Estate Office, and he and Mary were sitting opposite one another in the Drawing Room taking afternoon tea together.

"Decisions, decisions! You know I really can't decide what I should do". Mary sighed; thought that, at times, life could be so terribly fraught.

This morning, and not for the first time, she had been forced to have words with Simon, about his blasted teddy bear, Oscar. Simon was now fifteen and wherever he went, he took his moth eaten bear with him; even talked to it as if it was human. Save for a seventeenth century ancestor, there had, as far as Mary was aware, been no cases of incipient madness in her own branch of the Crawley family. Of course, it was entirely possible that, on Matthew's side, there was a hitherto undiscovered lunatic which would account for Simon's contrariness but Mary was given to wondering if he was quite right in the head. Nonetheless, Simon had stood and listened dutifully enough to what she had to say, but had taken no notice; mooching off on his own, hands thrust deep into his pockets, and with Oscar Bear tucked firmly under his arm. And now, Mary had to contend with the pressing problem of what to do about...

"Decide what?" Matthew asked, aware that he had to say something, if only for form's sake.


Having spent the entire morning chairing yet another meeting of the Downton Coronation Committee, that august body tasked with overseeing the celebrations - "the junketings" as Matthew termed them - being planned for later in the year both here on the estate and in the village to mark the Coronation, Matthew was not in the best of moods.

Reverend Davis had droned on interminably, usually to little effect. This apart, Mr. Entwistle who hitherto had always provided the Punch and Judy Show for the Church Fête had, this year, seen fit to put up his charges. Was the Committee prepared to accede to this? Some thought Mr. Entwistle was entitled to ask for more money; others did not, with Mrs. Green saying that in her opinion it was quite monstrous and that the Committee was being held to ransom.

With it being the Coronation, this year's Carnival procession was to include a float with the buxom Mrs. Bradshaw splendidly attired as Britannia, complete with both trident and shield, and accompanied by her lion. The initial idea had been to have the lion sculpted out of papier-mâché by the local branch of the Women's Institute of which Mrs. Bradshaw was President; until, that was, someone remembered that old Mr Ellis had a large stone lion in his garden. Would he be amenable to lending it for the Carnival? But what if the lion was somehow inadvertently damaged? Who would foot the bill for repairs? Then someone else recalled that Major Bradshaw, formerly of the 11th Prince Albert Victor's Own Cavalry (Frontier Force), lately returned from India, had a stuffed lion at Greystone Hall. Perhaps he might be persuaded to lend that instead.

And there was a decision to be made on the number of commemorative mugs to be purchased. Should these be given only to the children attending the village school? More bunting needed to be ordered. And for how long was the Downton and District Brass Band expected to play? The consideration of all these thorny matters and more had taken up an inordinate amount of time which, as far as Matthew was concerned, at present, if he was honest, he could ill afford to spare.

During these last few weeks, as Matthew had gone about his daily rounds of the estate, he had come to the inescapable conclusion that there was little enthusiasm for the new king - known chiefly for his stammer and his inability to speak in public - and his frumpy queen. The days of deference to royalty were long gone; the appalling cost of lives lost in the Great War, then the hardship caused to so many by the Depression, and more recently the baloney of the Abdication, had seen to that. Matthew was slowly coming round to Tom's view that it was time to consign the monarchy and all its attendant trappings to the pages of history. Not in the way it had happened in Russia; that would never do and not even dearest Tom would subscribe to that. However, much as he continued to try and do here at Downton, it was Matthew's considered opinion that if the monarchy was to survive at all, then the whole edifice needed pruning down to the bare essentials.


"Whether azure would suit my complexion".

Matthew quirked a brow.

"Azure? That's a shade of blue, is it not?"

Mary nodded.

"I really think a two-piece in powder blue would be far better".

"Do you? For what, exactly?" Matthew's plans, to apprehend Armitage, were now almost complete, and he intended making his move later today. This being so, Matthew's thoughts were, understandably enough, on that and not Mary's seemingly pressing need for a new outfit.

"Our forthcoming voyage".

"Voyage?"

"On board the Queen Mary".

Matthew's head snapped up.

"Voyage? What voyage? Did you say the Queen Mary?"


Guernica, Basque Country, Northern Spain, late afternoon Monday 26th April 1937.

The seemingly incessant bombing had begun at about 4.30pm when a single 'plane, Danny was not certain of the type, thought grimly as he watched it soar overhead that darling Max would have been able to say what it was, the aircraft flying low, coming in from the south, and dropping its payload of bombs indiscriminately across the length and breadth of the town, causing everyone to scatter; some to the shelters, others running for what they thought would be the safety of the surrounding countryside.

A few minutes later and there came three more 'planes, bearing different markings to their predecessor but which did as the first 'plane had done, and dropped their bombs, from north to south, by which time many buildings, among them the Church of San Juan, were already in flames. Then came another bomber this time escorted in by fighters, and after that two or three further similar attacks by a handful of aeroplanes, all of them wreaking destruction upon the town, each causing its own lethal share of killing and devastation. But if the citizens of Guernica thought their sufferings would soon be at an end, the worst was yet to come.


Drawing Room, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, the very same time.

Seeing Matthew so preoccupied, after all she recognised the signs only too well, realising that this time it must be to do with the matter of Armitage, with a display of uncharacteristic forbearance, Mary now explained further.

"No, of course not, darling. All the same, I do need a couple of new outfits, hats, accessories, and so forth, for when we travel up to town, for the Coronation".

"What about our..."
"Our Coronation robes? Matthew, in case it has escaped your notice, those are for the service in the abbey".

"Yes". Matthew was clearly distrait.

"In any case, don't you think we'd look rather conspicuous if we wore them on the train?"

"Damned ridiculous if you ask me! And even more so on the Underground".

"Matthew, for the last time, I am not travelling to Westminster Abbey on the Underground. That is for... Well, for the kind of person who uses it. We are not those sort of people".

"No, of course not".

"We are travelling to the abbey from Claridge's by motor.

Matthew smiled.

"Yes, we are".

"And one thing more..."
"Which is?"
"I know it is going to be a very early start, but no hard-boiled eggs or sandwiches!"

"We'll talk about that nearer the time".

"No, we won't! You can't eat hard-boiled eggs and sandwiches in the abbey during the Coronation!" Mary was appalled.
"Why ever not? I'll be discrete about it, I promise. Anyway, all of us peers of the realm will be doing it. At least that's what Johnny Dormer told me. You do realise we'll be stuck in the abbey for hours on end?"

"Stuck in the abbey... Is that how you view it? Matthew, this is the Coronation!"

"Yes, I know it is. All the same, it still doesn't alter the fact that we'll be in there for a very long time".

"Maybe..."

"No maybe about it. We will! Tom suggested I should take a hip flask or two as well. Filled with Irish whiskey".

"I bet he did!"

For one ghastly moment Mary had a nightmare vision of Matthew, splendidly attired in the coronet and robes of the earl of Grantham, seated in Westminster Abbey, merrily swigging Irish whiskey from a hip flask while the king and queen were being anointed and crowned. What was even worse was that under the influence, Matthew, and indeed Tom, was known to become quite garrulous; as had been the case on one long gone winter's evening when they had forgone their evening round of billiards and taken themselves off down to the Grantham Arms. And, as far as Mary, and indeed Sybil, were concerned, the least said about the state the two of them were in on their return to the abbey, the better!


Matthew and Mary's Bedroom, a few days earlier.

When, a matter of days earlier and in the privacy of their bedroom, Matthew and Mary had tried on their refurbished Coronation robes, there was no doubting the fact that Mary had looked dazzling; truly regal, if it was not lèse-majesté to think it, let alone say it, as Matthew had done.

"Darling, you look absolutely bloody marvellous! Why, you'll outshine everyone there!"

"Even Their Majesties? Nonetheless, I'll still take that as a compliment". Mary smiled warmly. She was wearing full evening dress and over it a crimson velvet kirtle, edged in miniver, with, fastened at the shoulder, a long train of matching crimson velvet, also edged with miniver, as well as a cape of the same with three rows of ermine tails befitting her status of a countess. And on her head was fastened the silver-gilt coronet of a countess with its eight alternating strawberry leaves and balls of silver.

"Take it any way you want. You do! You look magnificent".
"I think I prefer that to bloody marvellous!"

Matthew now looked at the reflection which gazed back at him from the full length mirror, showing a figure resplendent in the full dress uniform of a captain in The West Yorkshire Regiment. So far, so good. However, over his military attire Matthew was also wearing a heavy cloak of crimson velvet which reached to his shoes, open in the front with white silk satin ribbon ties. Fastened to the robe was a cape and collar of miniver pure, Matthew's rank as an earl likewise denoted by three rows of ermine tails. Perched on Matthew's head, instead of his military cap, was his earl's coronet, identical to that worn by Mary; both of which, these days, usually resided in a bank vault in York.

"Whereas I look absolutely bloody ridiculous!"

"No, you don't".

"Yes, I do!"

Not bothering that he was in all likelihood creasing his velvet cloak irreparably, Matthew now sat down heavily on the nearest chair. Seeing him do so, Mary sighed.

"That photograph, the one downstairs in the hall, taken of Robert in 1911, in his Coronation robes..."
"What of it?"
"Tom said the old boy looked as though he had strayed out of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta. And so do I!"

"Darling, you don't. Like you, I love Tom dearly, but, please, on this occasion, don't mind what he might think or say".

"Very well". Once again Matthew looked mournfully at his own reflection. And this time, it was he who sighed heavily. "I do, you know. I look just like Major-General Stanley!"


Drawing Room, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, several days later.

"Anyway, what with one thing and another, there isn't time for me to travel up to town. So, that means a trip into Ripon or else York. I think York would be much the better of the two. After all, there's far more choice to be had there. Margery Mansfield recommended Leak and Thorp on Coney Street although, not for all their proud boast, I doubt they are they a patch on Selfridge's, but I fear needs must. The humiliation of it, the countess of Grantham reduced to purchasing an outfit in a department store! If ever Edith or Sybil find out, I shall never live it down". Mary sighed dramatically.

"When I was living in Manchester, mother used to shop for all of her clothes in Kendal Milne on Deansgate. Sometimes, if I wasn't in court, we'd meet for luncheon in the restaurant there. They did a very passable steak and ale pie".

Mary grimaced. Steak and ale pie? Dear God! No wonder Matthew, and Tom had a liking for fish and chips!

"Yes, well. That's exactly my point".

"What is?"
Mary rolled her eyes.

"Matthew, it may have escaped your notice but I have a position to maintain!"

"A position? Yes, I agree. But does it really matter precisely where you shop?"

"Of course it does. Would you have me reduced to going down to Carter's in the village?" As both of them knew, Carter's was the only milliner's in Downton. The shop stood directly opposite the Grantham Arms on the other side of the road.

"No, of course not".

"Or perhaps you would prefer it if I became a seamstress and made all my own clothes".

Wisely, Matthew forbore to comment. However, the thought of Mary sitting by candlelight, hunched over a sewing machine in one of Downton's many, dimly lit attics - the electricity supply had never been extended into that part of the house - no doubt all fingers and thumbs, was too amusing for words. Before he could prevent it, the corners of Matthew's mouth twitched, and a moment later had broadened into a wide smile.

"What on earth's so funny?"

Fortunately for Matthew, it was at that precise moment that Barrow, his face still bearing the cuts and bruises from having, he had said, fallen from off a bicycle, came into the Drawing Room to announce that His Lordship was wanted on the telephone. When Matthew asked who it was, clearly surprised that Barrow had not sought to enquire of the caller's identity, the butler said that the gentleman wouldn't give his name.

Matthew rose to his feet.

"Wouldn't give his name?"
"No, Your Lordship. Instead he asked merely that I mention a place: Wolfsgarten".

Matthew nodded.

"Thank you. Then, be so good as to tell him I'll be along directly".

"Certainly, Your Lordship". Barrow turned and promptly left the room; whereupon Matthew and Mary exchanged knowing glances.

Over by the door, Matthew paused.

"And, for what it's worth, I still don't believe a word of that tale he spun about falling off a bicycle!"


Lower Hall Farm, Little Enderby, Yorkshire April 1937, several days earlier.

When Daisy opened the front door of the farmhouse, despite the fact that a few minutes earlier she had caught sight of Thomas Barrow at the top of the track which led down to the farm, it was still with a distinct sense of shock. After all, she hadn't seen him for many a year and neither of them were getting any younger. This apart, she wondered what on earth he was doing way out here. After all, it was some ten miles back to Downton, on roads that were poor at the best of times, and there appeared to be no sign of any motor. Besides which, with his injured hand - to the best of Daisy's knowledge no-one had ever got to the bottom of exactly what it was that had happened out there in France during the war when Thomas had been shot - she didn't see how he could have driven here himself.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't our Daisy!" Thomas gave a thin, reptilian smile, akin to an adder scenting its prey, which gave Daisy the shivers.

"It's Mrs. Mason to you".

Again the same chilling, supercilious smirk. Daisy had never liked Thomas Barrow; knew of no-one who did. Thought him to be an utter bastard.

"You can call yourself the Queen of Sheba for all I care".

"I ain't in service now".

"No, you're not".

"What do you want?"

"Well, aren't you going to ask me in?"

"State your business. And, no, I ain't!"

"Now, that's hardly what I'd call being kind, especially to an old friend".

"We were never friends".

Thomas let his eyes rove insolently round the farm; took in the grass grown yard, the fallen stones of the boundary wall, the decaying buildings, the leaking gutters, the doors and window frames all but devoid of paint, the slipped slates on the barn roof. The place was on its last knockings.

"I must say things look a little lean around here. Play your cards right and you might learn something to your advantage. Of course if you..."

It was at this point that Thomas felt the muzzle of a revolver jammed hard against the back of his head.

Ever mindful of his own preservation, he promptly slowly raised both his hands in the air.

"I take it you must be Sergeant Armitage," Thomas observed softly, without looking round.


Guernica, Basque Country, Northern Spain, late afternoon Monday 26th April 1937.

With the bombing continuing unabated, the street in which they were now crammed with fleeing, frightened people, along with a herd of equally terrified cattle which had escaped and bolted from the abandoned market, they were, all of them, as rats trapped in a barrel. With buildings collapsing on both sides of the street, seeing an alleyway off to his left, yelling at Liam and Dev to follow him, Danny pounded down the ginnel. That the three of them did what they did, when they did, was what probably saved their lives, although to begin with, having turned down the alleyway, they were unsure of where it was they were going.

Running on, they found themselves in a maze of narrow streets, dodging from side to side as windows and doors were blown out and buildings lost their roofs, carpeting the ground in all manner of fallen debris, sheltering briefly in doorways in order to regain their breath before running on again, while all about them Guernica exploded into fire and flame.

While they could not be certain if they were heading the right way or not, eventually, the three Irishmen found themselves once more in the vicinity of the railway station, beyond which they could see there was open country. However, even with his lack of military experience, Danny realised that the railway would surely be a target for the bombers; that being so, it would not do to linger here. Nonetheless, for a short while, along with several other people, among them a mother and her two children, they briefly took shelter beneath a railway wagon, before, when they had the chance to do so, all of them ran, hell for leather, across the lines and into the surrounding fields.

However, it soon became clear that even out here they were not safe as, not far from the railway, they came across the first of many bodies; these not of men, women or children, but of sheep, machine gunned as they had been quietly grazing. As if to reinforce what had happened hereabouts, there now came a shouted warning: avión! With its guns blazing, a lone fighter swooped in low from the direction of the town, and at once everybody scattered, throwing themselves flat upon the ground as a stream of bullets peppered the dry earth. That some of these found their targets was evidenced by both the blood and the screams and that when the fighter soared away, some of those who had thrown themselves hard to the ground were now sprawled at awkward angles, still and unmoving, among them the mother and her two children.


Drawing Room, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, the very same time.

A short while later, Matthew came back into the Drawing Room.

"And? What did Prince L..."

Matthew shook his head, put his left forefinger to lips, before beckoning Mary to him.

"It seems walls have ears. Let's go outside," he said softly.


Lower Hall Farm, Little Enderby, Yorkshire April 1937, several days earlier.

"I'll 'appen that's it. And who the fuck might you be?"

"My name's Barrow. I'm the butler at Downton Abbey".

"I don't give a shit who or what you are!"

"You asked me. I told you".

"Shut the fuck up!"

With sweat beading his upper lip, Thomas swallowed hard and tried to keep his voice level. This was not going at all as he had intended.
"They... they know where you are..."

"Oh, aye! They? Who does?"

"The authorities. That's who. I know what they're planning..."

"Maybe you do. Then again, maybe you don't". Armitage shook his head. " I think you're lying. In any case, I don't need your help". Barrow heard him cock the hammer of his pistol.

Daisy shook her head.

"No, Ed, wait..."

"I'll give you five seconds before I blow your brains to kingdom come! Now, out with it! Who knows what?"

"Lord Grantham for one... someone at the German embassy too..."
"Know what?"
"That you're holed up here".

"Oh?"

"And... and..." Thomas stammered again. "We... we have a mutual acquaintance".

"Do we? And just who might that be then?"

"Maundy Gregory".

Thomas felt the muzzle of the revolver swiftly removed from the back of his head.

"Inside the house! Now!"


Rear of the abbey, that same day, some hours later.

Here, through the archway, off the old, moss-grown laundry yard, disused these many years, round the corner and so well out of sight of the tradesman's entrance at the back of the abbey, Billy had been crouching down, looking again at the rusty grating. It had taken him a while to find exactly where it was, hidden away as it was beneath a mass of ivy, first having laid eyes on the grating from the inside of the house quite by chance: set in the arched ceiling of the passageway just along from the door of the Butler's Pantry. It would make the whole business of Arkwright and Sugden gaining access to the house that much easier. Billy had told them of the existence of the grating when the three of them had met at Abbot's Barn.

Now that Billy had replaced the tendrils of ivy which concealed the grating, the existence of which must have long since been forgotten, no-one would ever know anyone had been here. Whilst the grating was undoubtedly heavy, the pair of hinges were almost eaten through with rust; the old padlock presented no problem either - could be kicked off in a matter of seconds. Then it would be a simple task for Joe and Edwin to remove the grating before dropping down into the passage below, where Billy would be awaiting them.

Billy straightened up and leaned back against the wall. If anyone now appeared through the archway from the laundry yard, and asked him what he was doing here, then he was ready with his answer: he'd been having a crafty fag. Glancing up, it was now that he spied a figure coming down the hillside behind the house. Although the man was still some distance off, there was no mistaking who it was: Mr. Barrow, who'd been conspicuous by his absence for most of the afternoon, coming back to the abbey from where Billy knew not, and who, most improbably, was wheeling a bicycle.


Intrigued, realising that the path Mr. Barrow was now taking would bring him, eventually, to the old kitchen garden and its abandoned glass houses, which were surrounded by a high brick wall, Billy set off to find out just what was going on.

Keeping well out of sight, Billy reached the overgrown patch of ground well before the butler and once there lay concealed amongst the briar, dog-rose, nettles, and deadly nightshade, in time to see the butler come in furtively through the wooden door in the far side of the high wall. Watched Mr. Barrow wheel the bicycle into one of the old glass houses from which he emerged a few minutes later, passing close to where Billy lay hidden. Near enough for Billy to see that the butler was sporting a black eye and a cut lip, that his collar was awry, and his tie askew. And there was something else too. Instead of the usual smug, supercilious, vain smile that Billy knew so well, etched upon the butler's saturnine features was something which Billy had never ever seen before: an expression of naked, abject fear.


Guernica, Basque Country, Northern Spain, late afternoon Monday 26th April 1937.

About two hours after the air raid had begun, towards half past six in the evening, a squadron of bombers flew in low over the town, attacking in wedge shaped formations of three aeroplanes apiece, spreading out over a front of some five hundred feet wide. Up on a hillside overlooking Guernica, Danny heard someone who was looking up at the sky shout the word: Junkers!

Close to an abandoned farmhouse, the three of them begrimed and caked in dust, what Danny, Liam and Dev witnessed would stay with them for the rest of their lives. For, wherever they looked, Guernica was now a sea of flames. Sheltering in the lee of a stone wall, they watched open-mouthed as, in the space of some fifteen minutes, repeated waves of aircraft bombed the little town to smithereens; the 'planes dropping not only tons and tons of high explosives which, when they detonated, went off like thunderclaps, but also incendiaries which set the whole town ablaze. The resulting conflagration was made infinitely worse by the strong winds blowing inland from off the Bay of Biscay, so that in a very short space of time Guernica became a raging cauldron of fire; the sky above the town turning dark, with the sun all but blotted out by billowing, drifting clouds of thick black smoke.

And if this was not bad enough, there were still the fighter aircraft to contend with. Flying lower than the bombers so that they all but skimmed the treetops, their pilots opening fire with their machine guns at anyone they saw; those who had not yet managed to take cover, whether somewhere down in the town, out on the roads all of which were crammed with refugees, or else here in the countryside. As a result of this systematic, well ordered slaughter, the continuous strafing lasting for nearly half an hour, there were soon bodies strewn everywhere, of both civilians, men, women, and children, as well as those of soldiers too, the dead, along with the wounded and dying, all of whom had been shot as they sought desperately to try and find a place of safety out of the way of the lethal, incessant chatter of the machine guns.


Excavation site, Samaria, Northern District, British Mandated Palestine, late March 1937.

Eventually, after about an hour, having passed through Masudiya, where the railway lines to Jenin and Nablus had once diverged, the truck driven by Horst, along with Tibor and Harriet astride their camels, and the two lorries containing the British soldiers, arrived at the site of the ancient settlement of Samaria and the villa which Friedrich had been excavating for several seasons on behalf of the Archaeological Institute in Vienna. The journey had taken longer than might have been expected on account of the fact that, given what had happened earlier, when they had been ambushed, Horst had taken things somewhat slowly, in case the little cavalcade encountered what, in a mastery of understatement, Captain Eccles had termed further "local difficulties". But, as it turned out, these fears proved groundless. It seemed that the Arab attackers who had blocked the road and then opened fire on the truck had made good their escape, probably to take refuge in the rabbit warren of streets that made up the old quarter of Nablus.

Here at Samaria, which so Friedrich had told the boys, down the centuries, had been known by various names, as Robert and Max climbed down from the cab of the lorry, it seemed that everyone hereabouts had come to greet his father; that despite what had happened on the road between Tulkarem and Nablus, the Arab workers employed at the excavation were overjoyed to see Herr von Schönborn again. In the welcome shade afforded to them by a grove of date palms, the boys stood and watched as Friedrich was greeted by a sea of smiling brown faces, outstretched hands, and repeated calls of what Max's father, shouting to make himself heard above the clamour and din of voices, told them was a customary Arab greeting hereabouts; As-Salam-u-Alaikum! And to which he responded heartily in kind: Wa-Alaikum-Salaam!


Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Irish Free State, Sunday 25th April 1937.

This evening, when the telephone rang, Tom and Sybil were sitting in the front room listening to the radio: "An Ulster Garden" broadcast by the BBC from across the border in Northern Ireland and presented by H. G. Fleet, an amateur gardener, who was discoursing at length on the preparation and maintenance of lawns and the planting of carnations.

A week or so ago, upon Sybil and the children's return from Dublin by the afternoon train, she and Tom had each done their very best to make amends. In her own heart, Sybil knew only too well that, just like his own father, Danny was very much his own master. That, like Tom, he felt things very deeply. Danny always had, even as a little boy. And he had been incensed by what he had both seen on the newsreels in the cinema and read in the newspapers about what was happening out there in Spain. And, even if Tom had managed to talk Danny out of going off to fight in Spain a matter of months ago, no doubt he would have gone eventually. With this in mind, Sybil was prepared to concede that she had overreacted, berating Tom, and being distinctly chilly with him for these past few weeks when, he himself was not to blame.

When Tom had told Sybil what he had done, in telephoning someone he knew in the Press Bureau at the American Embassy in London, that he was expecting a call from George Steer, a journalist, who was presently in Northern Spain covering the civil war there from the Republican side, even if it was clutching at straws on Sybil's part, she was convinced that somehow Steer would have news of Danny. Although Tom said he thought it unlikely, Sybil had refused to be disheartened. Then, when Tom had asked how she was quite so certain, all Sybil would say was that it was down to intuition, or perhaps it had to do with the special bond said to exist between a mother and her son. Had quoted him the old Irish proverb that while a man loves his sweetheart the most, his wife the best, he loves his mother the longest.

And in this, Sybil was proved right.


"Is that Tom Branson?"

"For sure, Who is this please?"

"Steer. George Steer".

At which point, Tom had quickly called Sybil into the hall, let her listen while he ascertained what, if anything, knew of Danny and his whereabouts.

First things first, Steer, it transpired, knew of Tom. Had read many of his articles in the Irish Independent and admired his work. Yes, Steer most certainly recalled the young man in the photograph. He had met him, albeit only briefly, a short while after it had been taken and then again a few days later when they had a drink together in a bar in Bilbao. It was then that Steer had learned exactly who Danny was; that his Da was the Deputy Editor of the Indy. Steer went on to say that Danny was a very personable chap and by all accounts a fine mechanic too who, from what Steer also had heard tell, with Danny's good looks, turned girls' heads wherever he went. At that Tom had laughed; said that Danny was a real chip off the old block and just like his Da. That Sybil would concede; not exactly two peas in a pod, that was reserved for Bobby who was Tom in miniature. But in temperament and in his fascination with all things mechanical as well as an ability to repair them, Danny was so like his father.

That the stories circulating in Dublin regarding the loss of the Pieter were, very sadly, true. When the Dutchman went down off the Spanish coast there had been heavy losses among the crew and the Volunteers. As for Danny, when Steer had last seen him, in Bilbao, a few days ago, he and his pals were just fine. In answer to Tom's question, as to who the other Volunteers were, in order that Tom could pass on news to their families, Steer said he didn't recall their names. In any case, Steer said he had to be very careful with what he said as the Republican censors listened in on telephone calls. All the same, he understood Danny and the Volunteers, those of them who had made it here to Spain were somewhere east of Bilbao. More than that he could not say other than that he had been informed that in that area, the Republicans were more than holding their own; if Tom understood what he meant.

"For sure," Tom said, realising that what in all likelihood was really happening was the exact opposite of what Steer himself had just said; that the Republicans were not holding their own and were probably in retreat. After all, it was well known here in Ireland, as indeed elsewhere, that the Republicans were finding themselves increasingly out fought, out gunned, and out manoeuvred by the Nationalists, in no small measure because of the military assistance being given them by Fascist Italy and Nazi Germany. Not that Tom said so to Sybil who was just so relieved to hear from someone who had spoken to Danny only very recently and that for the present he was both alive and well. If Steer caught up with Danny again he would be sure to pass on the fact that he had spoken to his parents. In the meantime, if Tom and Sybil wished to write to Danny, they could do so c/o Steer himself who, while he could not promise anything in this regard, would do his very best to see that any such letters were forwarded on.


Excavation site, Samaria, Northern District, British Mandated Palestine, late March 1937.

From where Robert and Max were now standing, on the hilltop of ancient Samaria, westwards they had a superb view, as far as where the blue waters of the Mediterranean sparkled in the sunlight, while below them, beyond the terraced hillside and olive groves, to the east, they could see a large village, of stone and mud houses, where most of the men and boys helping with the excavation of the villa lived, along with the minaret of a mosque and the ruins of a church. Saw, too, Max's father beckoning to them to come down the scarp to the camp.

When, a short while later, Robert and Max reached the tents, Friedrich held out a clutch of letters culled from the bundle of post which had arrived for him in his absence. Continuing to leaf through the sheaf of envelopes, recognising the writing on several, Friedrich saw that two were from colleagues at the Archaeological Institute in Vienna, and others from Edith.

"There are several here for you my boy. I do begin to suspect that your darling Mama is missing you rather more than she does me!"
Max laughed. He knew very well that his parents loved each other dearly. There were also a couple of letters for Robert, which he had not expected. One was from his father - Robert was surprised that with all the demands made upon him by the estate he had found the time to write. And, even more surprisingly, there was a letter, too, from Mama.


With Herr Horst having brought them each a glass of cold lemonade, seated on a pair of camp stools beneath a date palm, Robert and Max sat and read their letters. As Max opened the first of his, Friedrich was much amused to see him shading the words from view even when there was no-one seated near enough to see what his mother had written.

My very own precious darling...

"What on earth?" Max's face turned a deep shade of red.

"What is it?" his father asked.

"Postcards?" Robert lofted a brow. "From whom?"

"From Elena," Max said quietly, as he perused each of the brief messages in return.

"If I'm not very much mistaken, that was the young girl you met on the boat, wasn't it?"

"Yes, Papa".

Max saw that his mother had added a postscript to her letter.

My darling, you must have made a very great impression upon her to send you two postcards all the way from China!

That was one way of putting it.

Given what had happened back on board the liner, Max was only thankful that on her postcards Elena had said very little. Even now, he had but to close his eyes to see her standing before him out on the Boat Deck as the steamer sailed majestically on across the Mediterranean. If he thought about it more...

"Mein gott!"


Michaelerplatz, First District of Vienna, Federal State of Austria, April 1937.

"Has anything like this ever happened to you before?"

Edith nodded.

"Yes, once. It was last year, my brother-in-law was taking part in the Manx TT, that's a motorcycle race which takes place on the Isle of Man".

M. Alphonse nodded.

"Yes, I've heard tell of it. And?"

So, Edith explained how out of nowhere she had heard the roar of a motorbike; how she had been filled with a sense of foreboding that something dreadful would happen to her brother-in-law. That there would be an accident. Not that there had been.

M Alphonse smiled.

"No matter. Go on..."

Edith described that for no reason she could discern, she had begun having a most disturbing, most unpleasant, and recurring dream; told M. Alphonse what she had experienced. Told, too, of what she had seen in the mirror of her Writing Room. None of it made any sense. No, she was not at all nervous of flying, any more than she was of travelling by motor, train or steamer. Perhaps less so as she was a qualified pilot herself. With this in mind, she had been following the preparations being made by Amelia Earhart for her renewed attempt to fly around the world, just as she had also followed the first which, sadly, had ended prematurely when, just last month, trying to take-off, something had gone wrong, and the 'plane had come to grief in Hawaii. The second attempt to circumnavigate the globe was scheduled to begin next month. In a sense, flying was in her family's blood; her husband had been a fighter pilot during the Great War, and her elder boy was obsessed with all matters of an aeronautical nature.

They intended flying to London later in the year, in order to spend Christmas with family in Yorkshire in the north of England. One thing about which Edith was adamant was that she did not recognise any of the others she had glimpsed on board the aeroplane in her dream. However, while their faces had been shadowy and indistinct, their forms also, it had always been the same number: three adults, one of them elderly, and two children, both of them she thought were boys. Given that she herself had two sons, that there had been talk of her mother coming out here to Austria before returning with them to England in December, she had thought, at least to begin with, that the dream concerned her own family. Now she was no longer at all sure that it did...


Rosenberg, Lower Austria, April 1937.

Upon Edith's return to Rosenberg, having taken off her hat and coat, she went straight upstairs to see little Kurt; found him in the Day Nursery with Ella, having his afternoon tea. Here in Austria, in maintaining this tradition, Edith was subconsciously harking back to her own childhood, where afternoon tea taken in the Day Nursery at Downton in the company of her sisters and under the watchful eyes of their governess, was a daily occurrence. However, here at Rosenberg, just as it had been with Max when he was younger, afternoon tea in the nursery was much more relaxed affair than ever had been the case at Downton. So much so that, on seeing his mother enter the room, Kurt, who was busy eating boiled eggs and bread and butter soldiers, had scrambled off his chair, and run across the room to meet her.

"Mama! I missed you so much!"

"Did you, my darling?"

The little boy nodded his head enthusiastically several times. Edith smiled; bent down and kissed him, managing at the same time to deftly avoid Kurt's egg-stained lips.

Nonetheless, relaxed affair or not, leaving the table without permission, with his meal half finished, his mouth ringed with egg yolk, was not the kind of behaviour Edith expected or would tolerate. So, once she had greeted her young son, she had promptly and firmly ordered little Kurt back to the table to finish his tea. Thereafter, having herself cleaned Kurt's mouth with his napkin, with the little boy having asked if he might leave the table, while Ella cleared away the tea things, Edith had sat in one of the window seats, sat Kurt in her lap, and asked him what he had been doing while she had been away.

Kurt babbled on enthusiastically about having been down in the kitchen helping Frau Eder which made Edith smile; she wondered how much of a hindrance he had been, despite Kurt's solemn assurance that Frau Eder had said she couldn't have managed without him. Afterwards, Ella had taken him for a walk down to the stables to see the horses. Then he had eaten his lunch and afterwards he had done some drawing here in the nursery.

After spending sometime with Kurt, she left him in the care of Ella, intending to sit and begin rereading An Experiment With Time in her Writing Room. However, having closed the nursery door firmly behind her, it was as Edith came out into the corridor that once again something strange happened. Nodding to Olga, a Russian émigré, to whom they had given employment, and who was cleaning the furniture with a feather duster, Edith heard the unmistakable roar of an aircraft, which from the noise it was making was not only directly over the house but clearly in trouble. Yet, Olga seemed not to have heard it. A moment later and the sound died away, as if it had never been.

"Olga!" Realising her tone had sounded unduly brusque, something which she had not intended, which she put down to her own frayed nerves, Edith smiled.

"Madam?" The girl stopped what she was doing; stood stock still, feather duster poised in hand.

"Did you hear that?" Edith stopped mid-sentence for something told her instinctively that the sound of the aircraft would have been audible only to her and to no-one else. The young girl looked completely nonplussed.

"Madam?"

Edith shook her head.

"No, it doesn't matter. I'm sorry... Do please carry on with your duties".

"Yes, madam". Olga nodded and promptly resumed her dusting while Edith continued on her way to her Writing Room.


Once her mistress was out of earshot, Olga sighed.

Madam was clearly not herself.

But then, these days, who was?


Author's Note:

The descriptions in this chapter of what happened in Guernica during the bombing, the firestorm which followed it, and in the immediate aftermath, are an amalgam of what is recorded in eye witness reports and also from George Steer's own newspaper article which was written but a matter of hours after the destruction of the town. Refugios - cellars and the like designated as air raid shelters.

The air raid shelter on Calle Santa María is now the town's Tourist Office. The shelters were few in number and one of them received a direct hit killing all inside it. Durango had been bombed by Nationalist 'planes at the end of March.

Women's Institute - founded in 1915 to give new life to rural communities and to encourage women to become more involved in growing food during the Great War. The organisation's aims have long since broadened and the WI is now the largest voluntary women's organisation in Britain.

In all likelihood, the regiment in which Matthew would have served during the Great War would have been one of the five Yorkshire regiments. The most senior of these was The West Yorkshire Regiment. In the television series, Matthew serves in the (fictitious) The Duke of Manchester's Own.

Gilbert and Sullivan refers to the dramatist W. S. Gilbert (1836-1911) and the composer Arthur Sullivan (1842-1900) and the fourteen comic opera written by them between 1871 and 1896 of which H.M.S Pinafore, The Pirates of Penzance, and The Mikado are the best known. Major-General Stanley is a lead character from The Pirates of Penzance.

It is perfectly true that many members of the nobility who attended the Coronation took packed lunches with them into Westminster Abbey - hidden inside their coronets!

Opened in 1869, Leek and Thorpe on Coney Street was York's first department store. Destroyed by fire in 1933, it reopened the following year and really did lay claim to be the Selfridges of the North. Despite Mary being so sniffy about shopping in a department store, along with Leak and Thorpe, there were all manner of high class fashion shops including costumiers, furriers, and milliners, to be found on Coney Street - so much so that it was referred to as York's "Golden Mile".

Known by several different names, Kendal, Milne, and Faulkner on Deansgate was opened in the 1830s. Last year (2020) plans emerged suggesting that once the Art Deco building has been completely refurbished for other uses the store will finally close.

With a little research it is possible to find what programmes were being broadcast on the radio in April 1937.

As Friedrich tells the boys, Samaria has been known by several different names. These days, the modern village below it is now called Sebastia.