The Difference Between Grasping and Holding
Their flat in Dublin was small, and it was on the third floor of a brick building overlooking a noisy main street. No matter the weather, cars and horses jostled for position in the road, and pedestrians shouted as they weaved between them, bearing produce in baskets on their arms or children on their hips. When it rained, a common occurrence, the mud oozed from every crack in the cobblestones and made trudging home an arduous task, though Sybil had no choice but to endure it.
On this particular afternoon, with cold rainwater falling almost horizontal to the street, her umbrella totally useless to protect her, Sybil’s only thought while leaving home had been of of the integrity of the letter tucked against her chest, shielded as much as she could make it from the rain. Now that she had posted it and was on her way back, her mind had liberty to wander.
As they so often did, her thoughts returned to Downton, though for once she wasn’t thinking about her family. She was wondering if she should write to Gwen, the housemaid she had tried to help find a different job as a secretary. Although she hadn’t thought about the time they had sloshed through the mud after their horse went lame in years, she was reminded of it now, and only partly because of the feeling of water soaking through her shoes. The letter she had just posted reminded her of her old blind optimism for Gwen’s employment prospects, and how she now understood much more clearly the resignation that Gwen had felt after her first rejection.
Her letter, now safely in the mail, was addressed to Doctor Clarkson, asking for him to write a reference for her, to help with finding a position as a nurse at any local hospital. She wasn’t going to give up on her quest to find a position as a nurse, but the declarative confidence with which she had announced the plan to her family was harder to come by, now. Luckily, after each disappointment, she didn’t need to return to Downton and face her family: she only had to return to Tom. And that— that was what was holding her up.
Sybil wiped rain from her brow as she fixed the welcome sight of their flat in her view, breaking into as much of a jog as she could manage in the last hundred yards. She dashed inside and leaned against the cracking plaster of the stairwell wall for a second, catching her breath before she began the trudge upstairs.
The interior of the building was not a respite, exactly. Through the thin walls, she could already hear shouting and the cries of a colicky baby. But it was at least warm and dry inside, and as clean as the tenants could keep it. As she passed the second floor, where the cries of the baby were loudest, she committed herself to bringing something to the mother of the baby. Maybe she would make a cake. Even if it wasn’t the most nutritious thing in the world, it would probably raise the spirits when patience was being tested by a baby who would not stop crying. Giving a gift would make Sybil feel more useful, like she was capable of doing something good in the world, or at least here in Dublin.
Tom was still asleep when she finally entered their little flat. She could hear his breathing through the open bedroom door. He probably would be asleep for a little while longer— until supper time. He’d eat with her, and then he’d leave to go to work.
Tom’s job at the paper was not— as they had implied to her family— as a journalist, but as an operator and sometimes repairman of the printing presses. One of his family’s friends had gotten it for him, on his strengths as a mechanic. “A machine’s a machine, after all,” he had said. Tom hoped to leverage the position into writing for the paper, but, as optimistic as they both were, they knew it would be a long ladder to climb.
As quietly as she could, trying not to wake him, Sybil took off her sodden clothes and changed into dry ones, hanging the wets up by the stove. Tom rolled over in his sleep but didn’t wake. She imagined that even with the crying baby below, their flat was much quieter than the great room where newspapers were printed.
Making tea was second nature to her now: filling the kettle, putting it on the stove and waiting for the boil. She warmed her hands on the mug as she sat at the kitchen table and stared out the grey, rain-streaked window.
She had some time to think, though this always made her feel strange. During the war, when she had been on her feet all day, having time to think had felt like a luxury she had earned. And during the rush after moving to Dublin and getting married, setting up the flat and learning how to live this new life, she had been busy then, too. But as things calmed, during the long days while Tom was asleep and the long nights when he was away, and she had nothing to do but keep house—
She shook herself out of the melancholy and got up to look in their little pantry cupboards. There was enough flour and sugar to make a cake for the neighbors downstairs. And maybe she would double the recipe, while she had everything out, and make one for herself and Tom, too. He might like some to take with him to eat at work.
Still trying to stay quiet, she gathered the flour and sugar and carefully spooned them into a bowl. She did it from memory, calling to mind Mrs. Patmore’s instructions and Daisy’s sweet encouragement. She could cook a lot more than cake, these days, but as a nurse she had mainly been expected to make soups and other foods for invalids— not pastries. So, she relied on memories of the kitchens of Downton to guide her, carefully laying some sliced apples in the bottom of the tins to give the cake some flavor and a pretty appearance when she turned it out. And, as easy as anything, the cake was in the oven.
They would have beans and toast for supper, she decided, and she got that going. As the cake baked, the smell of it filled the whole flat, and this was what woke Tom from his sleep. She heard him get up, shuffle around as he washed his face and put on some clothes, and then walk around to light the lamps. It had grown quite dark, without Sybil really noticing.
“You’re up early,” Sybil said when he finally came up behind her in the kitchen. Not wanting to burn the beans she was stirring, she only took her eyes off them for a moment to look at him with a smile.
“It smells good in here,” he said, though when he peered into the pot of beans with a confused expression, she laughed.
“There’s cake in the oven,” she said. “It’ll be done in a minute.”
“I didn’t know there was an occasion.”
“It’s for the woman downstairs,” Sybil said. “I feel bad that her baby has colic. She could probably could use a bit of cheer, with all the crying.”
“None for me, then?” Tom asked.
She swatted him gently. “I made two.”
“Now, see, I knew I married you for a reason.”
She laughed. “I didn’t think it was my baking skills. I hope they turn out.”
“I’m sure they will.” He pressed a kiss into her hair, then sat down at the table. “It’s sweet of you.”
“Is it?” she asked. “I’m afraid my motivations are a little selfish.”
“You want to have an excuse to go down there and poke and prod at the babe to see if you can make it stop crying?” Even now, the wails of the baby were penetrating the floorboards, though the wood did enough to dampen the sound that it wasn’t unbearable.
“No,” Sybil said. “I don’t think I know enough about babies to do that.” She frowned. “All of my nursing experience was on soldiers. When I get a job, I’m sure I’ll have to learn about them quickly.”
“That’s when you’ll have to learn about babies?” Tom asked.
“Well,” she said, and smiled down at the pot of beans. “Even if we’re very lucky soon, I hope I’ll have at least a few months of experience by the time our baby’s born. I would be terribly nervous if I ended up not knowing the first thing—”
“Our baby,” Tom repeated, and she could hear the smile in his voice.
“No, your cousin’s baby,” Sybil said with a laugh. She took the beans off the heat, and then wrapped her hands in the dish towel to pull the cakes out of the oven. She set them down on the counter to cool. Tom watched her silently. When she was sure she was no longer in danger of burning herself or the food anywhere on the stove, she turned around to face him at last. The dopey smile on his face was so endearing there in the lamplight. “Of course, our baby,” she said. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“So am I,” he said.
She set out plates on the table. The dishware, a wedding gift from Edith, was incongruously fancy with their settings: truly fine porcelain that Sybil strove not to break. They had a whole set of fine crystal for serving, though she never expected to do any entertaining. She realized that she would have at least one occasion to use some of it: the cake cooling on the counter could be delivered downstairs on the fine glass platter, the one with delicate roses etched into the glass.
She served them both beans and bread, and sat down across from him at the table. He dug in immediately— ravenous— this was his breakfast— and they didn’t speak for some time. Sybil ate much more delicately, but they kept grinning at each other whenever their eyes met over their plates. This was what she loved about Tom: he made everything feel like they were playing a game against the world, and winning. Maybe he felt that way about her, too.
By the time they had finished eating their beans, the cakes were cool enough to pull gently from the tins. Sybil put the one for the both of them on the wooden cutting board, slicing it to inspect it.
“Not as good as Mrs. Patmore or your mother, I’m afraid,” she said. The cake was too crumbly— too dry except where the apple slices were, where it was too wet. Still, it probably would taste alright.
“It’s perfect,” Tom said when she handed him a slice. He hadn’t even taken a bite yet, but she didn’t contradict him, and just smiled.
“Take some to work with you,” she said as she sat. “There’s plenty. You can bring it to share.”
“You are a generous soul.”
She poked at her slice of cake with her fork. “It’s selfish of me,” she said. “I just keep looking for ways to make myself useful. That’s all it is. Not generosity, really.”
“You are useful,” he said, gesturing around the flat.
She smiled at him, since he was trying to be reassuring. That wasn’t the crux of the issue, though. “I know.”
“You posted your letter to Dr. Clarkson?”
“I did,” she said.
“Then you’ll have a good reference, and a job soon, if that’s what you really want for yourself.”
“I know I will.” Even though she was confident, she couldn’t stop the tiny twinge of dissatisfaction that entered her voice.
“You knew it would take some time to make this the life we want to live.”
“We’ll get there.” Still, her voice wasn’t quite cheerful enough for Tom’s taste. He looked at her.
“Are you sorry to be here, then?”
That was another thing about him— he did always speak his mind. And she loved him for it. He would ask her directly, and she wouldn’t do him the disservice of answering anything less than directly.
“No,” she said. “I love you. I want to be here with you. It’s not that.” She put her fork down as she tried to figure out how to express what she needed to express. “You understand— I know you’ll love me no matter what I do: if I’m a nurse, if I stay home for our baby, whatever I end up doing. And it’s the same the other way— I loved you as a chauffeur, and I love you as a mechanic, and I’ll love you when you’re a father— none of that will ever change the way I see you. And I know you’ll always be there for me.”
“But it’s not exciting enough. Not what you’d imagined.”
“Tom—” she said, and he stopped. “I didn’t want to be a useless ornament for my whole life,” she said. “And I know I’m not, but— I feel like I could do so much, and I want to be something just because I know I can, because I don’t want to stay still— and that’s the selfish thing. I just want that for myself.”
He was silent for a second. “I hope that you’ll feel satisfied by being a nurse, then, and not want to run off to do something somewhere else.”
“Tom!”
But he was standing, and picking up their dishes to wash them. “I should get going to work,” he said. There wasn’t any vitriol in his voice, just a statement of fact, so she nodded.
It was early in the morning by the time that Tom returned home after his twelve hour shift. Sybil was asleep in the almost pure dark, no pre-dawn light managing to make it in to the windows. The screaming baby below had even managed to fall asleep, and the only sound was the gentle rain tapping on the windowpanes, and Tom’s footsteps creaking on the floorboards. He didn’t light the lamps as he came in, just took off his ink and grease stained clothes and crawled into the bed next to her, so warm from her body. She woke, as she usually did, and rolled to face him.
“You’re back,” she mumbled.
“Of course I am,” he said. His legs were so cold underneath the blankets, he was like a block of ice when he pulled her towards him, or himself towards her.
“Did you wash off?” she asked. The ink and grease always stayed on his hands, and would stain the sheets if he wasn’t careful. Sometimes, when she got out of bed, she’d find it smeared down her skin in black streaks where Tom’s fingers had been.
“Walked home in the rain,” he said. “That’s got me clean enough.”
She shook her head, but she didn’t stop his hands from wandering up her side.
“I thought about what you said,” he murmured. “Couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
She nodded, and he must have been able to feel the rustling of her hair on the pillow, but she stayed silent. She wasn’t awake enough to say anything.
“I understand,” he said finally. “I feel the same way.”
“I knew you did. About Ireland’s Troubles.” She yawned, nestling against him.
“Yes,” he said. “I have to do what I can. If that’s working as a mechanic until I can start writing for the paper, or if that’s—” He cut himself off, but Sybil was too fuzzed with sleep to ask what else he was going to say, so she just nodded.
“Do you think that’s selfish?” he asked.
“I want you to be happy. And I know…” She trailed off as his cold hand slipped beneath her nightgown and raised gooseflesh along her back, interrupting whatever coherent thought that she had pulled through the fog of drowsiness. She pulled herself closer to him, wrapping her legs around his, not caring how cold he was, or how his hair was wet from the rain as his forehead rested on hers. She wanted to warm him with everything in her.
“What do you know, my darling?” Tom asked.
“I have you,” she said. “And you have me. Regardless of whatever else we do.”
And if she always had that, as a rock to fall back on, she could make that fill her heart until it overflowed. And that would be enough for all the dark mornings like this one, at least.