This is another silly piece that arose from my response to behind the scenes videos (found at Sunrise TV, Australia by typing "Downton Abbey" in their website's search bar). Phyllis Logan hinting very vaguely that Mrs Hughes has "a past" lead to much speculation on my part. My favourite theory was that she is a former table-tennis champion. Bearing this madness in mind; enjoy.
"YES!"
There was a groan from around the table as Thomas emerged victorious once more, throwing his bat down triumphantly. He had already beaten Mr Bates, William, and Charles and now he had defeated Mr Branson too. Everyone had been hopeful that Branson at least might get the better of him- they had gone as far as to place bets on the chauffeur- but no. Gwen clapped a consolatory hand on his back. They should have all known better than to play table tennis on a Friday night.
Thomas looked extortionately smug as the required sums of money changed hands, taking a seat at the end of the table and putting his feet up with evident relish.
"No one left," he observed, casting a disdainful eye over each of his defeated opponents, "No man left to beat me. I thought you might, Mr Carson, but- fortunately for me..."
Thomas had a remarkable talent for turning what was meant to be a bit of fun on an evening into out and out warfare. It was not often the staff saw the butler get that competitive; there was no organised event where the quality of silver polishing was judged.
"Calm down, Thomas," Mr Carson advised grimly, "You've won fair and square, no one's disputing it."
"Though William had a good run for his money, didn't he?" Thomas continued, ignoring the butler, and continuing to harp on, the perfect illustration of someone blowing their own trumpet, "Though he did try his luck. But none of you stood a chance against a real master."
"I'll give you a run for your money."
The voice piped up, firm, defiant and daring from behind the wall of people at the other end of the table, staring distastefully at Thomas. There was an suitably stunned silence; everyone wondering who was either brave enough to stand up to him or mad enough to increase the level of goading they had to listen to. To the general astonishment of all assembled, Mrs Hughes emerged, her sleeves rolled up, her face set. Thomas looked quite taken aback, but did not take his feet off the table.
"Come on," Mrs Hughes commanded him, picking up the bat that Branson had discarded, "Get up. Someone pass me the ball."
Recovering himself, Thomas stood, trying to make out that this was some sort of a joke, waiting to reprise his victory march. He had clearly not, Mr Carson thought, seen the look in the housekeeper's eye. He stood idly, expecting to simply waft the shot back like a breeze. In fact, when it arrived, it nearly took his eye out, landing explosively in the centre of the table and rebounding at incredible speed. Alarmed he looked up at Mrs Hughes, who was now looking nothing short of manic. Anna and Gwen were each staring at her, completely in awe.
"My point," she pointed out, as if it hadn't been blindingly obvious- literally.
The second shot was hit and something very similar happened. It took Thomas another go before managed to even return the ball. And then was promptly slaughtered on the very next shot. Mr Carson bit his lip to stop himself grinning.
Within ten minutes, the staff were cheering Mrs Hughes' name and applauding loudly with every point she scored. Finally, with an almighty blast that nearly sent Charles running for cover never mind the footman, she emerged victorious, amid load cheers from all assembled. Thomas had turned quite an astounding shade of scarlet.
"Where on earth did you learn to do that?" Charles asked her quietly as she shook had with Mr Branson, hands raining down on her back in congratulation.
She glanced up at him.
"Do what?"
"That."
Miss O'Brien, never mind Gwen, was now looking at Mrs Hughes in a new light of respect. The housekeeper glanced up at the butler in amusement.
"Misspent youth," she informed him.
End.
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