When I was young

It starts off as nothing at all, only the slight downturn at the corner of his lip, nothing except the smallest of incidences at the dining table and Mr Carson's eyes raised heavenward over the rim of his teacup. The usual breakfast din that gives way to something more this morning, louder than the clink of butter, of the jam jar passed round or the stirring of spoons in teacups.

Young Peter has been picking on Andy since he arrived, has been more than a little jealous of the hall boy from the London house, not to mention Mr Carson's fondness for the lad and Elsie has been meaning to have a word with him, had seen him smudge shoe polish on Andy's collar yesterday and call it an accident, had thought to let it go just that once.

"And I shouldn't have to tell you again, Andrew that it is important to uphold the standards of Downton Abbey with the proper manner of dress."

It is of no surprise then, when the quiet shoving of elbows under the table, so characteristic of young boys quickly turns into a brawl over it, when the heavy outpouring of emotion, of hot porridge which seeps through Andy's shirtfront now demands the scraping of chairs pulled back and squealing housemaids before Mr Carson yanks the boys apart, pulls them off the floor with large fingers clipped round their ears.

"That's enough, both of you. Go and get yourselves cleaned up," he huffs. "Honestly, what do I look like – your father?"

"Not to worry, Mr Carson," Thomas says, from where he sits. "No one could think that of you."

And it's nothing, it isn't anything at all, of consequence but Elsie sees, she does see the hurt that widens his eyes and the lump he has in his throat all that morning.