Conversations with the Man Upstairs. Ch 1- Distracted and Diffused
(Rough Story Timeline: Season 5, Episode 5 - The Christmas Proposal Scene)
A/N- Hello again, dear readers!
I have been distracted and diffused from writing for far too long. DAFF might just jumpstart me again via the wonders of readers reviews. :) My other work in progress, Ephemera, is unaccountably holding me up, even though I know that if I finally write and publish the next letter in that sequence, the rest should finish up fairly quickly! Go figure. So, I just had to jump in somewhere- with a scene between two old friends that struck me long ago, and so I have decided to float it out before an audience with the hope that it ends up sailing on to somewhere good.
This new piece is the beginnings of Elsie dealing with the house purchase scheme according to my headcanon. i.e. Elsie is not a pauper, and Charles and Elsie are openly looking for a viable retirement investment property/business as equal partners (no lifelong secretly hidden sisters in care homes and the attendant raft of lies that must go along with such a woeful plot device, thank you very much!). Familiarity with my other stories would likely be beneficial to understanding some of the nuances of this piece, but it may not be imperative.
That said, I would love it if new readers would go to those older pieces to help scaffold this and future stories for them (and maybe leave reviews there too, if you are so inclined!).
Reminder: I am a shocker for leaving overly long authors notes and research details, so do feel free to skip them all. I will try to curb my habit in this and future pieces.
Suffice to say, for this piece, you need to know that Becky is Elsie's older sister by two years and has three children with her husband, David Barton. They run a thriving bakery business in Lytham-St-Anne's, and have many grandchildren and great-grand-children— as outlined across Ephemera (so far).
Kind regards,
BorneToFlow.
oOOo
Ch 1- Distracted and Diffused
It had literally been a month of Sundays…well…it was over a month of Saturday afternoons, in all truth, and Elsie Hughes was feeling fed up…And confused—much more so than anything else. All is darkness as she chews lightly on the inside of her bottom lip. There has been nothing in this month or more of glorious late autumn days that should be troubling her–days which have slipped so comfortably into the accustomed Yorkshire early winter festive chill…Well…apart from that constant nagging concern about how dear Anna could possibly be getting along so far away from home at His Majesty's behest in Holloway's dark and foreboding halls.
Within this swirl of thoughts, a hot wave flushes over Elsie, piercing her skin. Although...it more feels as if it is rushing up from somewhere deep within her as she battles with her too-tight cover sheet on her too thin bed. Elspeth Mae Hughes! You are too diligent a housemaid—still! She soundly admonishes herself and her coin bounce aestheticism as she twists and struggles against her restrictions to reach for the cord on her bedside lamp.
Yellow light floods into her eyes and she squints against the pain that spikes inside her temple. A film of sweat prickles over her whole body—sudden-like and full. She feels a droplet of it forming in her blessedly unrestrained cleavage, trickling down like a shameful stain beneath her high collared nightgown. It is close to ten years since she last felt such a sudden an unexpected wave of discomfort, almost nauseating in its intensity—washing so uncontrollably through her. Not Now! Lord! I thought this was all over and done with! Her flustered mind cries as her eyes roll heavenward and catch only the upper corners of gloom in her cloying attic room. She has not felt anything of this sort since her change had come on and passed away—unheralded. Yet it is all just as strange and as frightening and unexpected tonight as it was for her back then. For, most surely, no one ever spoke of such unmentionable things ever happening to her, not even her dearest Becky did. But...then again...somewhere in Elsie's currently churning thoughts, she now realises that her sister had alluded to such things at the time and on more than one occasion. Huph...Dear Becky—just being her normal older sisterly-self—the same as ever she was, even when everything changes. But there was Elsie: younger and just as lost as she feels right now, and wholly deaf and blind in her ignorance and in her discomfort about any such womanly concerns ever being spoken about in reference to herself at all (especially not something that might refer to her shockingly uncontrollable body at that time). No, at the time Elsie had discounted the truth of any such matters ever becoming an actual occurrence for her—not with her confirmed spinster-status and decidedly nun-like existence. Elsie had genuinely thought that such changes must only be the burden of those who had had the chance and the blessing to have successfully borne a child.
Sometimes...Elsie still wonders at her biology. She had read some books back then, of course, from His Lordship's library...Although, not about that per se. Other books, though. Some of them quite weighty and full of science and terminology that was still all new and often times confusing to her. But then, they were mainly based on animals and the things she had seen over the years, back on the farm with Mam and Da, and even here on the estate at the home farm. None of those books were truly shocking to a farm girl, such as she. They were more about things of relevance to His Lordships broader agricultural concerns and other zoological interests, often times in books that were no longer needed for any direct reference by old Jarvis in the land agent's office anymore. But most certainly, even such descriptions and diagrams as she read back then were far removed from her own existence and bodily concerns before any of these roiling changes had assaulted her senses so very thoroughly back then.
And Elsie had, of course, read other much more famous tomes. Things like The Origin of Species (as best as she could understand it), and The Descent of Man. Oh! How that Mr Darwin still ruffles Elsie's feathers on a such a primal level to this day, for there seems to be no room for God within his theories and musings. Elsie still cannot fathom a life without that deeply felt sense of the good Lord's hand guiding her very existence. Still, even Mr Darwin did not fully refute your existence, Dear Lord, Elsie muses. When Elsie was younger had read some of Mr Darwin's commentary in the Dailies. She appreciated his rather reticent and circumspect manner of address, and indeed, she appreciated what she now realises was the scientific rigour of his approach to not really knowing the full truth of the matter. Now she understands that Mr Darwin wanted to have real evidence to prove or disprove any supposition about the existence of God's hand at work within our daily lives and continuing evolution.
Good Lord! Elsie's mind is flitting about quite uncontrollably now. She huffs aloud at her having fallen into these strange and disconnected musings. It is so much like back then…what is happening to me tonight, Dear Lord? I cannot keep a straight thought in my head. And why am I awake at this hour anyway? She huffs audibly once more at the thought of the rapidly approaching and busy new day as she automatically prays to the God she herself has never felt a need to lose faith in…Well…maybe there were a few moments of doubt in there, Lord...during my illness… and the war… and after Dear Lady Sybil and Mr Matthew were so cruelly taken…Why?...It was just like poor David Jr's Margie, and Moira's lovely Alistair…Sweet William...Little Jean...so many, Lord...Huughh-Schnummph. Elsie sighs out aloud again as she blinks away some of that old grief and rises from the side of her bed, for it has long been her unorthodox manner to move about the room as she continues her silent conversations with God, discounting tonight her almost equally strong drive to just fall to her knees beside her bed like a child once more. But she just does not know yet what it is she feels she must pray for so very fervently. Besides which, the heavy sweat droplet between her breasts has now trickled down into her navel and it is far, far too irritating to be ignored. She feels flustered and most decidedly unsettled. Why am I like this! She audibly mutters to herself as she scuffles over to her washstand in her bed slippers. What is it you are trying to tell me, Lord? Why am I like this now?...And again! This should not happen to me more than once, surely?!
Tonight, this desperately heated physicality has happened upon Elsie in much the same way as it did all those years ago. It had always been frightening in its suddenness and utterly overwhelming to her senses. And it is all just as inexplicable to her now. But at least now, Elsie does know from her reading…and indeed from Becky (once she had finally started to hear) and from that equally forthright but private and professional Scot, Dr Clarkson, who had actually mentioned a little of such things way back when Elsie was having her tests done. It seems it is only now that Elsie can actually recall him saying something about the particular issues women of a certain age faced. Oh! How I hated that, Lord!—the thought of actually being 'A woman of a certain age'!...Still do, really...And at the time Elsie had thought that Dr Clarkson, just meant that she was more prone to such horrible illnesses as breast cancer— especially in one who had never had the right opportunity available to her to bear and suckle a bairn. At the time it had crossed Elsie's mind that the good Lord was playing some sort of cruel trick on her, a penance of sorts because she had refused to use her body for what it was most surely designed to do. Urgh...it was all such a horrid blur! as Elsie realises once more how she must have misheard and not fully understood much of what Dr Clarkson explained to her about her illness as she lived and worked within that heavy fog of uncertainty— and of abject fear, really. And besides anything else, the worst of those other sorts of symptoms had already left her, leaving behind only a benign cyst—an unwanted growth. But, in all truth, at the time of her illness, Elsie had really felt much more dried and shrivelled and used up by life than anything else. It was quite different to when she had previously had all those awful feelings of being constantly full and flushed with sweating mildew—like some sort of strange rotting away of her former potential fruitfulness as she had maybe wished that sometimes she might have somehow gone another way. Lord! How could I have been so very ignorant back then! Uuugh! And You really are stewing in it all now Elsie Mae Hughes— ye old prune!... What are ye about? Her mind is spun up with chastisement and stretching like a Chinese finger trap now. She cannot seem to snap out of it tonight.
But back then, she had but briefly rued her ignorance of such things, and then she just got on with it all, as Elsie Mae Hughes is wont to do. No, but it was really only after Mrs Crawley. She is the one who had broken through and spoken to Elsie with typical candour, and from a place of similarly timed experience. Yet, it was discreetly, and with a nurse's professional care—when she saw Elsie struggling with her composure one day as she escorted young Daisy to the Cottage Hospital to have a burn dressing checked. But it was because of that bold and caring and educated woman's advice, Elsie had read more scientifically and even further afield. And so, despite her current discombobulated state, Elsie does know about such things now. So it cannot be all of that all over again— I at least know that much, Lord.
Oh, dear Lord above! Elsie recalls that she has only just recently had rather robust and unexpected conversation with Mrs Patmore as that little pepper pot, just over ten years her junior, stomped loudly away from her ever-bubbling crucibles, more red-faced than ever, and shouting for the store cupboard key for the first time in more than a few years. Elsie remembers spinning quickly in her swivel desk chair, eyebrows furrowed and automatically at the ready for the Lancashire Bomber-maiden's full onslaught and imminent defeat at the hands of a single formidable Scottish Dragoon. Ruddy Store Cupboard Key! Why on earth has this all come up AGAIN! Elsie remembers thinking at the time. But the vision that greeted Elsie as she turned about was one of a panting and flustered Mrs Patmore, red to the very tips of her ears, perspiring uncontrollably, her curly hair all lank beneath her cap and her grey smock dress showing dark watermarks underneath the arms. Mrs Patmore leaned heavily on the back of one Mrs Hughes wooden chairs and tried desperately to cool her face with a doyly from the side table—it being the first sign of relief that came to hand as she sought refuge in Mrs Hughes sitting room so as to fan herself rapidly and well away from the prying and questioning gazes of any of her young scullery maids or any odd hall boy skulking about in want of an extra scrap of food. Poor Beryl. Thank the Lord I had the benefit of my dark dresses during my time!...But at least she is facing it all without the worries of a tiresome old corset, Elsie clearly remembers thinking when she quickly realised what Mrs Patmore was actually about. Then Elsie promptly saw to getting some iced water and a cool compress from the kitchen and ensuring Daisy was set to hold the fort. Thankfully, Elsie managed to catch Miss Baxter on the run, whom she knows is currently helping Lady Grantham with a more regular dressing regime some days and for similar reasons as is Mrs Patmore's current malaise. Mis Baxter discreetly trooped up to the servant's quarters to retrieve a fresh dress for Mrs Patmore to change into in Elsie's sitting room. No, Elsie does not envy Mrs Patmore's current journey into late middle age, that much is certain! At least that is all done and dusted for me, Elsie thinks ruefully as she pours cool water from her pitcher, wrings out a cloth in her washbasin and then reaches beneath the hem of her nightdress to mop her sticky perspiration away from her belly and beneath the droop of her breasts that have stuck quite uncomfortably to her chest.
Thus, inelegantly poised, Elsie's heart stops and her head almost hits on the edge of the marble-topped washstand when she hears a light tap at her door. Lord above! What is it now! She grumbles internally as her outward voice drops into its careful professional tone.
"Just one moment" she speaks quietly towards the door as she quickly straightens herself and draws her well-worn housecoat over her shoulders. By the time she has traversed to few steps to her bedroom door, her robe is securely tied and Mrs Hughes is firmly in position, stern and mildly disapproving expression in place over the top of her inherent concern for whatever the problem on the other side of the door may be at three o'clock on a Sunday morning.
"Oh! Mrs Patmore. Is everything quite all right" she asks soto voce, unavoidably surprised at her visitation when she opens the door.
"I were about to ask you the same thing Mrs Hughes. I saw the light beneath your door and I could hear you shuffl'n about and muttering something to yourself when I passed by."
"What on earth are you doing up and about at this hour Mrs Patmore?" Elsie whispers. There is no point everyone in the lady's corridor missing out on precious sleep tonight, so she quickly draws Mrs Patmore into her room and lightly clicks the door shut behind them.
"Ugh, much the same as usual at the moment, I am afraid. I got so hot and bothered that I had to change the damp sheets on my bed and head to the washroom for a proper sponge down. Lord above, it will be a right ol' blessing when these worries of youth finally leave me for good!'
Elsie cannot help but scoff at their shared dilemmas and quickly covers her mouth to stop a full giggle bubbling forth. She feels utterly girlish and silly with Beryl hiding out in her room in the wee hours of the morning and sharing her secrets in typically bawdy fashion.
"You and me both, Mrs Patmore. I woke up in a hot sweat myself just then."
"Surely not! It cannot possibly go on for that long, can it?! Oh…oh...um, I do beg your pardon Mrs Hughes… I meant nought by it," she starts spluttering "… but…well…you see, I had heard different-like and…well…you are just a little older than me now."
Elsie is giggling quite uncontrollably now, desperately trying to stop herself and only making it a lot worse as she snorts in an unladylike breath. Tears start to form in the corners of her eyes at the ridiculousness of it all—and most especially because Mrs Patmore getting all apologetic on her. For some reason she cannot explain, everything is just so incredibly hilarious to Elsie in this moment. The perplexed, flustered and sleep deprived look on Beryl's face makes her appear as a fuzzy and disgruntled woodland creature that has been unwillingly dragged backwards out of its burrow. Elsie is set to have a fit.
"Oh Beryl," she giggles out, "stop! or I shall have to run to the washroom myself soon!"
And that just gets Beryl snickering as silently as she can behind her hand.
"All the things I have to look forward to Mrs Hughes!"
"Yes!" Elsie breathes out on the over the top of another fit of giggles she just cannot seem to contain.
Beryl just looks at her completely perplexed, but she is quite enjoying that her friend's good humour has returned after an evening where she could tell that Mrs Hughes was distracted over something—there was a remoteness to her that made her come across as quite vague at times. Mrs Patmore has seldom encountered it in her—really only when they thought she was quite ill all of those years ago. And then she realises that her friend has finally called her by her first name, at least in the privacy of this shared moment, and so Beryl reaches out to clasp at Mrs Hughes forearm through her dressing gown sleeve and takes a risk.
"Elsie…what is it, Deary?" Mrs Patmore eyes her seriously and it brings Elsie up short. With shocked eyes she breathes deeply in and out a few times before she can control her speech effectively.
"Oh Mrs Patmore, I am afraid I always will be a tad older than you, so no offence is taken, I can assure you. And rest assured that it does all end a lot sooner than that, thank the Lord." And she offers Beryl a supportive smile.
"So tell me what got you all so hot and bothered tonight, then, hmm?" and she silently prays that her friend is not ill again "…and its Beryl tonight, Elsie," she says softly. Elsie hiccoughs in a sharp breath and her eyes instantly well up when she fully fathoms the blessing of having a female friend close enough to her own age to share in all of her woes—even the ones she cannot quite name yet. In fact, the power of speech seems to have left Elsie completely for the moment. Beryl sees it in a trice."I'll tell you what, let me just write a quick note to leave on the young Jill's door to not wake Daisy early today. I am up now, so I may as well stay up and set the kitchen fires m'self today, and get the breakfast started. I'd best leave a note on Daisy's bedside table too so she can have a small lie-in and not fret. She and Ivy can handle the dinner tonight and I will catch my rest with an early finish after church and Sunday luncheon." Beryl looks closely at Elsie and can see that whatever sleep she had managed since they both retired at eleven o'clock last night was as fitful as her own had been. "I think you can afford to do the same, Mrs Hughes. The family have no grand plans this Sunday evening, as y' well know. So you and I can go down now to sneak a cuppa and a late night snack now before they all come running at us again at daybreak. What do y'say?"
A tear finally breaks through its fragile wall and trickles down Elsie's cheek. She just nods in acquiescence and unspeakable gratitude. What on earth is wrong with ye Elsie Mae Hughes, ye daft apeth!
"Let me just change into m'day dress and I will see you down in your sitting room, Elsie." Beryl informs her, recognising that her friend will want some time to compose herself a little for whatever it is she needs to talk about.
"Thank you Beryl," she finally manages to whisper out thickly as she takes her Chatelaine from her dresser and quietly locks her room behind her and sees to the one at the entrance to the women's corridor.
oOOo
A/N: Sooo...where to next? Your responses will spark new ideas I am sure. TIA.
Notes on my other writings: The ending of Ephemera is largely blocked out and will be finished before I embark upon a major post-Chelsie retirement saga/drama I have brewing. That latter piece already has many, many chapters written. However, I will need fan support to haul through some of the brewing chapters in that mega-fiction for which I have only the bones blocked out at this stage. There are difficult plot manoeuvres I need to make and I am not sure yet how they should be revealed. Fan responses really are a huge inspiration to me, so thank you in advance for offering any time you may have to write them. I will work on PM responses to all of them if you are signed up to FF.
I really would like to see that multi-chapter fiction finished before the 2019 DA movie release. However, I can sadly promise nothing, as this year sees me carrying a fairly heavy teaching and marking workload, ongoing carer duties, and a possible house move to boot! But, with your lovely help, I would still like to try to write that grand drama for your enjoyment. :)
Regards,
BorneToFlow