It never got any easier, all the patients he had lost he remembered. Some haunted his dreams, asking him with forlorn voices why he couldn't save them. Young Scott Freeman was one such haunt. Scottie would be sitting on the floor smashing his toy trucks together asking Doctor Clarkson why he couldn't play with his brothers. Scottie had died of an overwhelming infection. A piece of wood had been lodged in his leg. Clarkson had been able to remove the foreign object however it had introduced infection. Richard had amputated Scottie's leg in an effort to save his life. It was not to be the infection was just too overwhelming. Over the course of two days the child's fever spiked causing a fit. After it had passed his blood pressure went down mercifully he lost consciousness. Coma set in he eventually passed Richard had given the child morphine to make sure he had a peaceful death. In the dreams the dead never shouted, or destroyed objects they merely asked, "Why? Why did I die?" All Richard could do was say he was sorry.
The worst were the dreams where the patients said nothing but merely followed him watching him do mundane things. He almost wished they would shout accusations at him or lob insults. For the past week his dreams had been haunted by Sybil Branson. In his dreams he would be washing dishes or signing charts and she would shuffle up to him. Her hair sweat soaked and clinging to her face, her skin grey for her heart was no longer pumping the warm red blood through her body. She would stand there and watch him. The blue of her nightgown seemed to highlight that fact that she was dead. Unblinking eyes just staring at him. In the dream he could never talk to her and when he started to he would wake.
The problem with Sybil is that he could have saved her. If she had had the cesarean she could be with her daughter and husband enjoying her life. Of all the people that he had cared for and had died she was one of the worst. He had delivered her from her mother into the realm of the living and had been beside her mother again when she had left the world of the living. As a young doctor he too had been overjoyed with the birth. Years of practice had allowed him to hide his emotions better but he remembered that night when he had guided the slippery pliant newborn from her mother.
He could also remember with clarity the night she died, seizing in a bed while her mother and husband wailed and pleaded. He had stood still in the room, looking from the corner of his eye as her heels and the back of her head held her up as the rest of her body seized. She had died badly. As a physician one always hopes for a good death. Needless suffering should be avoided, treated if possible so the patient as well as the family can cope with experience of death. Sybil Branson had left this world with her family watching in shock and disbelief. With Sybil struggling for breath everyone else held theirs in solidarity. Hoping that the collective burn of all their lungs would somehow coax Sybil to breathe. It wasn't to be. Now she wandered freely through peoples dreams.
Cora dreamt of Sybil too. However, in her dreams her daughter looked to be the epitome of health. She would laugh with her daughter and tell stories, Cora would awake with a smile on her face only for reality to rip it off.
Tom didn't sleep so he didn't dream of his wife. For him everything he looked at was reminder that she was gone. The house surrounding him and the baby in his arms. He spoke out loud to her. Carson had passed by his room and had heard him speaking to her. While the butler had dealings with Branson in the past his heart broke for the man.
Cora, Tom and Doctor Clarkson were all being sleep deprived. Lady Grantham kept her husband at arms length. She retreated to her room almost hourly, her bed seemed to mock her. Part of Cora wished to sleep so she could see Sybil again yet she knew the pain upon waking would be torturous. Clarkson busied himself with work, collapsing onto his overnight cot to snatch a few hours of sleep where he could. During the day when he slept for short bursts Sybil didn't invade his dreams. Nonetheless, at his age he couldn't catnap his way through his job as he could during his younger years.
Sybil for her part was trying to soothe those she loved and couldn't for they were refusing to listen to her. Her mother wasn't ready to listen to what she had to say and Doctor Clarkson was too consumed with guilt to hear her as well. Tom was different, he spoke to her and she knew that when he was ready to sleep she could speak to him.
Sybil had heard her mother's words to her
We'll look after them. We'll look after them both, don't you worry about that.
She wasn't worried about that, she was worried about her father. The only way she knew papa to be cared for was by her mother.
She was also worried about the mental state of Doctor Clarkson. During the War she had gotten to know the man. They would eat lunch together when they could. He was one of the few that treated her like an equal. The others had been Mrs. Patmore and Daisy when she had asked for cooking lessons. They had gently scolded her over the kettle but had always addressed her as M'lady. Clarkson too didn't shy to her status as a Lady nor did he disrespect her either. She could still remember the praise for when she had caught a patient's fever to her blistering dressing down over Lt. Courtenay. When she was in uniform she was Nurse Crawley.
He needed to know that she didn't blame him for her passing.
Doctor Clarkson was noticeably haggard. Isobel Crawley could see it. She thought that everyone could see it and would do something so she focused her attention onto Cora. She invited her and the girls around for luncheon to try and and give them a respite from their grief. Edith and Mary had went to the garden while Cora and Isobel spoke.
"I'm not going to ask how you are, nor am I going to ask if there is anything I can do." Isobel delivered.
Cora's lips turned upward in a small smile, trust Isobel to say the right thing. Yes, there was nothing that anyone could do or say to make it all better. Getting out of the Abbey had helped, Cora spun her teacup in the saucer an old habit she thought she had broken.
"When your husband died did you dream of him?" Cora asked.
Isobel cocked her head to the side in amazement. "Yes, I dreamt of him often and over the years I will dream of him occasionally. He tells me things."
"What type of things." Cora asked her breath hitching.
Isobel put her own teacup down, "When he first died I remember I looked at his photo and I was so angry I spoke to it and said, 'I would give anything to have a fight with you.'Later that night I dreamt of him and he was shouting at me, in my dream I remember asking what have I done? He turned to me and said 'I'm giving you what you want.'"
Cora's eyes were bright, "Sybil is in my dreams and I tell her about everything but she doesn't talk to me."
Isobel felt a pang of hurt, with the death of a loved one everyone seems to scramble to find meaning. Isobel didn't know if Reginald had actually been visiting her or whether her own mind was so desperate for him that it had conjured up the dream. Nevertheless she found comfort in them.
"Maybe she doesn't have anything to say yet?" Isobel answered and Cora took some measure of comfort.
That night Cora dismissed Robert to the dressing room. She closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep hoping to have a dream of Sybil. The more she tried to sleep the more it eluded her. That night she didn't sleep.
Doctor Clarkson and the Downton Cottage Hospital were being overwhelmed, there was another surge of the Spanish Flu. Luckily the protocols from the last bout were still being observed. Patients were self isolating themselves so the spread was not as vast. Still, patients needed to be seen and the doctor was racing from home to home on his bicycle.
When he was finally done with his rounds he collapsed onto his cot. In his dreams Sybil was there. Again she followed him this time reaching out a hand which he took. He was able to speak to her, managing to say one word-Sorry.
At his apology she shook her head in the negative. He awoke shaking and sweating. He went to his washing basin leaning his head over it her poured the water over his neck and head.
Sybil's ability to enter dreams was slowly diminishing. Yet her message hadn't been delivered...she needed help.
Isobel Crawley was readying for bed, she had brushed her hair, donned her nightgown and was reading a book. After dutifully reading her chapter she dimmed the lamp and pulled up the covers.
She dreamt of Crawley House and found it odd. She went from room to room until she came to the drawing room. Inside sitting comfortably in the armchair by the window was Reginald Crawley dressed impeccably in his brown suit.
"You're dead." Isobel delivered.
He nodded in confirmation and rose from the chair. He held out his hand and Isobel was afraid, was she going to join him? She didn't want to die just yet. Reginald smiled before beckoning her with his fingers and she went to him. On the mantle was a picture taken during the War of herself and Doctor Clarkson. She had been wearing her nursing blues and he had been dressed in his Army uniform. Reginald pointed to the doctor and told her, "Help him."
