It shouldn't really matter, Jimmy tells himself. And it doesn't, actually. It's just, Mr. Barrow seems to be taking an awful interest in that hall boy, doesn't he? It's not like it was with Jimmy, back in the bad old days, because there's no touching and there's no staring at all. The smiles are there, though, and that's what catches Jimmy up, what puts that awful feeling in the pit of his stomach. What right does this blasted hall boy have to get those smiles from Thomas? And worse still, what right does Thomas have to give them out all willy-nilly. It's just… it's not bloody fair. He, Jimmy, is supposed to be Mr. Barrow's best mate, and it's a condition he's worked and sweated toward for years now. He had to go through trial of fire to get here, with that midnight kiss and all, and what has this hall boy done that could even compare to that? Nothing, that's what, but Mr. Barrow's gone all soft on him, anyway.
"What's got you so down in the mouth?" Molesley asks Jimmy, a few days after Mr. Barrow took his walk with that boy. His walk, which he usually takes with Jimmy. His walk, where they might have said anything and no one, not even Jimmy, could hear. Mr. Barrow might have confessed the deepest secrets of himself and Jimmy wouldn't have heard a one of them.
"Nothin'," Jimmy says darkly. They're clearing the table after luncheon and with Mr. Carson ensconced in his pantry, it'll be Mr. Barrow downstairs to check back the plate and glass. If he's not off with that hall boy, that is, chatting like school girls and giggling behind their hands. Well, not that they really do that. Not that they even really talk that often. Just often enough for it to be a problem. "D'you think that hall boy is getting a bit uppity?"
"Which hall boy is that?" Molesley asks stupidly, and really the man must be half-blind not to see the boy constantly sidling up to Mr. Barrow and asking him silly questions, it happens that often.
"The one with the sandy hair," Jimmy explains. "The one what's got the pointy nose and the little teeth. Seems to me he's got his eye on the footman position." He could, at that. It'd make sense, at least, with all his questions about place settings and posture and all that. The lad's using poor Mr. Barrow, playing up to him and trying to get ahead, like he's got no shame at all. And of course, Mr. Barrow's too besotted to notice (and how typical), no matter what he might say about age gaps and the like. That was a silly excuse from the beginning and they both know it, because who even really cares about ten years or so, when you've got someone who keeps you on your toes and makes you smile. Well, it'd be a bit more like twenty years with that hall boy, but the theory's the same, at any rate.
Molesley, of course, is oblivious. "Can't say as I've noticed," he says vaguely, staring intently at a piece of china. "Does this look like a chip to you?"
It is, in fact, a chip and Mr. Barrow is not pleased with the situation. Well, that makes two of them.
Cards that night are especially solemn, and it's not all to do with the way Mr. Carson lectured himself hoarse about the chip in the china. It didn't help matters when Jimmy told him they found it that way, of course, and he hadn't expected it to. It's still unfair, the whole thing, and especially the bit where Mr. Barrow is still looking annoyed at him.
"Don't sulk, Jimmy," he says with a sigh, and Jimmy knows it's been a rough day for him, as well, because it's not often Mr. Barrow gets snappish with Jimmy. With everyone else, sure, but not Jimmy.
They play two more hands in near silence, with only Molesley's running nose for distraction.
"You've your half-day tomorrow, don't you, Mr. Barrow?" Jimmy asks eventually. "Got any big plans?" The pictures, perhaps, with that little mousy twit who calls himself a hall boy. That lot might skip the formalities, though, and get straight to the main event. No need to buy a man presents, after all, or take him to the pictures. A girl might need those things to let you get into her knickers (and some girls won't let you even after all that, Jimmy's learned), but with a bloke, it'd be easy as breathing.
"I've a meeting in Ripon," Mr. Barrow explains. "Need me to bring you something back from the shops?"
"Nah," Jimmy says, relieved despite himself that Mr. Barrow isn't taking that boy out, after all. "What kind of meeting, then?"
The way Thomas smiles just then is soft and sweet and it gives Jimmy a fluttering sort of feeling in the pit of his stomach. It's worry, he tells himself, because with a smile like that, a man's bound to get himself into all sorts of trouble. "Just a friend from the war," he says, and after that he'll say no more.
The obvious answer, of course, is that this friend Mr. Barrow is going off to meet is some sort of fancy man. It might be a relief, because if he's off with some bloke, he can't be all that interested in the hall boy, can he? It's just… it might be a relief, but it isn't, somehow. Because it's all the same in the end, isn't it? If Mr. Barrow isn't off with the hall boy, he'll be off with someone else and either way, he's not with Jimmy. Not that Jimmy needs all of Mr. Barrow's attention, but he somehow doesn't like the idea of some random lavender bloke getting all of it, either. Jimmy does his best not to think of it.
The next day is rough in the way they sometimes are when Mr. Carson gets in a snit. He keeps Jimmy and Molesley polishing and re-polishing the silver in every spare moment until Jimmy's sure his fingers are about to start bleeding. There's a (rigorously polished) silver lining to the whole business, though, because Jimmy's too busy planning Mr. Carson's demise and tuning out Molelsey's whinging to think about what Mr. Barrow might be up to in Ripon. He near forgets Mr. Barrow's even gone until after the downstairs supper is being cleared away and Molesley suggests a hand.
"We can't play with two," Jimmy says scornfully. They could, he supposes, but it wouldn't be a very good game, now would it.
"I'll sit in," Mr. Bates offers from Molesley's other side and Jimmy agrees, because what else is he going to do with his evening? Cards with Bates and Molesley, he thinks gloomily. What is the world coming to?
They play three hands and Jimmy wins not a single one of them. It's right lucky they're not playing for cigarettes because the only one's Jimmy's got on him are the ones he'd taken from Mr. Barrow and it'd be a shame to lose those to the likes of Bates. Just the image of Bates putting his lips on a fag that should only ever be in Jimmy or Thomas's mouth is decidedly off-putting.
After the fourth hand, just as Jimmy's about to give up and go out for a bit of air, he hears a door opening and a familiar soft whistling coming from the corridor. He perks up, looking toward the doorway and sure enough, it's not half a minute later that Mr. Barrow comes swaggering in.
"Hello all," he says cheerily, leaning against the wall. He's got a paper-wrapped package in one hand, Jimmy notices, and a photo in the other. He looks downright pleased with himself. "How're the cards tonight, Jimmy?"
"Lousy," Jimmy tells him. "Shall we deal you in?"
"'Course," Mr. Barrow says. "Just let me put this lot upstairs first."
Jimmy lets out a sigh. Finally, it looks like the night's turning around.
Jimmy doesn't get a good look at the photo until three days later, when his tin of pomade is bordering on empty and he knocks on Mr. Barrow's door after supper and asks to borrow some, since he's always got an extra jar or two of it tucked away. He's very prepared, is Mr. Barrow.
"Of course you can," Mr. Barrow says, opening the door wider for Jimmy to come in. "An' I've got somethin' else to give you, as well. From when I was in Ripon."
"Gifts?" Jimmy asks cheerfully, pleased that Mr. Barrow had been thinking of him, even if he had been off with his sweetheart from the war. "Well, what've you got, then?"
"Just you wait and see," Thomas says, smiling in that pleased, shy way that means he's being kind. It's hard to tell, sometimes, whether it's kindness or part of a plot, but the smile never lies. "Pomade's in the top drawer," he says, indicating the desk and goes over to the wardrobe, presumably to fetch Jimmy's gift.
"Thanks," Jimmy says. He opens the top drawer a bit tentatively- he's seen inside this desk before and while Mr. Barrow seems the sort of man who'd pride himself on an organized sort of room, his desk says otherwise.
Actually, the top drawer isn't so bad, not stuffed to the brim with debris like Jimmy's expecting. It's sort of empty, really, with only an extra tin of pomade, two new-looking combs and a few other things besides. Jimmy palms the tin (not a brand he's familiar with, but one he suspects has a very firm hold) and it's only when he picks it up that he spots the photo in the very back of the drawer.
"Who's this, then?" he asks, picking it up with careful hands. It's of a woman standing by a tree in a spring dress, but her hair is all falling down 'round her shoulders instead of up proper under a hat, and she's got a dark-haired boy beside her who could be anywhere from five to ten years old.
"What?" Mr. Barrow asks, stepping up behind him and peering over his shoulder. Jimmy feels the heat of Mr. Barrow's body against his back and shifts slightly, leans back and holds the photo up to the light for Mr. Barrow to see. Mr. Barrow looks for a long moment, then exhales slowly, ruffling Jimmy's hair. "Her name is Agatha," he breathes, so quiet Jimmy might not have heard him if they weren't pressed up close together.
"And?" Jimmy prompts. He puts the photo down on the desk carefully and turns to look up at Mr. Barrow's expression. Sure enough, he's got his brooding face on, the one he wears when he can't find a smirk or a smile anywhere in him. "Who is she? I know she weren't your girl."
"She was, actually," Mr. Barrow says, turning away and moving back over to the bed to sit. "During the war."
Jimmy stares. "You were with her?" he asks, incredulous. "Like- like that?"
"It were a long war," Mr. Barrow says roughly, accent slipping. "I had a home leave, just the once, mind, and I'd had over a year in the bloody trenches before that. She was… something to come home to."
"You couldn't get a bloke?" Jimmy asks, caught somewhere between amusement and horror. It just doesn't seem right, somehow, that Mr. Barrow could have ever gone with a girl.
"I had one of those, too," Mr. Barrow admits. He's looking at his hands and not at Jimmy, so Jimmy crosses the room to sit next to him. He thinks about touching one of those hands, just for something to distract himself with, but can't quite bring himself to. "But it didn't last the whole time. He was on his way back as I was coming and then, well, it's not easy, you know, finding the type. I did what I could and she was willing enough."
"What about the boy, then?" Jimmy asks. "Is she a widow?"
"She is, as it happens," Mr. Barrow says. He hesitates uncharacteristically long, then goes on, "but the babe wasn't born for almost a year after we were together. He's… his name's Tommy."
Surely, Jimmy thinks, appalled, Mr. Barrow can't be implying what Jimmy thinks he is. Surely he just means that the lady took up with another man right after Mr. Barrow left and then a few years later she decided that Mr. Barrow should have a picture of her… standing with a child he'd never met, one she'd happened to name after him. Widows are sentimental about things like that, he thinks.
"He's not yours, though," he says quickly. When Mr. Barrow doesn't say anything and keeps not saying anything for a terribly long time, Jimmy touches his shoulder. "Mr. Barrow," he says urgently. "Tell me he's not yours."
"I can't do that, Jimmy," Mr. Barrow says, finally looking up at Jimmy. He looks… he looks nervous, like Jimmy might suddenly decide they can't be mates anymore or something equally ridiculous. "He is mine. He's my son."
"Well," Jimmy says, sitting back, sort of shocked. It takes him a minute to make up his mind on what to say next, but there's really only one choice in the end. "Can I meet him?"