Mrs Hughes stepped out of the tube station and smoothed down her skirt. She was precisely on time for work, as always. She checked her iPhone for reminders, but for once it was just plain old business as usual. Work was stressful for the assistant manager of Downton Abbey, but she was the utmost professional, taking it all in her stride. The beautiful, colossal hotel was located in the heart of London's West End, and guarded over the street like a silent protector. Mrs Hughes loved it like a home, and respected the owners, the Crawleys, like her own family.
Approaching the hotel's grand main entrance, Mrs Hughes half expected to find the bellboy William stepping forward to open the door for her. But how could he? He was away in Afghanistan, fighting a war he probably didn't even understand.
O'Brien was on front desk, curling her bangs with a curling rod while looking in space.
"O'Brien, what have I told you about using hot utensils at the reception? That better disappear before guests start waking up!"
The receptionist rolled her eyes. "Tenner bets most of the people in this place wouldn't know what a curling rod was if it hit them in the face. In fact, that gives me an idea…"
Mrs Hughes turned on her heel to go and carry on with her business. She wouldn't mind using that curling iron on O'Brien's tongue, every once in a while.
oOoOo
Carson hadn't stopped all morning. Up at 5.30, he'd barely even had a cup of coffee. As if reading his thoughts, Mrs Hughes suddenly appeared in the doorway of his office, two mugs of sweet caffeine in her grip.
"Mrs Hughes, your powers of telepathy never cease to amaze me," he grinned, signaling for her to sit down across from him.
Carson was the manager of the hotel and wore the golden name plate like a badge of honour.
"What's new in the world, then?"
"Oh, you know yourself – the same old nonsense." Mrs Hughes sighed.
"How about that son of yours. Is he still in college?"
"He is indeed. And I've never seen him happier."
They were both suddenly alerted by sprinting footsteps sounding past the doorway. A young girl in a tracksuit poked her terrified face inside the door.
"I am so sorry, Mr Carson! I was minding my little brother and I had to drop him into the neighbours and then I missed my bus and –"
Carson waved his hand dismissively, "It's alright, Daisy. Hurry along now before Ms Patmore throws a fit."
Technically, Daisy wasn't even supposed to cross paths with Mr Carson. As the dishwasher, she took orders from Ms Patmore, the head chef. However, like most of the staff, he had a soft spot for the girl.
As soon as she was out of earshot, Carson shook his head, incredulously. "If only your son's academic streak could inspire poor Daisy. Tell me, why isn't that girl in school? She says she's sixteen, but I bet my right leg she's younger."
Mrs Hughes thought deeply for a moment. "Think of it from her perspective. No one gets a wage for sitting in a dull classroom bored senseless. Minimum wage goes a long way for struggling families."
Carson stood up from his desk, and patted down his suit. "Speaking of struggling families, I have a meeting with Mr and Mrs Crawley."
"Good luck."
"Thanks. I'll need it."
oOoOo
John Bates stood facing ahead, soldier like, as the Crawleys' Rolls Royce passed into the hotel's inner courtyard. He gave a slight nod to Branson, the driver, who was bopping along to his earphones. The other windows were tinted black.
Bates was an unlikely security guard, left crippled after a motorbike accident. Regardless of his busted kneecap, however, he still had fair strength and speed.
The car stopped, and Branson jumped out and opened the door for Mr and Mrs Crawley. Once they were inside, Bates approached the young driver.
"Enjoying your tunes in there, were you?" he chuckled.
"Bates, Hip Hop is more than tunes, it's a poetry revolution! These men are rapping about society's problems, and the dangers that face the youth of today! It's time for a change; it's time for the young to –"
"– Anna!" called Bates, grabbing the attention of the blonde cleaner passing by. "I have to ask you a question about shifts…"
The security guard scurried off, leaving Branson to huff and puff to himself as climbed back inside the car.
"Let me guess – a lecture from Branson?" smiled Anna.
"You got it in one."
"That lad needs to find a better audience."
Bates chuckled, leaning back against the wall. "He'll be Prime Minister one day, mark my words. Power to the people, and all that."
Anna looked over her shoulder. "I'd be careful if I were you. I don't think our conservative guests would like that sort of talk."
"Knock them back a few million and I'd say they would."
Anna punched her companion lightly on the shoulder. "Watch it, mister. They have eyes everywhere."
"Not in the cleaning press," he hinted, stepping in to her closer.
"I'm working, Bates. And so are you."
He shrugged in fake innocence. "I was simply stating that not everywhere is covered by CCTV. What were you implying?"
Anna threw her eyes to heaven. "One day I'll figure you out, Bates. Until then…"
Bates gave her a wink and strolled off, leaving Anna standing alone in the middle of the cobbled courtyard.
oOoOo
"You're late," noted Ms Patmore as young Daisy flew into the kitchen, pulling on an apron over her head.
"I'm sorry, Ms Patmore! I ran all the way here."
Ms Patmore ushered her towards the dish washing area. "Then you've a lot of catching up to do, don't you? Hurry on now."
There was a stack of breakfast bowels and plates waiting for her. She loaded most of the ware into a large dishwasher and set to work scrubbing the larger pots and pans.
Ms Patmore and the rest of the kitchen staff were beginning to prepare the lunch, even though breakfast was barely finished.
"Ms Patmore?" asked Daisy, not looking up from the pot she was having trouble with.
"What, girl?"
"You know those rich people who own this place?"
"The Crawleys," Ms Patmore corrected.
"Thomas told me that they go to Africa every year and shoot the polar bears."
"There are no polar bears in Africa, Daisy."
"Well, elephants then. He says they have all sorts of animal heads hung up in their private room on the top floor."
Ms Patmore put down the vegetables she was chopping and approached the girl. "What have I told you about listening to Thomas? The boy's a compulsive liar!"
"They could, though, if they wanted to. Shoot polar bears, I mean."
"They have the money to, I suppose," shrugged Ms Patmore, returning to her vegetable soup. "And that's what it all comes down to, I'm afraid."
"Do you have the money?"
"No, Daisy, I don't have the money to shoot polar bears." The head chef was becoming increasingly frustrated.
"What about Mr Carson?"
"I don't believe so, no."
"What about –"
"Daisy! Cut it out!"
The girl looked back down at the sudsy sink. She was silent for barely a moment. "I bet that old man from the Apprentice does."
"Yes, Lord Sugar. He's a good friend of the Crawleys."
"He grew up just down the road from where I live, you know. And look at how rich he is."
"Everyone starts somewhere, girl."
Daisy looked up thoughtfully for a moment. "Did the Crawleys start off poor?"
"No, their family has been wealthy for a long time. Mr Crawley inherited the hotel business from his father. And someday, so will Mary."
"She scares me. It's something about the eyes."
Ms Patmore chuckled to herself as she threw her chopped ingredients into the pot.
oOoOo
Thomas hated everyone and everything, or that's what he led everyone to believe. Most of all, he hated his job – serving drinks to pompous, stuck up hotel guests. The only thing that made the day tolerable was the thought of a cigarette break and some daily gossip with O'Brien.
He nodded curtly when he spotted her waiting by the fire escape for him. He hated the image of the stereotypical gay best friend – hugging, giving style tips and discussing the latest fashion. All he and O'Brien ever seemed to talk about was ways to get at people.
"Long time no see, Curly Sue," Thomas sneered.
She took a long drag of her cigarette before responding. "I've got news."
"Don't you always?"
"Big news."
He stared up at her sharply, his eyes not asking for, but demanding an explanation.
"You know the bell boy, William?" O'Brien continued.
"Of course. I hate the kid."
"Then you're hating a zombie."
The dark-haired barman almost swallowed his cigarette.