Chapter Seven
Revelations
Villa Artemis, above Menton, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.
Not of course that it happened very often but when it did, whether in a former life as a solicitor in practise across the Pennines in rain-soaked Manchester or thereafter here in the rolling countryside of the West Riding of Yorkshire as earl of Grantham, master of the Downton Abbey estate and all he surveyed - at least until the National Trust had lifted much of that increasingly heavy burden from off his stalwart shoulders - Matthew Crawley had the good grace to know when he was beaten.
And this was one of those exceedingly rare occasions.
"Very well then, my dear. But only if you really are absolutely certain ... that this is indeed what you want to do".
From her chaise longue, Alice weakly nodded her assent.
"Je suis en effet".
"Of course it will take me a little while ... I mean a day or so ... perhaps even two ... in order to go through all of the bequests and so forth ... to ensure that everything is in order, is ... exactly as you wish it to be".
"Take all the time you need, mon chéri. Et une chose de plus. Comme nous en avons discuté l'autre jour ... je veux que tu ajoutes ça, comme un codicille".
In her left hand Alice held out to him a piece of paper, which Matthew now took from her. It took him a moment or two to digest its contents. Clearly completely taken aback by the wording of the codicil, Matthew ran his fingers through his hair.
"My God! When I told you about ... I never expected this ..."
Alice raised an enquiring brow.
"Non?" She smiled.
"Non". Matthew likewise smiled. "But then, knowing you as well as I do, perhaps I should have".
Alice smiled.
"And mon chéri, there is one thing more. I should very much like it if you would ..."
Rua da Judiaria, Lisbon, Portugal, late summer 1949.
Here on the ancient Rua da Judiaria within the Abastado's house, the air tonight redolent with the delicious smell of freshly baked bread and a host of other savoury aromas, also as well there were the sounds of constant chatter, of laughter, and of the flurry of preparation for tonight's festive meal. But at the rear of the building, out in the slowly darkening courtyard, save for the soft tinkling of water as it trilled gently down into the circular pool from out of the mouths of the two, centuries old, marble dolphins, their tails entwined ever since they were sculpted, the silence remained unbroken. Until that was, Uncle Jacob decided that now was the moment to make known his own views on the subject which had arisen earlier upon the arrival here of Edith's letter, delivered here in the midst of all the preparations for this week's Shabbat which were, as a result of the furore it had provoked, still incomplete.
"So, tell me this. Just how is it that you know this boy?" Clearly annoyed, Uncle Jacob held out the letter he had received, postmarked from Nantes, in distant France. "Why haven't you spoken to us of him before?" asked Hannah's uncle, obviously disapproving, not to say outraged, that something had been taking place here beneath his own roof, under his very nose, and of which, until but a short while earlier this evening, he had been entirely ignorant.
"We met at the Zhdanov's in Biarritz," explained Hannah quietly. By nature softly spoken, given all of the circumstances, her voice was all but inaudible.
Uncle Jacob now turned his attention to Stefan.
"Did you know anything about this?" Slowly, young Stefan shook his head.
"No, I ... Well, not exactly, Uncle Jacob, no". He looked down at the ground.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Tatty, please, it's not Stefan's fault. Nor, for that matter, is it Hannah's".
Their cousin Gideon smiled, he hoped encouragingly, first at Hannah and then at Stefan. Now nodded his agreement.
"Really?" Clearly his father did not believe what his niece had just told him.
"Tatty, Hannah's telling you the truth. You know who she means. Dima's people. Over there in Biarritz ..."
"And do you think that makes this acceptable? To have behaved so deceitfully?"
"I didn't mean ..."
"And what would your dear parents have said? Would they have approved of this? Any of it?"
"Uncle Jacob, please!" Hannah's eyes glistened with tears.
"You will have no further contact with this boy. Is that clearly understood?"
Hannah nodded. A moment later, weeping bitter tears, she had fled the courtyard whereupon Stefan turned quickly on his heel and ran after his sister.
"Tatty, how could you have been so ..." began Gideon.
"I know, I know. It was unforgiveable of me ... I shouldn't have said ..."
A moment later, Jacob's wife Esther, a plump, kindly soul, her face aglow, flushed from the heat of the kitchen, bustled self importantly out into the courtyard.
"Just what on earth has been going on out here?"
"Hannah's rather upset," explained Gideon, lamely.
"So I can see ... " Then, when neither Jacob nor for that matter Gideon made to say anything further on the matter, realising that, at least for the present, she would get no sense from either her husband or her eldest son, raising her flour covered hands, shaking her head in disbelief, Esther hurried back inside the house to go immediately in search of both Hannah and her brother.
Glancing at the retreating form of his wife, Jacob sighed; set the letter he still held aside, sat down heavily on the edge of the circular pool.
"And besides next year, God willing ... " He raised his head; nodded towards the kitchen door through which Hannah had not long since fled.
"Next year in Jerusalem?" offered Gideon with a rueful smile.
His father nodded.
"Or ... some such place".
British Fourth Army Headquarters, Château de Querrieu, Battle of the Somme, France, August 1916.
From where he had been standing, over beside one of the large artillery pieces marshalled on what, in better times, before the war, had been the front lawns of the château, at the double, a soldier, a private, now made his way across the pristine gravel of the forecourt, while for his part, Matthew remained exactly where he was. Now remembered, and too late, that in the letter he had posted to Mary earlier this same morning, he had forgotten to thank her for the pair of bed socks which she had sent him.
Villa Artemis, above Menton, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.
"Really? Are you quite sure?" This time Alice had indeed managed to surprise Matthew with what it was she had now asked of him.
"Oui".
"When?"
"N'importe quand. That ... I leave to you".
Bar Nicolas, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.
"Mama knitted you a pair of socks?" Simon made no attempt to hide his absolute incredulity. For him, if not for Alec, and in more ways than one, this evening was proving to be a memorable occasion; first of all seeing his own father smoke a cigarette and now learning that Mama knew how to knit.
"Well, no. At least, not exactly". Matthew smiled. He took another sip of red wine. "You know this really is very good indeed". Whereupon, Alec promptly topped up Matthew's glass.
"Then, if not Mama, who ..." began Simon.
"It was actually your great grandmother, Granny Violet, who knitted that particular pair of socks for me".
"Really?" Simon sounded equally incredulous. From what he had heard tell of Granny Violet, it seemed no more probable that she would have knitted his father a pair of bed socks than would have Mama. Even Alec couldn't contain his disbelief. From what Simon had told him, his friend's great grandmother had only been slightly less imperious than Catherine the Great.
"The Dowager Countess? I'll go to the foot of our stairs!" exclaimed Alec.
Matthew grinned.
"You might very well do so. Yes. The very same. Don't you two be so disbelieving ..."
"Mea culpa!" Simon smiled. "But all the same, father, Granny Violet, knitting you a pair of socks!"
"My boy, it may surprise you to learn this but, a very long time ago now, your Uncle Tom once told me that Granny Violet had admitted to being a woman of many parts. Something that, when, eventually, I myself became much better acquainted with her, I whole heartedly concurred".
British Fourth Army Headquarters, Château de Querrieu, Battle of the Somme, France, August 1916.
The private drew level with him, came to attention and then quickly saluted. Matthew promptly returned the salute.
"At ease, private. Yes?"
"Sorry to trouble you sir ..."
"Do I know you?"
"No sir ... not exactly. I saw you a couple of weeks ago ... when I brought a message up the line".
"Really?" Matthew had a very good memory both for places and for people. But this time, it failed him. Spectacularly so. Now, as Matthew struggled mentally to try and place the man, sensing his obvious confusion, the other took it upon himself to explain matters somewhat further.
"Private Bowen, sir. Dispatch rider. I was on the Triumph".
The image of a mud splattered motorcycle and its equally besmirched, uniformed rider, the mechanised form of a carrier pigeon, now hove into Matthew's mind.
"Ah, yes, of course. Now I remember you. So, just what is it you want of me?"
"Your batman, sir. Private Mason ..."
"Private Mason? What about him?"
It was at this precise moment that the main door of the château swung open and a couple of Matthew's fellow officers came out onto the front steps. Despite himself, Matthew's lower lip curled. He couldn't abide either of them. Or their ilk. Had no time for their pompous conceit. The air of oh-so condescending superiority which they exuded; assumed even to those of the same rank as themselves. Of course, the purchasing of commissions in the British Army was long since a thing of the distant past, but on more than one occasion Matthew had found himself wondering how it was that such idiots ever came to hold the rank which they did. Somebody's son and heir? Matthew found himself remembering something Sybil had told him, about the family chauffeur, the Irishman, Branson. That because of what he had seen over there in Ireland he held an extremely low opinion of the calibre of officers serving in the British army. Had apparently said something to Sybil about donkeys ... lions led by donkeys. that was it! Good God, thought Matthew, if I carry on thinking like this, I'll find myself being broken to the ranks!
Both officers nodded curtly at Matthew who remembered them as also being of the fawning coterie who, before the advance on the Somme had begun, had wholeheartedly supported Rawlinson's woefully inadequate assessment of the military situation: that, unquestionably, the week long artillery barrage would have done its work and done it well. That the German defences, however deep, however extensive, however formidable, would have been blown to smithereens.
The two officers looked askance at the private standing stock still before Matthew on the neatly raked gravel of the forecourt, before quietly going on their way, but not before they had exchanged a couple of sniggers and then a low aside, meant for their ears and their ears alone.
"I'm not explaining myself very well, am I sir?" asked Bowen.
"No, you're not," Matthew said irritably and rather more sharply than he had intended.
This whole situation was beginning to prove distinctly embarrassing. That being so, on his part at least, Matthew now had every intention of ending this wholly unexpected and unsolicited conversation. Continued to watch as the two officers made their way over to a waiting staff car. But, with the two men having climbed into the motor and been driven away, seeing just how crestfallen the private looked, Matthew immediately thought better of it. There was something about the young man ... something which piqued not only Matthew's curiosity, but also his innate compassion. No-one was therefore more surprised than Matthew himself when he heard himself say: "What, about Private Mason?"
St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.
In the warmth of the summer's evening, just outside the old gate of the town, here beneath the shade of an umbrella pine, sitting between a couple of his friends, all three of them seated on a bench disinterestedly watching what had proved to be a desultory game of boules, now clearly annoyed that what he had recounted to them was not being believed, that he was becoming a figure of fun, old Maysonet was rapidly losing patience with both Pascal and Toussaint.
"Et je vous dis que c'était ca!"
"Ne sois pas si ridicule!"
"Je ne suis pas! C'est bien ce que je voyais!"
And with this angry pronouncement, Maysonet rose to his feet and, in a high dudgeon, stomped off crossly towards the gate leading to the Rue Grande.
Blakeney Hall, Norfolk, England, 11th November 1919.
Whatever the weather, here at Blakeney, the view from the study window which looked out over the bleak expanse of the salt marshes, northwards towards the sea, was depressing enough but in this particular season, the fag end of the year, the prospect appeared more desolate than ever. He recalled his old nanny once telling him that from the coast there was no further landfall to be made until one reached the North Pole. A slight exaggeration no doubt but here, on the north coast of Norfolk, in winter, when the wind blew southwards all the way from the Arctic, he could well imagine it to be true enough.
Raising his head, he now glanced briefly at the clock on the mantle piece which showed that it was a quarter to eleven. Time enough but, nonetheless, he should make a start on completing what little there still remained to be done.
Chapelle du Saint-Esprit, Battle of the Somme, France, August 1916.
Matthew glanced at his wristwatch; in the fading evening light it showed it was now just after a quarter to nine. Quite why he had agreed to this meeting, here in this isolated place, a quiet, country chapel, standing well off the road in a small grove of trees, a mile or more from the Château de Querrieu, he couldn't say. He had spent the last ten minutes or so, wandering around the inside of the chapel. While it was undoubtedly a magnificent example of fifteenth century architecture, the interior, lit only by a few pinpricks of light from several votive candles, reeked of incense which, along with the plethora of painted statues, quite offended against Matthew's decidedly Protestant sensibilities. But if Bowen wasn't here in the next few minutes, make no bones about it, Matthew had decided that he would begin walking back along the road to British Army Headquarters.
Then, just as the appointed hour slipped by, standing beneath the arch of the west door of the chapel, he heard it. Faintly at first, then growing louder all the while; the throaty roar of a motorbike. Now, as the machine rounded a bend in the lane, saw too its headlight and, just behind it, the shadowy, hunched form of its solitary rider, crouched down low over the handlebars of the fast approaching motorcycle.
Langthorpe Hall, Yorkshire, England, June 1926.
First of all Tom, and then Matthew, had offered to drive, but, in the end, it had fallen to Farrar to chauffeur the Bransons and the Crawleys over to Langthorpe Hall to attend the evening's festivities. On reflection, it was probably just as well that he had for, as Matthew had observed, with Tom seated behind the steering wheel of the green 6½ litre Bentley, if he ran true to form and maintained his usual lacklustre turn of speed, like as not they would arrive at Langthorpe well after the house had been shut up and everyone else had gone to bed. Somewhat miffed, Tom had countered by pointing out that given Matthew's love of speed, there was every likelihood of them not arriving at all. And while, following the opening of the Tom Branson Memorial Ward at the Cottage Hospital in Downton the facilities there were much improved from what they had once been, Tom said he would very much prefer not ending up occupying one of the twelve new beds.
"Not even with darling Sybil in attendance to mop your fevered brow?" Matthew had asked with a grin.
"Absolutely not. You've never had the misfortune to experience the way Sybil treats her patients: I have. Matthew, old chum, if it was a choice between struggling into work with bubonic plague or staying in bed in Idrone Terrace and being cared for by Sybil, I'd opt for work, for sure! Do you know, the last time I was ill enough to stay home, she made me ... Tell yous later". Out of the corner of his eye, now catching sight of their two elegantly dressed wives descending the Main Staircase of Downton Abbey, Tom now quickly changed the subject.
"Jaysus, darlin', you look beautiful, for sure" he simpered.
"Oh, do you really like it?" Sybil asked, pirouetting on the bottom most step of the Main Staircase, revelling in her husband's earnest approval. She was wearing a beaded sapphire blue lace over champagne satin evening gown which served to accentuate every part of her shapely female form
Unfortunately, in his haste to likewise compliment Mary, Matthew now managed to say exactly the wrong thing.
"Darling, you look utterly divine". Mary purred her delight. "Worth every penny".
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when Matthew realised that he had blundered; saw Mary's eyes narrow. The cost of her Handley-Seymour gown, a lovely creation, in stunning burgundy ribbon embroidered tulle, had been a bitter bone of contention between husband and wife.
Chapelle du Saint-Esprit, Battle of the Somme, France, August 1916.
The motorbike drew to a stand beside the gate of the chapel. The rider set both of his booted feet firmly on the muddy ground and pushed up his goggles. Bowen nodded at Matthew and then smiled.
"Thank you for coming, sir. I wasn't at all sure that you would".
"I'm not at all sure that I should have".
"Don't worry, sir. It's not what you think".
"And just what do I think?" asked Matthew.
Bowen smiled.
"Please, sir, just let me try and explain. Private Mason said you were a kind gentleman, sir".
"Be that as it may, I'll give you ten minutes, and not a moment longer".
Bowen nodded.
"Fair enough". He slipped nimbly from off of his machine and wheeled it quickly out of sight behind the stone wall encircling the chapel.
"So ..."
"If you don't mind following me, sir?"
It was clearly a question.
And Matthew knew that then and there he could have refused to do as he had now been asked.
That he could have shaken his head.
That he could have turned on his heel, and simply walked away.
But, he did neither of these things.
Later, he would wish that he had.
Instead, he simply nodded and, wonderingly, fell in behind Bowen as the other now walked up the narrow cobbled path towards the door of the chapel beneath the arch of which Matthew himself had been standing but a few minutes earlier.
Bar Nicolas, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.
"And so just what did you think? asked Alec.
"Truthfully?"
Alec nodded.
"To be honest, at the time, my own thoughts were in a whirl. But, nothing that remotely does me any credit, I can assure you of that. Nor, anything that prepared me in the slightest for what it was that Bowen had to tell me".
"Which was?" asked Simon.
Chapelle du Saint-Esprit, Battle of the Somme, France, August 1916.
They were seated beside each other in a couple of ornately carved wooden choir stalls, close to the altar.
"Now what is it that you could not possibly say to me back there at Headquarters?"
"Do you recall, sir, when you visited Blakeney Hall?"
The unexpected nature of the question took Matthew completely by surprise.
"What the devil ... Why, yes," he stammered, unable to see what a long gone, all but forgotten house party held at Blakeney Hall over in Norfolk the year before before the war began could possibly have to do with whatever it was that Bowen now wanted to discuss.
Blakeney Hall ...
As Matthew recalled it, he had been invited there in the summer of 1913, as the prospective heir to the Downton Abbey Estate, in the company of both Robert and Cora. Now, if he remembered a right, at the time both Mary and Edith had been up in town, staying with their aunt, Lady Rosamund Painswick. Sybil had been ... indisposed. Although, Matthew held a private notion that, with the rest of the family conveniently away and at some distance from Downton, Sybil had feigned illness in order so as to be better able to pursue her own political interests of which Robert decidedly disapproved. That this was indeed the case had been reinforced by something which Matthew's own mother had told him when he returned home to Crawley House from Norfolk. That, in almost in a re-run of what had happened at the count, Sybil had been seen in Ripon ... handing out political leaflets, in the company of Branson. But even if this were true, Matthew never heard the matter spoken of again. So, maybe it had all been a misunderstanding. Either that or else nothing more than idle tittle tattle, emanating from someone in the Servants' Hall up at the abbey, like as not Miss O'Brien, and which somehow, probably through Molesley, had found its way into the ears of the cook at Crawley House, and thereafter so to his mother. But whatever the truth of it, Matthew never mentioned it to anyone; least of all to Sybil herself.
And now, as he considered things further, Matthew remembered something else.
At the time of the visit of the Crawleys to Blakeney Hall, William had been in attendance, serving as Robert's valet. Recalled too that Barrow, or Thomas as he was then known, being at the time but First Footman, considered it to have been nothing short of a personal affront that, as he saw it, he had been passed over. Had been most annoyed and, said Robert, had complained bitterly to Carson. Not that it had done Thomas any good. None whatsoever. Carson had been adamant and in no mood to brook opposition to what had already been agreed. William would attend on His Lordship over in Norfolk and there was an end of it.
"... and which was where I met Mr. Mason".
"What ...?" Matthew realised that he had been only half listening to what it was Bowen had been saying.
"Yes, sir. When you came to stay at Blakeney. That was I how I met your Mr. Mason. We ... rubbed along quite well. After you left, I became valet to Mr. James".
"Mr. James?"
"The Honourable James Alfred Seymour, second son of the Earl of Bath. He's a proper gentleman, is Mr. James".
"I"m sure he is. But just how does any of this concern me?"
"A year or so after your visit, when war was declared, like his older brother, Mr. Eustace - he's out in Mes ... Me so ..."
"Mesopotamia," offered Matthew helpfully.
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Yes, that were it. As a captain with the Royal Norfolks. Well, Mr. James ... he joined up too, as a lieutenant in the Norfolks, and was posted over here ... to France. I joined at the same time. Came with him I did, as his batman. Like Mr. Mason is to you, sir".
Matthew nodded.
"Yes. The Norfolks ... let me see ... Their 8th Battalion was in the thick of it at Albert, I believe?"
"Yes sir. And took a real pasting we did too".
"But you came through it?"
"Yes sir. And without so much as a scratch".
"And your Mr. James?"
"Him too, sir, but then ..."
"But then what?"
"Well, it's his nerves, sir. What they calls shell shock. Shipped James out, they did. Just last week. Back to hospital in Blighty. To Prince Edward's, near Hunstanton".
It was that inadvertent and unexpected use by Bowen, of Seymour's Christian name, that put Matthew on his guard.
"I see". Matthew shifted painfully on the hard wooden seat of the stall. He was beginning to suffer seriously with cramp in his left leg.
Of course, he knew of several such cases of men suffering from was now being called "shell shock", although what actually it was that caused the complaint seemed not to be fully understood. Men of all ranks suddenly reduced to nervous wrecks; their teeth chattering constantly, shaking uncontrollably, screaming, raving, unable to sleep, and when they did prone to appalling nightmares. Some said the problem was caused by them having been too close to a shell when it had exploded. While not a medical man, Matthew was not so sure. Not everyone who had the misfortune to be close to an exploding shell became like the poor unfortunates he had seen and who had been diagnosed as suffering from this mysterious illness, if indeed that was what it was. Had heard tell that some MO's believed the only effective "cure" was for those with this complaint to be sent home, away from the fighting. Which, evidently what was had happened to Lieutenant Seymour, and indeed to several other officers whom Matthew had known personally. He knew too that the army was much less sympathetic towards NCO's said to be suffering from shell shock. That senior officers took the view that such men were malingerers; were in fact cowards. Who should be dealt with ... harshly, as an example to others.
"Only ... only that weren't the real reason why James was sent home ..."
James. There it was again.
"Why then?"
"He told me why it was. James and I ... we have an understanding".
"An understanding? About what?"
But Bowen got no further with his tale, for it was at that precise moment that at the far end of the chapel, the west door swung wide open; slammed back hard against the wall.
Bar Nicolas, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.
Matthew saw Simon and Alec exchange glances.
"An understanding?" echoed Simon. "What kind of understanding?"
"Can't either of you two guess?" asked Matthew softly.
Langthorpe Hall, Yorkshire, England, June 1926.
A warm summer's evening, and the full length windows to the ground floor ballroom of Langthorpe Hall, the ancestral home of the Braithwaite family had been thrown wide open to admit the mild night air.
Much as the Crawleys had lived at Downton Abbey for some four centuries, so too the Braithwaites of Langthorpe had been resident here in the West Riding of Yorkshire since the mid fifteenth century. The present hall, the third on the site, had been built in the eighteenth century, a beautiful, elegant, sash-windowed, Georgian house of mellow red brick with ashlar chimney stacks and quoins, nestling beneath a slate roof and topped with an elegant cupola; possessed of commanding views of the surrounding countryside, with balustraded terraces and manicured lawns sweeping down to the banks of the River Ure. In all an estate of some fifteen thousand acres.
With Robert indisposed and Cora refusing to leave his side, it was here, on a beautiful June evening, some ten miles east of Downton, that Matthew and Mary along with Tom and Sybil found themselves representing the earl and countess of Grantham, attending the ball thrown to celebrate the marriage of the Honourable Algernon Robert - "Algy" - aged twenty five years, the second son of Lord and Lady Braithwaite.
Of the same generation as the three Crawley girls, here the similarity between them and the three Braithwaite boys ended. Captain Charles Braithwaite M.C. - the medal had been awarded posthumously - Algy's elder brother, who had been not only the earl of Grantham's godson but also in Robert's opinion "the best of all of them", had suffered the singular misfortune to encounter, and at very close quarters, a German whizz bang at Ypres, on the Western Front back in July 1917. And the result of poor Charles being quite literally blown to pieces was that Algy was now heir to the family estate; not that he took any interest in the running of it. Indeed, these days, he came home as little as possible so as to avoid the constant, lengthy and repetitive parental sermons on doing his duty, settling down and taking his responsibilities seriously. In fact, all that mattered to Algy was that the Langthorpe estate continued to provide him with sufficient means to indulge his twin passions: fast motors and fast women and not necessarily in that particular order.
For several years now, flying visits back up to Yorkshire had become the definite order of the day, with Algy choosing to spend most of his time up in London but, even around Ripon, in the remote fastness of the West Riding, rumours of his dissolute conduct, centring on the Kit Kat Club in the West End, were rife. A favourite haunt of the smart set and said to number some thirty or so sons of the nobility among its members, the Kit Kat Club played host to an eclectic mix of the rich, the aristocratic, the famous and the bohemian with drink, drug-taking and promiscuity being the norm.
Young Algy's membership of the Kit Kat Club apart, his attitude to life in general and to all its many and varied responsibilities was best summed up in the insouciant reply he had given to an absent-minded, elderly relative who, finding Charles apparently unaccountably missing from a family dinner party in December 1920, had asked Algy in all innocence where his eldest brother was and how he was faring.
"Rather difficult to say, old chap. Haven't seen Charlie in ages, don't you know. Last I heard, he was somewhere in France. In fact, all over the place, or so I've been led to believe".
Apart from the fact that Ypres lay in Belgium and not France, given the fact that after Charles was killed, understandably, given the circumstances, his body was never found, Algy's riposte was admittedly an accurate reflection of how matters then stood. It was also both callous and insensitive; both his parents were standing close by and within open earshot of what their younger son was saying.
Algy's younger brother Edward Henry - "Eddie" - was the third of the Braithwaite boys. Slightly more personable than Algy, having failed to complete his degree, Eddie had recently left Oxford, to pursue a career in journalism, although from what Tom had seen of him and his constant chum "Floppy", if Eddie Braithwaite was at all serious about becoming a journalist, which Tom doubted, then he would have to apply himself to the task. And, this evening, on their way over to Langthorpe Hall, seated in the back of the Bentley, Tom observed pithily that it was his considered opinion that if ever there was one single reason for the wholesale elimination of the English aristocracy, then look no further than Algy and Eddie Braithwaite; dim as a Toc H lamp the pair of them.
Of course, Tom had very good cause to remember Algy.
The previous year, Tom and Sybil had brought the children over from Dublin so as to be with "Grandpapa" on his birthday. With the children fast asleep upstairs in the Night Nursery, downstairs in the Drawing Room the evening's festivities were in full swing when Algy, who was rumoured to have links to the British Fascist Party, as did many others of his ilk, once again let his mouth run away with him. Clearly rather worse for drink, in front of everybody he had loudly berated Tom, accusing him of being a Communist agitator in the pay of Moscow. When Tom had denied this, stood his ground, Algy, a drinking crony of Larry Grey, had tried another tack and, with Tom swimming in and out of focus before his eyes, Algy had repeatedly jabbed the Irishman's right shoulder with his forefinger ...
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, summer 1925.
"Wait... wait a minute..." Algy slurred. " I know you. You're... you're that grub ... grubby little chau ... chauffeur chappy. Larry told me all about you. Do be a good sport and bring the motor round, old boy".
Matthew, Mary, and Sybil were standing close by and thus privy to what Algy had said. Fearing the worst, all of them held their collective breaths, waiting for Tom to give full rein to the famous Branson temper. Not that they need have worried. For, just as in the intervening years Robert had come to appreciate and value his Irish son-in-law, these days Tom admired and greatly respected his aristocratic, English father-in-law. This being so, he had no intention whatsoever of ruining Robert's birthday and it was now that the natural dignity which was inherent in Tom prevailed.
Well, almost.
Taking advantage of the fact that a nearby pillar more or less shielded the two of them both from view, grabbing hold of Algy by his shoulders, Tom slammed him hard up against the wall while above their heads a large painting in a heavy gilt frame, a picture of one of Robert's forbears depicted on horseback at the battle of Waterloo, wobbled ominously.
"You're feckin' drunk, so I won't even dignify your last remark with a reply," hissed Tom. "What I will say is that you are a guest in the house of my father-in-law, the earl of Grantham. I suggest you remember that and start behaving accordingly. Understood?"
Without any warning Tom released his grip on the inebriated Algy who, the instant he was deprived of the Irishman's support, now slithered to the floor where he lay in a heap, blinking up at his assailant. No-one had ever spoken to him like that before, let alone in public. For a minute he said nothing. Then, as Tom stepped back, clutching hold of a side table, Algy pulled himself to his feet. Now gave his erstwhile opponent an insolent smile; laughed a harsh laugh.
"Well, if we can't stop the bloody revolution, let's have some fun instead!" Algy made to grab another glass of champagne from off the silver salver held by Jimmy but in that same instant, as if from out of nowhere, a hand closed hard around his limp wrist.
"Oh, no you don't! You've had quite enough already!" This from Matthew who deftly snatched the brimming glass from out of a startled Algy's grasp before replacing it carefully back on Jimmy's tray.
"I say, steady on!" Algy staggered and almost cannoned into Jimmy. The tray of glasses rattled noisily. Algy seemed not to have heard what Matthew had said as once more he tried to take a glass from off the tray.
"You heard me. I said no more," repeated Matthew, his voice taking on an unaccustomed harshness.
"Have it your own way, old bean!" sneered Algy. None too steadily, he sauntered off into the crowded Drawing Room, swallowed up by the milling throng of guests come to toast the health of Robert Crawley, fifth earl of Grantham.
Tom shook his head in disbelief at the drunken lout's retreating form.
"When we were his age, were we ever like that ?"
"I'd like to think not," said Matthew ruefully.
"Oh, knowing you two, I expect you had your moments!" exclaimed Mary, all four of them joining in the laughter which followed her pithy pronouncement.
Langthorpe Hall, Yorkshire, England, June 1926.
More recently, Algy's louche life had seemed to revolved around a succession of country house parties, at one of which, down in Surrey he had met his fiancée who turned out to be none other than the dim-witted, flat chested, vacuous Millie Anstruther, now residing back in England, at her parents' home close to Alcester in Warwickshire, whose family home in Ireland, Cullen Hall in County Cork, had, until it was burned out by the IRA, bordered the Skerries estate. Thinking back to what she could remember of her one and only meeting with the dim-witted Millie, Sybil had to concede that Millie and Algy Braithwaite were extremely well suited.
Bar Nicolas, St. Paul de Vence, Alpes Maritimes, France, late summer 1949.
"So what ..."
"... became of Bowen? Arrested by the Military Police, on a charge of cowardice. There were witnesses of course, each supporting what the others had to tell, but I have no doubt that their testimionies were not worth the paper they were written on. Among them those of the two officers I mentioned earlier. All, I believe, to help cover up the exact nature of his relationship with Lieutenant Seymour whose family no doubt suspected the truth of it. Knowing what I did, I had my own suspicions too that, somehow, they had pulled strings, had contrived to have the Honourable James sent home from France, to be kept well out of harm's way, in every sense of the word, until the show was over. Of course, I couldn't prove it, and even if I could have ... When I tried to raise this with my own commanding officer I was told bluntly to my face that it would do Bowen no good at all. Would only serve to condemn him even further in the eyes of the military tribunal. Such a ... relationship was, and in England still is, illegal; let alone at the time crossing the social divide. With this in mind, it was also made very clear to me that the assistance I had given to Bowen, such as it was, could itself be open to misinterpretation".
"In other words, you were warned off," observed Alec.
"If you like to put it that way, yes. Despite my best efforts - Bowen asked me to represent him - I couldn't shake the testimonies of the half dozen witnesses. The result of the trial was a foregone conclusion. Court martialled, and sentenced to death. The decision confirmed, as were all such sentences, by General Haig himself. It was only a couple of days after Bowen's execution that Mason and I copped it. Later, when I had time to reflect, I thought it decidedly odd that the order for us to go over the top in that part of the line came when it did ..."
"You mean ..."
Matthew ghosted a smile.
"Dead men tell no tales. Anyway, it wasn't until much later that, quite by chance, I learned Seymour's father was distantly related to Rawlinson. Second cousin or some such. Which only served to reinforce what I had thought to be the case. Anyway, after I'd recovered the use of my legs, I wrote to Lieutenant Seymour, discretely of course. Said merely that I had known someone who knew him in France. But all I received by way of reply was a letter from his own brother who had been wounded out there in Mesopotamia and brought back to England. Of course, he thanked me for taking the trouble to write and so forth; the usual meaningless pleasantries. Said his brother had gone abroad. Where was not stated".
"And had he?" asked Alec.
"What do you think?"
"So have you any idea of what became of the Honourable James?"
Matthew grimaced.
"As to the that, I suggest both of you read this. Here, I've kept it with me for nigh on thirty years". From his wallet Matthew now took out a neatly folded, yellowing piece of paper which he handed across the table to Simon who found it to be a cutting from a newspaper. There was no indication as to either the edition or its date. But evidently the article dated from the year after the Great War had ended.
Skerries Cove, County Cork, Ireland, late summer 1949.
Like his mother, ever dependable in a crisis, Danny immediately became practical. The Englishman trapped down there on the cliff would have to be helped to safety but since the ledge on which he was stranded was far too narrow and far too unstable to support the weight of another, this could only be accomplished from above. With a long length of rope obtained in haste from the nearby farm, with one end secured tightly beneath the arms of the young Englishman and the other to the pommel of Danny's saddle, watched by an admiring Mary, Danny expertly backed his horse slowly away from the cliff. A few moments later, the young man was safe and sound on the grass at the top of the cliff. Having untied the rope and dusted himself down, the young man looked up at Danny and smiled.
"Thank you, old boy. Damned fine show that!"
Danny nodded; now remembered his manners, something which his parents had drilled into him from a very early age.
"May I present my aunt ... the countess of Grantham".
The man went to touch his cap; realised it was still somewhere down on the cliff. Simply nodded his head.
As Mary sat her horse and looked down into the face of the smiling young Englishman, she thought he seemed somehow familiar; was certain that she had seen him somewhere before. Then realisation dawned. But no, surely not? He had the features ... of Algy Braithwaite. Now remembered that Algy and his dim witted wife Millie had had a son who would, she supposed, be about the age this young man was now. But if he was who she supposed him to be, what on earth was he doing here in Ireland? More especially in County Cork, where his mother's people had once owned the Cullen Hall estate?
Blakeney Hall, Norfolk, England, 11th November 1919.
Across the park, just as their forebears had done for nigh on six centuries, a herd of fallow deer was grazing placidly.
The church clock chimed and then began to strike the hour.
The eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month.
The exact moment when the previous year the sound of the great guns had at last died away.
Startled, cawing raucously, a murder of crows flew up from the elm trees.
And as the church clock continued its dolorous strokes, the Honourable James Alfred Seymour, second son of the Earl of Bath now picked up the Webley, placed the muzzle against his temple, pulled the trigger, and blew out his brains.
Author's Note:
Shabbat - the Jewish Sabbath.
Dima - the diminuitive of Dimitri.
The purchasing of commissions in the British Army had been abolished in 1871.
"I'll go to the foot of our stairs" -" an old expression from the north of England registering surprise or amazement and one which, coming from Leeds, Alec Foster would know well.
Lions led by donkeys - used to describe the British infantry, and to blame the generals who led them. Said to have originated during the First World War, this phrase actually pre-dates the Great War.
Albert (pronounced Albear) - the Battle of Albert - 1st-13th July 1916 - the name given by the British to the onset of the fighting on the Somme.
What caused shell shock was initially not properly understood. It is sadly true that the British Army took an exceedingly dim view of NCOs (those who were not officers) who were said to be suffering from the complaint. Prince Edward's Convalescent Home in Hunstanton, Norfolk (opened in 1879 by and named after Edward VII when he was Prince of Wales), did indeed deal with shell shock cases. Eventually, there were many such hospitals scattered throughout the length and breadth of the country. The most famous of these was Craiglockhart near Edinburgh which treated both Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon.
