"Would you please stop pouting," she admonished her taciturn traveling companion.
"I'm not pouting. I just don't see why I couldn't have just popped by the kiosk nice and quick for a pack."
"For one thing, Thomas, our train was leaving the station. And for another, the bloody kiosk was closed! So, stop pouting, please. I dare say you'll survive a few more hours without smoking."
Barrow drummed his fingers on the armrest dividing their seats as his cantankerous mood increased by degrees. "You know, it's bad enough I even have to go to this stupid thing. Least you could do is be supportive," he grumbled.
Baxter looked up from reading The Lady, which a previous passenger had generously left behind on her seat, and stared incredulously at Barrow before finally asking, "Do I really need to dignify that comment with a response?"
He said nothing but instead became curiously preoccupied with picking at the stitching of his glove with his thumb and forefinger. Baxter, for her part, didn't let up from fixing her gaze upon him until he muttered, "Don't you have some reading to do?" But when that didn't do the trick, for Baxter continued to stare at him unabated, he finally relented and mumbled sheepishly, "Sorry."
Satisfied, she opened the tabloid to a random page and asked, not without sympathy, "Why are you in such a mood? Less than an hour ago, you were smiling and joking with everyone. My God, you even seem to be getting along with Mr. Bates—an absolute miracle if I ever saw one! I was starting to think the two of you would never quit being at each other's throats."
Barrow contemplated the magazine page as he tried to formulate an adequate response. The periodical had opened to a full-paged advert for Pears Soap, depicting a dripping wet little girl climbing out of a clawfoot bath tub presumably to fetch a bar of the eponymous soap. The illustrated bathroom looked obscenely modern to Barrow's eyes—the only other time he could recall seeing that much checkerboard in one place was when he accompanied Lord Grantham to America. "Do you suppose Mrs. Rocastle will be bringing her grandkid by to visit Downton?" he asked.
"Mmm, I don't know. I imagine she might at some point since her daughter is close by. Why? Are you worried about it? I'm sure Mrs. Rocastle knows well enough to keep the child out of your hair."
"Worried? No, not at all!" he exclaimed as he shook his head. "I'm actually rather fond of kids, I'll have you know."
Surprised, Baxter replied apologetically, "I had no idea. You've always seemed rather indifferent to them."
"Well, it's not as though I can take Master George out for a few rounds with the ol' cricket bat, now can I?" he retorted as he rolled his eyes at her. "I just think it would be nice to have a little tyke from our lot running about the place."
"I'm fairly certain Lord Grantham wouldn't object to you turning his grandson into a ringer for the next House-Village cricket match," she said with a wink. "Although, I'd have to say young Andy ought to have first crack. Poor lamb looked completely lost during this year's game."
"Mmm, yes. I suspect that he's more of a footballer. But he'll get the handle of it eventually. At any rate, it's the nannies who are liable to give me a hard time."
"Why would the nannies mind you teaching Andy how to swing a cricket bat?" she asked with a mischievous glint in her eye.
"Quit trying to be clever. You may think you are, but you're not," he sniffed indignantly.
"Sorry, love. So, what's this about the nannies? Oh, and you do think I'm clever. Just a bit."
"Oh, they just act like you're a walking petri dish ready to infect the little darlings with some sort of malady. And all right, fine. You're a bit clever. But only just a bit." Sticking the tip of his tongue out as though he had tasted something truly foul, he recounted, "There was this one old bat who acted like I was infected with the plague for having the audacity to say hello to Miss Sybbie." He paused for a moment before he continued, relishing in the remembered triumph, "I am so glad I managed to get rid of her."
"Thomas! That's terrible!"
"What?" Baxter was utterly aghast with him; and despite his feigned innocence, he knew exactly why.
"Just because you don't get along with someone doesn't mean—"
"In my defense," he interrupted, "the woman was pure evil."
Baxter raised a skeptical eyebrow.
"No, really! I tipped Lady Grantham that there was something fishy about the woman—and, yes, I'll concede that I wasn't basing it off on much—and the next day she was gone. So, clearly my intuition saved the day!" He crossed his arms as though challenging Baxter to say something to the contrary.
If anything, Baxter's eyebrow only rose higher upon hearing Barrow's explanation. "Thomas, you know full well that accidentally doing the right thing and intentionally doing the right thing are not one and the same, so don't expect me to congratulate you when your scheming happens to work out in your favor."
Annoyed at receiving what he knew was probably a well-deserved scolding, he said nothing in return. Instead, he busied himself with examining the upholstered backrest of the seat in front of him—a garish hodgepodge of mauve, chartreuse, and fuchsia that wasn't quite a paisley but wasn't quite a floral either—and wondered what, if any, decade such a fabric was in vogue. He hated not getting along with Baxter, especially now that he was able to count on her as a true friend. Out of habit, he rubbed at the scar lying beneath the surface of his glove as though he might by extension smooth out the rough edges that he was forever inflicting upon their relationship.
"Does it hurt?"
He paused for a moment in his manipulations and flexed the fingers of his gloved hand. "You'd think it would, wouldn't you? I mean, it certainly hurt at the time. But— The surgeon who patched me up said that if the bullet was a half inch higher, it'd be a whole 'nother story." He gestured to her hand, "May I?"
She nodded her head, granting permission, and he took her hand in his. Gently touching her hand with the tip of his finger, he explained, "See, the hand has these— these zones in it. And different zones have different, mmm, things going on in them. So, some of them are loaded up with nerves and tendons and that sort of thing. And some of them, not so much. The palm of the hand, this area here, that's mostly just the tendon you have to worry about. I was lucky. Not just that I was hit there and not up here," he moved his finger further up her palm to the padding at the base of her fingers, "but that I ended up with a surgeon who knew what he was doing—or was at the very least, willing to give it a go."
"I'm glad it isn't hurting you. I thought it—when I saw you massaging it—I thought it might be."
Flushing upon learning that his on-again off-again nervous habit had been noticed, he clarified, "Hurt? No. But it does feel a bit queer compared to the other one. Stiffer, I guess? If it was up here— the surgeon called it the no man's land— If it was up here in the no man's land, I'd have had all sorts of troubles. There's just a whole mess o' tendons and nerves and blood vessels running about in there. Injuries there are just all together nasty in every way. True, I've got a scar that's ugly as sin, but at least I can still work. So, really, I'm quite fortunate. Blessed even."
She nodded her head as she processed the impromptu anatomy lesson. The space between her brows wrinkling with concern, she offered, "I would have preferred you to come out of it altogether unharmed."
"Nah, best outcome possible, if you ask me. Put me in the right place at the right time to serve out the remainder of the war close to home. To be honest, I think that's the one thing that keeps me from hating Miss O'Brien entirely."
"Oh?"
"It was her idea to put my name forward when they were looking for someone to manage things. If she hadn't, I'd have been sent straight back to the front; no doubt about it." Even as he said the words, he found that he was shocked to still feel gratitude even after everything that had gone wrong between the two of them.
As if reading his mind, Baxter commented, "It sounds as though she really cared about you."
"Yeah. S'pose she did. Not anymore, of course. But she did once." He sighed as the heavy burden of a lost friendship weighed upon his heart, of opportunities offered and then snatched away. "Do you ever wish that you had lived your life differently? Got married and had a family? Instead of going into service?"
She quietly contemplated the question before answering somewhat noncommittally, "I suppose. But I don't think it's too late for that—well, maybe as far as children are concerned—but there's still time for the other bit. What about you?"
Feeling his cheeks warm with embarrassment, he hedged, "It isn't exactly an option for me."
"I don't see why not."
Although Barrow said nothing in response, the expression upon his face quite clearly stated that he was seriously questioning his friend's mental faculties at that very moment.
"Yes, I know that you can't be with—" She broke off abruptly as the conductor made his journey down the train compartment's narrow aisle before continuing in a substantially more subdued cadence, "I know that you can't be with the, mmm, sort of person that you'd wish. But surely you could find someone a bit more, mmm, appropriate whom you could fancy just as much?"
How in the world could he explain something that he himself only barely understood? Only a year ago, he was so convinced of the transmutability of his fundamental nature that he allowed himself to be hooked up to what was probably, as he looked back upon the memory with chagrin, an old car battery. Breathing in deeply and then blowing the air out slowly, he attempted to shed light upon his predicament, "It's not as though I don't know who I'm supposed to be attracted to. I'm not blind. I know a fetching woman when I see one. I just don't— I just don't feel— It doesn't feel the same as when I'm looking at the other— the other sort." He hated having to speak in coded messages, but with the lack of privacy afforded to them, he had little choice in the matter.
"I'm sorry. I just want to see you happy. I thought you wanted to change; that's all. I know you can't change that one, um, aspect. But maybe you could strike up a friendship with someone and then fall in love with her over time?" she said apologetically.
"And what if I didn't or couldn't? How would that be fair to her?" He shook his head resolutely. "It just wouldn't work." He contemplated telling her more. What would she say if she knew about his long-ago abandoned fantasy of carrying on a clandestine love affair with the Duke of Crowborough who—if the bastard had a romantic bone in his body, Thomas thought bitterly to himself—was supposed to use a loveless marriage with Lady Mary as camouflage for their illicit affections? He was a hopeless romantic through-and-through; and when he found himself falling in love with someone, he could be faithful to a fault—pledging his undying devotion and fidelity even when the other man only thought of him as a really good friend and nothing more. And, there you go again. Thinking about Jimmy when you already know that nothing will ever come of it.
She thumbed at a dog-eared corner of the magazine defeatedly, "Yes, I suppose you're right."
"Any way, that's mainly why I got into service in the first place. So I wouldn't need to worry about that sort of thing. Nobody even bats an eyelash at a man in service living a supposedly celibate life. It wouldn't matter a bit if I never married or had a family."
She nodded as she took in his words, "Does it bother you that so many members of the staff are marrying?"
He winced a little at being found out, "Are my feelings really that conspicuous? I know that it's silly. Ridiculous even! And you would think that for someone like me, I'd be jealous of anyone who gets the chance to, um, be with the sort of person that I, mmm, want to be with. But, please, do not misunderstand me." He craned his neck and looked about the nearly empty train compartment checking for anyone who might be close enough to overhear. The conductor was on the opposite end of the car, discussing possible ongoing destinations to a young Parisian couple who, for reasons that baffled Thomas, had chosen a route heading away from and not towards London. Satisfied that he wouldn't be discovered, he quickly muttered with a scowl, "It's not as though I'm thinking, Oh, Anna is such a lucky girl! Oooh, Mr. Bates is so dreamy. Oh, if only it was me! No, instead I'm thinking, If I was like everyone else, I would have her in a heart beat. But I can't even compete with any of them because while I'm busy making friends and wondering why I don't feel anything more, they're already halfway up the aisle."
Although he had always known how he felt about the matter, Barrow was nevertheless surprised with himself once he had managed to articulate those feelings. As if reading his mind, Baxter suggested, "Perhaps that's why you have trouble getting along with the other men in the house?"
"I suppose," he acknowledged, "It's not as though I can really blame it all on not being selected as his lordship's valet at this point."
"Well, no. I don't believe I ever saw you and Mr. Branson competing for the same position."
"Mr. Branson? I'm surprised you're not scolding me for not getting on better with Mr. Molesely," he deflected.
Baxter rolled her eyes and gave him a knowing look, "If you're trying to convince me that you haven't been running Mr. Molesely through the wringer just to test his worthiness of me, I'm not buying it."
Attempting to hide a shy smile, but failing completely at the endeavor, Barrow grinned back at her, "And you keep saying that you dislike all my plotting and scheming! Do you think it would be overly ambitious to see if I can get Mr. Molesely to challenge me to a duel?"
"Walk twenty paces, turn, and fire? Golly, I can't see anything possibly going wrong with that idea."
"Don't they just slap each other across the face with their gloves? I know gloves are involved in it somehow. I have to say I'm not particularly keen on the whole gun bit. I'm too young and beautiful to die," he declared solemnly, "Now, Mr. Molesely on the other—"
"You throw down your glove."
"What?"
"You throw down your glove when you want to declare a duel. And, no, you're slight against Mr. Moseley did not go unnoticed. I would smack you, but the only thing I've got to do it with is The Lady and I'm still reading it."
"Why would you throw down your glove? You'd just have to wash it later, and it's a nuisance getting gloves clean—I should know!"
"Um, Thomas?" she attempted to interrupt unsuccessfully.
"Oh, I'll bet it's one of those toff deals. They can just ask a servant to do the washing up, presuming they haven't gone and gotten killed with the whole dueling business. And, yes, I know that I'm rambling. You're far too nice, Phyllis. O'Brien would've told me to quit my yammering and pipe down days ago!"
"I'm not sure if I should take that as a compliment or not," she replied as she took advantage of the momentary break in Barrow's tirade as he paused for a breath.
"Oh, definitely a compliment."
"Good, because I like hearing you talk, and I'm not about to start encouraging you to stop anytime soon."
Offering her a sly smile, he teased, "Oh, I don't know. I think I can be rather persuasive."
Laughing, she acquiesced, "Yes, I suppose so. Even I have my limits. But even so, I really like seeing you open up. It isn't good for you to keep everything bottled up."
The gentle admonishment having the desired effect, Barrow somberly agreed, "I know. It just isn't easy when saying the wrong thing can get me in a heap of trouble."
She nodded her head, accepting his reasoning, for she knew from experience the fear inspired within oneself by a tightly held secret. How ironic it was to now be sitting beside the one person who had done everything in his power to use her fear to his advantage—and even more so, that she was now finding herself taking part in the sort of gossip that Barrow had wanted to hear from the get-go.
The train lurched forward and then back as it came to a halt at the station. As the conductor announced the name of the present stop, Barrow stood up to retrieve their bags from the overhead storage rack. "Come along, Phyllis. You already know it's a bit of a trek to the public house, and we need to be up early for the— We need to be up early tomorrow. So, I suppose we'd best be getting on with things." With Baxter following close behind, he made his way down the narrow aisle of the train car, a small luggage bag held firmly in each hand. Sighing like a condemned man who had grown weary of waiting for the firing squad to arrive, Thomas Barrow tread upon the ground of his home village for the first time in twenty years.
author's note: I tried to include a link to the Pears Soap ad here, but unfortunately doesn't allow outside links. If you're curious about it, try googling Pears Soap 1920.
I'm going to admit right now that I'm somewhat clueless about British geography, so I was going to base the general geography off of the actors' backgrounds. Unfortunately, Stockport (Rob James-Collier) isn't even remotely close to Fleet (Raquel Cassidy), so just pretend that Thomas and Phyllis grew up somewhere halfway between the two!