XX
December 20 1933
"Some people are here from the Daily Herald, Lady Merton." Sybbie called over to Isobel, using her formal title in a public setting. "They want to take some photographs and interview you about the mobile cafes."
Currently the two were in one of the cottages run by the Salvation Army. The Swire Trust had paid to have it refurbished with new flooring, radiators, long tables, and a kitchen installed with two AGA cookers, in part because of the efficiency of the design but also because the inventor, Gustaf Dalén, was blind. He lost his sight in an explosion while developing a device to store combustible gases.
The canteen was for those in need in the community, catering especially to farming families on the estate and just outside as it was the cottage closest to the main road of Downton Village. Right now, the volunteers were thick in the middle of fixing a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, sausages, and bread.
"I'm much too busy actually helping," Isobel answered as she kept pouring the hot tea into cups. "And I'd much rather their suffering wasn't used to sell newspapers."
Sybbie rejoined, "But doesn't the Salvation Army want attention drawn to their work? So they can get more donations to create more mobile cafes and food canteens?"
Isobel had to grudgingly agree with Sybbie's logic. Desperate times didn't allow for standing on one's moral grounds. "Too right, my dear. Needs must. I'll speak to them directly."
Sybbie returned to setting out the remaining trays on the counter.
Isobel loved Sybbie's enthusiasm. She was so much like her mother, who was as caring an individual as Isobel ever met. Right now, Lady Sybil Branson, as usual, could care less for airs and graces as she dished out the eggs at another station of the canteen, unaware her hair was planted most unladylike against her cheek as she bent over the steaming hot chafing dish.
"Lady Hexham, I'll fetch more trays from the kitchen." Sybbie almost broke public protocol there and referred to the marchioness as Auntie Edith. The title was new, and she had a hard time remembering.
"Thank you." Edith said, laying out slices of the thick sliced bread onto the trays. She also had offered to help as the family was down for the holidays. Bertie had to stay back for a few days at Brancaster, now having more duties as Marquess of Hexham upon his father's death the previous month. She had been pleased her father in law lived to see his grandchildren, especially young Albert who was the long expectant heir. Indeed both her sons were heirs to estates that she wondered would make it past this crippling economic crisis in any state of solvency. After the new year, during his holidays from school Jack would start spending more time learning to oversee Strallan Hall under the guidance of the estate manager. She wanted him to love the house as Anthony had done. Edith hoped she had done right by putting Jack at Eton, his father's old school. Trying to connect a child to a father he never met was a tricky thing. But she never wanted to forget the love she had for Anthony. Talking to Jack and answering his questions brought back so many happy memories.
"Elinor!" Sybbie called out noticing that her cousin had arrived.
The two quickly embraced then Sybbie handed Elinor her an apron.
"I meant to come sooner but Neve and Marie wanted me to set up the doll house." Elinor said, trying to sound keen. She didn't exactly want to be in the canteen with the sad people and the curious smells but she knew Sybbie would expect her to help. She didn't want to appear above helping out but she had been protected from such hardship by her parents and so found all of this quite overwhelming.
But she'd not let Sybbie down. They had been inseparable ever since they were toddlers.
All the younger children stayed in the nursery under the steady hand of their nanny Florence and Anna's sister Helen who was helping out. The nursery was full to bursting. Edith's two youngest, Marie at seven and Albert at five, along with William and Neve all played with various toys on the carpeted floor. Sebastian and Jack were in deep concentrating, putting together the erector set Matthew had bought in London to make a Ferris Wheel in time for the younger boys to play with on Christmas day. Mr. Pookie decorated the chair next to Violet's cot. Elinor had given her favorite bear to Violet shortly after her birth, pleased as punch to finally have a sister.
Mary walked inside the canteen a few minutes after her daughter. She had promised her sisters to join them that morning, despite being very concerned for George's safety. Matthew had said not to worry, he'd sort it all out. He'd heard that Stan Pearce was a hard worker and no one had said he had a violent temper. There must be an explanation for his need to prevaricate about his past.
She didn't want to succumb to her fears. Or appear like Lady Swinton or others of her ilk whose class bound opinions meant that all of the labouring poor were criminals by nature and therefore to be met always with suspicion. Nonsense of course. But she knew she'd spend the day on edge. Going to help at the canteen would keep her mind distracted. She'd not tell that to Sybil who'd want her to come not out of some selfish motivation but because of the goodness of the cause itself.
Mary wished she had Sybil's nature, but she didn't. Being around Matthew, George, and Sybil and their true generosity of spirit had made her aware enough to realize her motivations would always be a mix of private and obligatory. At least she would admit to that. It was the Lady Swinton's with their "Lady Bountiful" act that reeked of noblesse oblige at it's most obvious and affected. Perhaps it was fear of appearing like her that kept Mary from doing more. If so she needed to overcome that as it was true there so much to be done to help.
"Lady Mary," Sybbie approached. "Would you mind helping Lady Hexham? I will bring over an apron directly."
Mary nodded graciously at her niece and headed over to the table where Edith was handing out trays of food.
XX
Matthew and Trevor walked towards the train station platform. Sanderling, despite being legally blind, did have good peripheral vision, so he helped guide Matthew towards the gravel path from the Hall and then around to the main road that led to Downton Station. George was expected on the 2:00 train. He had telephoned that morning to inform the family of his return, telling his father proudly, "we've arranged for all the supplies for the Hall to be delivered by Christmas Eve."
Matthew had rung off, saying to Mary, "George sounds cheerful and happy. See darling," he kissed her cheek. "He's fine."
He knew Mary heard the tension in his voice. He dreaded having to tell George his friend must be let go from the Hall.
As if hearing his thoughts Trevor said, "I know it's going to be hard, Matthew. But we've set up the rules at the Hall for a reason. There are so many workers in need of a job, I can't have someone who lied their way into employment."
Matthew heaved a heavy sigh. "I understand completely Trevor. And I don't want to step on your toes as Director of the Hall."
"You never do, Matthew. I appreciate your discretion. You are the founder of the Hall but you never throw your weight around."
Matthew smiled. "And I have complete trust in your judgment." Just then he heard the train guard blow his whistle. George's train was approaching.
The two men stood and waited. The station manager approached. "Mr. Crawley."
"Hello Mr. Serrell. George is on the 2:00. Do you see him?"
"He's getting off just now, sir. The on-board conductor kept an eye on him as he was on his own in First Class."
"Thank you."
The young man approached. "Father. Mr. Sanderling. I didn't expect both of you to be at the station. I assure you Mr. Pearce and I have it all under control."
"Of course, you do, son. We thought we'd meet you." Matthew reassured.
Pearce was at the other end of the train, helping out the porters lift out the supplies that could be stored and shipped directly from Brighton.
"I'll help Pearce supervise," Trevor said, making a move down the platform.
"We'll let them get on, shall we?" Matthew said. "I want to talk with you as we walk back to the Hall." He took his son's arm and the two began to walk towards the road that would lead them back to the gravel walk on the Downton estate.
"What is it, Father?"
Matthew stopped, placing his stick in the ground to balance him as he leaned against it. "There's been a development with regards to Mr. Pearce's employment at the Hall. I wanted to tell you before we get back to the office. I'm afraid Mr. Sanderling will have to let Pearce go."
"What?"
Matthew heard his son's stricken tone. "I know…"
"But he's a good man. Reliable. He's taught me so much about the electrics and telephone operations at the Hall. No one else has ever taken an interest like that. They allow me watch things but only because I'm your son. They never offer to let me help."
"They're only looking after you," Matthew said.
"I know they mean well," George acknowledged. "But everyone acts differently around me. It's not just because of my eyes. Everyone at the Hall knows I'm heir to this estate and they treat me as someone to whom they must defer. Mr. Pearce lets me get right into the circuitry under his guidance. It doesn't matter if I have monocular vision or am of a different social station. He says that hard work is its own reward. The only things I need to remember are to follow his supervision, be careful around the equipment, and always ask for help when needed."
"That is showing sound judgment," Matthew admitted.
"Then why let him go?"
Time to get to the crux of the matter. "There's new information come to light that he wasn't completely honest about his previous life upon his employment at the Hall. He…" Matthew struggled to complete the words. He knew his son would be devastated. "He lied about having a prison record. It seems he has a violent past. Another itinerant worker at the Hall recognized him and told Sanderling about it."
"How do you know this fellow is telling the truth? Maybe he's got the wrong man."
Matthew admired his son's loyalty. "Trevor's speaking to Pearce now about it. I'm sure we'll get to the truth."
"It doesn't seem right. He's so patient. In Brighton there was a miscommunication initially and they got the supplies all mixed up. Mr. Pearce fixed it all without losing his temper."
His father tried to change the subject. "After the holidays, you'll be back at school and your friends soon. New interests will take over."
George was silent. The two stood along the gravel path, neither speaking.
This unnerved Matthew considerably. It was what he feared. That his son was unhappy at Rugby.
"Is there something I'm missing, son? You can tell me you know."
"I… like Rugby a great deal. Our housemaster is a good man. I enjoy my classes. The Latin master says I have a real gift for the language. Miss Paige would be pleased to know that. She spent days and days with me on those declensions."
Matthew noted the forced tone of his son's voice. He was hiding something, he was sure. And George said nothing about friends.
This couldn't go on. They needed to have a heart to heart talk.
"I'm glad you like your studies. I was much the same." He picked up his cane into his hand. "Isn't there a bench around here? I'd like to sit."
"Over here." George guided his father to a stone bench under a large elm tree.
Matthew felt along the back of the bench, reached over, and put his hand on his son's shoulder. "I've not told anyone everything about my years at Rugby. Not even my mother. I didn't see the point as nothing could really be done. Or at least that's what I felt at the time. My…" his brow furrowed. "… my blindness made me an outcast. A leper. Useless. Or I felt like one and so people treated me as such. I really don't know. Everyone at school has to endure the teasings, the fagging especially in your junior years. But because I was blind, I couldn't complete the tasks usually given to junior boys like running errands or brushing clothes for the fag master. When I tried to serve the senior boys tea it spilt all over the table and they declared me too incompetent to continue, laughed, and threw it back in my face."
"That's horrible."
Matthew scowled at the memory. "It wasn't the best tradition of the founder. I know Thomas Arnold saw the system as a structure for keeping order within the school in places where the school master's authority was limited. It was meant to be carried out as a privilege and the seniors were to protect the juniors. But that wasn't always the case. Depending on the sixth former, they might help out with an injustice or participate in their own form of punishment without reporting anything to the masters."
Matthew was plumbing the depths of his unhappy school experiences. He very seldom dredged up these memories. He never told his mother because she thought she was doing her best by sending him to a fine school such as Rugby. The upshot was that he endured the harassment alone. And it had made him even more isolated. He built up a mental suit of armour to deal with it all, making him even more quick to take offence and assume everyone wanted to mock him. It had lasted almost half his life before he got over it.
He didn't want that for George.
"I was given nicknames by some of the fifth and sixth formers. Things that only public school boys could make up and laugh at. Like 'Cecil' because the English derivation of 'Caecus' was blind. Or 'all behind' because I couldn't see forward. Other times it was 'ein Blinder' or 'blöderhund.' Sometimes just 'Matty' like I was still four years old." Matthew could have gone on but he hoped the point was made. "Once the headmaster found out, he tried to make them stop. My Greek master was particularly kind and started me helping out with school productions of plays and recitations. I helped them learn the lines though I seldom participated myself." He now wasn't sure if it was because the school never asked him to, or maybe he assumed that and never pursued it.
"I'm telling you this because I want your experiences at school to be better. I felt there was nothing I could do, but I now believe that to be wrong."
George couldn't believe his father had experienced the same type of bullying behaviours. He was always so composed, so assured. Surely no one would dare to give him cruel nicknames.
George finally broke down and admitted, "Mine is 'Cyclops' or 'Polyphemus' when they want to sound clever clever."
Matthew's shoulders sagged. He reached out and George moved into his embrace. "Oh George…" Matthew's pain came out as a whispered, "I'm so so sorry…" He gently rested his head against his son's. "I wanted your life to be better."
There were very few alternatives to keeping George at school. A private tutor, maybe? But wouldn't that make him even more isolated and feeling different?
"I'm fine, Father," George said, attempting a resiliency he didn't quite feel. "I want to stay at Rugby. I'll go back and concentrate on my studies."
"I'm sure you will." Matthew answered, still unsteady but willing to go along with George's determination. "But you mustn't keep things locked inside. I want you to know that I understand. You can tell me whatever is on your mind."
George nodded, and then knowing his father needed a verbal response as well, said "Thank you. It's not so bad most of the time. But I think it's why I like being here at the Hall helping Mr. Pearce. Isn't there anything we can do?"
Matthew considered his son's wish seriously. "I've told Mr. Sanderling I can't interfere with Hall policies. He's the Director and he must be allowed to lead as he sees fit."
"But can't we hear Mr. Pearce's point of view? Maybe there's a part of the story we don't know. Like you said about my time at Rugby. A missing piece he knows that we don't."
"Yes." Matthew conceded. "It's entirely possible. I could approach Trevor and see if he'd mind if I spoke with Pearce." He privately admitted to a curiosity about this man who's made such a positive impression on his son. "But that still might not change Mr. Sanderling's mind. Rules are rules."
"May I join you?"
"No…" Matthew spoke slowly, his mind whirring with the possibilities of what Pearce might confess. The charges were grievous bodily harm and manslaughter after all. "Let me see him first."
George knew his father didn't want him to be shocked by any of the details concerning Pearce's past. "You don't have to protect me. I can be there."
"It's my responsibility as your father to make that decision, George. And it's my opinion that I should do this alone. I admire your loyalty, however. It's why I want to do this."
"Very well." George was disappointed but acceded to his father's wishes. "Will you do it now?"
Matthew had to chuckle at his son's enthusiasm. "Of course. But why don't you go home? Your mother and sister should be back from the canteen now. Go and have tea with the family. I'll be back shortly." He stood up and continued on the path towards the Hall while George turned around and walked back to Downton Abbey.
XX
"I don't feel you're stepping on my toes, Matthew." Sanderling reassured. "As a matter of fact, it's a good idea. I thought very highly of Stan Pearce. These accusations that have come to light don't seem in character with the man I know."
"George says the same. And I trust both your judgment and my own. It just doesn't make sense. I'm glad you think it's a good idea to take the measure of the man."
"I won't say it will play any role in my letting him go. That had to be done."
"How did Pearce take it?"
"Calmly. He understood he had done wrong in not disclosing his past record. And he said he appreciated the opportunity to work for us."
Matthew thought that spoke well of Pearce. "Where is he now?"
"Collecting his things together. He's in the room next to the electrical workshop."
"I know the way." Matthew walked towards the office door, felt for the handle and opened it. It led down the corridor. He knew to take a right and then go four doors down.
He knocked.
"Come in."
Matthew opened the door. "Mr. Pearce?"
"Yes." A distinctive London accent greeted Matthew's ears.
"I'm Matthew Crawley. George's father." He held out his hand.
Pearce accepted it. "And owner of this establishment. You do good work here."
"Thank you. The Swire Trust is something dear to my heart."
"Your son does you credit as well. He's a fine boy."
Matthew could hear no attempt to curry his favour by praising his son. He sounded sincere. "George thinks very highly of you. That's why I'm here. To talk over this situation."
"Why would you do that? Mr. Sanderling's made his decision."
"True and I won't gainsay his ruling. But listening to your side is something George asked me to do. And I would be remiss if we didn't try to learn from this in the future at the Hall. We don't want to think we've treated you unfairly."
"I'm amazed you care, if you don't mind me saying so Mr. Crawley. Men of your class seldom ever do. We're dismissed without account every day. I've gotten used to it. And maybe they're right to do so. I don't appear to do much good wherever I go."
Matthew heard the pain in that confession. "You're not wrong there about society turning a blind eye. It's unforgivable. At time of the year I'm reminded of something Charles Dickens said -'No one is useless in this world who lightens the burdens of another.' You've accomplished that with my son, Mr. Pearce. And I want to help you."
Stan Pearce stood rigidly still, stunned at Matthew's offer. This man wanted to help him? After he had lied to get what was a desperately needed job. He couldn't even see him to take stock of his character.
But what did he have to lose?
XX
So this story that was only going to be one chapter… is now three. This is me as a fan fic authorI hope to have this LAST chapter out on Dec 25. Thanks to everyone and Happy Holidays!