Please forgive me for such a long gap! I've finally moved back permanently to the UK. I got married, moved house and jobs! Hope you will still read and review.

The Bentley moved quietly through the busy streets of the East End. It passed through Spitalfields market, and turned down into a side road of vendors selling tea cakes, jellied eels, gas mantles. A row of barefoot boys were laughingly engaged in a boxing match in the middle of the street, and at the sound of the Bentley's horn scattered shouting, "ooooooo, faaaancy".

The car turned once more onto what could be called a residential street. Bare brick buildings lined the street, with strings of washing hanging between them. More children played down the street, and a few women sat outside, shelling peas or scrubbing laundry.

Mrs. Collie turned to her neighbour Mrs Tompkinson and observed that the Bentley was probably lost. Mrs Tompkinson, in return, observed that it might be the rich client who favoured "her upstairs, the one what dresses up like a Jezebel and used to work on Cheap Street." Mrs. Day disagreed, and felt sure it must be someone from the government checking up on the working class, to make sure they were still yoked to their chains. Mrs. O'Malley rolled her eyes and suggested that it was most likely some young fella with a new driving job come to show off to his girlfriend, hadn't that odd young Leek fellow gone up West last week looking for a job in the city? His mother was always a braggart, the son must be the same.

The driver's door opened them, leading Mrs. O'Malley to smirk knowingly. The driver- not the Leek boy- approached them and asked if they were by the right building for a Mrs. Mary Smith.

"Which one love? We've got three."

"Err, quite young I would imagine. Perhaps a newer resident."

Mrs. Collie raised an eyebrow. "Oh you must mean 'er. Married to the Irish fella. Says he ain't Irish but the accent come through once in a while. You won't find her here now. She works up at the greengrocer. Mile End Road. By the Almhouses. Him, you'll find by the docks."

The chauffeur nodded his head and thanked them. As the car slowly moved away, Mrs. Tompkinson observed that this was a turn up for the books, wouldn't you say, and perhaps Mrs. Smith had a fancy fella up West somewhere too. Mrs. Collie smiled knowingly and said that that was probably why Mrs. Smith pretended to speak all posh.

The Bentley moved on and drove by the noisy, crowded docks, full of containers being loaded or unloaded, men in overalls covered in dirt and grime and god knows what. The car stopped for a while but eventually decided against. Cheery workers smiled at the car and made a few rude gestures.

Finally, the Bentley stopped at Turner's green grocers on Mile End Road. The passenger door opened, and a woman stepped out. Her exquisite blue travelling suit screamed sophistication, and she herself lifted her nose and delicately placed a lace handkerchief to the organ, in the hopes of blocking off the noxious fumes emitting from the open drain.

"What's wrong my love?", yelled a woman who was cleaning the street, "yours smell like parma violets do they?". The cleaning woman let out a cackling laugh.

Fighting her gag reflex, Lady Mary Crawley stepped delicately into the shop in front of her. Mr. Turner looked up and stuttered. He didn't normally get such clientele. Mary passed her eyes over him, his small but cheery shop and the drab- in her opinion- collection of fruits and vegetables.

"May I help you, milady?"

"Um, yes a half pound of oranges if you will. And do wash them before you parcel them. Perhaps your shop assistant can help me?"

"I would be glad to-"

"Call your assistant Mr. Turner."

Mr. Turner went into his backroom and returned shortly after with a pale young woman, simply but cleanly attired. Her eyebrows shot up when she saw the new client.

Mary rolled her eyes at Sybil and flared her nostrils at the state of her.

"Do bag up my oranges Mrs. Smith. Mr. Turner, I need you to give Mrs. Smith the rest the day off."

"That's really not necessary Mr. Turner."

"Good gracious it is. Come along, I'll be outside in the car."

Mary placed some money on the till, slipped out and waited. Within ten minutes, Sybil followed.

"Here are your oranges."

" Why have you called yourself Mary?"

"The first time you see me in five years and this is what you ask?"

"What I really want to ask is if you have something suitable in which we can go to Fortnum's. What is that you're wearing? Wincey?"

"It's crimpoline. And it's suitable for my work."

"Scrubbing grotty cabbages? Don't insult me Sybil. Shall we take you to your hovel so you can change?"

"You can come to tea at the hovel. I won't go to Fortnum's."

Mary hissed but leaned over to instruct the chauffeur.

The sisters travelled in silence, Sybil torn between anger and anxiety and Mary just simply distressed.

Mary's appearance sent the ladies outside into a paroxysm of conspiracies. Perhaps Mrs. Smith preferred female clients?

Ignoring them, Mary and Sybil went upstairs. The smell from the communal lavatory would have caused Mary to retch had she not had a thousand years worth of repression in her blood and bones. Sybil looked over at her, and suddenly looked extremely amused.

Sybil led her sister into a little apartment off a third floor landing. It wasn't very much, a two room affair, with kitchen and living room in one and a small bedroom off to the corner. A bathtub resided next to the kitchen sink. A sweet, old sofa set was at the centre of the room. It, and the armchair next to it were scrupulously clean, as was the entire flat. Clinically clean, thought Mary.

"Sit, please. Will you take tea? Grandmama send me a bag of her own blend for my birthday. You won't have to suffer builder's tea."

Mary inclined her head, yes, and sat carefully on the sofa.

"Are you happy to live like this?"

"I found I had no choice. We're making our way. Tom's politically involved, so it won't be forever."

"You might have to marry him before you are politically respectable enough. "

"Charles hasn't divorced me yet."

Mary sighed and reached into her handbag. She removed a small sheet of paper and passed it over to her sister.

Sybil glanced down. It was a lawyers' memo.

Report confirmed. Charles Blake killed in police action during pro independence protest. Death recorded under his chosen Indian name, Rajesh Fonseca. Will make requisite filings on return.

Sybil turned her head and started to cry.

"Don't be an idiot, Sybil. Charles was an idiot. Flouncing off to play white saviour and join the anti-colonial movement."

"I did love him Mary."

"This isn't the time for that."

"What is it the time for then?"

"For your children. It was perfectly all right for us to look after them whilst both you and Charles were…..away. Now that Charles is dead, you must come and claim them or his mother will be able to take them away from us. Forever. She has every right and your little son is now a peer, after all. You must look to his welfare."

"Tom won't-"

"Oh Tom will. I will make him. Besides, you would have had to come back to Downton soon."

"why?"

"Papa's dying."

Sybil dissolved into her tears.