Conversations with the Man Upstairs. Ch. 3—Confession and Supplication
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From Ch 2:
"Ruddy old fool! I oughta smack him upside the head with an omelette pan!" Beryl mutters beneath her breath.
"Don't you dare!" Elsie gasps out in instant defence.
"Huuugh…as if I ever would…couldn't reach for starters...Although, I'm not lying when I say that used to think such a thing would be well beneath the man's dignity—and that now I am not so sure." She shakes her head incredulously as she eyes her friend closely. Elsie holds a quivering sad little smile about her lips and obliviously dabs at her eyes with a pristine handkerchief that clearly sports Mr Carson's embroidered initials. "Well, …it seems you have quite a few decisions to be making together…and likely quicker than either of you are used to doing so…at least when it comes to your…personal…affairs…" Beryl knows that her next words might seem like a brushing off of the confused burden her dearest friend has finally managed to share with her tonight, in the hopes of receiving some clear advice, but Beryl really cannot see what else she can possibly do to help in this situation. "…Elsie-dear…" She reaches across the detritus of their shared tea to clasp her hand atop one of Elsie's as it wrings at the kerchief in her hand—offering what sympathy she can as she gestures her eyes up to the highest vaulted rafters of the old Abbey, "Deary…you know…this really is a conversation to be had between you and the man upstairs."
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Chapter 3—Confession and Supplication
Time: The same Sunday morning in late November 1925
Elsie trudges her weary way back up to servants' quarters after Beryl convinces her that there was nought more to be done about her dilemma at this time of morning and that she had best try to catch some kip before breakfast and church today—Wise words I suppose…
Only marginally less discombobulated than when she set out on pre-dawn expedition to the bowels of the Abbey with Beryl for some tea and sympathy, Elsie finds she actually has to rest with a hand against the door jamb of the entrance of the women's quarters when she finally makes it up to the attics. You're getting far too old for all of this Elspeth Mae Hughes her mind pants out the words in time with her lungs. She feels every long hour of her 62 years in this moment.
Elsie forcibly pushes away from the door jamb to fumble as quietly as she can with her chatelaine and the keyhole in the dim light of morn that sadly drips through the frosted skylight above her. A shadow of movement catches her breath and the corner of her eye. Still as a mouse. She sees through the frosted pane of the door to the men's quarters the ghost-like shape of the man that has been haunting her restless sleep these last weeks. For a moment she thinks it might still be part of some lucid walking dream—merely a phantom of her overtired imagination. Noh…I'd know him anywhere—The cadence of his movements—the sheer bulk of him—the silence…and the way his head tilts as he listens to the sounds of the house. in her mind's eyes, she can see the exact lilt of his raised eyebrow. She sees his brisk, no-nonsense movements and imagines the shape of his strong, thick and tapered fingers as he pauses completely. The stillness of him—as he pauses partway through re-tying his robe. She knows he is leaving the men's washroom—knows that he thinks he has heard something. Her. Still. Holding her breath. Her heart pounds and it takes all of her will to halt her drive to use her keys in the dividing door between them. Her skin prickles with hot shameful sweat again—palpable…Need...need…to just…to…see him…as he might be …if ever…if ever…we were to…to…well…of-a-night…of… a night…to just be able to touch the warm striped cuff of his flannelette pyjamas and finally feel him unfurl a little and hold her hand again—Just once. Once more, please Lord—as they did on that one day at the beach…So long ago.
But she fades into the shadow of the ladies quarters architrave and waits—like a silly school girl caught in a crush and restricted once again by her position—wedged between skirted, press-seamed propriety and the giddy dangers lurking out behind the shelter shed– until finally she sees the single movement of his head as he shakes off the notion that he might have heard some mischief from any of the lads. Then he silently pushes through the door to his little room that mirrors her own, and she shadows him as she too disappears behind the lock and key.
And once inside she finally does fall to her knees like a child beside her bed and she prays with steepled hands clasped tight to her forehead around threads of borrowed white—her elbows gouging deep into her rumpled counterpane. Elsie prays inside herself—most fervently—in between her stilted silent soul-wracking sobs.
Dear Lord, please forgive me…Forgive me. Am..am I wrong to want… such...such things…at…at my age…am…am I wrong to want such things as we might build together?...when…when we are too old to build much of anything anymore...no family…no bairns for us…it's too late… it's too late…so why...why should we bother with all of that anyway?…but…but …Oh, Lord…God…am I wrong to want him so?...to finally have that sacrament? Help me, Lord. Oh God please…please just…help me to see what I must do…to…to… Oh Lord, I…I cannot...cannot ask him myself—can I?! How? How can I make him see?… See me... the… the things…the things that…I…I want…I want the things he needs to say…Will he ever say the things I need him to say?… I want him to…Please God, I can't help it…I want him to. Help me. Help me to help him…see…it…to say it…say it...Please….please Lord…Please...Please…
But the answer does not come before she drops from a final sob into fitful sleep— still kneeling. It does not come as Elsie's twisted back cries out in silent agony to the rapping of Jill's dawn-hour knock. Her matted hair leaves red creased marks of her tears upon her cheek as she scrapes her heavy head from the damp and rumpled bed to start another gruelling day where the only comfort afforded to her is the crumpled monogrammed kerchief— all twisted inside and about her hand.
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A/N: I was just re-watching various scenes across S5 surrounding the war memorial drama and property purchases for Mrs Patmore, and Carson/Hughes and I realised just how much I have conflated all of those sequences of events to make this story happen! Oh well, it was bound to occur as soon as I discounted so much of JF canon about these characters, and pushed the Chelsie wedding out to May 1926 to suit my honeymoon fiction aims. Just assume that I am mulching up canon events across 1925 in my own mind to see Chelsie through a slightly longer engagement/property refurbishment phase before that 1926 marriage date—that will have to do! I suppose it does give a good swag of time for all of Elsie's 'full marriage' misgivings to properly fester and so it makes that whole scenario seem marginally more reasonable!
I have also mentioned that Anna is being held in HMP Holloway, London—which actually was exclusively a women's prison since 1903-2016. In the series, it appears that Lady Mary and Bates visit Anna in York Prison. This would have been impossible as York Castle Prison (built 1825-35) was exclusively a Military prison from 1900-34 (so it could make sense that Bates was held there after the Vera nonsense). I also based my choice for Holloway on the fact that Vyner arrested Anna in London and the Green murder would likely have been investigated from that jurisdiction anyway.
It appears I remain historically pedantic but canonically disruptive.
Regards,
BorneToFlow.
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