Christmas 1945

Snow lay in big drifts in the grounds of Downton Abbey. Where it had not been piled more fell, and froze making treacherous ice skids which Thomas and Andy were eager to ensure did not freeze. Ernest Barrow was out there that morning, a few days before Christmas, gloved hands throwing rock salt all the way down the drive, Larry Parker doing the same at the back of the Abbey. Guests were expected, for it was Christmas Eve.

The snow had blanketed them for nearly three weeks. But, as Daisy told them regularly enough, you can get used to weather as long as it sticks around long enough.

"It's when it changes all over the place," she added, wrists up to the hilt of yet another fowl, filling it full of stuffing.

And after the dinner, the servants went up to the hall where the piano had been pushed out. Beside it, Lady Mary Talbot stood, singing Christmas carols as the guests watched, all family and friends, Ernest considered, many he knew, like Lady Edith, Lady Mary's sister, who had greeted Ernest like a long lost son and had fussed him for some reason, before telling him that her son, Peter, was keen on Harriet Wellsley, and she didn't know what she was going to do with Marigold, and that Sybbie often talked of her dance with him; guests of Master George who had been there in the summer, and were looking as reluctant to go in the snowstorms of recent days as they had been in the rainstorms of August.

Henry Talbot had returned, tall and thin, brought in one autumn morning just as the leaves were turning orange and yellow on the trees in the grounds. "Did you know that the larch is the only deciduous conifer in Europe?" George Crawley had asked of his guests one afternoon. And Ernest thought he did know that, having been looking through some of the library's books and remembering his nature lessons at school in Wilhelmshaven, where Mrs. Schumacher, the teacher, had sent them out to fill the nature table, before discussing their "treasures".

But he thought not to say anything, for a car had pulled up along the gravel driveway and two men had helped out a third, shrouded in several coats. A scream had gone up, and then another, and Ernest had disappeared below, not wanting to be involved with what was increasingly becoming evident was an unfolding family affair.

Thomas had sent Ernest, however, to Henry Talbot's room one Sunday morning with food, for the man was unable to join the Family at breakfast, and had nearly run away in terror at the horror of the man, lovingly propped up on three cushions and tended and nursed with utmost care.

Ernest had smiled at the man, if "man" could be used. Eyes had flicked in the skull of the skeleton wrapped tightly in his own skin, a look of permanent anguish on his features. No fat was present on his head or neck or arms, and Ernest lowered the tray onto the man's lap with care, onto a cushion already placed onto it, so that even the rosewood tray would not harm him, so heavy it was on his legs.

"Thank you," the man managed, and now the man was in a chair at the front of the audience for this Christmas night, his wife unable to take her eyes from him. As Ernest watched her face, he wondered whether his mother had ever looked at his real father like that - she must have, at some stage, he reasoned, or he would not be here.

Lady Mary had changed too, for it was she who had been the vigilant, attentive wife, whose sobs Ernest had heard on occasion as she let out her grief for the man she had lost and the stranger who had returned.

And then German, so unusual to Ernest's ears now as to be noticeable, drifted around the hall of Downton Abbey. It took a few moments for Ernest to become Ernst again, picking out the words...

"...Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht..."

And, to his wonder, word perfect was his adopted father, Thomas Barrow, who was singing along with Lady Mary.

"...Schlaf in Himliche Roo-he...Schlaf in Himlishe Ruhe..."

He looked across to his father, then removed the watch from his pocket, which Thomas had given him that morning. He remembered telling Thomas that gifts were given in Germany on Christmas Eve, though he had not expected anything.

"Your mother made it work," Thomas told him, as Ernest had gazed at its face. "Where is she..." Thomas had mused, then smiled to Ernest as he watched the boy look at the timepiece.

"I made a wish," he had told Thomas, and his father held up a finger.

"Don't tell me or won't come true."

And Lady Mary began with another German carol, nodding across to Ernest as Edith picked out the notes.

"Oh Tannenbaum, oh Tannenbaum, wie Gruen sind deine Blaette..."

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But Blackett had recognised her, and on 8th August 1945 had written to Thomas, with no reply forthcoming. He would not know that the letter would take over four months to get to Milo Ashby's husband. In the meantime Blackett had, steadfastly kept the woman in arm's reach, allowing her to work beside Alan Turing, and make some not insiginificant insights. Milo Ashby was there, in Manchester, broken, bruised and ocmpletely unware that her old tutor knew exactly who she was."

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And when Thomas had wishes his son a good night and a Merry Christmas, he took a seat in the kitchen. Daisy was still working, and he made to compel her to stop. But, it was Christmas, and she had her schedule. Thomas sat at the end of the table where Milo used to sit.

"Is there anything you need help with?" he offered, as Daisy laid out trays for the morning. The Downton cook looked at the man she was once sweet on, and shook her head.

"No," she told him, "All done. Flora can help me in the mornin'." Thomas nodded slowly. The day had taken it out of him. Snow was all very well, but it was tiring to walk in, tiring to move about in, and had slowed up the deliveries no end, hence why Daisy was still working with midnight in sight.

"There's a letter come fer yer," Daisy told Thomas. "Sorry, it came earlier, with the grocery delivery." She leaned over and handed the letter to him. Thomas looked at the envelope. It was battered and worn at the edges, but unopened. The postmark said, "Manchester." It also seemed to say, "August."

"August," Thomas repeated. But there had just been a war, and thousands of people had been displaced throught the country: men returning home; evacuees deciding whether to go back to London or stay with their adopted families. People whou would never be home again.

Thomas opened it with the penknife he kept in his pocket, and open up the page, immediately recognising the hand, and confirming it by looking at the signature.

Blackett. Patrick Blackett had written to him four months before.

And then Thomas raised his head, and looked around the kitchen, before finding the sentence again and reading it once more.

"...Milo is safe and well and working temporarily with me. She does not think I recognise her, and I will endeavour to keep her here until you are ready to come and meet her...she is living at my home..."

August. He looked at the postmark again, and then back at the date written at the top under Blackett's address: August. That was four months ago. Was she there, still?

Dashing to his office and ignoring the time of night, Thomas slammed the door behind him, and grabbed at the telephone receiver. But there was no dialling tone, and he slammed his hand on the receiver button several times, listening for one.

Damn! Snow must have brought that down too, and if his didn't work, then neither would the hall and library phones. A knock came to the door.

"Mr. Barrow? Are you all right? It's Andy," Andy Parker added, unnecessarily. Thomas looked at the door.

"Yes, Andy," he called back. "Just...some news. But there's no phone line." He crossed to the door, and opened it. A look of relief had come across it when he saw Thomas, and that summer afternoon twenty years ago passed between them for an instant, where Andy and Phyllis Baxter had found Thomas in the men's bathroom, his wrists slashed.

"It's Milo!" he told him, his heart beating faster, elation on his features as he waved the letter before him. "She's safe, Andy! She's safe! She's in blimmin' Manchester, with Blackett and she's safe!"

And with that, Thomas Barrow charged into the servants' dining room, with Andy and Daisy behind him, and made to sit in his chair.

But he couldn't manage it. Instead, he bent over the lectern where the menus, once written, were laid out for perusal, criticism and orderly service, fist to his forehead. Could Christmas be any better than this? Behind him, the clock struck midnight.

"Thomas?" Daisy ventured, going to place a hand on his arm. Andy stared at her, and she withdrew it, not for her husband's disapproval, but because she could see Thomas Barrow was shaking. Then, he turned round to look at them, and both Mr. and Mrs. Parker were shocked to see that the Downton butler was crying.

"Thomas," Daisy began again, but Thomas waved a hand to her.

"No...Daisy...Andy..." he sniffed, looking between them. "It's...alright...truly it is..." And he handed the letter to Daisy for her to read, because he could not begin to unite the words in his mouth to tell her what Blackett had written.

"Milo's alive?" Daisy gasped, a hand going to her mouth. "But...you had a letter saying - " she continued. But Thomas cut her off.

"Wrong," he told them both. "Deliberately misled, with the war. Chadwick and Paget Thomson both came to tell me...in August," he added, pointing to the date at the top. "But no-one knew where she was...and - " Thomas broke off and wiped moisture from both of his eyes with his fist.

"Well, you do now," said Andy, daring to clap Thomas on the back. Being Christmas, Thomas took it in good spirits.

"I do now," Thomas confirmed. "And when this blasted snow goes, I'll be on the first train to Manchester."

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In the basement of the Victoria Building, Manchester, a letter was left, carelessly, on a desk. It wasn't in a envelope, and had been folded in half, so that both halves could open out again, which is what had happed.

It was Christmas Eve, and even Alan Turing had gone back to the Blacketts' house. But Milo liked it there, especially on special days, religious days, days of importance to other people. Days which caused Milo stress, mainly because she felt no specialness about them herself.

So that was one of her salves - carry on when others had gone home for their occasions. It was quieter then, too.

But even Milo was tired now, and she really must go. The doors locked themselves as people went out, so as long as she propped them open when working alone, she didn't need to worry about them swinging closed when she had no key. So now, when she left, the doors would lock behind her.

It wafted from the desk, did this letter, which is why Milo picked it back up and placed it back onto Douglas Hartree's table, where it had roughly come from.

And then she noticed a name. It was written in Hartree's angular letters, and they had shaped the words of a place she knew, of names she knew.

Milo read it once more. And inhaled. Douglas Hartree had been tutoring her own son, who was at Downton Abbey in the care of none other than Thomas Barrow. And Hartree, who had, Milo knew, been a mathematics teacher at Ripon before Blackett had lured him back to the university, had been tutoring her son.

It had to be her son. Only one person in the world could be called "Ernest Ashby Scholtz Barrow," a name so enigmatic that Milo's brain did not take it in. An Ernest Barrow had been given a scholarship to Victoria for mathematics, his other subjects to be covered by tutors here.

"...including English..."

It was like a snap of a light switch: Milo felt herself stand, with the letter in her hand, her whole world recrystallising around her.

And she knew what she must do. Despite the weather, she would use the key under the flowerpot to get in at the Blackett's and retrieve her things, sparse in content - deliberately so? Had Milo subconsciously decided to keep personal possessions to a minimum in case a situation such as this came up.

Once she had them, she would go, immediately, Milo decided, walk if she had to, and there was no-one would pick up a hitch-hiker which, Milo reasoned, was unlikely in Christmas Eve. Follow the railway lines then, for they had been cleared to keep the trains running.

Her heart quickened and she locked herself out of the university building for good. Milo Ashby was going home.