Chapter Twenty-Three
A/N: As always, thank you for reviewing this fic! I can't tell you how very encouraging and motivating they are. Huge thanks to kehlana for her historical advice with this chapter! Hope you like it!
"I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room of 10 Downing Street. This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German government a final note, stating that unless we heard from them - by 11 o'clock - that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received and that, consequently, this country is at war with Germany."
— Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, September 1939
This country is at war with Germany.
Seven words that had brought their whole world crumbling about their ears, the vain, foolish hope that Mary Crawley had been cherishing deep in her mother-heart now ripped to shreds, lying in tatters. Another old voice spoke inside her, echoing from the recesses of memory, at a garden party on a summer's day—
My lords, ladies and gentlemen, can I ask for silence? Because I very much regret to announce … that we are war with Germany.
The words may have been spoken years apart, but the shocked silence that followed them was the same, of noiseless fear resonating within the bodies of those who had heard and processed those fateful words, having some inkling of the devastation they are about to face, a harbinger of sorrow and pain.
The last time was easier, more innocent, more blind—she'd been only a girl, only a foolish young woman, who had lived within the confines of her sheltered world, entirely ignorant of the mindless horrors that the world was capable of, far beyond her imagination; her heart only minutes ago torn to pieces by the tears of the one man whose heart she'd broken and whose dreams she'd destroyed with her cowardice. Thinking, as they all did, that it would all be over by Christmas. Little knowing how wrong she was.
But now she was a mother; much older, much wiser, and much more horrifyingly aware of the crushing gravity of those few words, and what they meant.
For George.
For several months she and Matthew had tried to delay the inevitable—their darling, precious boy must not throw himself into this, not if they could help it—but they'd known all along it was futile. He was too much like Matthew in that respect, alongside many others—unfailingly noble, honour-bound, much to the point of exasperation; truly his darling father's son. The very minute the war had been announced, her eldest son, barely eighteen, had told his parents in no uncertain terms that he was by no means going to sit comfortably back in safety when every other chap his age was enlisting already in the Royal Air Force, that he wanted to do his bit for King and country. His father understood this much more easily than his mother did, despite it breaking his heart like ice knives—he remembered feeling much the same way well over twenty years ago, albeit the less than commendable motives that had elicited his quick departure from Downton.
All Mary managed to do was hold him off for a few fleeting months.
She was under no illusions, however; she knew she was fighting a losing battle; and it was in the blank white April of 1940 that she found herself preparing to say goodbye … to another man she loved.
"My darling?"
Matthew's footsteps were familiar on the carpeted floor of their bedroom. She tried to hastily brush off the tears that have escaped the confines of self-restraint.
She needn't have bothered. Matthew knew her too well.
"I didn't hear you come in," she said quietly, her eyes fixed on her bedside table. There in an elegant frame was a photograph of the five of them—she and Matthew, and George, and William and Kit. Already so long ago.
Matthew followed her gaze, trying hard to swallow past the lump in his throat. God, there was no possible way he'd be called to the front—no one wanted a man of fifty-four (with residual spinal bruising to boot) to have any role in helping with the war effort despite as a ceremonial figure at regimental dinners and banquets. He knew just how Robert had felt all those years ago—watching young, healthy men give themselves up to the jaws of death, while gold medals clinked and rattled uselessly upon his red mess kit.
What bloody good did a medal do?
But George—his Georgie! Given the chance and the choice, he'd have volunteered without a second's thought, if only to keep his family safe.
If only he could.
He remembered the moment eighteen years and a half ago, when he had walked forward on trembling legs towards his Mary, clad in rosy white on a beautiful September day, to take in his arms the surreal wonder they had created together. Watching his little boy stretch and yawn and his little feet kicking his chest; kissing him a tender goodbye that first night. Teaching him to play cricket on a manicured green lawn beneath a cornflower sky. His sweet, childish voice asking for piggyback rides and never being able to refuse him. Watching him grow up. Holding his burning hot hand through an episode of scarlet fever. Visiting him every half-term at Radley College. Smiling at every ink-smudged schoolboy letter he received, and writing back immediately, no matter how busy he was.
Where had it all gone?
Matthew knelt on the little armchair in front of her, his hands gently brushing away the traces of tears; long dark trails upon her porcelain cheeks. He could do nothing to soothe her pain, because it was his pain, too. He hated how helpless it made him feel, all of it.
"I'm scared for him," Mary whispered into his shoulder, her voice broken. The sense of déjà vu was too great.
"I know, my darling." He kissed her forehead, his mouth trembling slightly despite his vain efforts. "So am I." He drew back, smiling slightly, her face still cupped in one gentle hand.
"That's why—I brought this out. He'll need it."
Out of his coat pocket emerged the little white stuffed dog.
Her lucky charm.
A flood of memories rushed in the space between them; sweetly overpowering at the sight of the tiny thing that held so much meaning for them both; a symbol of their love, really. After all these years, he had it with him still, in a drawer in his dressing room.
Not once had he parted with it. When they had first married, he'd considered keeping it in the law office—but had ultimately decided against the idea. Mr Harvell or Mr Carter or any number of clients were always bustling in and out, books and papers inexplicably vanishing and reappearing in another part of the building entirely, mainly owing to careless forgetfulness on their part. He wasn't willing to risk it. What better place to keep it than in his dressing room, where no one went but himself and Molesley, where it would rest safely forever more?
Mary's brown eyes widened as her soft hands tremblingly enfolded the little bundle of stitches and buttons. Her childhood charm that had grown up with her long years ago from her cradle in the nursery; her talisman; the little dog that she believed had brought the love of her life back from the hell she feared he'd never survive—it had worked for him, not quite as well as she'd hoped, but it had come back with him, which was all she had prayed for.
It had worked for Matthew. Surely—surely it would work for her baby boy too?
"Oh, my darling," she breathed, as Matthew stroked the little dog almost reverently, her fingers entwined with his. She looked up at him, her lips set in a tender smile.
"After all this time?"
"Always," he said, his deep blue eyes brimming with love, and leaned in to kiss her gently.
The train station was dusty and sooty (just as it had been that morning in November 1916—waking even before Daisy the kitchen maid, astonishing all the servants, hurrying on to the platform, praying he'd be there …) George was dressed in that identical khaki uniform, his military cap perched atop the golden hair that darkened to a deep brown at the roots, shadowing the laughing blue eyes that she had known for ever.
If it wasn't for Matthew's comforting presence at her side, she might have felt she had gone back in time.
"Dear Mama," George chuckled, and bent down to kiss her cheek. "I'm going to be all right."
"Darling, how often have I told you not to tempt fate?" Mary retorted, her characteristic admonish not quite managing to mask the tremor of her voice.
"I'm going to be back before you know it," he said, taking her cold hand in his, gloved in brown leather, "so you mustn't worry about me too much."
"I might argue that it's my privilege and right to worry, darling. Anyway, that's not quite what Papa and I came all the way down here for … I—we've got something we want to give you."
Her hand reached down into her handbag, drawing out the precious little token. Given once to the love of her life, now pressed into the hand of her beautifully handsome boy, the baby she had spent months praying for, who she'd given her heart to with a powerful, fierce love when she'd first set eyes on him …
"What's this?" he asked, the little dog tiny in his hands.
"Your Mama gave that to me, George—in the Great War," Matthew said, "as a lucky charm, really … I was supposed to bring it back to her without a scratch upon it—which I didn't quite manage, but it got me through it all, this little dog—and we want you to have it, my boy."
George nodded, understanding something beyond his years, the lucky charm tucked safely into his pocket. Mary brushed a kiss to his cold cheek.
"Remember, darling, don't go off being a hero … Promise me you'll write. As often as you can, Georgie—and you mustn't hold back from telling us if you want parcels of sweets, or new socks, or anything at all, do you understand?"
"Of course, Mama."
"The lucky charm, Georgie—it seems quite silly, I know, but you must promise you keep it with you, my dear chap. It will keep you safe, I'm sure of it—and bring you a fair bit of good luck, too. God knows you'll need it."
"It isn't silly," George declared resolutely. "It isn't silly at all."
The two men shared a hug, father and son, both of whom knew sickeningly well what one of them would be up against, and the other didn't know at all if he'd ever come back.
The train whistle pierced the morning air with a shrill blast. Time was running short, cutting into their last moments together before he left, snapping viciously at their heels.
"Tell Kit she's got to leave some of the chocolate-cream truffles for me when I come back," he said, with that same little-boy grin, with false bravado that successfully masked his terror, the familiarity of which made her heart clench. "I can't have her polishing them off. And tell Will to leave my model planes alone, or he'll be in for the high jump!"
"We'll make sure of it," Mary whispered.
The three looked at one another, love and sorrow binding them together, yet another war rending them apart when they never should have been, never at all … Compartment doors were slamming up and down the platform, grey smoke curling and dissipating into the early English air …
"Goodbye, my darling," Mary said, kissing her little boy one last time. For he still was, always. No matter how old he was. "And such good luck!"
"Goodbye, my dearest little chap," Matthew murmured, enveloping his son in a fierce, hard hug. "And God bless you."
Hello, my dearest little chap. I wonder if he has any idea how much joy he brings with him.
And how much joy he had continued to bring them, every single day of the eighteen years of his life. Their George.
The door swung shut behind him with awful finality. And then he was gone, the compartment door jamming shut behind him, his beautiful face obscured by dirty glass, his cap taken off and waved in farewell. They waved back with brave smiles that wobbled threateningly as the train took him away.
To France.
To that same country where he'd once fought, at Ypres and Passchendaele and Amiens, his brave little chap in the midst of that, now in the RAF, not even on solid ground …
The train rounded a corner, and vanished from their straining view.
Tears flowed down their cheeks, as they clung to each other, their bodies shuddering with pain and memory and fear and comfort and … love.
April 1945
He was lying in a hospital bed, that he knew, the sheets soft beneath his body, softer than what he'd been used to for six long years …
Darkness, utter darkness, pitch black closing in around him … one minute he'd been beside Rawlings and Douglas and Farrell and the rest—chaps from Radley, some of them—and the next a fired shell, the explosion reverberating in his ears, the distant yells of "CRAWLEY!" that he was powerless to respond to … a blinding, searing pain in his head, through his leg that he felt crack sickeningly … black spots danced before his eyes, shutting out the world … perhaps this was it. The toy dog had worked well enough until now, what a pity it hadn't worked a little longer, so he could give it back to her, his beautiful Mama …
"George! Oh, my darling George!" The voice, the beloved voice, was soothing, comforting, familiar, known … her gentle voice that had lulled him to sleep as a child many dark nights—only now it felt quite shattered with what sounded like relief.
"M – mama?" he mumbled, his lips seeming to have difficulty moving, as though they'd forgotten how to shape the words. God, why was the world all still black, and maroon, and dark red? Blotches of crimson, and little stars bursting in that sea of black … why couldn't he see anything?
"Oh, my dearest chap …" There it was, his Papa's voice … and the next minute he felt kisses from familiar lips covering his face and bruised hands. "Thank God you've come back!"
"'M I … home?"
"Yes, you are, Georgie… you're home, and safe with us, and nothing and no one will ever take you away again…"
"Why can' I … see?"
"George—it's all right. Don't you worry. The doctor says you've been blinded, temporarily—but it won't be for very long, darling … and he says your broken ribs and leg will take quite a while to mend, but they will in the end. My darling boy …" He felt more kisses cover his forehead, still streaked with grime, and something akin to hope blossomed in his breast. He wasn't going back, they'd said. Never again. He was home.
Captain Crawley—wounded in action—returning—alive.
Alive.
That tiny word in the sea of words from the yellow telegram that had answered their shared prayers, day and night, that had wrung tears of relief and sorrow that he'd ever been hurt in this hellfire on earth, but it was over. Over. He was never going to leave them again. William had only served a year at Normandy before it was all over, and the crushing fear of begging God to spare her two sons, as He mercifully had her husband, had nearly overwhelmed her …
They had both rushed to the hospital, to see him … his handsome face covered in scratches and red bruises, his legs plastered, bright blood leaking out of the sides of his eyes … but he was alive, and here, and would be all right in a while, though he'd never be the same boy he was—no one was ever the same again after going through what they did. How lucky they were, how blessed, after six years when every day they feared that dreaded telegram would put an end to every last, clinging hope that photographs, and letters, and memory would all they'd have left of him … he had lived when so many had not. Every day more news came of bombings, of air raids in London, civilians slaughtered by the thousands … great edifices reduced to nothing but ash and dust and rubble.
Mary's hand was wrapped in Matthew's, darling Matthew who had been her strength, who had held her hand through it all ... a shaky smile curling their lips, a mother's relief, a father's tenderness. The three men she loved most were safe with her, just as they were always meant to be. They held each other in that secluded corner of the hospital, the knowledge that the war was over at last, and George Crawley was theirs to love and keep safe for as long as they both lived, always, encircling them both, the tender acknowledgement of the life they had lived, for their shared six years' worth of pain and prayer that had borne fruit; and it was then that they kissed softly, in a glow of passionate, grateful, abounding joy.
A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. And, yes, I sneaked in a Harry Potter reference there, I felt it fit the scenario very well. Two more chapters to go. I would love to know your thoughts!