A/N: This is a completely different type of story for me, as I've never written about a gay character before. Please bear in mind that it's set in the early years of the 20th century when certain practices we would not tolerate today were sadly considered acceptable.
RAINBOWS
Chapter One
Master George was right. Though, until young George Crawley, Thomas hadn't given it a moment's consideration since a boy himself, there was something thrilling about listening to his footsteps scrunching in the snow. They'd all tried it, Thomas, Master George, Miss Sybbie and Miss Marigold, and all were in agreement. It was fun.
Visiting serving staff and tradesmen might raise eyebrows and think it highly irregular for a butler to take three children for a walk around the grounds (Lady Mary remarked, with great amusement as she cuddled her new baby daughter, it probably wouldn't be long before there were four) with only a smiling Nanny in tow, but in the cosy kindliness that was Downton Abbey it was a weekly event and thus the status quo.
For some reason Thomas William Barrow couldn't fathom, the children adored him. In turn, he thoroughly enjoyed their company. He never had to pretend with George, Sybbie and Marigold; they were who they were and he was who he was. He told them stories, taught them the names of birds and flowers, played with them the same games he'd played in childhood. They taught him, somewhere in between shared chatter and laughter and confidences, in between their tears, tantrums or downright mutiny, and in between his admonishments or occasional fits of pique - because none of us, child or adult, is, or ever will be, always perfect and good – to remember that the world wasn't dim and dark, but filled with colour and wonder.
But it never was. Not when Thomas was a child. It never was.
XXXXX
"Thomas!"
He knows by the fire in his father's roar he's in for a clout. But, then, he always is. And he knows he shouldn't keep The Monster waiting because keeping The Monster waiting means the clout will be ten times harder when it comes, but, then, he always does.
"Go on! Go on, Tommy, get it over with." Kate chivvies him along. She might have propelled him forward with a gentle push – his sister believes, and often says so, it's no use making it worse by putting off Dada when there's nowhere he can scarper, not even a mouldy old maiden Aunt's mouldy old midden - but four-year-old Ben is in her lap, and Kate has had to be Mam ever since their mother's death four years before, so she's busy scrubbing his chocolate-smeared face with a damp wash flannel she's dipping in the nearby basin. Still, she looks at him sympathetically and he knows she will be there afterwards, when Dada is busy in the shop or downing a few ales at The Coronation. Kate is always there for him. His greatest friend, his only hope of a better tomorrow.
Because there must be a brighter future somewhere, perhaps even a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and he'll buy Kate her very own cottage and Ben his very own motor car when he's a rich man.
But Dada says he'll never be a man and the only rainbows now are the spinning colours that flash on the peripheral of his vision when the heavy fisted blow rains down.
XXXXX
With not a little impatience, Thomas Barrow shook away the cobwebby memories that returning to the town where he was born and raised had threaded back, and, drawing the last of its nicotine into his lungs, discarded his cigarette, and turned his attention to another, and no doubt what George, Sybbie and Marigold would have regarded as more important, matter.
And, just as the children might have done, and though he was all alone (which would not have deterred George, Sybbie or Marigold either) and simply because he could (George, Sybbie and Marigold would have approved), the Downton butler brought his foot heavily down on both the cigarette stub and the large patch of ice in the gutter, watching in quiet satisfaction as cracks branched out like spider veins, kicking and heeling glittering pebbles of ice ever further (oh, George, Sybbie and Marigold had taught him well!). Until the three Downton children re-introduced him to the tradition, it was something else he hadn't done since a boy.
The year smashing sheets of ice was a favourite past-time for Thomas and Kate.
XXXXX
When night crept by to freeze the earth while each was lost in the breath and arms of sleep…
...And whoever wakes first to discover its stealth rouses the other, he with seven or so machine-gun raps on his sister's bedroom door, or Kate hurrying down the narrow stairs, to the shop's back room, to the second-hand sofa covered with the familiar thin brown blanket and worn old coats, where Thomas slumbers on. Quickly dressed then, and down the cellar steps, past the tools and machinery, the ledgers and invoices, the half-finished timepieces and air of emptiness of the workshop, unbolting the heavy back door that creaks as they shoulder it open, and up nine, ten stone steps into the yard, slipping, shivering, and breath like smoke.
That harsh winter when he d just turned twelve, the pipes froze, and it was their chore, and yet not a chore, to dig and chip away at the snow, throwing satisfying chunks of ice in buckets and bowls to be thawed out for later use, laughing and jostling and teasing all the while in the shadowy early morning half light, and the only sounds the distant barking of dogs, or the zig-zag roll of a wagon taking St Martin's Mount, and, now and then, the crunching footfalls of some solitary traveller bound for his work. Then back upstairs, breathless, faces ruddy, fingers tingling in sodden gloves, to light the fire in the living-room and stab home-baked bread on the end of the toasting fork, listening to Dada and Ben beginning to stir above.
Ben is four years younger and the darling of the family; Kate is four years older and has always been his staunchest ally. She has to be. Someone has to be. Now more and more he knows he's different...and being different is sinful and wrong and the devil's work, Dada says so, and punishes him for it.
But still Thomas can't help himself. It's been that way ever since he can remember.
"But, Tommy, you can't!"
"Why can't I?"
"Well..." Kate flounders. She's eleven, and she tries so hard to understand, but it's beyond her understanding, and he can't explain because he doesn't understand himself. "You're a boy," she says at last. "God made you a boy."
"Don't care about God."
His sister gasps. "You mustn't say such terrible things!" She looks warily around the room, as if expecting Jesus to appear. Or, more likely, The Monster.
"Dada says worse."
Kate's face crumples. She hates to be reminded of the times their father staggers home drunk and curses God for taking Mam away. He never drank when Mam was alive, no more than a tot of rum or tumbler or two of whiskey at Christmas anyway, but now he does, and heavily sometimes,though he should've bloody well got over Mam's death by now, like he and Kate had to. But, no, B*****d Bill Barrow's too busy wallowing in self-pity.
He'll never forgive God, The Monster says, shaking his fist at Mam's Holy Picture of Jesus that still hangs crookedly on the living-room wall, and once he banged his favourite pipe down so hard on the mantelshelf that it clean broke it in two.
But Kate won't hear a bad word said about Dada. She never had reason to hate him like Thomas does. Most she ever gets is a clip round the ear, and never severe enough to make her cry, though she does, sometimes, not in pain but in shock at the at the loss of love, and then Dada will buy her a slab of toffee or a bunch of new ribbons to make it up to her. But he never says sorry to Thomas and he never needs to say sorry to Ben because Ben never gets smacked, not ever.
"If Dada finds out, he'll kill you," Kate whispers, but she leaves go of the dress anyway, and goes to keep watch.
Heart thudding like a drum, Thomas pulls her pale blue Sunday frock on over his clothes. Being who he is feels so natural, so free, and he sashays happily about the room, and spins several times because the petticoats make it billow so wonderfully when he does, pretending he's dancing with a handsome beau, though Kate's urging him to hurry in case he's caught. But he isn't caught.
Not that time.
