***chapter 38***
Thomas had, of course, been joking when he complained to Anna that the world and his wife insisted on visiting him in the sick room any time they felt like it. But it puzzled him too. Even when he was well enough to resume "light duties" someone always seemed to seek him out for a chat. And Thomas's time was precious – though, in truth, it need not have been as limited as it was.
Robert Crawly had finally conceded to his request he resume light duties, but there was a stand-off between the under-butler and the Earl of Grantham over what light duties entailed. The indomitable Thomas Barrow was keen to carry on exactly where he left off and the Earl was equally adamant he should ease himself slowly back into the role. Unfortunately, for Mr Barrow, Mr Carson was in agreement with the Earl of Grantham and, unfortunately for Mr Carson, there were days when his nerve disorder, that Dr Clarkson had diagnosed as a nerve tremor, and when his hand shook so uncontrollably it was impossible for him to do his work, and then Thomas smugly stepped in.
His new-found popularity did indeed swallow up a lot of his free time, but he always gave priority to the children. Their claim on him, in Thomas's opinion, was greater and Sybbie, George and Marigold demanded it as of their right. The only other person granted a huge chunk of that precious time was Aiden Branson.
Sometimes, along with one or two of the nannies, Aiden would accompany Thomas and the three children (occasionally four, if Lottie came along to help) on their walks. The youngsters did not object to his company although they were a little jealous of Aiden stealing their Mr Barrow's attention, and so Aiden wisely did not try to be another big brother/uncle, aware the children, especially perceptive little Miss Sybbie, would see right through someone trying too hard.
"You've a way with the little 'uns," he remarked in admiration, the first time he joined them, as Thomas, laughing and breathless, finally set Master George down again after an energetic "horse ride".
"They're good company." It was odd to feel so comfortable with someone who looked and sounded so much like Tom Branson, the man he had resented for "jumping rank" for so long.
"Like someone else I know." Aiden reached for Thomas's hand as he spoke and Thomas immediately locked his fingers in his, although he nodded cautiously toward the group ahead.
Nurse Venables was helping Miss Marigold pick flowers for her Mama, and Lottie was supervising Miss Sybbie, who was digging for insects with a silver teaspoon she'd filched from the nursery dining room, and now also overseeing Master George, who had just joined them after being told by Mr Barrow the real, and very interesting, reason Miss Sybbie was so intent on "picking flowers" as Nurse Venables innocently believed. It wasn't the children seeing the shared moment between Aiden and himself that concerned him. They had always accepted him as he was. And though Lottie's eyes widened the day she happened to catch Thomas stroking Aiden's face as they stood closer together than they needed to be, he knew he could trust her. Later, she told him about her old neighbour, the "man who liked men" when she was growing up, and how angry it made her when people singled him out and beat him for it. No, it was Nurse Venables who was as yet the unknown quantity..
Downton Abbey was highly unusual in that his homosexuality was an open secret here. He knew most places would have thrown him out on his ear and without references. But newspapers thrived on any hint of scandal and His Lordship expected him to be discreet. And while Carson still could not bring himself to approve of Thomas's "predilection," as he loftily termed it, since his marriage to Elsie Hughes he had mellowed somewhat - and perhaps, too, because his favourite, Lady Mary, held no prejudice towards Thomas's "predilection" - he tried, not without some difficulty, to pretend it didn't exist.
But though some of the household staff had no problem with his being homosexual and some were indifferent, or tried to be, others thought it unnatural and disgusting, although, aware of their employers' stance, they were wary of making waves. Nurse Venables, Miss Marigold's nanny, was new and, like many did, might well view homosexuality as despicable. Their hands, as they needs must, quickly slipped away from each other again as the woman turned to add her voice to Marigold's calls for Mr Barrow. And as he knelt with the little girl to see the flowers she proudly displayed, a stab of sadness struck his heart as he wondered if men who loved men must always hide their love this way.
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To begin with, masking his true feelings with stiff upper-lip stoicism, recollecting the Crawley family's previous unpleasant experience with a certain other Branson brother, Lord Grantham had insisted that when Aiden left hospital he should come to dinner and perhaps, too, stay a few days at Downton Abbey, his invitation as cordial as if he were asking an old and much loved friend. Secretly praying that he would turn down the very politely English request. Although it was actually the American-born Cora who made the suggestion.
Robert was aghast at the very idea, reminding his wife how obnoxious Kieran Branson had been when he came to Sybbie's christening. "It would please Tom," she said. Robert sighed. Those four words were enough to win him over and Cora knew it. His late daughter's husband was more son than son-in-law to him.
Tom had apologised for storming out that fateful morning after throwing his father-in-law's offer to give him a third of the Downton estate back in his face. Now that he knew the reason underpinning his uncharacteristic behaviour was the news of Kieran's death received in an angry phone call from a drunken Aiden Branson, he understood. Tom had brought his brother back with him to "see for himself" that the Crawleys were not the monsters he pictured them to be. But Aiden had been drinking heavily and fallen into the lake, though, by an exceptionally fortunate twist of fate, Barrow had been there to bravely dive in and rescue him. Robert was blissfully unaware of the real reason Thomas was by the lake: that he'd been about to commit suicide. Only Aiden, Tom and Phyllis Baxter knew, or would ever know, his secret.
As it happened, Robert's misgivings about Tom's twin were unfounded. Sobered by Kieran's death and by coming so close to losing his own life, Aiden proved to be a far more pleasant guest than his late elder brother had been. But one night under the roof of the vast Downton Abbey, with all its glitter and grandeur, was enough.
He felt like an imposter, he told both his brother and Thomas, sitting with "gentry", being made welcome, eating their food, drinking their wine, when he'd despised and envied them for so long. But he told Thomas something else. Though Charles Carson, not Thomas, had been on duty when Aiden sat at the long dining table, and proud though Thomas was of being under-butler and the prestige it carried, the "banquet", the wealth, the army of servants, it meant nothing to him, Aiden said, smiling his special smile at his friend. He would be happier in a hut dining on bread, broth and water as long as he was with the man he loved.
The parting was amicable and Aiden was residing now in the village of Downton, in a room above the Grantham Arms. Thomas had been in that room once. Just for a moment. It was cramped and in need of a more thorough clean, but it was adequate for a working class man. There was an iron bedstead with a crumpled bedspread, yesterday's copy of The Yorkshire Evening Post, an opened pack of Player's Navy Cut, a box of Swan Vestas matches strewn on top, a small fire burning cosily in the grate, Aiden's donkey jacket only half hung up over the back of a rickety wooden chair, a view of the comings and goings of the village and the fields beyond through the grimy glass of its solitary window, the smell of smoke and hubbub of voices rising from the bar below. He didn't stay in Aiden's room for long, though. Too risky. No more than a moment, the excuse, "Tom Branson's brother left his tobacco tin with a few quid inside, asked would he pass it in to him".
Jack Phillips, the landlord, gave him a look, but nodded reluctant acquiescence and watched as he climbed the well trodden stairs. There were rumours, there always had been rumours about Thomas Barrow. Some, like Phillips, were ready to be disgusted if only they had proof. Some had little interest. There had been a Great War, perspectives changed, there were motor cars, flapper girls, jazz clubs, cocktail bars. At least, for the wealthy. The harsh reality for most was poverty and hunger. Being a farming community and with a ready supply of fruit and vegetables, villages like Downton fared better than the cities, but times were hard, the country was in turmoil, there were mutterings the coal miners were going to strike for better wages; a few smokes and a pint or two with his mates were the only bits of luxury a man could afford these days. They had more important things to talk about other than whether or not Thomas Barrow batted for the other side. Besides, Aiden was your typical bloke, not like that bloody coxcomb Barrow.
But he and Aiden were careful not to draw attention to themselves just the same and only they knew a moment alone was enough to taste so briefly, so wonderfully, the sweetness of each other's lips.
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While Mr Bates had never been a man who thought it unmasculine to show tender feelings, nor was he one for wearing his heart on his sleeve like the cultured Mr Molesley. But Anna brought out in him such a softer side at times that he joked she was turning him into a gushing dandy. Impulsively suggesting they give their precious son the middle name of Thomas was one of those times.
Nostalgia paints our memories with rosy glow. When he looked back to when his first child David was born, he recollected only his joy at being a new father and how delightful it was to play with and cuddle and spoil his baby son. How quickly he'd forgotten that babies were sick or cried, or soiled themselves at the most inconvenient moments, and stressed and worried and baffled their parents, and kept those same doting, over-anxious, proud, exhausted parents awake all night and how soon baby John reminded him! But there were, too, periods of calm, when their demanding little master was being fed or sleeping or simply staring at everything and everyone, as if trying to make sense of the strange world he'd lately arrived in, when he and Anna sat by the fireside in their cottage, speaking in quieter tones so as not to disturb his peace, discussing matters of the day.
"I'll take him to see Thomas soon," his wife said one night, as she rested little John against the crook of her shoulder and rubbed small circles on his back. She gazed pensively into the dancing red and yellow flames that cast wavering shadows on the cottage walls. "It's such a shame he'll never have children of his own."
John Bates senior set down in the hearth the mug of tea he'd finished. He had confided only in Anna that Thomas deliberately pushed him in the wine cellar, but added he was convinced he meant only to damage his reputation by making it seem he'd been drinking. He was certain he'd never wanted to kill him, not after the way he behaved afterwards, not after he'd been so desperate to wake him. But he would never breathe a word of the truth to anyone but Anna, he said; he could never risk him being imprisoned. Besides, he couldn't help thinking, when Thomas so closely resembled the son he lost in a tragic accident at only eight years old, how it would have torn at his heart if David had grown up to be as alone. Every human being, even those who would deny it, needed to feel loved and wanted. And, here he was, very happily married with a baby son, while Thomas, though he loved children, would never know marriage and fatherhood.
They had spoken before of including Thomas with little John. "What do you think," he said, as the idea struck him later that evening; "of us giving John the middle name of Thomas? It would make Mr Barrow feel part of the family."
Their child gave a small whimper of protest as his mother stopped her soothing stokes in surprise. "Oh, my John!" was all she said.
He frowned in amusement, about to remark on how she was picking up Miss Baxter's expressions, and tease she must yearn to be even half as ladylike (it was a standing joke among the serving staff that, no matter what the catastrophe, a hopelessly burnt dinner or forgotten guest or unlit fire, while other servants, carefully out of earshot of Mr Carson, might give vent to strong expletives, Miss Baxter was only ever known to mildly exclaim "Goodness gracious!" or "Oh, my!" or "Dear, dear me!").
But then he realised. Anna looked at him with so much love and pride that he could have burst. He was her John. And she loved him for being her John. He'd never been one for reading poetry, and still less understood it, but a memory slipped into his mind of the well-thumbed poetry book that his widowed late mother liked to read aloud, sitting in her usual chair in the corner, her worn grey shawl wrapped around her bony shoulders, and suddenly he knew the soul of the poet as he recalled the words of a particular favourite of hers: Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands of life shall run.*
* A Red, Red Rose (Robert Burns)
