***chapter 39***

Although he'd told Anna, who'd visited him more than once with baby John, he would call to see Thomas, John Bates had not yet done so. He was still trying to make sense of his spontaneous remark that they give their baby son the middle name of Thomas after him.

For his impulsive suggestion had surprised Mr Bates every bit as much as it surprised Mrs Bates. It had been uttered one exceptionally tranquil evening that was punctuated by the rain rattling against the windows and little John's tiny breaths and the clock on the mantelpiece ticking merrily away; when John senior was listening to Anna croon softly to their child in between telling an amusing tale about Lady Mary's new hat, when he was warmed by the crackling fire and by the mug of tea he'd finished, when the smell of smoke and coal mingled with the fragrant scent of some expensive soap Lady Mary had gifted to Anna, and a man was content as a man could be.

They had already decided to give their son a middle name, but like the name for the cottage, there were so many to choose from that they had yet to settle upon which. It would be fitting, they agreed, to give their son a family name, but John disliked his father, who would beat his wife when he was drunk, and therefore had no wish to honour him, and Anna's own father had been unfortunate enough to share the very same appellation. Other family names were put forward, mulled over and rejected. They were too long, too silly, too odd, too boring. He was thinking how blessed they were to have such a pleasant conundrum and what a peacock Lady Mary could be over her hats, and wishing his late son David could have met his younger brother, and how it wouldn't be right to give little John his firstborn son's name, and how sympathetic Anna looked when she spoke of her sadness that Mr Barrow could never have children of his own, and all these thoughts were tumbling around in his mind when he suddenly found himself saying, "What do you think of us giving John the middle name of Thomas? It would make Mr Barrow feel part of the family."

John Bates felt he understood Thomas far more than Mr Barrow realised. That was, in regard to his highly competitive nature. Whatever the game, David, too, had always been determined to win. Just as Thomas was. And, like Thomas, he, too, had been a very talented cricketer, playing the summer sport so skilfully that his proud father was convinced when he grew up every cricket manager in the land would beat a path to his door, vying to have him sign for their team. Sadly, this delightful scenario was never to be outside of his own imagination. David did not grow up. He fell under the wheels of a carriage when he was only eight years old, and was already dead by the time they pulled him out.

The other connection was their resemblance. David, too, had had thick black hair and grey eyes, had been slim and tall and athletic. Plotting and planning aside – at least, he hoped, and which he conveniently preferred to turn a blind eye to when comparing his son with his self-appointed enemy - David would have grown up to be just like him. Anna said Thomas was very flattered but also very puzzled that her husband suggested naming their child John Thomas and that Mr Bates would explain when he saw him. And he intended to, he really did. But, in truth, he was nonplussed by his generous suggestion. Thomas Barrow had been a thorn in his side ever since he arrived at Downton, doing his utmost to get rid of him from the very first day because he believed Bates had taken the job of valet that should have been his, yet still he held an affection for him. As for honouring him by calling their son Thomas...How on earth could he explain something he didn't understand himself?

Mr Bates was a man's man and not given to heart to hearts. And, even if he had been given to heart to hearts, he considered them a prerogative of the ladies, and that it was rather ungentlemanly and, as the Earl of Grantham might say, jolly bad form, for men to engage in them. How he would explain his decision to Thomas was a quandary he had yet to resolve.

And so, their meeting, when finally it came, was predictably awkward.

Dr Clarkson had advised Thomas to wait another few days before leaving his sickbed, but sickbeds and Mr Barrow were, appropriately enough, uneasy bedfellows and separated much earlier by mutual consent. Consequently, the indomitable under-butler was walking quickly – or as fast as he was able; Dr Clarkson's advice had been for a very good reason – determined to cajole Mr Carson into allowing him to carry out further butler duties. His Lordship was a secondary concern. A couple of his old Army buddies were guests this evening and once he was there serving dinner, Thomas reasoned, he surely couldn't order him to leave immediately in front of two high-ranking personages.

Unusually, Mr Barrow was deep in thought as he approached the servants' hall just as Mr Bates, equally preoccupied but for vastly different reasons, was hailing from the opposite direction. John was still wondering what on earth he would say to Thomas when they met. Thomas was concerned with wedding presents.

Miss Baxter and Mr Molesley were to marry in the spring and he had no idea what to buy for them to mark the occasion. Miss Baxter had been so good to him over the years that he wanted it to be something special. And he had never bought a wedding present before. Not unless you counted the wedding gift from the servants to Lady Sybil and Tom Branson. They had all clubbed together then to purchase a specially engraved vase. It was the most expensive they could afford, though of course not one of the hugely expensive cut glass vases that the Crawley family owned in abundance, but they knew Her Ladyship and Tom Branson would love and appreciate the gesture. They were correct in their assumption. The newlyweds could not have been more delighted had the domestic staff presented them with the Koh-i-Noor.* But Thomas had actually given a second wedding gift that the other servants didn't know about. It wasn't exactly a wedding present, though, and it wasn't very much. Just a coin.

XXXXX

He bent to pick it up in No Man's Land when he saw something glistening in the rare spark of moonlight that broke through the never-ending torrents of rain. And when he stood up again, the thick mud almost dragging him back down, the shell, that had whistled deafeningly over his head and set his heart pounding, exploded only yards behind him. Or maybe it found another human target to injure; there were screams, but there were always screams and shouts and sobbing amid the thundering of the rain and bullets and flashes of fire. He thought of it as his lucky coin after it saved his life, especially as they didn't lose a single man that night. And because, only hours later, he met Reggie, sweet, innocent Reggie with his red hair and shy country accent, and it was instant attraction for both. It turned out to be a small wound, but it looked bad and was bleeding profusely, which was why the Sarge had called him and his medic bag over. They were good mates from the off and pretty soon more than good mates, though they couldn't share much in the trenches with the other blokes around, apart from looks and smiles and sly touches. He thought afterwards, when the terrible moment came and the Hun claimed yet another victim, he should have given his lucky coin to Reggie.

He never spent it, not even after the Great War ended. It was still close to his heart, where he kept the photo of himself and Kate when they were kids, the day he wished Lady Sybil "all the best" for her forthcoming marriage to Tom Branson.

"Thank you." She smiled, pleased. "I know it takes a lot for you to say it. I know you don't like Tom, but he is a good man. There's a lot you don't know about him," she added defensively, reading his expression. They could be like this when were alone together, not two people separated by the great divide of class and wealth, but just two people who would always be friends because during their time working at the hospital they together with Edward Courtenay forged a strong bond of friendship.

He didn't wonder then why she defended Tom Branson so vehemently, but he wondered now if she was referring to Tom's brother Aiden being homosexual and how Tom tried to understand him. But at the time nobody except Lady Sybil knew of his twin brother and he just wanted her to be happy because she was a friend who'd always believed in him.

Personally, he thought Her Ladyship needed all the bloody luck in the world with Branson. Not that he told her. Not outright, anyroad. He'd never hurt Lady Sybil the way he'd hurt other people with cruel jibes and sarcasm and not think twice about it. Instead, he drew the sixpenny bit out of his inside pocket. "I'd like you to have this." For once, he broke with etiquette between servant and aristocrat and omitted to say Your Ladyship. They both felt it more natural between two friends. "It's brought me luck over the years and I'd like it to bring you luck in your future. I'd...uh...prefer you not to tell Mr Branson."

She didn't say anything. Not a word. She knew it was worth a fair bit to someone on his wages, but she also knew it would dent his pride if she refused it. She mouthed "thank you" and wiped her eyes emotionally as she nodded agreement to his request. And Lady Sybil obviously cherished that tanner and kept her promise never to tell Branson because when death broke their friendship like it had already severed the chain they forged with Lieutenant Courtenay, it was buried with her, with the personal items she treasured. Years later, when he was pouring the wine at dinner, he listened to the family speculate over where the sixpenny piece, that she always carried in her purse, may have come from. He never told them.

XXXXX

Thomas Barrow wasn't used to choosing wedding presents. Or even being pleasant, come to that. He'd changed a lot since the old days. Matured. Realised he couldn't keep people at arm's length forever. It was the kids taught him that. Something touched his heart from the first moment he saw Master George bawling his head off and his mother Lady Mary covering her ears. He'd always liked kids and he wanted to pick him up, console him, thought Her Ladyship heartless to ignore the poor kid. Miss Baxter found an "excuse" for it when he told her of his anger. Some women suffered from the illness of depression after the birth of a child, she answered, but most hushed it up out of shame, and Her Ladyship's depression was no doubt exacerbated by the death of Matthew Crawley. He scoffed at the idea of depression being an illness. No matter who they were or how many setbacks, people should just pull themselves up by their bootstraps, he said. He didn't believe in or understand depression back then. Not until years later when it swept over him like a tidal wave. He'd learned a lot at Downton Abbey.

Like he had done with Miss Sybbie, he kept an eye on Master George. And then Miss Marigold came along as Lady Edith's "ward". And though he tried hard to hide from the other staff and the Crawley family that he had a softer side, the children made it more than obvious that they loved spending time with him. It was they who made him realise he had friends at Downton Abbey, Sybbie, George and Marigold - and Lottie – who got him through when he faced setback after setback of his own and found he couldn't "just pull himself up by his bootstraps" as he'd so glibly claimed everybody could.

The softer side was outed now. Like the Downton children, Phyllis Baxter had a lot to do with that. Thankfully, he got on well enough with her fiancé these days, no doubt helped by the fact Molesley no longer worked at Downton Abbey, but instead taught at the village school, and their paths crossed less frequently. Still, he no longer regarded him with dislike, though Thomas never lost the feeling he was still on trial and if he ever made Phyllis Baxter miserable again there would be no second chances. He need not have worried. Thomas owed Miss Baxter and cared about her being happy. He smiled as he acknowledged how far he'd come since the angry, bitter person he'd been when first he came to Downton Abbey. Blimey, he almost didn't recognise himself these days!

XXXXX

Besides his dilemma of what he would say to Thomas Barrow, John Bates was preoccupied with another matter. Little Johnny had a cold and though he knew from his own experience with David how common it was for babies to snort and sniffle and have runny noses it still upset him to see the poor little mite in discomfort. Lady Mary had paid for Anna to consult the doctor, not Dr Clarkson who was taking some time away to visit family, but the newly qualified young doctor who was standing in for him. Dr Hewitt examined their son and diagnosed nothing more serious than the common cold, which he said would help build up the infant's immune system as he grew older. John knew deep down that like all new parents they were simply being over anxious, but he was used to Dr Clarkson and hoped someone so young knew what he was doing.

Both lost in their own thoughts, they stopped short when they suddenly espied each other.

"Mr Barrow."

"Mr Bates."

Their politeness in greeting each other was the customary etiquette of servants in great houses, but they had avoided each for so long that their shock could not have been greater had they met on the moon.

He may have got emotional when Anna told him they were calling their son John Thomas, but Thomas still felt uneasy with Bates. He must have been aware that the so-called accident in the wine cellar was no accident. So what exactly was his game? He could think of no other way to introduce the topic so launched straight into it without preamble.

"You must have known."

"I did." John acknowledged. He didn't have to ask what he meant.

"So why, Mr Bates, are you not only covering up for me, but also giving your son my name?"

John sighed. "I wish I knew, Mr Barrow. I really wish I knew." David was one reason. Thomas so reminded him of the firstborn son he lost. Empathy was the other reason. But Thomas would interpret his empathy and resultant generosity at including him in their family as pity and resent being pitied. The same way Mr Bates would resent being pitied for the death of his child. And Thomas Barrow was not as callous as he liked to pretend. He would pity him. They were far more alike than Mr Barrow realised.

Thomas didn't like mysteries. He owed Bates, and deep down he was grateful. But the man constantly frustrated him. And when he was frustrated he fell back on his old defence mechanism. Sarcasm. "Aiming for a sainthood or knighthood, Mr Bates, or just in your second childhood?"

To his annoyance, John Bates only looked amused. "I like the idea of being in a second childhood best." Funnily enough, Anna had remarked that he was only last week. He had been entertaining little John by reciting Incy Wincy Spider and, though he was too young to understand, their baby son had seemed so fascinated by his father's actions that he got into character as the spider. Several times. Anna hadn't been able to control her laughter.

The conversation was, on the surface, pleasant, enough, but while Thomas was patient with children he had never been known for his patience with adults, and their words bristled with the undercurrent of a potential argument. And that argument would surely have opened up hostilities anew except for the sudden announcement.

"DON'T JUMP!"

But they both did. Immediately after this unexpected advice came a gentle clatter, quickly followed by loud shushing and shuffling.

"I TOLD YOU WE HAD TO BE QUIET!" Sybbie roared.

"I AM BEING QUIET!" George yelled back.

Lots more noisy shuffling and shushing.

"Miss Sybbie. Master George. Miss Marigold." Thomas was at the door the trio were hiding behind in an instant, stifling his laughter as he opened it, and trying to sound authoritative. "You know you shouldn't be down here without permission."

"Can Mr Barrow please come out to play, Mr Bates?" George looked hopefully up at John Bates for answer. Mr Bates was very, very old like Mr Carson so he must be in charge like Mr Carson.

John Bates glanced amusedly at Thomas, aware they had to put aside their differences and show a united front. "That's up to Mr Barrow, Master George. As he says, you shouldn't be down here."

"But we had to come to see Mr Barrow! We have new cricket bats AND a new football!" Tomboy Sybbie told Thomas, hoping this would be sufficient to sway him into agreeing to George's request. She knew perfectly well they were not allowed in the servants' quarters without permission, but Sybbie was a natural born rebel and found nurses and nannies easy to dodge and her cousins eager followers. "George nearly got hurt, Mr Barrow," she added, confident he would be sympathetic.

George pressed his hand on a non-existent injury on his right temple. "The picture jumped off the wall and hit me, Mr Barrow," he said, ignoring Sybbie's objection that wasn't true, the picture missed.

"Let me see. Hmm..." Thomas gravely pretended to check the imaginary wound, then ruffled George's golden curls. "You'll be right as rain, Master George. No damage done."

"Fix please, Mibow?" Marigold smiled a gap-toothed smile and held up the offending artwork with both hands as if making an offering to the gods. It was a picture of a young boy and his dog watching two fishermen prepare to go out to sea in their boat, one of some half dozen or so small and unremarkable amateur paintings that Mrs Hughes had lately inherited from an elderly aunt, and decided, rather than throw them away, to use them to brighten up the dreary brown surroundings of the servants' areas.

Thomas scooped the little girl up in his arms. "Of course, Miss Marigold," he said, returning the miraculously intact painting to its original place and noting neither picture hook nor string were broken and that the painting's original place was somewhat higher than George. This observation, coupled with Sybbie's unheeded warning for him not to jump, suggested the painting was secure enough; George had simply leapt up for closer inspection and knocked it down.

"We must train the pictures not to jump off walls and attack people in future, Mr Bates." He looked poker-faced at John Bates.

"We must, Mr Barrow." John picked up on his hidden humour immediately. It was rare for the two men to be on a similar wavelength. He was sure any second now one of them was going to burst out laughing. It was just a matter of time who would break first.

Thomas was winning so far. He kept his straight face. "I am delighted to hear about the cricket bats and the football, Miss Sybbie, and I very much look forward to playing cricket and football with you when I am next off duty. But these things must be permitted by your parents first. I think for now Mr Bates and I should return you all to your nurses, don't you?"

XXXXX

"Can Mr Barrow come out to play?" John repeated, after they had located the children's frantic nurses and reunited them with their charges, and he gave vent to his laughter at last.

Thomas, more practised in the art of concealing his emotions, shook his head and smiled sheepishly, glad that the interruption had prevented the brewing quarrel. He was indebted to Bates. He always would be. Without him, he would have lost everything. But he had no idea how to tell him so. He didn't think he ever could.

"How is little Johnny?" He asked, quickly changing the subject. Anna had mentioned the baby being unwell and he was already very much attached to the child.

"Dr Hewitt says nothing more serious than the common cold, thankfully. I trust you are making good progress too?" He frowned as a thought suddenly occurred to him. "I was under the impression you were not yet expected to be back at work?"

With a jolt, Thomas recollected he had been on his way to see Mr Carson to persuade him he was well enough to continue with further butler duties. It was too late to offer his services now. The kids always distracted him. And always lifted his mood. "I'm not officially on duty yet," he confirmed. "On second thoughts, perhaps I can arrange a game of cricket or football with the children."

"Second childhood for you too then, Mr Barrow?"

"Second childhood for me too, Mr Bates." Thomas took the remark the way it was intended: with good humour.

And then, what came over him he didn't know, but he held out his hand to John Bates, who shook it without hesitation, unable to stop his smile. Finally, after all the years of he and Thomas being at loggerheads, it seemed they had reached a turning point!

As Miss Baxter said – and Miss-Baxter, soon to be Mrs Molesley, was right about so many things, Thomas reflected, wondering if he could pick John Bates's brains over the wedding present dilemma - if they ever outgrew their love/hate relationship, they could be friends. And they had outgrown it. He was not so naive as to imagine they would always be on good terms. Like with his younger brother Ben decades ago, they would no doubt still clash. But their disagreements would lack the old bitterness and soon blow over until the next one. Downton Abbey was like family to him, though, and that rivalry was the way it was with families. With brothers.

*Koh-i-Noor – one of the largest cut diamonds in the world.

A/N: The idea for George's description of being hit by the painting comes from real life. Years ago, I worked as a receptionist for a large company and the accident book, where minor accidents were recorded, was kept at the front desk. Some people obviously didn't read over what they'd written, which meant the wording was often quite funny: "the shelf hit me in the eye"/"the stairs tripped me up"/"the door knocked into my shoulder..." Until then, I didn't realise inanimate objects could be so vicious! :D

I am approaching the end of this story now, just one or two more chapters left to write. Hope you've enjoyed the journey. :)