CHAPTER 4: It TAKES MONEY TO BUY WHISKEY

A few moments later

Thomas Barrow's Room

"Today, you get the works," declared Bates, removing his coat and rolling up his sleeves. "I have to live up to my advertisement." He dropped two towels into the basin of steaming water that Andy had provided and covered the basin with the breakfast tray.

Bates pulled a cloth from his coat pocket. In it was wrapped a small, unlabelled bottle that he set on the table. He gathered Thomas' shaving paraphernalia and inserted a fresh blade in the safety razor. "No talc brush?" Thomas shook his head.

"You need a headrest." Bates wrapped a pillow in a towel and anchored it between Thomas' shoulders and the chair. He placed his hand on Thomas' forehead and pressed his head to the pillow. Then he draped a towel around Thomas' neck and tossed another towel over his own shoulder.

Bates removed the tray from the basin and retrieved one of the towels with a spoon handle, holding it over the basin until it was cool enough to handle. He wrung out the towel and applied it to Thomas' face. Then he placed his hands over the towel and pressed it against Thomas' skin. He could see the tension easing out of Thomas' body.

After Bates removed the towel, Thomas expected to be lathered. Instead, Bates opened the unlabelled bottle he had taken from his coat and poured a few drops of its contents into his hands. He rubbed his hands together as he positioned himself behind the chair and then applied the substance to Thomas' face. He massaged it in, first with circular motions and then with strokes pulling up from Thomas' chin.

"What was that?" Thomas murmured, his eyes closed.

"A wee bit of olive oil." Bates prepared and applied the second towel. Then he lathered up the soap with Thomas' shaving brush while he sang:

"A sweet Tuxedo girl you see
A queen of swell society
Fond of fun as fond can be
When it's on the strict Q.T.
I'm not too young, I'm not too old
Not too timid, not too bold
Just the kind you'd like to hold
Just the kind for sport I'm told."

Thomas smiled under the towel.

Bates removed the towel and swirled the soap into Thomas' stubble with the brush while he continued with the chorus:

"Ta-ra-ra Boom-der-é! Ta-ra-ra Boom-der-é!
Ta-ra-ra Boom-der-é! Ta-ra-ra Boom-der-é!
Ta-ra-ra Boom-der-é! Ta-ra-ra Boom-der-é!
Ta-ra-ra Boom-der-é! Ta-ra-ra Boom-der-é!"

Bates shaved Thomas with short expert strokes. "Mrs Crawley's going to wonder how we managed to use up all her towels in one day. She won't be able to bathe you." Thomas opened his eyes, saw that Bates was teasing, and closed them again.

Bates moistened Thomas' facecloth with cool water from the pitcher, wiped away the last bits of lather, and pressed the cloth against Thomas' skin. He patted Thomas' face dry with the towel on his shoulder and shook a bit of talc into his hands. "You should use a brush for talc. You'll get a better result," he advised as he applied the talc. He lightly brushed off the excess with the towel and drew the back of his hand along Thomas' cheek. "Still, not bad."

Thomas was not ready to open his eyes. "You're right, John. I did enjoy that." Bates was surprised by the compliment.

Bates turned his attention to Thomas' bandages. He was careful to change them exactly as prescribed by Mrs Crawley.

"Well done, Bates," Thomas parroted.

"Mr Barrow, do you find this amusing?" scolded Bates. They both chuckled. "We shouldn't joke. Mrs Crawley is a fine woman."

"I know," Thomas agreed, "but her hands are cold." Bates burst out laughing, which pleased Thomas.

Bates helped Thomas back to bed and tidied the room, which was in quite a state. When things were in order, Bates sat in the chair and offered to read the day's paper to Thomas.

"No, John. I want to tell you about my dream ... about my mother's visit."

"Very well."

Thomas described his dream, and Bates listened attentively. The only detail Thomas withheld was his nickname, Tadpole. When he spoke of having sex with men, Bates did not flinch or squirm, and Thomas was grateful. When he repeated his mother's reaction, "that's lovely," Bates smiled. When Thomas described waking up and screaming at Carson about his lost arms, Bates could not help but laugh, and that made Thomas laugh too.

"That's everything I can remember. What do you think?" asked Thomas.

"I think I would have liked your mother," replied Bates.

"I think so too. I still miss her. John ... you're going to think I'm daft, but ... do you think it was only a dream, or do you think she really visited me?"

Bates was not a superstitious man, and he was not a particularly religious man. He appreciated the kind of church rituals that celebrated life events. He had been comforted by his mother's funeral, and he looked forward to his baby's christening. But Heaven? Still, there was something compelling about Thomas' dream. "Honestly, Thomas, I don't know. But I want to believe it was really her."

"Why on earth would I dream that I lost my arms?"

Bates considered Thomas' question. He was a straight-forward man and had no interest in the Freudian mumbo jumbo that was all the rage. "Well ... if you had no arms, you would have had to ask others for help. That's difficult for you, isn't it?"

"Isn't it difficult for you?" asked Thomas.

"Yes," Bates conceded. He smiled. "Anna would say it's because we're men. She would say that when we lived in caves, men were beasts. They beat their chests and fought over women."

"I would have made a terrible caveman," Thomas concluded, and Bates laughed again. "John, do you think she was right ... that I must make amends? Even if I tried, how would I know when I'd done enough?"

"I think you'd know. I think you'd feel ... I don't know ... free somehow."

A polite rap sounded at the door, and Bates answered. It was Baxter who entered with yet another tray of tea and biscuits. "Dr Clarkson says Mr Barrow is to have elevenses every day this week. And I have a message from Mr Carson for you Mr Bates." Baxter smiled, "He requests your assistance with Lord Grantham before Lord Grantham pushes him to the brink of incivility. I'm to stay with Mr Barrow until you return."

Bates slipped on his coat and grabbed his cane. "I'll be back as soon as I'm able. Remember, Mr Barrow, it takes money to buy whiskey." Thomas looked at Baxter and then at Bates and nodded.

After Bates was gone, Baxter asked, "What was that about?"

"Oh, Bates has been lecturing me on the virtue of thrift. He's part Scottish, you know."

"No, I didn't know. He certainly seems to be taking an interest in your welfare." Baxter prepared a cup of tea for Thomas. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Yes. Would you bring me the small box in the top drawer there." Thomas gestured to his chest of drawers.

Baxter opened the drawer. "The one with the string around it?"

"Yes, that's the one." Thomas took the box from Baxter and gazed at it thoughtfully. "Sit down, won't you, Fizzy?" Baxter sat on the chair, smiling at the memory of her old nickname. "The first time I called you that, Flossie was annoyed at me for being rude to you. The next thing I knew, everyone was calling you Fizzy. You two were Fizzy and Flossie."

"I remember."

"Do you know why I called you that?" Baxter shook her head. "You were about to begin your first job as house maid, and Mum took you and Flossie for phosphates to celebrate. I had to stay in the shop with my father. The next time I saw you, I called you Fizzy Phyllis Phosphate."

Baxter laughed. "I remember now."

"Do you remember the day my mother died?" asked Thomas.

Baxter thought for a moment. "Your father was at the shop, wasn't he? He said you were nowhere to be found. I had gotten Flossie a job as a tweeny where I worked, so she was with me."

"That's right. Mum had been in bed for 3 days with a fever, and she had a dreadful cough. My father insisted she had nothing more than a cold. The morning she died, she said she had a sharp pain in her chest. I begged my father to send for the doctor, but he said a nance like me wanted a doctor for every splinter and sneeze, and he went to the shop."

"You must have been terrified."

Thomas continued, "While she was sick, she wouldn't let me sit with her. But after my father left that morning, she called me to her bed. She was struggling to breathe. She took off her ruby ring and gave it to me. Do you remember the ring?"

"I remember. She let me try it on once. It was her grandmother's ring, then her mother's, and then hers."

"You have a good memory. After my father left for the shop, Mum told me she was going to die, and she wanted me to keep the ring for my sister. I screamed and cried and carried on, but she said, 'None of that.' She couldn't speak after that. I ran for the doctor, but it was too late. The doctor said Mum probably died of pneumonia."

"Oh, Thomas."

Thomas opened the box. Inside was a delicate rose gold ring with a small ruby and two tiny pearls. "Flossie didn't know I had it. I was going to give it to her as a wedding present."

Baxter was stunned when she saw the familiar ring. "How happy that would have made her." Thomas and Baxter were silent, each remembering the moment they heard that Flossie had been run over by a horse and carriage as she was crossing the street to meet her fiancé.

"I've treated you badly, Fizzy, and that's no way for me to honour Mum and Flossie. Flossie thought of you as her sister. Would you come here please." Baxter stood. "I want you to have Mum's ring. Mum and Flossie would have wanted you to have it." He slipped the ring onto Baxter's finger.

Baxter was speechless. She dropped into the chair, gazing at the ring. She looked up at Thomas, eyes glistening. "I don't know what to say, Thomas."

"God knows Molesley will never be able to buy you a ring like that, Fizzy," teased Thomas.