CHAPTER 43: PANYA AND CIGARS

On the Road to Downton

Sunday evening

It was dark by the time Thomas and Morgan neared Downton. Thomas leaned over the steering wheel and peered at the road.

"Shall I take a turn?" asked Morgan.

Thomas shook his head. "What if someone's outside when we arrive? I want them to see me driving!"

"Do they usually mill about in the dark?"

"No," Thomas answered ruefully, "but there's always a chance!"

Morgan curled up in the passenger seat and closed his eyes. It had been a long week and a long day.

Novello had insisted on using his day off from the theatre for one final outing with Thomas. They piled into the car well before noon and headed southeast of London. Morgan drove while Thomas, Novello, and Bobbie napped in the back seat. Novello giggled when Bobbie began to snore. "He doesn't believe me when I tell him," Novello complained to Thomas. "I don't snore, do I, darling?"

"I'll never tell," replied Thomas.

So they have spent a night together, mused Morgan. He could not decide if he were pleased or disappointed.

"Where are we headed?" asked Thomas.

"I have an acquaintance who's a good friend of Eddie Marsh. He's been renovating a country house and wants to put it on parade," explained Novello. "He lives in London but takes his family to the house most weekends. That's what Bobbie and I want – a weekend escape."

"That's why you came to Downton, isn't it?" asked Thomas. "To look at properties?"

"Yes, but Bobbie refused to come. He said I was living in a fantasy if I thought I'd make a trip to Yorkshire every weekend. I knew he was right, but I can be a bit stubborn," confessed Novello.

"No!" gasped Thomas, and they both laughed.

"Vi was sick that week, and I didn't want to ask Morgan to leave her. I despise travelling by myself and never do, but I couldn't find anyone to accompany me. Bobbie was right. The train ride was dreadful. It was worth it, of course, because I met you." Novello paused and studied Thomas' face. "What's wrong?"

Morgan glanced at Thomas in his rear-view mirror. His smile had disappeared, and he seemed disturbed.

"Nothing."

"Something."

"It's silly, Ivor."

Novello drew his finger across Thomas' forehead. "Nothing that makes this line is silly."

It's only that I feel uncomfortable when good things happen by chance. It's as if they weren't meant to be and can be taken away."

"That's silly."

"You see!"

"I'm sorry, but I believe the opposite. If something happens to me by chance, then I feel it must be destined. We were destined to meet, darling. Even if we weren't, last week can't be taken from us, can it?"

"I hope not."

"What a Gloomy Gus!"

At that moment, the car began to bounce wildly. "We have a flat," announced Morgan as he pulled off the road.

In an instant, Thomas forgot his anxiety. "Let me, let me!" he shouted with the excitement of a six-year-old. He leapt from the car, removed his coat and waistcoat, and rolled up his sleeves.

Novello watched Thomas and chuckled. "For that, he's happy!" He roused Bobbie and the two climbed out of the car and stretched their legs. Morgan brought out his camera to record the event.

"Is the handbrake set?" asked Thomas.

"Yes," answered Morgan. "What's next?"

"The jack. No, wait. I loosen the wheel nuts while the tyre's still on the ground so it doesn't spin."

"That's right," confirmed Morgan, pleased that Thomas had paid attention to his lecture.

Novello clapped Thomas on the back. "Imagine knowing a thing like that!"

Thomas changed the tyre while Morgan snapped photographs. Novello and Bobbie clowned and hid the wheel nuts and made nuisances of themselves. Soon the group was back on the road. As they approached the estate, Novello asked Morgan to pull over so they could see the entire property. Morgan thought the grounds and view were splendid but the imposing red brick house seemed a bit dreary.

They drove up to the house where they were greeted by Marsh, whose driver would be taking him back to London that night along with Novello and Bobbie. Marsh informed them that their host and his children were on the grounds and would return to the house soon for lunch. "Clementine's not here today."

"That's our host's wife," Bobbie informed Thomas.

Thomas was still in his shirtsleeves. "What happened to you?" asked Marsh.

Thomas explained that he had changed a tyre and asked where he could wash his hands.

"You changed a tyre? I didn't know Morgan had an assistant," jested Marsh.

"A temporary hire, but I'll have to let him go. He associates with some questionable types." countered Morgan. "Right now, he needs some cooking oil."

"Cooking oil?" asked Marsh and Thomas in unison.

"To remove the grime. It's the only stuff that works. You'll see."

Marsh took Morgan and Thomas to the kitchen where the cook eyed them suspiciously as she poured a small amount of oil into a teacup.

"Does she think he's going to drink it?" smirked Morgan when they were clear of the kitchen.

As Morgan and Marsh watched, Thomas held his hands over a sink, poured a bit of oil on them, and rubbed until his hands were grease-free. "You were right, Morgan. That did the trick!" A bit of soap dispatched the oil. Thomas donned his waistcoat and coat and checked his hair in the mirror.

"You look fine," assured Morgan impatiently.

"More than fine," sighed Marsh.

As the three proceeded down the corridor, Thomas stopped short. "What's this?"

"Ah yes, the studio," answered Marsh. "Care to have a look?"

Morgan plopped himself into the nearest chair while Thomas walked to the centre of the room and turned slowly, examining the paintings that filled the walls.

"They're ... impressionist, aren't they?" asked Thomas.

"That's right," replied a new voice. Morgan turned and stood for the older man who had entered the room. The man gestured for Morgan to sit. He appeared to be about fifty and had a round face and thick features. He was balding, on the shorter side, like Morgan, and chomping a cigar. He held a wide-brimmed hat and work gloves in his hand. "Do you like them?"

"Most of them. Some, very much." Thomas turned to face the man. "Do you know the artist?"

The man chuckled. "Yes, I know him intimately, although we're not always on speaking terms. What is it you like about them?"

"Oh, I don't know anything about art."

The man laughed. "Who does? Tell me which are your favourites."

"My favourites have reflections in the water." Thomas pointed to a painting opposite the door. "That one of a bridge where the columns are reflected in the water. It seems alive. I can see the water moving. And that one of a house on a lake. Look how rough the brush strokes are in the tree on the right ..."

"Primitive."

"Yes, that's it! The brush strokes are primitive!" agreed Thomas exuberantly. Marsh and the man exchanged smiles. "It's not realistic, yet it feels real. It makes me feel as though I'm there ... as though I could dip my toe in the water and be refreshed."

The man nodded. "What else?"

Thomas pointed again. "That one of the boy looking at his reflection in the water. That's my favourite. I want to be in the boat with him. I want to row with him to that red shack on the beach and explore." Thomas turned back to the man. "He paints to escape, your friend, doesn't he?"

The man seemed surprised. "Yes, painting is just the thing when the Black Dog bites."

"The Black Dog?"

"The miseries. I'm afraid I was having you on. I'm the artist. I'm Winston, and you are ...?"

Morgan watched Thomas glance from Marsh to the man. He could imagine Thomas' brain working furiously as it recalled that Marsh was secretary to the Chancellor of the Exchequer.

The man offered his hand to Thomas and asked again, "Your name, sir?"

"Winston Churchill?" asked Thomas as he shook the man's hand.

"Is it?" The man peeped inside his coat and then inside his hat. "And here I thought I was Winston Churchill." The man laughed heartily.

Marsh intervened, "This is Thomas Barrow. You may have seen his photo in the papers. He's The Butler who's been visiting Ivor."

"Oh yes, that Russian fellow who tangos. My wife sent a farewell note to the newspaper for you."

Thomas blanched. "That was a childish prank, sir. I'm not really Russian."

"No? I never would have known!" Winston laughed uproariously. "Shall we repair to the dining room and have some panya? Prof is waiting to be fed."

"What's panya?" Thomas whispered to Marsh as they walked down the corridor.

"Champagne."

"Is Prof his dog?"

"His pet. Frederick Lindemann, an Oxford professor," whispered Marsh, but Winston overheard.

"Love me, love my dog!" growled Winston.

As they approached the dining room, Morgan tapped Thomas' shoulder. "I'll see you after lunch."

"Oh! I didn't realize." Thomas turned toward the dining room and back to Morgan. "I should eat in the kitchen, too."

"Don't be ridiculous, Thomas. You're Eddie's guest today," whispered Morgan as he gave Thomas' elbow a nudge toward the dining room. "You'll be back in service before your head touches a pillow tonight. No need to rush things." Thomas smiled wryly, gave Morgan a nod, and followed the others.

Morgan sauntered into the kitchen. He sat and chatted amiably but failed to arouse the interest of the cook or Marsh's driver. He ate two ham sandwiches while he watched the cook set out the luncheon courses. Petite marmite soup to start, roast beef, pommes noisette, new peas, Roquefort cheese and peeled pears, and ice cream.

Unable to wheedle a dish of ice cream from the cook, Morgan stepped outside and found a comfortable spot for a nap behind some bushes. After missing his weekly day off, he welcomed having an hour or two to himself. He was glad the weather had cooled. He knew he'd be sleeping in a stuffy attic room that night. He closed his eyes and was certain that no time had passed before Thomas was shaking him awake.

"How did you find me?" Morgan asked, squinting against the sun.

"I almost tripped over your feet," replied Thomas.

Morgan scooted back until his feet were hidden from view. "How was it?"

"All right, I suppose, but I think I made a fool of myself."

"Why? What happened?"

"Eddie asked what we thought of the new stream-of-consciousness writing."

"So?"

"I said that I had read Mrs Dalloway and enjoyed it, but life is stream of consciousness. I said I would have appreciated Miss Woolf 's being a bit more organized than reality is."

"That doesn't seem so bad."

"No? Everyone laughed." Thomas squatted next to Morgan. "Do you know that Mr Churchill lays bricks? He built his butler's cottage, and now he's working on a garden wall. He's going to show us. Are you coming?"

"I'm too comfortable where I am."

"Suit yourself. There's Ivor and Bobbie with one of the children." Thomas ran to catch them.

Morgan closed his eyes again. Before he dozed off, he heard Winston speaking. "I like a man who can think and whose opinions are his own. Does he have no ambition beyond buttling?"

"He fancies himself a hotelier but hasn't the resources." Morgan recognized the speaker as Marsh. "He's a determined sort, though. I wouldn't count him out."

Morgan felt a shoe tap his foot. His eyes popped open, and he saw Winston, chomping a cigar and looking down at him. "Are you coming?"


Morgan chuckled as he remembered how he had scrambled to his feet and followed Winston through the garden for the dubious reward of watching his bricklaying demonstration.

"What's tickling you?" asked Thomas, still hunched over the steering wheel.

"I was remembering the bricks."

"Wasn't that remarkable ... a man of his distinction laying bricks as though he'd been doing it his entire life."

"Remarkable isn't quite the word I'd use."

Thomas glanced at Morgan and returned his eyes to the road. "I don't suppose I have to tell you that Downton is a formal estate. I'm Mr Barrow to the other servants and Barrow to the family."

"So I assumed."

"I'll have to lose my London manners. Can you imagine me at breakfast tomorrow asking Lord Grantham, Coffee or tea, darling?"

Morgan laughed. "Who knows? Perhaps he'd like it."

"There's the Abbey!" gestured Thomas excitedly. "And there's John!" He greeted Bates with a loud honk of the car's horn.