Chapter 82: THE FEAR
The next morning
The Dining Room
Standing at his post by the buffet, Thomas found it difficult to focus on the family's breakfast and not on his London plans. Mrs Hughes was on the train to London at that very moment so she could prepare Grantham House. Lady Mary had sent Carson with her. She could not bear the thought of him sitting alone in his cottage for the remainder of the season. Not wanting Carson to feel useless, Thomas had asked him to take charge of hiring local staff.
"Barrow, have you seen the Yorkshire paper?" asked Lady Mary, forcing Thomas back to the present.
"No, milady."
"Come here, then, and have a look."
Thomas looked at the paper over Lady Mary's shoulder. There it was. A photo of children with pinhole boxes over their heads and one little boy asleep in his upturned box. The caption read: Little Timothy Bates is not impressed by the phenomenon eagerly viewed by his chums. Thomas was delighted but maintained his professional presence. "I beg your pardon, my Lord, but isn't that one of your photos?"
Lord Grantham set down The Times and looked at the paper Lady Mary held. "Well, I'll be! On the front page, too!" Lord Grantham exclaimed. "I knew my eclipse photos weren't up to snuff, but I thought this photo had a certain je ne sais quoi, so I submitted it."
"It's charming, papa, but you weren't given any credit," protested Lady Mary.
"If I may, my Lord," interrupted Thomas, "not giving Your Lordship credit was a compliment."
"And how is that, Barrow?" asked Lady Mary, curious to hear how Thomas would turn the snub to Lord Grantham's advantage.
"If the paper had credited Your Lordship, then the photo might have been published merely to flatter, because of Your Lordship's station. Without the credit, Your Lordship knows that the photo was worthy of publication."
Lord Grantham laughed appreciatively. "Well said, Barrow. Now phone the bookstall and ask them to hold a dozen copies for the Earl of Grantham before they sell out ... and a few more for you and your brother."
After lunch
Thomas Barrow's Pantry
Thomas handed Bates two of the newspapers he had collected from the bookstall and watched as a smile erased the gloom that Bates had been wearing since his arrival that morning. "One for the scrapbook and one for a frame," he suggested.
Before Bates could respond, a knock sounded. The door opened, revealing Andy on the other side. "A parcel was delivered for you, Mr Barrow."
Thomas accepted the small package. "Thank you, Andy. Is your wife feeling better?"
"The morning sickness isn't too bad, but Daisy's miserable about deserting Mrs Patmore."
"Nonsense. Mrs Patmore thinks she's the one doing the deserting, and I think they're both being ridiculous."
"I'll tell her, Mr Barrow."
"Heavens, man, don't tell her that! Tell her ... tell her we'll miss her, but we're excited for her ... especially Mrs Patmore. You'd think she was becoming a grandmother!"
"Thank you, Mr Barrow. That's exactly what I'll tell her. I better get on. I promised to help Miss Baxter and Anna carry luggage down from the attic."
With Andy gone, Thomas turned over the package in his hand. "It's from Harold Levinson! What do you suppose it is?" Bates watched with interest as Thomas opened the package. "It's a booklet. Baseball: How to Play It and How to Watch It."
Bates pointed to the wrapping. "There's an envelope stuck to the paper."
Barrow opened the envelope and read the enclosed note:
Dear Mr Barrow,
My niece tells me you are athletic and adept at cricket.
There's no cricket here. If you want to discuss sports in the U.S.,
you'll have to understand our national pastime, baseball.
I'll see you and your partners right after Thanksgiving
(a treasured American holiday at the end of November).
H. Levinson
Bates chuckled. "That's a good sign, Pooh. He's ready to make an American of you."
Barrow began to flip through the book but was interrupted by the telephone. "Downton Abbey. Thomas Barrow speaking." Barrow covered the mouthpiece. "It's Spratt."
Bates shook his head. "I still can't believe old Lady Grantham had a telephone installed at the Dower House."
"What is it, Spratt? ... Are you certain she said me? ... Did she say why? ... 4.00 sharp. I'll be there." Thomas replaced the receiver. "She wants to see me this afternoon."
"Why?"
Thomas shrugged. "Spratt didn't know."
Bates leaned back in his chair. "She has a telephone. She's a modern woman now. She probably wants a Charleston lesson!"
4.00 sharp
The Dower House
Thomas knocked at the servants' entrance, and Spratt answered the door. "Follow me," he instructed. Thomas had never been inside the Dower House, but it offered no surprises. It appeared exactly as the Dowager would, if the Dowager were a house. Spratt led Thomas to the parlour, announced him, and left.
The Dowager was seated at her writing desk. "You're looking well, Barrow. Is your health as it should be?"
"Yes, milady."
"I understand that you were suffering from exhaustion."
"That was Dr Clarkson's diagnosis, milady."
"Don't you think it was rather inconsiderate of you to run yourself into the ground that way?"
"I assure Your Ladyship that I've learned my lesson."
"I'm certain you have, Barrow." The Dowager tapped her temple and nodded towards Thomas. "This is new."
Thomas touched his hair and understood that the Dowager was referring to his white streak. "Yes, milady."
"It's not unattractive."
"Thank you, milady."
"Merely a statement of fact."
"Yes, milady."
Pleasantries, such as they were, were at an end. "I've decided to accompany the family to London after all, Barrow."
"I'll ask Mrs Hughes to have your room ready, milady."
"You're familiar with city night life, aren't you, Barrow?"
"A bit, milady."
"I hear that you keep up-to-date with the latest dances."
Bates was right! She's going to ask me for a Charleston lesson. "I do my best, milady."
"Is your passport in order?"
"Yes, milady."
"I may leave London briefly, in which case I'd like you to accompany me."
"If you wish, milady. I'll speak to Lady Mary about it."
"Leave that to me, Barrow. I prefer that you keep my plans to yourself."
"Yes, milady."
"Before you leave, I want you to take a look at a painting in the corridor."
"Certainly, milady. Is it crooked?"
"Don't be ridiculous. Turn to the right and walk to the end of the corridor. Take a look at the last painting opposite the stairs. Take your time and return here when you're done."
"Yes, milady." Thomas left the parlour, turned right, and saw the painting's prominent frame. As he walked down the corridor, he could see that the painting was a portrait of a woman. Take my time doing what? He glanced at the other paintings on the wall until he found himself directly in front of the portrait. He was shocked. The subject of the painting was not unlike several at the Abbey: a young, idealized aristocrat. Her exterior was painted as realistically as a photograph, but her interior... her interior was her portrait repeated in the cubist style ... Thomas had never seen a traditional style and a modern style mixed, and the image was ... unsettling ... alarming ...
"Well? What is your opinion, Barrow?" demanded the Dowager upon his return.
"My opinion, milady?"
"What does it mean?"
"Art is subjective, milady. I can tell you only what it suggests to me."
"And what is that, Barrow?"
Thomas paused to find the words. "The attractive image each of us tries to project to the world is merely an illusion. A person's interior life is complex and distressing and ..."
"Nonsense! I am exactly the same inside and out. There is nothing complex or distressing within or without me."
"Yes, milady."
"You may go, Barrow. I will give you further instructions in London."
"Yes, milady. May I inquire about the painting?"
"What is it you want to know?"
"You don't seem fond of it, milady. Why do you display it?"
"It was a gift from the artist," the Dowager responded curtly. "This interview is at an end, Barrow. If you are asked why you were here, you may say that I summoned you to discuss the luggage limitations on the train."
"Yes, milady."
"One moment, Barrow."
"Yes, milady?"
"I'd almost forgotten." The Dowager removed a box from her desk. Thomas could see that it contained an assortment of small toys: tin soldiers, a spinning top, a kaleidoscope, and a bag of marbles. The Dowager selected the kaleidoscope. "Your nephew admired this the last time he was here."
Thomas was certain that he had misheard. "Timothy was here? I don't understand, milady."
"Your chauffeur brings him here on occasion with Sybbie and George."
"I apologize, milady. I'll see that he doesn't disturb you again. I can't imagine what Nanny was thinking."
A smile flickered across the Dowager's lips. "I can't imagine that Nanny is any match for Sybbie. Don't concern yourself, Barrow. The visits are not unwelcome. Now that I have a telephone, Sybbie calls first to ask if a visit is convenient."
Thomas was dumbfounded. "I see, milady."
"Give him the kaleidoscope with my regards, Barrow."
"I will do that, milady."
"You needn't look so shocked, Barrow. I am a grandmother, after all, the same as any other grandmother."
As Thomas strolled to the Abbey, he tried to sort out his conversation with the Dowager but was baffled. What could the Dowager's mystery trip be, and what did it have to do with night life and dancing and that painting? He fingered the kaleidoscope in his pocket. You may be a grandmother, old woman, but you're not like any other grandmother I know!
Mid-morning, two days later
The Train to London
After settling Anna and Emilia in the Nanny's compartment with Timothy, the Crawley children and Miss Petty, Bates took his seat in third class. Miss Baxter, Mrs Patmore, and Minnie were sitting across from him and arguing and giggling over the wedding cake that Mrs Patmore had sketched.
Miss Baxter glanced up as Bates removed his hat. "I hope we won't be too noisy for you, Mr Bates."
Bates smiled congenially. "As long as I'm fed on time, you may make all the noise you like."
Thomas opened the compartment door as the train pulled away from the station and sat next to Bates. He glanced at Mrs Patmore's sketch. "What's that? Your wedding cake, Miss Baxter?"
"It is, Mr Barrow. Isn't it lovely?"
"It's making me hungry! When do we eat, Mrs Patmore?"
"In exactly one hour and forty-five minutes," replied Mrs Patmore sternly.
"I won't make it!" declared Thomas. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of barley sugars and passed them around.
Bates slid to the window seat and watched Thomas prepare for the trip. Thomas removed his hat and opened his notebook where he had stored the baseball booklet. He pulled a stubby pencil from his pocket, checked the lead point, and began to read. Bates had a library copy of Upton Sinclair's Oil! in his pocket but did not feel able to concentrate on a book. He had always slept easily on trains and gazed out the window waiting for sleep to overtake him, but sleep chose to leave him alone.
As the women occupied themselves with discussions of weddings and honeymoons, Thomas drew diagrams in his notebook trying to comprehend the game of baseball.
"How similar is it to cricket?" asked Bates.
"Not very. Instead of two wickets, there are four bases, and a batter has to touch all four bases to score only one run! And he can't continue to touch the bases. When he scores one run, he has to stop. And the ball isn't bowled, it's pitched with a bent arm!" Thomas' words could not keep pace with his excitement.
"Sounds as though it's an entirely different game," remarked Bates.
Thomas studied Bates for a moment and turned a page in his notebook. With his stubby pencil, he wrote:
-Remember my promise to teach Timothy cricket?
Will I have made amends if I teach him baseball instead?"
Bates grabbed the pencil from Thomas and wrote furiously:
-You made amends a hundred times over when you saved me from drowning!
Thomas nodded but kept his eyes down. Bates could have kicked himself. He knew that Thomas did not like to be reminded of that day. He gave the notebook a gentle tug. Thomas shook his head, so Bates gave it another tug. Thomas relinquished the notebook, and Bates crossed out what he had written. Underneath, he wrote:
-Teaching Timothy baseball will square us, Pooh.
Thomas' soft blue eyes met Bates' gaze. "Good."
"Tell me more about baseball, Mr Barrow."
Thomas took back his pencil and drew a diamond. He tapped the pencil against one of the corners. "This is home, where the batter begins. He stands next to the home plate ... that's another word for home base. There's only one batter until he's either out or takes a base, and the bat is round!"
"Round! How does anyone hit the ball?"
"Practice, I suppose."
"Mr Barrow ..."
"Yes?" Bates didn't respond. "What is it?" Bates patted Thomas' shoulder and turned back to the window. He watched as the train passed a farm followed by a pretty village where a funeral was in progress.
Bates turned from the window, tapped Thomas' arm, and opened his hand. Thomas handed him the pencil, and he wrote:
-I packed a swimming costume.
Thomas pulled a second stubby pencil from his pocket and wrote:
-Good.
-I'm afraid of the water.
-I know.
Bates leaned back and closed his eyes. He thought about the haughty young man Thomas had been when they met before the war. How difficult it must have been for Thomas when he first humbled himself and spoke to Bates honestly. Bates wondered if he were capable of the same humility. He opened his eyes, nudged Thomas, and wrote:
-It makes me ashamed.
-Many men are afraid of the water.
-I don't care about other men. I don't want to be afraid. Help me, Pooh. Teach me to swim.
-You're feeling it now, aren't you? The fear.
Bates nodded.
-Take a deep breath. Another. Another. Better?
Bates nodded again.
-Swimming is too overwhelming a goal.
-What then?
-Standing calmly in a swimming pool with the water up to your chest. That's a goal you can achieve. Breathe, John.
Bates could feel himself panicking. Everyone on the train was going to bear witness to his losing his mind. He closed his eyes and felt a wave of dizziness pass through him. He felt Thomas give his sleeve a yank.
-Don't close your eyes. Do you have a book?
Bates nodded.
-Take it out.
Bates' hand trembled as it retrieved the book from his pocket.
-Memorize the first paragraph backwards.
-Backwards?
-Yes. Do it. It will take your mind off yourself.
Bates only stared.
-Do you trust me, John?
Bates nodded. He opened the book to the first paragraph and mouthed the words as he memorized, motoring of ethics, motoring of ethics, motoring of ethics, motoring of ethics the constituted way, motoring of ethics the constituted way, motoring of ethics the constituted way Dad's and, motoring of ethics the constituted way Dad's and ...
By the time Bates had memorized two sentences backwards, he was calm, and Mrs Patmore was serving lunch. Anna was right. It was time to put himself in Thomas' hands.
