DOWNTON ABBEY 1926
Episode 11 Chapter 1
Monday November 15, 1926
John and Mrs. Patmore and Anna
John Bates did not have business in the kitchen. His responsibilities in no way intersected with the work that went on there and so he seldom ventured there unless passing through on his way somewhere else. But he had a question for Mrs. Patmore this morning and it was not the sort he might pose from the breakfast table in the servants' hall, she with her hands encumbered with a platter of food and everyone else listening in.
He thought about opening with a compliment about the meal, but discarded the idea. While as susceptible to a kind word as anyone else, Downton's cook knew a smokescreen when she saw one. Better to come to the point. So he walked into the kitchen and, drawing a glance from her for the novelty of his appearance there, came straight to the point.
"Mrs. Patmore, do you know of any cooks seeking employment?"
Her attention had reverted to the receipt in her hand and now she looked up at him again, impatient with the interruption. "Eh? What's that?"
"Anna and I are looking for a cook for the Grantham Arms. We're to take it over on January 1 and we need a cook."
"Mrs. Kearns did all the cooking," Mrs. Patmore said.
"Yes," John said patiently. "But Anna is not yet prepared to cook for anyone beyond our family circle…."
Mrs. Patmore snorted. She had little confidence that anyone at Downton other than herself – and Daisy on a good day – could do more than boil water. She still wondered how the Carsons got on when she did not send something home with Mrs. Carson.
"…so we must find someone," John went on, ignoring her interjection. "I was wondering if you knew of anyone."
"How would that happen?" she snapped.
Her tone puzzled John. "Mr. Carson always knew of other butlers and footmen. Mrs. Carson can usually come up with the name of a girl looking to be a maid," he explained.
"And you think I must know other cooks? Butlers and housekeepers get out, don't they? They have reason to communicate with other butlers and housekeepers. Valets and ladies maids go traipsing up and down the country. Have you ever seen me out of this kitchen?"
John was prepared to retreat right then and even began edging back. "No, I suppose not."
"No." Having made her point, and perhaps in a pique about something else entirely, Mrs. Patmore settled her ruffled feathers. "If I think of anyone, I'll let you know."
"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore." John withdrew, thinking he was lucky to survive the encounter.
In the passage he met up with Anna and, despite the unsatisfactory exchange with Mrs. Patmore, he smiled at her.
"Good morning, Mr. Bates," she said, her eyes dancing.
"Good morning, Mrs. Bates," he responded, smiling despite himself. He leaned toward her. "Do you think that when we're operating the Grantham Arms, you could call me John at work?"
She tilted her head in consideration. "We'll have to see what works, won't we?"
He would have stood there all day exchanging light quips and sweet nothings, but many tasks beckoned. "I'm off to London with His Lordship and Her Ladyship on Wednesday morning," he reminded her.
"I remember."
He glanced over his shoulder toward the kitchen. "I asked Mrs. Patmore if she might know anyone and …" his eyebrows arched, "it didn't go well."
Anna laughed. "You have to pick your times with her. You know that."
He shrugged.
Anna noticed a look about him. "What is it? You're worried about something."
"Not … worried. It's only that I don't like peculiar things."
"Caught someone stealing a bottle of wine?" Anna suggested playfully.
"No. Nothing like that," John said. "It's His Lordship. Miss Baxter and I are going up with them, but we are to come back alone on Thursday morning. For some reason they are staying in London."
Now Anna shrugged. "It's none of our business."
"No, but it is peculiar. His Lordship wants to be dressed to perfection for the diplomatic affair on Wednesday night and then, after I've got him going the next morning, he's dispensing with my services, and Her Ladyship Miss Baxter's."
"Perhaps they're interviewing your replacement and don't want to make it obvious," Anna guessed.
"Then why send Miss Baxter back as well?" He shook his head. "Well, you're right. It's none of my affair." He grinned. "Shortly, we'll have our hands full enough. And I may linger in London for the morning and see if I can't find us a cook."
"Good idea." Anna gave him a warm smile and then leaned in for a quick kiss. If Mrs. Carson had seen this, she might have issued a reprimand, for such familiarity was frowned upon. But Anna knew, too, that Mrs. Carson occasionally broke her own rules. Soon enough, Anna would be setting the rules herself for appropriate behaviour in the workplace and then, perhaps, things would be different.
Mrs Patmore and Mark
Mrs. Patmore did have something else on her mind. She'd been mulling it over ever since her sister had departed on Friday morning and just after breakfast that morning she'd dispatched the hall boy to the school with a note for Mark Wallace.
She prevailed on Mrs. Carson to let her use the housekeeper's sitting room for the occasion. It was something she wanted to say in private and there was nowhere else. A cook worked in the open. If it had been nicer weather, she might have suggested a walk, but it was November. And she didn't know whether she could wholly trust herself either.
He came after school and he was prompt, she gave him that. Oh, she could give him much more than that. Though his persistence had near to driven her out of her mind, he'd behaved honourably in the end and she thought he deserved more from her.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Patmore."
He might have been puzzled at her summoning him thus. After all, the pageant was over. He had no more need to darken her door and plague her with questions. But he'd come as she asked.
"Hello Mark," she said, as the boy stepped into the kitchen. He'd left his wet shoes by the door, as always. Mrs. Patmore appreciated that. "You take that," she said, pointing at a plate of biscuits and herself picked up the tea tray and gestured, with a nod, that he was to follow her. He looked a bit bewildered, as well he might at this unexpected invitation and the indulgence of a formal tea.
They met Mrs. Carson in the passage. She'd heard them coming. She greeted Mark with a smile and he nodded to her in return. Then she was gone.
Mrs. Patmore set out the tea things while he watched from his post by the door.
"Come in," she said. "And close the door."
He did so and put the plate of biscuits down on the small table. Overall, he had the air of someone expecting chastisement. This was understandable. They had not spoken since the pageant.
"Are you angry with me, Mrs. Patmore?"
It pleased her that he thought she might be and yet had come along anyway. He was a good boy. And a brave one. But she had no desire to keep him in suspense.
"No, Mark. I'm not. Sit down. Please."
He sat and she took the chair on the other side of the table.
"Tea?"
"Yes, please."
She poured. "Have a biscuit." He helped himself eagerly. He didn't need to be told that twice, she noted in satisfaction. She let a moment go by.
"You did a nice job of it, Mark. On Armistice Day. My sister, his mother, Archie's mother was here. I'd have … we'd have spoken to you afterward, but there was such a crush. I didn't see you."
"I slipped out," Mark admitted readily. "I thought you might be angry with me. Mr. Molesley was. A little."
Mrs. Patmore's eyebrows shot up. "Mr. Molelsey angry? I've never seen that."
"Cross, really. Said I oughtn't to have done it. Not without your permission. Sorry," he added.
"Well, it's true, you oughtn't have," she agreed. "But I'm not angry. And my sister, she was far from being angry. With you, at any rate. She was a bit annoyed with me for not giving you permission. She said 'Didn't I think he was good enough to be included?' Of course, I did. I wish it were possible to tell about Archie. But it isn't." She steeled herself.
He looked up sharply at that.
But Mrs. Patmore was wrestling with her conscience on a different matter. "But…." She hesitated. She couldn't help it. She was afraid. Over and over it she'd gone in her mind 'til she thought she must be crazy even to think about it. Or, on the other hand, to be so secretive. "But I've decided I will tell you, if you're still interested. If you still want to know Archie's story."
He had been reaching for another biscuit and now withdrew his hand, absently almost, for it didn't matter anymore. His attention was riveted to her. "Archibald Philpotts," he said in that deliberate way he had.
"Do you?" There was almost a tremor in Mrs. Patmore's voice. She felt vulnerable making such an offer, vulnerable for Archie but also for herself somehow. She'd only confided in one other person about Archie and it had gone very badly. One other person besides Mrs. Carson, that is. "Do you want to know?"
"Yes," Mark said faintly, as though if he spoke more firmly she might be frightened off. "Yes, I would."
She had come to it now. Mrs. Patmore took a deep breath. "He's my sister only boy, Archie. Was. She's got two girls, as well, Lucy and Ella. But Archie were always my favourite. He were a sweet boy. Not … cloying, you know. Just nice. I never did see them very much because you don't get away very often when you're a cook in a house like this. And I wasn't that fond of my sister's husband, his father. Not that he wasn't a fine man. Only sometimes you just don't rub on together with someone and … Well, nevermind all that. And don't you be telling anyone that either!" she finished with a sudden sternness and flashing of eyes.
"I won't," he murmured. And there was a look of fright in his eyes that lent sincerity to this commitment.
Without thinking about it, Mrs. Patmore took a biscuit herself and munched on it for a moment. "He had red hair, Archie did. Well, we're a red-haired family. And he were pale. Not unhealthy. It's just the way we are. And he were a … regular boy. Nothing remarkable about him except…," and she said this with feeling, "he were ours, which is what makes all the difference, doesn't it?" She wasn't seeking an answer to that and Mark said nothing.
"They call me Mrs. Patmore because they always call cooks and housekeepers Mrs. even when they aren't. I don't know why. So, I've never been married, never had any children of my own. That makes your sister's children special to you. They'd write me little notes, sometimes, slipped in with Kate's letters. Or send along a drawing." She smiled in fond remembrance. "Weren't any of them any good at it, but it's the thought that counts. They always thought of me. Why, Archie even sent me a postcard from Paris." That caught her unawares and she had to pause for a minute.
"Archie was a good boy," she went on. "My sister never had any trouble with him. He was a boy and you know what they're like!" And she glared at Mark at this as though he were just like that. But he sat still, mesmerized, hardly blinking for fear of missing a word.
"But that's not the story you want to hear. You want to know about the war." Mrs. Patmore paused again. "It's hard," she said softly. And then she plunged on.
"He wanted to join up right away, in 1914, but he were only sixteen. He wore his mother ragged about it, though, threatening to run off and lie about his age. So she promised to give him permission when he turned eighteen, hoping it would be over by then. But it weren't, and she let him go. Well, she had to. She'd promised." She stopped again, to stifle the sob that was threatening to burst from her throat.
"He were nineteen when he were killed," Mark said solemnly, venturing cautiously into the abyss. "February 5, 1917."
Mrs. Patmore nodded. They had come to it now and she was still wondering if this was the right thing to do.
"Was he killed in battle?" Mark asked.
"No. He wasn't."
Mark digested this. "From a wound? In a hospital?"
"No."
This puzzled him a little. "Did he get sick? Lots of soldiers died from diseases."
"They did," Mrs. Patmore agreed. "But our Archie wasn't one of them."
Now he was perplexed and Mrs. Patmore understood why. There weren't that many options left. She longed to say, "No, he got hit by a streetcar in Paris," and be done with it. Instead, she said, "You seen like quite a mature boy."
This puzzled him even more and he frowned, wondering what that had to do with anything.
"Has anyone … ever confided in you, Mark? Has anyone ever told you something very important and asked you to keep it to yourself?"
He stared at her for a moment and then shook his head slowly, struggling to see what she was asking of him. "Like a secret?" he asked.
"Like a secret, but not a secret," Mrs. Patmore said. "More important than a secret. A confidence. When you're old enough to listen to someone tell you something important to them and not tear off to tell all your friends about it, well, that's a big moment in a boy's life. It separates the men from the boys."
He still didn't understand, but he sat up a little straighter as though determined to be worthy of what she was asking of him.
"I want to tell you what happened to Archie, Mark. But it's not going to make a hero of him for you. You're going to be disappointed. You may even be angry with me for not telling you before, after what you did at the pageant in his honour. You might want to tell other people about it. But I'm going to ask you to respect my confidence, even if you feel very badly about it." She stared at him for a moment. "Is that something you think you can do?"
He sat very still. "Why're you going to tell me if you're not sure about me?" he asked tentatively.
Mrs. Patmore shrugged. "Because I think I can trust you." And then, in a more blustering manner that was often heard in the kitchen of Downton Abbey, added, "I may be wrong!"
"You're not!" Mark matched her tone and squared his shoulders.
"Well, then."
P & P & P & P & P
"You told him." Daisy wasn't asking a question. At least, she wasn't asking a question about Mark, who had torn through the kitchen minutes earlier. Daisy had just managed to dodge him. For a few seconds, the soup tureen she'd gotten out to warm had been in danger of flying across the room. It was Mrs. Patmore, who walked into the kitchen with a heavy, slow step, as though she'd aged twenty years that afternoon, to whom Daisy directed her concern. And the unspoken question. Are you all right?
"I did," Mrs. Patmore admitted. She looked around distractedly and then her eyes lit on the apron she'd folded over the chair at her desk and she picked it up and tied it about herself. Then she realized Daisy was staring at her and heard the unasked question. "I don't know, Daisy. I've shocked him." She made a small, dismissive sound. "Well, who wouldn't be shocked?"
"He'll come round," Daisy said confidently.
"You think so, do you?" Mrs. Patmore demanded, but there was no bite to her words.
"I do. And you think so, too. You're not wrong about him."
That remained to be seen.
Mary, Violet, and Freddy
"I don't believe in women in politics," Violet said firmly.
Mary had come round for tea and brought with her a fresh face, this Mrs. Frank Daring. Freddy, as Mary was calling her. On the surface of it, Violet approved. The woman effortlessly conveyed in manner and bearing her class origins. She is one of us, Violet realized immediately. In addition, there was an intellectual vigour and physical vitality about her that caught Violet's attention. Although implicitly committed to the idea of separate spheres for the sexes, Violet also adhered to the view that only the most capable could exploit the advantages of their sphere, and she saw at once that Frederica Daring was a high achiever. As such, she was both a woman after Violet's own heart and an eminently suitable friend for Mary, who exhibited like abilities.
"Neither did Queen Victoria," Freddy replied with equanimity.
Their conversation had ranged over the usual matters, mostly relating to family and place in the social order. Violet probed Freddy's lineage and recalled that she had encountered the Havermores in times past and come away without prejudice. The colonial husband was more of a question mark – Oxford and a Rhodes scholarship did not sway Violet as they did others. His war record did greater service in elevating him beyond his common origins. When Mary announced that Freddy herself had been to Oxford, Violet correctly read this revelation as Mary's attempt to provoke an indignant response, but the elder woman declined to take the bait. There were no pitfalls, however, when the conversation turned to children. Though Violet found the reality of small children more of a challenge as she aged, she was very much in favour of them for younger people. She both loved and liked her own children and was always heartened to learn that other people felt similarly about their own.
"Two sons," Violet said, reflecting on this piece of information. "Well, that will give you and Mary something to talk about." She suspected they wouldn't need this lifeline to sustain their friendship, but it was always good to have a solid foundation in intersecting interests. "Is it expected that they will enter the family business?" There was a delicacy in Violet's phrasing and she gave Mary the briefest of smiles as she spoke. This was a provocation on her part.
But Freddy deftly parried it. "It's an entirely voluntary endeavour on the part of the current generation and I won't put any pressure on my sons to follow in their parents' footsteps. I only hope to God they can avoid marching off to war in another European catastrophe." The serene countenance with which she had faced down Violet's pointed queries gave way to a little frown of worry at this.
"Do you think that likely?"
Mary as much as Violet waited through Freddy's thoughtful pause.
"I don't know that it is likely. It is only that having lived through it once, one does consider it at least a possibility for the future. And we don't seem to have made much progress in learning how to live peacefully with our neighbours, have we?"
They didn't linger and Violet was glad of it. She enjoyed the diversion and was heartened that Mary appeared to have turned a corner. Oh, she said nothing, of course. But there had been that knowing look with the slightly arched eyebrows as she kissed her grandmother goodbye and swept out the door in Freddy's wake. Mary could not know what a relief that was.
Violet rang the bell for Denker. She needed to rest.
"The inspection was thorough, but I believe I passed," Freddy remarked, as she and Mary left the Dower House.
"My grandmother is the backbone of our family," Mary said. "I don't know how we'll manage without her." The words were hardly out of her mouth when Mary regretted them. She didn't go in for self-pity. And she knew very well that life went on in the wake of every kind of tragedy. She half-expected Freddy to point this out to her with the bluntness Mary had come to associate with her friend.
"She is unwell," Freddy said instead, not as a question, but rather a statement of fact.
Mary looked at her sharply. "Did you see it?"
Freddy shrugged noncommittally.
Her very reticence encouraged Mary to a confidence she had shared with no one else. "I've known death, but had very little experience with … dying. My grandfather died when I was a child. I hardly knew it was happening. Sybil's death was sudden and, in the moment, there were doctors and nurses to care for her. Matthew went more suddenly still." She paused. The thought of Matthew dying, alone, only short hours after their son was born, always brought Mary to an abrupt halt. "It's different with Granny," she went on. "It's a slow, almost imperceptible decline. Only I fear that I'll show up one day and much more will be needed and I won't be up to it." She paused again. When had she made such a full admission of inadequacy in her life? Freddy was silent, listening. "I feel useless," Mary added.
Freddy wasn't looking directly at her, but Mary saw her friend's eyes narrow thoughtfully. "Then make yourself useful," Freddy said.
She might as well have directed Mary to scale Mount Everest – an impossible feat. "I don't know what to do," Mary said tersely, more impatient with her own failings than Freddy's unhelpful advice. "Or even where to start."
Now Freddy did turn to her. "Find an appropriate person and ask for help. What about your maid, Anna?"
Preoccupied as she was with thoughts of Granny, Mary could yet appreciate that Freddy had taken note of Anna. Anna! Why hadn't she thought of Anna?
"Tom said he'd pick up the slack around the estate," Mary said, beginning to see possibilities.
"Then take advantage of his offer."
"Hardly the advice of a hard-hearted businesswoman," Mary said wryly.
Freddy acknowledged this light-hearted barb with a quick smile. But when she spoke again, it was in a softer tone. "You've had a lot of loss, Mary. Memories are our only solace. Go make some."
