Downton Abbey 1926
Episode 11
Chapter 7
Tuesday November 23, 1926
Mrs. Carson and Dr. Clarkson
"I don't like subterfuge."
"Nor do I."
"The last time I visited you for purposes other than medical, my husband thought I was keeping secrets from him about my health. I was able to explain. This time, that won't be possible."
It was Tuesday afternoon and Elsie Carson was seated in Dr. Clarkson's office. Not the one at the cottage hospital, but the other one, in his house, from where he conducted his private practice.* Mrs. Carson felt a fraud, was a fraud, sitting here, accepting a cup of tea from the doctor as though this were a social call. Well, it was a social call, for nothing ailed her. But here was someone with whom she could speak freely and yet in confidence.
"It wasn't unexpected though, was it?" Dr. Clarkson was seated behind his desk. He did not, as a rule, conduct casual conversations in here and it was not set up for such circumstances. Only the china teapot between them and the cups in their hands suggested otherwise.
"No," Mrs. Carson admitted heavily. "As long as Mr. Carson has known of Mr. Barrow, he's always been … uneasy, uncomfortable about …."
The doctor nodded, understanding.
"But he's been able to live with it. Well, work with it anyway. It's the intrusion of it into his personal life," she went on. "So long as it was no one he cared about…."
"I've no acquaintance with Mr. Rider," Dr. Clarkson said. "I think I only saw him at the Downton race. The winner."
"Yes." Mrs. Carson managed a ghost of a smile at that. What a good time they'd had that day, she and Charlie and Daniel! "Mr. Carson took quite a shine to him, and now, well, he says he feels betrayed."
"We all walk fine lines," Clarkson mused, "between what we tell other people and what we keep to ourselves."
"I agree."
They sipped their tea.
"There is no magic solution to this problem," Dr. Clarkson said at length. "But as a student of human nature, you might have observed that there are two ways for a person to change his or her mind. Some people can think themselves out of an existing perception or conviction and accept another on the basis of a reasoned argument. The other means is through the heart. There is nothing like love to oblige a person to challenge an established belief or to embrace acceptance."
"I had hoped that would be the case with Mr. Carson," Mrs. Carson said. "He has a great heart."
"Well, it may yet come right. Give it time." He paused. "How are you taking all this?"
Mrs. Carson considered that for a moment. "I'll miss the lad, I will," she said, almost absently. "Lad. He's not a lad, but a man." And then she shook her head. "I don't really know what I think about men and men, or, I suppose, women and women. I don't know whether it's right or wrong. But what I'm quite certain about is that it's not for me to say." Dr. Clarkson was staring at her with those bright blue eyes of his and she could tell he was keenly interested in her views. "The person in front of me, whether Thomas or Daniel Rider or anyone else, I see as a person and that's how I must deal with them." Another few silent seconds ticked by. "What about you? What do you think about this?"
He came over thoughtful. Dr. Clarkson almost never rushed to speak. "As a man of science, I tend to look upon anomalies as opportunities rather than errors. The species is always adapting. Admittedly, some of them lead to dead ends. To those who adopt a moral position on the issue, … well, God doesn't make mistakes, does He?"
"So we're told." She put her tea cup down abruptly. "Here I am troubling you in the middle of a working day with a personal problem. And you'll not let me pay for your time and you've given me tea in the bargain."
He smiled and Mrs. Carson wondered fleetingly why he had never married. And then she remembered that it wasn't such an exceptional thing, for so her Mr. Carson had been until only a year ago. Like Mr. Carson, the doctor had been wedded to his work.
"You don't charge a friend for a conversation."
Dr. Clarkson's words drew her from her reverie and she felt her heart lift just a little. "And how are things with you, Dr.?"
It appeared that she had caught him off guard. "Oh..."
Isobel and the Girls
They met in the Fontenoy bedroom which had been made up for the occasion. There were six of them: Cora, Isobel, Rosamund, Mary, Edith, and Anna.
"Are you certain Lord Merton can spare you?" Rosamund asked carefully. She did not like Dickie Merton, but she was grateful to Isobel for answering this call and was trying to show it.
"Well, enough to manage on his own for half a day," Isobel responded cheerfully. "Certainly for something this important. I am glad to see you," Isobel added, in an aside, to Anna.
"That's because she thinks the rest of us are useless," Mary murmured to Edith. It was a rare conspiratorial confidence.
"Not quite." Isobel had heard the remark. "After all, Edith has had some practical experience, too."
"Why are we meeting in a bedroom?" Mary asked, changing directions.
"Because if Cousin Violet can make it to the sitting room, then she won't need the assistance that you are here to learn to give. This course is about learning how to meet the needs of a person whose mobility is impaired." It had been a long time since Isobel, too, had had the opportunity to ply her nursing skills, but the tone of authority she had assumed when she had had a hand in the administration of Downton's convalescent home came back to her naturally.
Cora noticed. In this moment, however, it was precisely what they needed. "Yes," she said firmly. "And we're all eager to learn."
"Very good. Now, ladies, I am taking you at your word. You have proposed that we band together to care for Cousin Violet in her last days, providing the physical care she may need. This can be physically taxing, but you're all healthy women and I believe you're up to the challenge. It is going to be emotionally arduous, too, as it must be when there is an intimate personal relationship between the patient and the caregiver. I believe you can all manage that, too. Being able to make yourself useful will help with that. Finally, this is work that may also discomfit you. That you will just have to get over." Isobel had hit her stride.
"And how do we do that?" Mary asked, looking discomfited already.
"Practice," Isobel said shortly. "Now, these are the things we are going to cover: how to move, dress, bathe, toilet, and feed a person who cannot manage these essential functions for herself. We'll discuss how to assess a situation to determine when and how we should offer assistance. The tendency is to do too much when the patient is still able. But there is also the circumstance when the patient will insist on doing something of which she is no longer capable. Finally, we will address how to approach circumstances of intimate care without infringing on the dignity of the person under care."
"I don't think that's possible," Rosamund said faintly, blanching at Isobel's recital.
"Well, it is," Isobel said briskly, brooking no contradiction. "And we'll also talk about creature comforts: how to identify and address those small but essential details that transform care from a functional necessity to an act of love for that individual."
"Golly!" said Mary, uncharacteristically daunted.
"Well, what did you think?" Edith said impatiently, falling unthinkingly into an old pattern. But she caught herself. "You get used to it," she added more kindly. "And we all want to do this."
The Crawley women murmured in agreement.
"Right, then," Isobel declared. "I think the best way to tackle the physical tasks and to learn how to empathize and assure dignity is a hands-on approach with each one of us taking a turn as the patient." She looked around. "Who wants to be first?"
Lord Grantham and Mark Wallace
Every time he passed through the village square, Robert's eyes strayed to the war memorial. Like the stones in the graveyard, it was a monument to the dead. He always paused there on the green to think of those young men, where he darkened the graveyard's gate only when he had to. His Papa lay there by the church, but he preferred to remember his father at the Abbey, on his horse, anywhere but in the ground. Mama would be there soon, too soon for Robert's liking, and he didn't want to think about that at all. But he felt differently about the cenotaph and the names inscribed there. He knew them all, of course, and he felt he knew them better now, after the pageant. It had been a good idea, a healing ritual. He had written Molesley a note.
This afternoon his gaze was drawn not to the larger structure, but to the personal one, off to the side, the one he had commissioned for Mrs. Patmore's nephew. A boy stood before it, wrapped up in his muffler, staring. Robert changed course and went to stand beside the lad.
The boy glanced up at him and hastily removed his cap. "M'lord!"
Robert smiled, appreciated the gesture, but indicated that the boy should put it on again. "You'll catch cold otherwise," he said. They both stared at the plaque to Private Archibald Phillpots for a moment.
"You spoke about Private Philpotts at the pageant," Robert said, recognizing him.
"I did. Yeah. M'lord."
Robert knew he had never exchanged words with this boy before, hence the awkwardness. "You did very well," he said.
"There wasn't much to say. I didn't know much about him."
Thank God, Robert thought.
"I wanted to know what it was like," the boy said slowly. "I wanted to know about war."
That was a natural enough impulse for a boy. Several of the boys in the village had fathers who could answer that need, though Robert knew men often didn't like to talk about their war. Then he looked hard at his companion. "Your father is Jack Wallace."
"Aye." The boy spoke dispiritedly.
Jack Wallace had Brookfield Farm, a steady operation. Jack had not gone to war. An accident on the farm when he was a boy, no older than his son was now, left him without the use of his left arm. He'd refused to be kept back by it and adapted. He was an able farmer. But he couldn't fire a rifle.
"Your father helped to feed the army," Robert said. "Napoleon said an army marches on its stomach. I can attest to that. Do you know who Napoleon is?"
The boy nodded. "Mr. Molesley told us about him."
"Good for Molesley." Robert's gaze shifted to the plaque again. "We ought to have monuments to our farmers, too."
"You put up this monument, m'lord."
"I did."
The boy hesitated. "Do you know his story, then?
How suddenly the tone of a casual conversation might turn. "Yes," Robert said smoothly. It might be an innocent question on the boy's part.
"Do you know how he died?"
How to answer? With honesty that might lead to more troubling questions? With a lie? Robert squared his shoulders. "Yes," he said.
A hard look came over the innocent countenance. "Then you know he never deserved this stone." The boy stabbed his finger at the etched name.
Robert considered. "No, I don't know that," he said quietly.
"But you know what happened!"
"I do." Robert paused. "Have you ever been to war?"
It was a ridiculous question, but such was the gravity with which Robert spoke and, indeed, the aura of his aristocratic presence, that the boy did not dare laugh or roll his eyes at the absurdity of it. Instead, his eyes met Robert's and he shook his head. "No, m'lord."
"No. Well, I have."
"The South African war," the boy said promptly.
"Yes. The South African war." He paused, both to gather his thoughts and to impress the boy with the magnitude of the moment. "When we speak about war …. Mark. Mark, isn't it?" The boy nodded and Robert allowed himself a fragment of relief. He did know almost all of his tenants, including the children, by name. "When we speak about war, Mark, we speak of battalions and regiments and companies, as though units tell the stories. But on a battlefield, though there be ten thousand strong pitted against another ten thousand, there are only men. And there are twenty thousand stories, theirs as well as ours. What I have learned from my own battlefields is that I can only know my own story and I can only hold myself to account. I cannot judge another man because I cannot know what he faced." Robert spoke quietly, but with feeling. His words reflected his own convictions, deeply held.
"A tribunal found him guilty," Mark persisted. He knew that much.
"They weren't there," Robert said softly. It was all that he could say. "Well. I'd best be off. They'll be sending out a search party for me otherwise." He made to move away again and then, "How do you find Molesley … Mr. Molesley as a teacher?"
The grim shadow on the boy's face gave way. "He's cracking!"
This made Robert smile. "I am very glad to hear it."
*Author's Note: I read somewhere that the cottage hospital would not have been a full time occupation and that doctors so employed would have maintained their own private practice, for which they would have been privately paid.
