***chapter 13***
HamiltonAsparagus You were right about Denker singing the Tipperary song. I'd completely forgotten until I saw a repeat of DA recently. I originally chose it because I read it was one of the most popular songs of the First World War.
DowntonReads My updates will usually be four-weekly, though I am going on holiday soon (staying in the UK, fortunately, going abroad these days is too uncertain!) so the next chapter might be a bit late. Glad you enjoyed reading about Edward Courtenay's childhood.
Thank you, both, for reading and especially taking time to review.
A/N: Again, the time line in my fic is is slightly different to what happened in the show in order to add my own spin on events – and my own fiction to it, of course :D
Not that he sought them out and nor did he do anything to encourage them, but it seemed Thomas Barrow was destined to always lose the few friends he made. James Kent had been a rare exception to his unwritten rule of bitterly resenting all. Admittedly, he originally took a shine to the man because he thought Jimmy extremely attractive and mistakenly believed him to be of the same persuasion as himself. Once that particular misconception was cleared up, however – and not without great trauma and distress on both sides - they discovered they had quite a lot in common and a friendship was born. They shared the same sometimes cruel sense of humour, the same disdain for anyone they considered beneath them, and of course it did no harm that he saved Jimmy from a beating at the Thirsk fair.
But Thomas Barrow's sterling record of losing those he cared about continued unblemished. Jimmy was gone from his life now. Caught in his former employer, Lady Anstruther's bedroom. Despite both parties being consensual to the night-time visit, he was dismissed before the scandal could catch the attention of the newspapers. Thomas had agreed to keep watch for his friend, but even he couldn't leave someone to die when Lady Edith accidentally set fire to her room. He had been skating on very thin ice yet again with his scheming and under threat of dismissal himself, but in the end his heroic deed earned him a reprieve while sealing Jimmy Kent's fate.
Lady Sybil was long gone too. And Thomas was still angry with Tom Branson for it. Bad enough that she married the jumped-up chauffeur without Branson apparently having a death wish for his wife. To begin with, he took her off to Ireland, knowing full well the political unrest there put her in grave danger. Revolutionaries were targeting the English upper classes like Lady Sybil, burning down their properties, turfing whole families out of their home, and worse. Jesus Christ, all she would have to do was open her mouth and say one word in that cut-glass accent of hers…! Next, he left her alone in his home country after he fled from the police. By some miracle, and no thanks to Branson, she made it back to Downton Abbey on her own.
And then Tom Branson killed her anyway. Sybil died in childbirth. Another reason for Thomas to hate him, as if his jumping rank and being waited on now by the likes of Thomas hadn't already been enough.
He was very fond of their daughter, though. Like Lady Sybil, Sybbie rebelled against convention and it was clear the tot had no intention of behaving as genteel society, even in these modern days of the 1920s, expected little girls to behave. Not for Miss Sybbie looking pretty, avoiding rough and tumble games, sitting demurely and playing quietly. Clever and lively and full of mischief, she had a finger in every pie, and often had her nurses at their wits end as she climbed and jumped, delved and dived, tore her dresses and cut her knees.
Thomas kept a fatherly eye on her from the very beginning and Nanny West lasted no more than days after he discovered she treated her charge unkindly and regarded her as a "half breed". He'd always had time for children and while he was arrogant as ever with his colleagues children quickly sensed his softer side,. Master George, embarrassingly enough, on one memorable occasion, cried heartily to be released from his Mama, Lady Mary's lap, and held out his arms for Thomas, who was doing nothing whatsoever to encourage the infant, but merely standing on duty nearby, his expression aloof as ever. And quite how little Sybbie Branson at the tender age of two instinctively knew he was both her guardian and protector when he only ever watched her from afar was a mystery. But know it she most certainly did.
The first time Thomas realised exactly how perceptive Miss Sybbie was had been the day he was busy overseeing a couple of boys unload luggage after Lady Edith and Lady Crawley's recent trip to London. He was vaguely aware that in the distance Nurse Mottram was out walking with both Master George and Miss Sybbie, and he frowned at the conspicuous absence of Sybbie's nanny, Ruth Poole, making a mental note to check all was well with the children. Suddenly, out of he corner of his eye, he saw Miss Sybbie, running faster than she had yet learned how, as she usually did, take a tumble. She was up and on her feet almost as soon as she fell and obviously unhurt, but, oh! there was her great friend Thomas!
Ignoring Nurse Mottram's instructions to wait, the two-year-old toddled quickly as her plump little legs would allow towards him, palm raised like a little American Indian.
"Sore hand," she announced, proudly displaying the hand she had put out to save herself, which, apart from a tiny grass stain, had not so much as a scratch upon it.
"I am very sorry to hear that, Miss Sybbie," Thomas replied gravely, amusedly fighting back the urge to raise his palm too and with a play on words respond "How?" as characters in the wonderful new world of talking picture Westerns were apt to do. But, the joke going over Sybbie's head aside, as an under-butler and especially with an audience of two very young staff he had to remain professional. "Nurse will be with you instantly."
Indeed, Master George's nursemaid, Margaret Mottram, was at that very moment hastening after the tiny accident victim as best as circumstances would allow - circumstances in this case being one Master George Crawley, who was strolling leisurely as a tourist keen to take in the sights, including what must have been a particularly interesting blade of grass, for he had reached a dead halt to stare at it. As the youngster was barely ten months old. new to the whole business of walking and swaying alarmingly, poor Nurse Mottram needed to keep a very firm grip on his hand while her other hand tightly gripped the perambulator, Lady Mary's pride and joy almost as much as Master George was, which was in danger of rolling together with the youngest Crawley down the grassy slope and into the ornamental pond.
Sybbie spared her not so much as a fleeting glance. She looked briefly at her palm, as if to check it was still there, then presented it again to Thomas, together with a conspiratorial smile, perfectly aware there was no injury, but keen to spend time with her favourite person.
"Sore hand," she repeated, watching him with the same bright eyes as her mother.
Unfortunately for Sybbie, and much as both would liked it to have been so, an under-butler's duties was not childminding. As it was, a relieved cry of "Thank goodness you're back! Did you fix it?" from Nurse Mottram alerted them to the return of Nurse Poole, red-faced and flustered, smoothing down the torn skirts she'd hastily mended with pins to prevent her bloomers from being on display to the whole of Downton. Thus, with a sigh, loud and heartfelt from Sybbie, and inwardly from Thomas, were they reluctantly parted.
Thomas turned to see the two boys unloading the car grinning at him and immediately became his usual surly self. "If the pair of you have got time to stand there staring, then I'm obviously not got giving you enough work," he snapped. "I guarantee I've plenty more for you."
Nor was Sybbie to be defeated so easily, Nurse Poole may have thwarted her attempts to reach her friend this time, but there would be other times. Just a week or two later, in fact.
Thomas did not sleep well the night before and, feeling somewhat rundown, had made a rare and uncharacteristic error in his work. Trivial though the matter was, Mr Carson was a perfectionist and hauled him over the coals the first chance he got, which happened to be in the unoccupied smaller dining room that was used by the children and their nurses. At least, both thought it was unoccupied. Until Thomas saw her.
Unnoticed by Charles Carson, a small figure sat under the table, looking pleased with herself. But she looked absolutely delighted and pressed a shushing finger to her lips when she realised Thomas had seen her.
Hide and seek was Miss Sybbie's latest game of choice. He had been keeping an eye on her often enough to know. The little girl loved nothing more than to find what she fondly imagined to be an ideal hiding place and Nurse Poole would give her five minutes or so before "discovering" her. The nursemaid could afford to wait. Sybbie's hiding places were inevitably in full view, Sybbie being convinced that covering her face with her hands so that she couldn't see meant nobody else could see her either.
But this time Sybbie was too curious about the unexpected visitors to remember to cover her face. And, despite decades of practice in concealing his emotions, Thomas was forced to choke back a laugh when the toddler, annoyed that her favourite was being scolded, scowled up at Carson and stuck out her tongue.
"Is anything the matter, Mr Barrow?" the staid butler demanded pointedly.
"No, Mr Carson. Just a tickle in my throat."
The little minx apparently found the idea of a tickle in a throat puzzling enough to check if a tickle lodged in her own, for now, mouth wide open like a baby bird and eyes wide, she was somewhat worriedly clutching her neck. Fortunately, Thomas's years of training came to his aid this time. He could chuckle all he wished back in his room later. (And so he did, so he did, although it did have Wilfred, the new hall boy, green enough and wet behind the ears enough to rush in where angels feared to tread, not yet aware of Thomas Barrow's renowned sarcasm, knocking on his door to politely ask, "Are you quite well, Mr Barrow? Shall I fetch help?" and to sincerely wish he hadn't.)
"Hmmm." Charles Carson regarded the under-butler suspiciously as he took a step backwards - and almost toppled over Sybbie, just in the act of exiting her crawl space, who squealed and darted out of harm's way in the nick of time.
"Good Heavens, whatever is that child doing here?!" Carson's question was answered immediately as at that very moment Ruth Poole appeared in the doorway to re-claim her charge and became the second person within minutes to feel the lash of his tongue.
His friendship with the children lightened Thomas's mood and the servants joked with each other in amused astonishment that Mr Barrow must be suffering from some strange malady, for he was in danger of being almost civil these days. It didn't last. Because neither did his friendship with Miss Sybbie.
Tom Branson decided to start a new life in America and within weeks he and his little daughter were gone. For all the usual activity that characterised Downton Abbey, the grand dinners, the wealthy guests, the never-ending frantic bustle from Downstairs to ensure everything ran smoothly Upstairs, the huge house was empty without her. The only one who had any time for Thomas Barrow now was Master George. But George was still just a tot, still learning to walk, his vocabulary limited to a handful of baby words. Cry as he might for Thomas's arms, Upstairs and Downstairs alike simply thought it funny and quaint and never once thought to grant the request the child was far too young to articulate.
The days were dark without Sybbie Branson to brighten them. Sometimes when he retired for the night, Thomas would sit alone in his room, staring at books he never read though he turned every page, listening to the rain rattling dismally down, only memories left now of those he'd loved. Paul. With his crooked front teeth and merry blue eyes, his first love his first sweet kiss, his first heartbreak when Death stole him too young. Kate. Sister, defender, guardian, always there for Thomas, trying so hard to understand although she never could. Ben. The little brother he played football with, quarrelled with, laughed with, hated and loved. Reggie. With his soft country accent and shyness, his wide brown eyes and penchant for deep conversations about Heaven and Earth even in the middle of No Man's Land. Lady Sybil. Gentle yet brave, strong yet vulnerable, never prejudiced, never judging, believing in everyone, even Thomas. Jimmy. Golden hair and ready wit, smoking buddy, drinking partner, talked too much and with an eye for the lasses too much to ever quite finish a ciggie or pint, best mates until he left Downton and then he heard from him no more. Little Miss Sybbie. Mischief maker extraordinaire, jumping from interest to interest, from game to game, loveable and lively and loud, leaving a trail of mayhem and echoing silence in her wake. Edward. Soldier, huntsman, farmer, raconteur, dreamer, and every dream dashed in a moment when the mustard gas scorched his eyes and scorched his soul.
He still missed Edward Courtenay greatly. Often he re-lived their final moments, looking for the clues he missed that Teddy would leave him too, their last conversations poked and prodded in his mind, the same words churned over and over and over. Could he have done something, said something differently? He'd only brushed away his lover's fears about his blindness being a burden in their future together, told him he could never be a burden, thought his glib answers sufficient to reassure. Should he have looked deeper, asked further, instead of laughing away his sweetheart's concern as if it were no more than a whisper on the breeze? He knew he was depressed, he and Lady Sybil had warned Dr Clarkson, but Thomas never truly believed...Not until the morning they found him, bright red blood pouring from his wrists but still too late, the razor blade he'd stolen from a shaving tray streaked with blood and shining in the bright sunlight.
He grew angrier and more bitter every day, yearning to take his revenge on a world where others could know happiness while his could never be.
His chance came one wild March morning when leaves were torn and scattered from the trees and rain clouds swept furiously across the sky.
"Mr Barrow." Charles Carson, who was distributing the post, arched an eyebrow as he handed a letter to Thomas. Unlike the other servants, who heard regularly from family and friends, it was rare indeed for the under-butler to receive any correspondence other than postcard notifications or invoices from the stores he frequented. Never, that he could recall, anything that wasn't official looking or emblazoned with a company's self-important adverts.
"Thank you, Mr Carson." Thomas maintained his professional composure although he was baffled. The small, neat handwriting was vaguely familiar but he couldn't quite place it until he ripped open the envelope and suddenly the memory struck him. Kate had had a habit of keeping things for sentimental reasons. A dress brooch that belonged to their Mam. A lock of Ben's baby hair. Pressed flower petals. A picture Thomas scribbled when he was four years old. Her first prayer book. The stub of a pencil Fred Lacey, her unrequited love, had used.
Instructions for a complicated sewing pattern written by someone who left his sister years ago and just when Kate needed a friend more than ever before. And he had promised himself he would never forgive Phyllis Baxter…
