HamiltonAsprargus Thank you so much for your lovely review of Chapter 17 and your nice comment about my health diagnosis. Things are going really well with my treatment.

Reader Thank you for taking the time out to comment on Chapter 17, appreciated

***chapter 18***

Two days after Ben died, Thomas saw him. Or thought he saw him. He was busy winding all the clocks in the clockmakers shop, as was his task every morning, and as he closed the flap on Old Millie, the grandmother clock, he started as he saw his little brother. But he was gone in an instant. And Thomas sought rational answers.

He was tired, he'd been thinking about Ben, it was a shadow, a trick of the early morning light. The only person he ever told was Kate and Kate said she was jealous Ben didn't visit her too.

Thomas's eyes widened. "Do you really think it was..? Maybe we could go and see Dolly the Witch and ask her if ... "

His sister shook her head. "No, Tommy. The Bible says those who contact spirits are evil and we should..."

He snorted. "The Bible is a load of bloody codswallop!"

She gave him a look of mild disapproval that reminded him so much of their late Mam when he bolted his tea or forgot to wipe his muddy boots, and reproved gently, just as Mam might have done, "You shouldn't swear about what it says in the Bible, Tom. It's a sin."

"Don't be bloody daft! Jesus Christ, Kate, you're getting as holier-than-thou as..." He stopped himself just in time even though she obviously knew he meant Phyllis Baxter. She still greatly missed her so-called friend, who'd disappeared off the face of the Earth as surely as Ben vanished from their lives.

"Well, I'mnot going to see Dolly the Witch. And stop taking the Lord's name in vain!" She turned back to her mending in her lap and began rooting through her sewing box, squinting to find what she was looking for.t.

"I'm not either then."

"Good." Kate said in a voice that firmly closed the discussion, and she licked a strand of cotton thread and threaded a new needle.

Neither of them mentioned they didn't have two ha'pennies to rub together, and if they'd had two ha'pennies to rub together, they would have bought food or coal or saved to buy Kate spectacles. And Dolly Gaskell charged a fortune and was mad as an escaped lunatic from Bedlam, he often thought, what with her wild eyes and crazy talk about ghosts and ghouls and spirits. No, he didn't believe in all that tripe. But…

He never saw Ben again. Never saw their Mam. Never saw Kate after she, too, passed away. But…

Many years later at Downton Abbey the moon woke him one night. Or perhaps it was the summer breeze from the open window. Or the unsettled shuffling of a bird nesting under the eaves or a rat or fox slinking through the grounds, seeking their prey.

Or the smell of cigarettes. Because although smoking was strictly forbidden in the servants' sleeping quarters, he was sure for a moment he could smell them. But it couldn't be…

"Jesus bloody Christ!" He sat up so fast he tangled in the sheets and almost fell out of the bed.

"Teddy…?" The moon had flitted behind a cloud and he whispered into the thickness of the night. Half hoping, half afraid.

That was when there was a loud thudding against the door accompanied by a frantic and ineffectual turning of the brass door-knob. "Mr Barrow! Mr Barrow! Is everything all right? I heard you cry out. MR BARROW!"

If he hadn't always had the foresight to lock his room, no doubt Saint Hop-a-Long would've tumbled inside with brandy, smelling salts and hot poultice in his saintly desire to assist his arch enemy. It was only much, much later that the image could make Thomas smile. Right then, he could happily have strangled John Bates with his bare hands.

Because Lieutenant Edward Courtenay was gone. If he had ever been there at all, standing by the window, handsome and dashing in his army uniform, smiling at him. And he would never know if it was a dream or if Teddy's ghost really had been there until being chased away by Bates.

He furiously slid back the bolt and flung open the door. "It's called sleeping, Mr Bates. I suggest you try it some time instead of prowling the corridors hoping to find alcohol to drink."

Of course they exchanged a few choice swear words and threats but their spats were nothing new And when he was rid of the man he hated, he sat up in bed for a long, long time, silent tears streaming down his face, remembering the all too short a time of happiness and confidences he, Edward Courtenay and Lady Sybil once shared. He'd have given anything for a ciggie as he reminisced, but smoking inside the servants' bedrooms was one of the very few rules the Granthams insisted upon being adhered to, aided and abetted by Carson, who had such an aversion to cigarettes and smokers - or maybe it was just Thomas – he yearned to light up and blow a cloud of smoke in his face every time he saw him.

Ciggies had been one of their pleasures, his and Edward Courtenay's. Precious shared moments as he helped him walk around the hospital grounds, describing to him everything he could no longer see thanks to the Hun blinding him with the mustard gas. Teddy said, listening to the vivid pictures he painted, he had the soul of a poet and Thomas roared with laughter, then, with a wink at Lady Sybil - because they dared cross boundaries, the three young people, being firm friends – told him how Nurse Sybil Crawley looked around upon hearing the laugh, and he described in great detail her beautiful smile when she espied them.

She tapped him on the shoulder later when they were working together on the wards and said with a chuckle he really did have the soul of a poet, you know, and if she hadn't known of his "other preferences" she might well have believed he was flirting with her. He told Teddy about it their next smoke.

And after his initial amusement, the lieutenant suddenly sobered. "So..." he took a long drag on the almost-finished Woodbine Thomas lit for him earlier. "You have... other...preferences?"

His eyes were still bandaged, but behind them Thomas wondered if he was looking at him with the intensity of a lover. But it was early days in their friendship. Rapidly as it had grown, they had never discussed a relationship.

He flicked ash from his cigarette, stalling for how to phrase his answer. He hadn't blushed since he was in his early teens when, in one of their very last trysts, his best friend and first sweetheart Paul whispered in his ear to ask "if something like he'd just told him sometimes happened to him too when he woke?" - and Thomas blushed beetroot red because sometimes it did. Especially when he woke thinking of Paul.

But the idea that Teddy might be gazing at him as a lover made his face burn like a furnace now. "Don't you?" He asked guardedly. He suspected Teddy was like himself. The brushing against him, the sharing of secrets, the exchange of nicknames (the lieutenant liked to tease by calling him Nurse Thomasina when nobody else was around to hear). But he didn't know for sure. And even if he was, did Edward Courtenay want a relationship with Thomas? He couldn't risk losing this man's friendship and if friendship was all he could give he'd take it gladly. Nor could he risk being open about his homosexuality in case he, like so many others, thought homosexuality despicable. What if he'd misread the signals? It had happened before. He'd been beaten up more than once, had a bone broken in his nose from a punch thrown at him, and though he never thought for a second that Edward Courtenay would be violent towards him, he couldn't bear him to treat him with contempt.

Teddy was silent for a few heart-stopping moments, filling him with dread. They had their backs to a wall while they enjoyed their smokes and suddenly, non-smiling, and with the barest of touches, he surreptitiously reached inside the back of Thomas's medic jacket, his long fingers crawling lightly along his spine, up and down, down and up, up and down…

There were other patients and nurses taking the air and the staid Mr Barrow wriggled, trying hard not to laugh and draw attention to themselves. "You cunning b*****d!" He managed to splutter, with difficulty. A couple of blokes were regarding them with suspicion and he was forced to pull away, pretending the reason was to stub out his cigarette. But he had his answer. And he loved that answer. Being easily tickled was one of the secrets he'd shared.

Things moved fast after that. They made plans for a future together.* A future cut down so cruelly when Dr Clarkson decided five minutes one morning was sufficient time in which to spend informing Edward Courtenay that his sight loss was permanent and, as there was nothing more that could be done for him, he would be moved to convalesce a great many miles away the very next day. This, to a man brought into the hospital suffering from the darkest despair after the hell of No Man's Land. This, to a man still so vulnerable, so disturbed by War, only now slowly coming to terms with the terrible deaths of friends and comrades thanks to the strong friendship he shared with Nurse Crawley and Medic Barrow. Justifying his decision, when Thomas vented his anger at the news, with the excuse they were an extremely busy hospital and he was an extremely busy doctor, threatening to have his underling removed from his post if he ever dared question his authority again.

Clarkson apologised for his outburst afterwards, blamed the stress of work, his lack of sleep. But he never had the chance to tell Teddy he,Thomas, would always love and care for him. Because it was too late. Far too late. Lieutenant Edward Courtenay, plunged into a black abyss at the idea of being blind and alone forever, had already slashed his wrists with the razor he'd so carefully hidden.

XXXXX

Even though years had passed by, every night since he thought he glimpsed Teddy, he would whisper his name in hope. A new man occupied the bedchamber next to Thomas's and as Mr Finch was half deaf he had no qualms about being overheard. Thank Christ that interfering idiot Bates retired every night now to the cottage he shared with his wife. Though he was damned if he knew why he was thanking Christ when He didn't exist. Kate would've said he was damned anyroad because he didn't believe in religion. Didn't believe in anyone or anything except himself.

And maybe the vague possibility that Teddy, like Ben, really had been there. He would never know because of Long John Silver. Yet another thing he intended some day to wreak a heavy revenge on him for.

Was it any wonder he was bitter and angry with the world? The likes of John Bates could play happy couples, could marry, have children, and everybody approved while Thomas was treated with scorn. It had always been the same.

Decent folk found perverts like him disgusting, and rightly so, the footman at Willoughby Hall had sneered when they found out. It was Joe Clough blew it all out of the water. Called him a pervert and stormed out of the Red Lion when, making out they were older and the landlord too gullible or too busy or too greedy for profit to care, he got drunk on his sixteenth birthday, and in the fog of alcohol remarked on the attractiveness of a fellow a couple of years older than themselves, who was propping up the bar, speculating on whether he was "like himself" and asking Joe's advice about "making a move".

Joe blabbed. Joe Clough, his bloody best mate, who started at Willoughby Hall on the same day, worked with him, smoked with him, laughed with him.

Naively, he imagined he already knew. Thought he realised that when Thomas joined in the flirting and banter with the girls like the other lads he was simply blending in so nobody suspected, believed Joe was just being a good mate and going along with the charade to protect him. Thought he appreciated Thomas's sensitivity in never talking about lads in the same way he talked about girls, that he realised it was Thomas's way of being a good mate to him in return.

Oh, he knew Joe wasn't homosexual. Never thought he was. But they hit it off as good mates that first day, bonding over their immediate dislike of the harridan of a housekeeper and their mutual amusement at the butler's vain efforts to "talk posh", which meant he added 'h' to every word that didn't need one and dropped it whenever one did. Joe was already clocking the female staff that same day and asking Thomas who he liked. At that age, he was still stupid enough to let his guard slip. "None of the lasses here," he admitted. "I'm a bit more picky, I am, mate." And Joe simply grinned and shrugged. So he thought he knew.

He left Willoughby Hall two weeks after his sixteenth birthday.

Couldn't stand any longer the looks of revulsion, the snide comments, the sniggers, the way some wouldn't touch anything he touched. Jimmy Phillips knocked the pepper cruet with the loose top into his dinner, someone smeared his spare shirt with cheap perfume, they thought it was funny to make kissing noises every time he turned his back. True, not everyone was cruel. Some of the older servants thought a kid of sixteen beneath their notice and still did. But although not everybody was cruel, nobody understood either.

Miss Jackson confidently informed him he'd be "cured" if he courted a girl; Betty Hunt told him he only imaginedhe liked other lads; Old Harry, who was going a bit do-lally, said it was smoking ciggies so young "did all the damage, shrivelled everything up, did ciggies, and he should smoke a pipe like himself."

What hurt the most however was the way Joe turned on him. Tried his damnedest to get him out of the room they shared, told him he should sleep outside "with the other animals" and he was going to sleep fully clothed and with one eye open from now on. More than once he tried to shove him out the bedroom door, and, being brawnier, might have succeeded except Thomas kept himself fitter with regular exercise, didn't smoke like a chimney like Joe, and, sixteenth birthday celebrations aside, paced his drinking, while given half a chance Joey drank like a fish.

So he left Willoughby. He'd intended to move on in any case, to further his ambitions, but the few months he worked there he'd liked the Hall and Joe's friendship, been considering whether to stay on a while longer. His plans changed after his friend's betrayal.

He already knew of an opening at a place some twenty miles away (part of his regular exercise routine was hiring a bike from the village shop on his days off and checking out what employment was available at the big houses, with a view to climbing his own personal career ladder) and although he hadn't planned to take a job that was the same pay and same work albeit with extra duties as at Willoughby except with a fancier title, he took it, telling his new employers it was because he wanted to learn as much as possible.

Nobody wished him well the day he left. Joe Clough was nowhere to be seen. H 'Awful H'Aitch, as he and Joe had nicknamed the butler, said it was best he jumped before he was pushed, he didn't want him poisoning other young boys' minds with his unnatural ways. A couple of the staff who overheard nodded their approval. Somebody said something about Willoughby "being clean now young Barrow was gone" and there was a murmur of agreement.

But he walked from Willoughby Hall with his head held high And wiped the tears from his eyes, wishing so hard he wasn't "unnatural", the moment he was out of their sight.

The ridiculous thing was, even now, all these years later, the memory could still leave him wiping his eyes. Except now those tears dried faster, and anger long since replaced his shame. And he was no longer soft.

Willoughby Hall toughed him up, taught him a lesson. Trust no-one but yourself. Men who loved men were the lowest of the low. Didn't they understand he couldn't bloody help it? He couldn't bloody help being how he was, he couldn't bloody help his feelings.

But it was the same everywhere. Including at Downton Abbey. Men who loved men were still considered the lowest of the low. Men who loved women were welcomed and admired. No matter what their history.

He had never been addicted to drink, never been suspected of murder, never been jailed, yet he was ostracised for being homosexual. John Bates, alcoholic, who said he never touched a drop nowadays because he "never wanted to go down that road again" - ha! didn't dare, more like, one sniff of the stuff and he'd be rolling in the gutter reeking of boozer; John Bates, ex- jailbird - who should still be locked up in Thomas's opinion, he wasn't entirely convinced Bates didn't push his wife into her suicide with his drinking - could do what the hell he liked. John Bates, with his smug, superior attitude, who came along and stole his job just when he was progressing upwards with his eye on being Lord Grantham's valet.

John Bates epitomised everything that was unfair, everything he resented, and he loathed him. He had waited years to make him pay, but, perhaps appropriately enough for an under-butler, Thomas Barrow was very fond of the idea of revenge being a dish best served cold.

Phyllis Baxter had her instructions…

A/N: *They made plans for a future together. (See Chapter 11)