A/N: Thank you so much, Guest, for your kind review. Not sure if you mean the complicated relationship between Bates and Thomas in this fic or in the TV series, but flattered and appreciate you taking the time to comment.
Thank you so much also, Reader, for your review, delighted to know you are following and think the story well-written .
I was reading over some of my earlier chapters and mentioned my laptop dying a death. I still haven't got a new one, this is an old one passed to me by a friend. I really will buy a new laptop next year!
Have a very Happy Xmas, everyone!. :)))
***chapter 28***
He crouched down beside the prone man. "Mr Bates! Bates, wake up, for Chrissakes, you b*****d, don't you bloody well die! Wake up!" To his relief, Bates stirred a little. Slowly, slowly, agonisingly slowly. Not dead, not unconscious, thank whoever or whatever it was threw him down on to this callous earth as homosexual. But head injuries could be fatal. He'd seen enough of them when the Hun were throwing at them everything they had, and the stench of burning flesh assailed his nostrils, and the smoke stung his eyes, and he was clambering over the bodies of the dead and dying, trying to reach those who just might make it and shaking off the desperate fingers of those who never would. Any laceration to the scalp was dangerous. Not every of those poor sods in the Great War survived them.
He ripped off his shirt, pressed it firmly against the wound. "Come on, Bates, you can do this." His face felt wet. Dear God, was he really crying? For John Bates, of all people? Begging, demanding, that he recover, and all the while, all the while, berating himself. What was to become of Anna, what would become of their child if the worse happened...
Thomas released the breath he didn't know he was holding as John Bates gave a loud groan. And then his training as a medic kicked in. There was no room for sentiment in the War and there was no room for sentiment now. Like he had done so many, many times, he took care of a patient,. Fifteen minutes, that was the established medical advice, press down on the injury for fifteen minutes and…Don't die on me, Bates, don't you dare bloody well die!
Panting, as though he'd run for several miles, he checked the time on his pocket watch. But he would have known anyway. He and Teddy always could mark the passing of time with precision. Oddly, thinking of Edward Courtenay calmed him. Because the picture that came into his mind was not the last image of him covered in blood, but Teddy as he was, as he should be if life was fair, laughing, telling one of his tall tales, teasing him, sharing their secret looks, their secret smiles, their fleeting touches. And though he never truly believed there was anything after death except eternal sleep, it was as if his spirit was here with him now. Reassuring him he wasn't alone.
And suddenly he wasn't. Footsteps, hasty, running, urgent; the old-fashioned scent of lavender that, ever since he'd known her, Phyllis Baxter liked to dab on to her wrists and neck; voices raised in concern and alarm; a cold autumn wind blasting inside from an opened door.
Miss Baxter and Mr Molesley back from their walk in the grounds. He'd meant to make things difficult for them, reprimand them for their absence, give them extra work to make up for it, even though he knew perfectly well they were off duty. Knowing the only reason was his jealousy; his anger that other people could have each other.
But such pettiness didn't matter now. He might be alive, but John Bates was far from being out of the woods. And his courage renewed, more from a conviction Teddy had been there if only briefly than the reality, he took charge as he had taken charge so many times before on a battlefield with bombs and shells and fire all around him. But these bombs and shells and fires were of his own making. If Bates died, he was responsible. He would have taken the life of a child's father even before that child was born.
"Fetch water, plenty of it; ice too, there's a new supply delivered today," he instructed Phyllis Baxter. "Inform His Lordship (this to Joseph Molesley) tell him we need to telephone for a doctor. Hurry, man, hurry! We need to inform Anna too..."
A sob caught unexpectedly in his throat. Thankfully, Molesley had ceased being frozen to the spot after the impatient rebuke and was already gone and there was only Miss Baxter to hear. And she must have heard, surely. But she said nothing as she returned with a bowl of water and clean gauze, brought ice and calm, and in her quiet, unobtrusive way, tended their patient. Until she asked in a warm whisper that reminded him so much of his late mother, "What happened, Thomas?"
He wasn't sure why he allowed the use of his Christian name to pass. "He fell. Banged his head against the shelf when he went down. Stupid fool tried to pick up more than one bottle and stumbled on his gammy leg..."
But she took in his recent tears, had heard the sob in his throat, knew he always spoke too quickly when he lied. She always could see right through him. He turned away.
The bowl of water was red with blood. She brought clean water and gauze without waiting to be asked. "I have to tell you, Thomas." She used his Christian name again as she sank down beside him and handed him a cloth soaked with fresh water and again the familiar use of his Christian name somehow didn't matter; "her Ladyship knows everything. You are to be interviewed tomorrow."
It was the reason she insisted she and Mr Molesley came down to the wine cellar. To let Thomas prepare for the questions that would inevitably be asked. Mr Molesley, normally so understanding of others, drew the line with Mr Barrow, however. His opinion was, after the abysmal way he treated Miss Baxter, he should be left to face the music without any warning. But she insisted she owed it to Thomas.
Their argument was interrupted when Phyllis espied Miss Kelly, one of the parlour maids, and, with a brief explanation as to when and where it was found albeit without divulging its contents, entrusted Sheila O'Hara's letter into her care to be given to either Lady Grantham or Lady Mary. She didn't think Her Ladyship would appreciate seeing her after the strict instruction she would send for her only after she had made her decision about whether or not she kept her position as ladies maid. But she wanted to make her aware that Miss O'Hara wasn't totally selfish; she had at least tried to look after Master George in her own misguided way. Because everyone had some good in them, she told a scornful Molesley, including Thomas.
Mr Molesley insisted he could not subscribe to such easy forgiveness to a man who had been so cruel to her, although he, too, was glad they made the detour to the wine cellar and were able to help.
"I'm sorry, Thomas. I had no choice but to tell her everything," Phyllis continued in the same guilty whisper.
He only nodded, too focussed on stemming the flow of blood. Not sure what he felt about his blackmail being exposed. Nothing seemed important in the shock of realising his anger and resentment had almost killed a man. He desperately needed someone to confide in, to understand what he didn't understand himself. Maybe she didn't need him, but Phyllis Baxter would never know how much he needed Phyllis Baxter. She was his link with the past, his hope for the future, the only one who believed in him.
Dr Clarkson arrived together with His Lordship. He'd been to check on Mr Carson, who apparently would be well enough to return as butler tomorrow morning, and had been on his way to visit a heavily pregnant Anna also when he received the sudden message his presence was required urgently elsewhere.
"You've done an excellent job, Mr Barrow," the doctor assured him. "You may even have saved his life." He turned to the earl. "Mr Bates is out of danger, but a spell in hospital where we can keep an eye on him wouldn't do any harm. With your permission, sir, I would like to telephone for an ambulance."
"Of course," Robert Crawley readily gave his assent. "Please take the doctor to the telephone, Molesley. Miss Baxter, would you be so good as to arrange for a couple of housemaids to help you clear up? And inform Mrs Hughes of everything that has occurred? Thank Heaven you were on the spot, Barrow."He turned to him as Phyllis Baxter, too, departed on her errand. "But how on earth did the accident come to happen?" And how was it, he mused, wherever and whenever there was trouble Thomas Barrow was inevitably in the thick of it?
"It was most unfortunate, M'Lord, and happened in but a moment. Mr Bates stumbled on his bad leg as he entered the wine cellar to fetch the Veuve Clicquot Lady Mary requested be served with lunch and banged his head against the shelf as he fell, which caused the bottles to fall."
"But surely it would have been easier for you to collect the champagne yourself, Barrow?"
Thomas didn't flinch. He had no idea if Bates would remember enough to testify to what really happened, but he would take that chance. "Indeed, M'Lord, and of course I tried to dissuade him. But Mr Bates was adamant he wished to help."
"Hmmm." The earl of Grantham was no more inclined to believe the story than was Miss Baxter, but his cynicism was borne of previous experience and not intuition. He had considered alerting the police, but dismissed the idea. Even Thomas Barrow couldn't be capable of attempted murder. Could he? Besides, Downton Abbey had seen enough drama in the last couple of days to last several lifetimes.
First, the wonderful surprise of Tom Branson and Sybbie's return from America, then the startling news little George's nanny had fled and left him alone for God who knew how long. It was a blessing Lottie, the timid young maid-of-all-work, heard him crying and had the sense to bring him to his grandmother and stammer out an explanation, the latter being almost as astonishing as Sheila O'Hara's flight – while their paths rarely crossed, Lotttie's awkwardness and frequent blushing did draw his attention and he was sure he'd never heard the girl utter a single word to anyone before.
But. safe though he was now, his grandson was still traumatised and clinging to his Mama, who, as nothing would soothe him, was spoiling him with too many sweet treats, which were making him sick and even more difficult to settle.
"He wants Barrow, Robert," Cora said in a low voice, echoing his own thoughts. "He always does when he's upset. And, knowing what we now know about his blackmail, Barrow is not the best person to send for," she added, with a heartfelt sigh.
"Most certainly not," Robert replied somewhat testily.
His wife had shared with him what Baxter told her, but they both agreed it would be unwise at this stage to let anyone else in on the secret. Cora maintained it only fair to hear Barrow's version of events before they made any decision about dismissal and Robert concurred for her sake. As far as he was concerned, it was an open and shut case and there could be no extenuating circumstances. That young man had brought enough misery to Downton Abbey with his plotting and scheming and malevolence. He was annoyed with himself that he was ever foolish enough to allow Barrow to keep his position. They owed him for saving Edith in the fire, but hadn't they used that as an excuse to overlook his behaviour far more often than he deserved? Another, unrelated, problem was weighing heavily on his mind.
His revelation to Tom Branson that his business in the city concerned his intention to give over to him a huge part of the Downton estate did not meet with the response he expected. Instead of being delighted, Tom was furious. He wanted to make his own way in the world, not rely on inheriting land from the wealthy, who had taken that land from the backs of the workers who toiled for them for centuries for a pittance, he blazed. Moreover he, too, had "other business in the city" he wished to attend to.
Then, taking Sybbie with him because the determined little girl insisted on accompanying her beloved Daddy, he had stormed off. He'd sounded like the Tom of old, the militant chauffeur, the angry socialist, the rebellious Irishman who resented the English upper classes, and Robert could only speculate on what could have happened to so greatly alter the amiable and cheerful Tom of the night before. The only clue was a telephone call, which drew him from his bed earlier that morning and darkened his mood, but his son-in-law did not confide in anyone, not even Mary, what he and the mysterious caller discussed. And now, after George's abandonment by his nurse, the devious Barrow was sole witness to what led to John Bates being discovered in a pool of blood. How much easier life would be had he been a simple labourer. But he was not a simple labourer, he was the earl of Grantham, and uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
"I'm sorry I need to ask, Barrow, given all that's happened, but in lieu of a butler until Mr Carson is able to resume his duties tomorrow, could you inform Molesley he is to step into the breach only until you have cleaned yourself up and rested?" There was an unspoken agreement between them. Molesley was too clumsy to stand in for very long. Nowadays, with his strong empathy for others, his total lack of co-ordination, and his high verbal skills, Joseph Molesley might well have been diagnosed as dyspraxic, but in the early twentieth century the condition was unknown and his teachers confidently predicted young Joseph would grow out of his "temporary" clumsiness. Which Joseph had still not grown out of it because dyspraxic children never do.
"Certainly, M'Lord." Thomas, despite the torn shirt, the blood and sweat, did not bat an eyelid.
Sometimes Robert Crawley wondered if the man was actually human. Still, his lack of emotion would make his dismissal tomorrow all the easier. Cora might be compassionate enough to be prepared to listen to what he had to say in his defence, but Barrow cared for nobody but himself. Except perhaps the children. But, knowing Thomas Barrow as he did, there was doubtless an ulterior motive. Currying favour with the Crawley family sprang immediately to mind. Well, the obnoxious Thomas Barrow had pushed his luck once too often.
Whether or not John Bates corroborated his story was immaterial. The blackmail was sufficient to condemn him. And this time, Robert was determined, there could not be, and there would not be, any second chances.
