***chapter 31***
Thomas barely slept, but sleepless nights when he wept afresh for Teddy, even after all these years, were nothing new. He had to accept Edward Courtenay was gone. Long gone. Teddy never could and never would be here to hold him again.
Desperate for the sleep that eluded him, seeking something to take his mind off the problems that kept him awake, he flicked through the latest American magazine he'd purchased a few days earlier with his usual paper and smokes. He always enjoyed reading the entertaining articles; some were funny, some sad, some thought-provoking. The Yanks were not afraid to poke fun at presidents and politicians as well as themselves; they embraced new ideas, looked to the future. Maybe he should take a rain check, as they said over there, on the plan to meet up with his cousin in Bombay if – as looked likely - he was sacked from Downton Abbey. They were strangers anyway. Ken had gone to Bombay to work after his parents died when Thomas was a small child. America, however, was the land of opportunity. They reckoned anyone could succeed in America if they worked hard enough. He was young, fit, smart. It would be a wrench leaving everything he had ever known, especially the Crawley children, but so would going to Bombay.
Feeling slightly more optimistic, and choosing to ignore the sharp stab of sadness reminding him he would miss the children even if he only moved a few miles down the road, Thomas turned the pages and began reading about the latest American theory as to how diseases spread.
A carrier of an illness didn't always feel ill or might only show mild symptoms, the article said, quoting the infamous case of Typhoid Mary* as an example, but medical research suggested their body fluids could carry illness from person to person. The Yanks even had a slogan for it: Coughs and sneezes spread diseases.
His vision blurred as long-buried memories resurfaced. The diphtheria outbreak. When he'd felt ill for only a short while but others died. And suddenly he was back in the city of his childhood…
...with its sun-starved courts and barefoot, malnourished street urchins; its long factory chimneys belching their fumes over the rain-drenched Manchester streets; the bustling crowds and the rolling wheels of wagonettes and trams; the mingled smells of fruit and fish and meat from the market stalls, where on the high street the old brown clock above the clockmakers door creaks and sways in the wind...
The day down by the canal when he tasted the magic of a kiss with Paul, when they leaned towards each other, shy and hesitant, curious and excited, hearts beating like drums, was the day he killed his sweetheart.
The day he sneezed while standing close to Kate and laughed dismissively at her admonishment to use a handkerchief was the day he killed his sister. And then Ben…
...an unremarkable afternoon, just before Ben is taken ill, when the sun is playing hide-and-seek with the clouds and rain-puddles have not yet cleared, and he is so furious with Ben for telling tales to their father and the beating that resulted, that he shakes him roughly by the shoulders and spits in his face. A great glob of spit catches the little boy on the cheek and dribbles down into his mouth and he smirks as he watches Ben tearfully, angrily, trying to wipe it away...
The day he spat at Ben was the day he killed his brother.
He was poison. Poison, just like his father said. When sleep finally claimed him, it was paltry and cruel, coming only with exhaustion in snatches of restless and guilt-ridden nightmares.
And yet somehow he managed to hold it together next morning.
He had his reputation to uphold and he couldn't, he wouldn't break down. He wouldn't give any of them the satisfaction. Man of Iron, Jimmy Kent jokingly called him once. He liked that. Liked that he sounded strong, anchored, determined. But inside him there had always been a maelstrom of emotions, compartmentalised and concealed ever since his best mate Joey Clough betrayed him when he was sixteen. No one would ever see him so weak again. Especially not the likes of John Bates. Or Charles Carson.
The stalwart butler was recovered from his sickness and back on duty and immediately they were sniping at each other in their usual fashion as Thomas gave his report. Carson returned the neatly prepared paperwork detailing expenses into its folder and looked up. He hadn't been able to find a single fault with the under-butler's work. Not for want of bloody well trying, Thomas thought, knowing how much the man despised him for his homosexuality. "What I fail to understand, Mr Barrow, is why Mr Bates and not yourself was fetching the champagne when he suffered his accident?"
"I was under the impression, Mr Carson, you did not approve of my visiting the wine cellar after a certain unfortunate episode some years ago?"
"Which does not answer my question, Mr Barrow."
"Nor answer my question, Mr Carson."
Carson regarded him as he might have regarded a particularly nasty bug under his shoe. "As you will be aware, Mr Barrow, I am informed that His Lordship and Her Ladyship will speak with you about a very serious matter in the library later this morning. I would strongly advise you to watch your step."
"Thank you, Mr Carson, and I can assure you I always tread carefully on the library stairs while the new carpet is still settling." He smiled with polite innocence. But the time was ticking down to when he was due for that interview and whether or not Bates told the truth about what happened – he was saintly enough to cover for him and Thomas couldn't make up his mind whether to be grateful to him for it or to feel contempt towards him for it – he was a condemned man.
But he kept up the pretence that nothing was amiss and his face was a mask of indifference as he carried out his duties. And all the while. all the while, the Abbey clocks were ticking away time lost and time yet to be in steady heartbeats that used to comfort and console him and derided him now.
Downton Abbey was home.
Every moment. Every breath. Every nook, every cranny, every picture, the polished silver platters and the flash of chandeliers, the hubbub and boiling pans of the kitchens, the clink of glasses as he poured wine in the grand hall, and the Crawley family in all their finery; the excitement and anticipation and busyness of the servants' quarters when party guests arrived, the rustle of skirts and scent of perfume from ladies in evening dress and murmurs of polite conversation from gentlemen in tuxedos; the quick, dry wit of the Dowager Countess; the tip-tap of Mr Bates's walking stick and Anna's warm smiles; the blazing heat of a roaring fire in the drawing room that a maid had lit in the iciness of a winter's morning; the smell of cigars from the smoking room and the air of anticipation in the shuffling of cards; Daisy's books and Miss Baxter's quiet presence; Mrs Hughes's proverbs and Mr Carson's staidness...
Downton Abbey was family.
Each bringing his or her own unique character into the mix. And like all families they drove each other to distraction and despair, encouraged and supported, fought and argued and teased, loved and respected, envied and scorned, but always they held fast to a sense of belonging. Not that he would ever admit it, not that he ever showed it, but he cared deeply what every single one of them thought of him. Secretly, he yearned to earn the approval of Mr Carson, wished he could be as keen on culture as Mr Molesley, as enthusiastic as Daisy, as focussed on a future as Mr Jacobs, as cordial as Anna...
Damn them, he would miss the whole bloody lot of them. Even John Bates. It was a shock to realise he didn't only resent Bates, he admired him, which long ago was the way Phyllis Baxter described Thomas and Ben's relationship with each other. Strangely, he would miss all his old adversaries, Bates, Carson, and Molesley...But who would miss him or even care when Downton Abbey cast him out?
Perhaps Miss Sybbie, Master George and Miss Marigold. At first. But they were so very, very young, they would grow up, live out their lives, their childhood memories fade with time. Perhaps Lottie. The kid might think of him occasionally. But she would overcome her shyness, make her way in the world, marry, have children of her own, become grandmother to theirs and Thomas would be a distant memory.
And God knew why after the way he'd treated her, but Miss Baxter would probably miss him. If she kept her own employment, that was.
All morning she'd shot him sympathetic glances and seemed on the verge of speaking with him more than once. But it was obvious she'd been advised to avoid Thomas and he'd been told to stay away from Miss Baxter - His Lordship euphemistically referred to it as "being advisable until the business with which we wish to discuss with you is concluded". He knew it was a veiled threat that he was hanging by a thread and the slightest rocking of the boat would guarantee the thread was snapped.
Thanks to Miss Baxter's warning, Thomas already knew that business was about much, much more than Mr Bates's "accident" and that Miss Baxter had pleaded his case, actually defending him for blackmailing her. A thin sliver of hope, that Lady Grantham would agree he deserved yet another chance was all he had left. And though his late sister's old friend had her own tenuous position to consider, she knew he was dismayed over what happened with Bates and managed to reassure him.
She began talking about him within Thomas's hearing. Dr Clarkson said he could confidently state Mr Bates would make a full recovery, she informed Mrs Patmore and Daisy, neither of whom had asked the question, just as Thomas entered the kitchen. Yes, they already knew. She told them so not ten minutes since, Mrs Patmore reminded her with a puzzled smile. Did she not recall?
"Oh, it's because I'm so happy that he is!" Phyllis replied, and to prove it hummed some catchy tune that only Thomas could tell was forced. Because she wasn't happy. She was worried about Thomas.
And if he hadn't already known she fretted over him as a mother would over a favourite son, the scowls to curdle butter which Mr Molesley, who seemed to have appointed himself Miss Baxter's defender and protector and strongly disapproved of that maternal affection, regularly directed at him confirmed it. He could have pulled rank, rebuked Molesley for his insubordination, which would result in a docking of pay, but his heart wasn't in it any more. Which was odd because he thought he'd brought his heart under control long ago. Too dangerous. Too weak. Too many people hurt already.
The day he tasted the magic of a kiss with Paul was the day he killed his sweetheart.
The day he sneezed while standing close to Kate was the day he killed his sister.
The day he spat at Ben was the day he killed his brother.
Thank God John Bates survived. One more death in addition to losing his home and his livelihood would have pushed him right over the edge. Often, too often, in the darkest of hours when he ached with loneliness, he considered it. Something swift and sure and it would all be over. A bullet. As under-butler, he could easily obtain the keys to the cabinet where the hunting rifles were kept. A train thundering along the track, one jump... ! A fast flowing river, icy and deep and forever… Anywhere, anywhere out of the world...**
The day he tasted the magic of a kiss with Paul was the day he killed his sweetheart.
The day he sneezed while standing close to Kate was the day he killed his sister.
The day he spat at Ben was the day he killed his brother.
A lump came to his throat. He couldn't be seen like this. Besides he needed to concentrate on his work if he was to stand even the remotest chance of being kept on. And there was a mystery that just might put him in Lord and Lady Grantham's good books if he solved it.
Vinnie Walsh, the boot boy with a penchant for telling tall tales, had not been seen since yesterday. Mr Jacobs was able to confirm he had indeed arrived at the Bates's cottage with a message for Anna as per Lord Grantham's instructions, but he'd been too busy attending to Anna to see where he went next.
Thomas, like everybody else at Downton Abbey including Lord Grantham, who had since been enlightened by Mr Carson of at least two other instances when Vinnie "disappeared" only to be found taking forty winks, was not unduly worried. It was the general consensus he had probably awarded himself some time off hoping he wouldn't be missed, and when caught out would dream up some cock-and-bull excuse. However, there was always the slim possibility that he had a genuine reason for being absent, perhaps met with an accident, and His Lordship declared even if his slacking off work proved to be the case, as it almost certainly was, Lady Grantham was a little concerned and would appreciate the servants keeping an eye out for the youngster.
The rarely used corridor was an ideal place for Vinnie to take refuge in. The lad might well have decided the rarely used cupboard was an excellent place in which to snooze undisturbed. And the quiet corridor was somewhere Thomas could hide his emotions.
It was on his way to check out his theory that it came. The final blow.
"Lottie!" Thomas was snapped abruptly out of his introspection as he came across the young maid-of-all-work sitting all alone on the window seat of that very corridor, mop and bucket abandoned, and to judge by the lack of water in the mop bucket and spotlessness of the mop never used nor intended to be used, her face buried in her hands, sobbing as though her heart would break. "Whatever's the matter? Has someone told you off?"
"It's Mrs Bates, Mr Barrow," Lottie said tearfully. The junior staff never thought it polite to call Anna by her Christian name as everybody else did. Only Master George's former nanny, the very self-assured Miss O'Hara had ever flouted that unwritten law.
"Mrs Bates? Anna? Why would Anna yell at you?"
"She didn't, Mr Barrow. She can't, Mr Barrow." Lottie took another huge gulp to swallow her tears. And delivered the news that sent him spiralling into a deep and hopeless depression darker than any he had ever known before. "Mrs Bates is dead."
*In the early years of the 20th century, Mary Mallon (Typhoid Mary) was believed to have infected 53 people in and around New York City with typhoid fever.
**Anywhere, anywhere, out of the world (line taken from the poem The Bridge of Sighs by Thomas Hood)
