Downton Abbey:

The Sufficiency of Service (formerly "Guy(s) Night")

by Mirwalker

Chapter Forty-nine: Perpetuity

Thursday, 16 January 2013

Thomas' carriages on the return trains to Downton were largely empty, as even the other third class passengers sensed better than to join the young man with bloodshot eyes and uncombed hair who slouched against the window. Whether or not they sat long enough to see that he was actually weeping openly, his overall appearance and demeanor were more than sufficient to have most begin to board, and then select any other car.

As they'd done, sleepless, for nearly four days, Thomas' solitary heart and mind jumped amongst the stream of bleak moments this London sojourn had become, each more horrendous and hopeless than the others…

He bawled each time he returned to the eternity spent clutching and crying over Ian in the street, as water, cold, mud, hushed whispers and harsh reality seeped in. The police constable had quickly given up on prying Ian from him, not needing much inspection or the later arriving ambulance team to confirm there was nothing to be done for one member of the soaked pair, and that the other was not ready for outside interference of any kind.

Thomas seethed now that he had not become angry then, until it was too late. The irritated and well-dressed man had grudgingly left the comfort of his stately automobile to bicker with the constables at being held up from his important business by "paupers running into the streets…" Demanding the bobby's name when asked his own, and declaring the matter closed, the man had tossed a ten pound note onto the ground beside Thomas "for your loss" as he ordered his anxious driver "on to the Palace!"(1)

Thomas ached again at having finally been coaxed into the white lorry, and finally parted from Ian at the hospital so that they could confirm the day's ugly end. He remembered little of what they asked or told him, as he hunched in the closest corridor. Everyone avoided him there too, until a detective or doctor, he hadn't bother to note which, had asked whether he would be claiming the body, and by what right—simply for the records.

"I'm his only family… Cousin…," he'd finally been able to whisper.

"Mm-hmm. And his given name?"

"Ian."

"Mm-hmm. And his surname? Sir, what's his family name?"

"He's a Barrow. He's Ian Barrow."

He flinched on recalling how Mrs Babcock had reacted when opening the door to the policeman who insisted on dropping him at his London address, rather than any number of pubs they'd passed on the way. He could still hear her sniffling when she'd left the tray and kettle outside his upstairs, mockingly double room. She still was when she fetched it, untouched, in the morning.

He'd clenched his eyes and nearly ripped through his pockets as he stood there over the bed intended for him, turned down, his name wobbly scribed on a pillow card, and a bouquet of paper roses just off-center its way on the table between the beds. Having the good sense to take off his soiled clothes, he had crawled into the other bed, and tried to smother himself in the scent before it could fade. And he stopped breathing entirely as he relished Ian's smell in the sheets they should have shared.

Under the pillow, he discovered a wadded undershirt he'd lent to Ian, who'd apparently comforted himself with a similar fabric substitute. Confirmed that Ian still hated to sleep alone, Thomas had burst into a fresh rounds of sobs, realizing his lovely boy was again alone, bloody, cold and filthy in a strange place this wretched night. A new guilt overtaking his grief, he'd rushed to clean himself up, gather a few fresh things, and be waiting in the dark when the mortuary opened hours later.

Not entirely surprised to find him already gone, Mrs Babcock joined him soon enough, assuring him another boarder would be stopping by the publishing house, so they wouldn't worry. She continued to sniffle, and insisted on holding his hand throughout the seven miles travel out to the simple graveside service at St Pancras and Islington Cemetery, the closest, best and most timely option he could find in the busy, costly capital.(2) Despite her well-meaning intrusion, her presence probably kept him from falling apart every few feet of the trip, or throwing himself into the open grave once there.

When she finally trusted or tired enough to give him a moment alone, he pulled Ian's original self-portrait from his chest pocket, stifled a moan and smeared a little of the displaced dirt in one corner. Before they'd sealed the simple coffin back in the city, he'd asked for a moment alone there too. He had gently pulled back the shroud, needing one last look at his sleeping love, and one last confirmation that this was horrible, but no dream or prank; no jam this time; nor breath or hope. He'd tucked a muddied sketch of himself back into Ian's chest pocket, and slipped the intended ring onto Ian's finger. He'd spoken his vows, pulled up the simple sheet and kissed his angel good night a final time.

Now standing over the eternal bed—one of two plots hurriedly purchased, and swearing against what little was left holy in his life, he completed the oath. "You have to go, love; that's true. But I promise, I will follow quick as I can…"

Ignoring his own appointments entirely, Thomas had collected Ian's few items at the office, thanked them for the flowers sent to the boarding house, and donated all but the sketches and a single handkerchief to a children's charity for use or resale. He'd thanked Mrs Babcock for her care of both Barrows, leaving her at her door to seek his extended comfort in every glass, bottle and cask the large city had to offer. He drank silently until the barkeep put him out; and then sobered enough in a futile search for his pigeon self, to start again at a new pub.

Having thus found only more emptiness across the crowded city, he'd finally sobered enough not to be thrown off the northbound trains, and so shifted his mobile anguish to steam-powered hours spent leaving his hopes behind and returning to all the superficial nothingness he had left in Downton. From the small station, Thomas pushed on past yet another bridge that Ian would have marveled over, and that he now wished to leap off. Skipping the draw of both village pubs where Ian had visited, he persisted to knock instead at the front door of Crawley House.

Ignoring the cold drizzle and Molesley's cold shock, he dug in his case on the doorstep, explaining, "I have something for your mistress…"

"Oh…," the small butler stammered, aghast that the servant would come to the main entrance at all, much less in such a frightful state. "Sure you wouldn't rather come 'round…?"

"A moment! I just have to find it here…"

"Is that Thomas?" a less bothered voice called from down the hall. "Do invite him in!"

"Well…!" the butler hesitated, caught between their conflicting intentions and larger etiquette expectations themselves.

"Here!" Thomas grunted with no satisfaction, and stood to find a curious Mrs Crawley approaching, to both men's dismay.

"Thomas? Oh dear, what's happened?" her signature cheer evaporated on seeing the disheveled shell of a footman dripping on her doorstep. "Do come in! Molesley, have Mrs Byrd put on tea, and get some towels."

"I will not be staying," Thomas interjected, with no usual appreciation for the offer. "As Mister Molesley's thinly veiled apoplexy should suggest, we've already violated several major standards by meeting at this entrance. And, I've only stopped to deliver something. Ian finished your request before-" He thrust a roll of wax paper directly to her, as his voice failed him.

Waving away the obviously uncomfortable butler, Isobel implored, "Thomas, whatever is it? Has something happened? To Ian?"

Weren't so concerned for others on Monday, were you? Thomas nearly said aloud, casting his glare at the ground instead. As the self-appointed saviour to all reached out toward him, surely intending to console, he snatched up his bag and stepped back, into the rain and out of reach. Gritting his teeth in chill and anger, he nonetheless was honest as he could be. "He thought very highly of you, mam; he said so on many occasions." And despite what's happened, "I know he'd want me to thank you again. And so I do… I have to get back." He nodded curtly, turned on his heels and nearly jogged away into the dusk.

Startled enough at the terse departure, Isobel clutched the scroll as she slowly closed the door. Stepping up to a sconce in the hall, she unfurled the gift to find three heavy parchment sheets, each signed with a grateful, stylized "I." First, a nod to her integral role in getting him there: a crisp charcoal of his publisher's grand headquarters. Second, the commissioned pencil drawing of Matthew, capturing both a business serious look and also charming twinkle in his eyes. And, entirely unexpected, a concocted sitting of mother and son together, with the additional inscription of "family."

"Mam?" Molesley asked hesitantly, on finding her now crying in the hall.

"Tea and more light in the parlour, please," she bustled past him. "And delay the postman's leaving by whatever means you can."

Thomas was already long soaked through by the time he finally walked around the Abbey to the delivery yard. He only grew more so when he found himself unable to move past the spot where he was introduced to Ian just ten weeks earlier, on another cold and wet night. Unable to step in front of any vehicles, or off any high places over the past few days, or to drink enough or eat too little, or anything else to swiftly follow Ian as promised, he was now equally incompetent before this holy site, where his angel first appeared to him.

Perhaps he too could just settle behind some crates here, and wait for his desired reunion. Or, as doubts had begun to creep in, would he just linger on there, his purgatory debt still unpaid, or perhaps even larger now? Whatever his Judgement, he knew there would be no salvation, no success for him in this world; he didn't want it. Not any more.

"Deciding whether to report for duty, or run free?" a familiar and also jaded voice asked. "I struggle with that meself on that very spot after each half-day away." Emerging from the service door, his nearest thing in the world to a friend gave him a critical once over before offering him a smoke. "If it helps, I won't say I saw you…"

Unable to make any other decision in that moment, he plodded over to her and accepted some burning relief.

If she noticed his unusual silence or unkempt state, or attributed either to more than poor weather, she didn't mention it. In fact, she offered without prompt, "You haven't missed much here. That young groundsman who was making eyes at the maids during the Ball, he came knocking for Gwen Tuesday evening. I daresay Mister Carson has already put a word in with Mister Jarvis by now…"

"Worked like beasts; treated like rubbish; that's our lot," he summarized, half-listening and not at all surprised.

"So nothing's changed at all then. Happy New Year!"

NOTES

1. The Earl of Grantham will offer the same amount seven years later for the safe return of his dog. (Series 2, 2011 Christmas special)

2. Established in 1854 to relieve crowding in more central London cemeteries, it is now the largest cemetery in the UK, by number of interments (approximately one million).

Am taking advantage of a real world Guy Fawkes muse-rush to polish off some heavily outlined chapters; hopefully can keep up the pace. Thanks for faves, follows and reviews. All build momentum!