Chapter Seventy One
On His Majesty's Service
With disdain etched all over his august, inscrutable features, Mr. Carson stood immutable beneath the lintel over the open front door of Downton Abbey.
"Telegram for you, guv" announced breezily the young freckle faced postman now standing before him. "And there's tuppence to pay on it as well, mate".
The young man's cap was positioned jauntily on the back of his head and he was whistling a tune which Mr. Carson instantly recognised from his music hall days: "My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean", a traditional Scottish air. However, both to his annoyance and dismay, during the war, Mr. Carson had learned that American soldiers serving over in France had put entirely different words to the same melody. Their version of the old ballad was known as "My Barney Lies Over The Ocean", and consisted of a string of verses which were, in the opinion of Mr. Carson, thoroughly disreputable; indeed, verged on the obscene. Judging by the smirk on the young lad's face, it was that particular version of the ballad which the youth had in mind now.
Mr. Carson bristled with annoyance, but whether it was because whoever had sent the telegram had somehow singularly and most grievously omitted to pay the correct postage upon it, something which in all his time as butler at Downton Abbey had never once happened before; or because of the young lad's lack of sartorial elegance, because of his whistling, or because of his familiarity, which in Mr. Carson's view also verged on the impertinent, was hard to tell. Perhaps it was a combination of some or all of them. But, whatever the truth of the matter, Mr. Carson eyed the lad with something akin to contempt, considered him as verminous as the rotting carcases of the crows shot by Freddie Barnes down at Home Farm and then hung up in the branches of the nearby elms to deter others of their species from raiding the adjoining fields in search of food. And what was just as intolerable, was that the impudent young scoundrel had seen fit to lean his bicycle against the front wall of the house!
"That you have a telegram for me, I doubt very much. Neither am I your guv or your mate. And the next time you have a telegram to deliver to this house, you will kindly ensure that you make use of the tradesman's entrance at the rear".
"OK, guv" said the young boy, completely unabashed by Mr. Carson's admonishment and peremptory tone. "What about me tuppence?"
Mr. Carson gritted his teeth.
"Make your way round to the tradesman's entrance at the rear of the house and wait for me there" he said.
"OK, guv!" said the young postman with a grin. "See you in a jiffy, mate". So saying, he mounted his bicycle and set off towards the rear of the house.
See you in a jiffy? Not if I have anything to do with it, you impudent little whippersnapper, thought Mr. Carson with a scowl, closing the front doors of the house firmly behind him.
Standing alone in the magnificent entrance hall of Downton Abbey, he glanced down at the telegram in his hand. It was addressed to Lady Mary Crawley and had been posted ... Mr. Carson scrutinised the postmark. Ah, he thought, I might have known it. The stamp showed the telegram to have been despatched from ... Dublin.
It really was most improper. Not only was there the question of the under payment, but he had already taken this morning's post into the Dining Room where His Lordship, Lady Mary and Lady Edith were partaking of breakfast. To disturb them again was most irregular; indeed unheard of. However, in the circumstances, it could not be helped, so, picking up the engraved silver salver from off the post table, Mr. Carson placed the small buff envelope on it, and strode purposefully in the direction of the Dining Room.
Halfway across the hall he was intercepted by Alfred.
"Beg pardon, Mr. Carson.
"Yes, Alfred what is it?"
"There's a young postman at the back door. He's asking for you".
"He asked for me by name?" asked Mr. Carson. He sounded horrified. Indeed, his intake of breath was all too audible.
"Well, not exactly Mr. Carson".
"Then what, exactly, Alfred?"
"He said for me to tell the old gent in the penguin suit who met him at the front door not to forget his tuppence".
Alfred tried to keep a straight face.
"Thank you Alfred. Tell the ... postman I shall be down directly. Now, haven't you anything else to be doing?"
"Er, yes Mr. Carson" said Alfred now somewhat flustered.
"Then I suggest you do it" said Mr. Carson gritting his teeth once again.
Red faced, Alfred nodded, turned, and then hastily made his way back, one might even say fled, through the baize door leading downstairs to the Servants' Hall and the other offices.
Old gent in a penguin suit!
Mr. Carson fumed, silently apoplectic. Before the war, such impertinence would never have been tolerated; indeed, such a thing would never have happened in the first place. Next time he was down in the village, he would definitely have to speak to the post mistress.
Unbidden, he felt a muscle twitch in his cheek. That had happened a great deal recently, in the wake of this blasted business of Lady Sybil and Mr. Branson. Instinctively, Mr. Carson now pressed two fingers firmly against his face to still the errant muscle. On reflection, all things considered, it was his opinion that, as he had heard His Lordship remark earlier to Lady Edith, everything was going to pot: and that comment had been made over something as minor as her failure to record the borrowing of a book from the Library in the ledger provided for that very purpose.
From his position over by the buffet in the Dining Room but a short while earlier, well before the arrival of the insolent youthful postman, Mr. Carson had been able to observe, discretely of course, Lady Edith's mortification that the matter of the book had even been mentioned, but on that matter, Mr. Carson was with His Lordship.
Rules were rules.
Lady Edith had said she would rectify her mistake directly after breakfast, but then seemed unaccountably lost for words when her father, and thereafter Lady Mary had pressed her as to the reason for her borrowing the particular volume in the first place. At that, she had seemed to grow decidedly reticent; had said something about wanting to look up a family recorded on a wall tablet she had seen in the church where Lady Sybil and ... Mr. Branson had been married. However, when asked the name of the family, she had been unable to recall it, whereupon His Lordship had remarked that if that was the case, then there was very little point in her borrowing the volume in the first place.
When Lady Edith had sought to solicit the support of her elder sister that had proved futile. The looked for support had not been forthcoming, which only made the matter worse. Mr. Carson thought he knew the reason for Lady Mary's displeasure and it was nothing to do with Lady Edith. A letter postmarked from London had arrived for her, from Sir Richard Carlisle; the content of which she had the proceeded to read out to both His Lordship and Lady Edith.
Written not by Sir Richard himself, but by his secretary, it informed Lady Mary that, unexpectedly the man himself had been called away on urgent business which had taken him across the Irish Sea to, of all places, Dublin. He would not now be arriving at Downton on Saturday as had been his intention. If it was convenient to the earl and countess of Grantham, he would travel down to Yorkshire the following week-end, arriving in time for dinner. Nevertheless, he would have to leave directly after breakfast the following Monday.
"So nice of him to spare the time to bother to visit us at all" Lady Mary had remarked tartly. In fact, she had scarcely been able to contain her annoyance, said that there was no way Mr. Branson - whom she referred to as "Tom" - would have treated Lady Sybil that way when she was his fiancée and that he would certainly not do so now she was his wife. His Lordship had ignored that particular remark, which, given all the circumstances of that most unsatisfactory matter, Mr. Carson had thought to be a very wise course of action.
Sir Richard, or rather his secretary writing on his employer's behalf, had expressed his sincere felicitations - Mr Carson had seen Lady Mary's lips curl at the use of the phrase - at her having survived the explosion at the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin, said that he had no doubt whatsoever that she had proved more than a match for the damned Fenians, but had expressed no more interest in the occurrence, nor indeed enquired any further after her well being, or that of her two sisters ,or made any remarks concerning what it was that had taken both Lady Mary and Lady Edith over to Dublin in the first place. Mr. Branson did not even merit a mention. At that particular omission, if only for a moment, Mr. Carson's opinion of Sir Richard Carlisle had soared, even if he did consider his apparent indifference towards Lady Mary's well being to be singularly lacking in both tact and decorum.
Mr. Carson had heard nothing further of the content of Sir Richard's letter, being called away by Albert to answer the front door and to his wholly unexpected and totally unsatisfactory encounter with the impudent young postman.
Now, in an attempt to restore his customary equilibrium, although the unexpected arrival of the telegram was to put him out of sorts for the rest of the day, Mr. Carson now counted silently to ten, and then rapped smartly on the door of the Dining Room.
On his knock being acknowledged from within by His Lordship, Mr. Carson walked into the room.
"My apologies for disturbing you, Your Lordship".
"That's quite all right, Carson. What is it?" asked Lord Grantham.
"A telegram has just arrived ... for Lady Mary". Mr. Carson paused. "From Dublin" he added. The tone in which he uttered the last two words managed somehow to convey the extreme distaste with which he viewed the whole affair of Lady Sybil and her marriage to the family's erstwhile chauffeur, Mr. Branson.
"Thank you, Carson" said Lady Mary taking the telegram from off the silver salver.
Now was not the time to raise the slight matter of the underpayment of the postage. Mr. Carson grimaced and withdrew. He would speak to His Lordship about that later in the day.
The earl of Grantham resumed his interrupted reading of his newspaper.
Following last night's altercation in the Drawing Room about bloody Branson, other than exchanging the customary pleasantries of the morning, so far this day, Robert Crawley had said little else to either of his two elder daughters, apart from asking Edith about the volume apparently missing from his library.
That said the latest news from Ireland, as reported in the Times, was disturbing to say the least. First there had been that nonsense back in January of the Irish setting up their own parliament, then that criminal de Valera and two others had been spirited out of Lincoln Gaol, and now the damned Irish were setting up their own courts! To think of Sybil being in the midst of it all; why, it didn't even bear thinking about, although Robert refrained from commenting to either Mary or Edith as to the latest news from across the Irish Sea. As to the telegram, Robert raised his eyes heavenwards, shook his head in annoyance. No doubt it was from Sybil, either asking for money or else advising them all that bloody Branson had been proclaimed a saint.
"From Tom and Sybil?" asked Edith looking nervously across the table at Mary. She set down her tea cup in its saucer.
"I should think so. After all, we don't know anyone else over there in Dublin" said Mary not even bothering to look up, but concentrating instead on tearing open the telegram. Hastily she scanned its contents.
"Oh my God!" Her hand flew to her throat.
"Mary, whatever is it? Not bad news?" gasped Edith. Mary didn't answer her sister. Instead, she continued just to stare at the telegram, her face as white as the linen cloth covering the table.
Lord Grantham folded up his newspaper, laid it aside.
"What is it, Mary?"
"It's from Sybil, Papa" Mary paused, seemingly unable to speak another word.
Robert said nothing. His very silence itself spoke volumes.
Seeing her sister's eyes fill with tears, Edith blanched.
"Mary, why, whatever's happened?"
"Here, read it for yourself!" So saying, her face ashen, her voice breaking with emotion, Mary handed the crumpled telegram across the table to Edith. She watched dispassionately as Edith scanned its printed contents.
"It would seem that you have your wish, Papa" said Mary brokenly.
"My wish?" The earl of Grantham now looked questioningly at his eldest daughter. "Whatever do you mean, Mary?"
In a halting voice, Edith read out the written words now before her.
"Lady Mary Crawley
Downton Abbey
Yorkshire
England
Tom disappeared. Believed taken by IRA. Police searching. Utterly distraught.
Sybil".
"Are you satisfied now, Papa?" asked Mary, either unable or unwilling to hide the bitterness in her voice. "Now that Sybil's husband, our darling Tom, is probably dead? Excuse me".
So saying, Mary rose from her seat. Her father made to do likewise. "No, Papa. Don't bother to get up. You keep reading your newspaper" said Mary despondently, making no attempt to hold back her tears, instead letting them flow freely down her cheeks.
As she reached the door Mary paused and turned back to her father.
"Do you know what the saddest thing in all this is, Papa?"
Despite her remonstrance, Robert had risen to his feet. Edith had done likewise.
The earl of Grantham shook his head, looked questioningly at his eldest daughter.
"I don't know what you mean", he said lamely.
"The saddest thing, Papa, is that darling Tom defended you even when Sybil said she wanted nothing further to do with you, after she heard how you had tried to bribe Tom to leave Downton without her. Even then, darling Tom told her to keep faith, that you were still her father, that given time you would come round. Well, Papa, it seems that time has just run out".