Chapter One Hundred And Sixteen
Inferno
"Bugger me! Jaysus, no!" yelled Tom, both appalled and horrified by what he had just heard and seen. Fighting back a rising sense of panic which threatened to engulf him, clad in vest, pyjama bottoms and slippers, slamming down the window, Tom ran for the door of the bedroom. Wrenching it open, heedless of the noise he made, knocking an ornamental vase off a table in the corridor as he ran past, scarcely hearing it shatter on the floor behind him, Tom fairly bolted down the narrow, arched, rugged passage which led back to his and Sybil's bedroom. Bursting in through the door and into the curtained, darkened room, he ran quickly over to the bed, his slippered feet making no sound on the thickly carpeted floor, and with both hands hurriedly shook his peacefully sleeping wife gently by the shoulders.
"Sybil! Darlin'! Sybil! For God's sake! Wake up love, please! We've got to get out. Now! The house ... This house ... it's on fire!"
To begin with, Sybil seemed not even to have heard what Tom had said. Exhausted by the long journey, the travails of her advanced pregnancy, let alone all of what had happened during dinner and thereafter, Sybil was sleeping deeply, unaware of the drama now unfolding about her, here, in her childhood home.
Tom shook her once again, this time rather more forcefully than before, which at last seemed to produce the desired result, as Sybil stirred languidly, stretched, yawned, opened an enquiring eye,and looked up at Tom from the comfort of their bed.
"Tom, darling? It's awfully early, isn't it? What is it? Can't you sleep?" she asked groggily. Not even yet half awake, so still not comprehending a word of what Tom had just said to her, Sybil turned on her side and made to burrow back down beneath the sheets and blankets, pulling the coverlet about her, and snuggling into the mountain of pillows.
Tom was having none of it. Grasping hold of the covers he fairly stripped them from Sybil's grasp, pulled them down to the bottom of the bed.
"Tom! What on earth are you doing? Here give those back. It's cold!" Sybil made another grab for the bedclothes. Now wide awake and kneeling up she gathered then about her, looked mutinous at him.
"Darlin' if you stay where you are, shortly you'll be anything but cold, of that I can promise you for sure!"
"What? What on earth are you talking about Tom?"
"The house, this house is on fire. We've got to get out, now! Here, put this on..." Tom grabbed Sybil's silk dressing gown from off the back of the chair.
"Fire? What fire? There isn't any fire. Tom, darling, you've been dreaming. Here, come back to bed and we'll discuss it further". Sybil smiled and patted the mattress beside her provocatively .
"Christ, woman, I'm serious!" yelled Tom, grabbing the bedclothes from off his wife's shoulders. It was just then that Sybil smelt smoke, and which, even now, was beginning to eddy along the passage outside the open door of their bedroom.
"Oh, my God! No!" Brushing aside Tom's offer of assistance, Sybil scrambled quickly out of bed, grabbing her dressing gown from Tom, and hastily thrusting her bare feet into her slippers.
"Darlin', we need to wake the others" said Tom.
Once out of their bedroom, with Tom supporting Sybil, together they stumbled slowly along the corridor, coughing and spluttering. The smoke from downstairs was becoming thicker, the roar of the flames ever more audible. As they made their way along the passage, suddenly, and without warning, above their heads, the lights began to flicker as the heat of the fire started to affect the stability of the electrical wiring of the house. A moment later and the lights went out completely, instantly plunging the corridor into a smoke-filled, hazy darkness.
Time ceased to have any meaning; in fact, for one brief instant, it seemed to stand still. Then, still clinging to each other for mutual support, almost bent double, the acrid smoke making the two of them continually cough and retch, gasping for breath, Tom and Sybil groped their way slowly along the now darkened passage, towards the bedrooms of both Mary and Edith, situated across the landing, on the far side of the house, while from downstairs, from somewhere in the flame shot, fiery darkness, came the sound of cries and screams.
Having at length reached the landing, keeping close to the inner wall, and well away from the carved wooden balustrade, in the smoky blackness, bumping into the occasional chair, they edged their way cautiously around the landing, the soft, measured, comforting ticking of a long case clock standing somewhere close by seeming strangely at variance with what what was now unfolding downstairs. Here, at least for the present, the smoke was not as bad, and despite the lack of electricity their joint progress, painfully slow, on account of both the darkness and Sybil's condition, was helped by the presence of the dozen or so ornate, glass globed, candle -lit storm lanterns set atop the carved handrail. At last, they reached Mary's bedroom where, in the darkness, Tom made to grab hold of the door knob.
"Tom, no! You can't just go barging into Mary's bedroom! Or for that matter, Edith's. It's really not proper". Sybil coughed and retched.
"Not what? Jaysus! Sybil, darlin', don't be so feckin' ridiculous!"
Ignoring Sybil's shouted protest, with both fists clenched, Tom fairly hammered on the wooden panels of the door to Mary's bedroom. When that elicited no immediate response, he simply kicked open the door, in the process breaking the lock and splintering the woodwork, to find, not surprisingly, that Mary was already wide-awake. Eventually having been awoken by all the noise and commotion on the far side of the house, she then had made to switch on her bedside light, only to find it wasn't working, was, they could see, despite the all-pervading gloom, now sitting up in bed with a startled expression on her pale face, her dark hair braided for the night into a single plait contrasting vividly against the stark whiteness of her embroidered nightgown.
"Mary! For God's sake get up! Now! The house is on fire! We need to get out! Now! All of us!" yelled Tom. Seeing Mary's dressing gown lying atop the foot of her bed. Tom flung the garment at her, leaving his sister-in-law in no doubt that he was in deadly earnest. Mary didn't need to be told twice, immediately swinging herself out of bed and grabbing for her dressing gown. Even if she had been disbelieving of Tom's shouted warning, seeing Sybil, her eyes large and luminous, standing there behind Tom, framed in the darkness of the open doorway of her own bedroom, and with gossamer trails of smoke now beginning to drift along the passage outside her own bedroom, Mary was left in no doubt as to the seriousness of their situation.
"I'll see to Edith. Tom, you wake Mama and Papa! Oh my God! Sybil, darling, what is it? What's wrong?"
At Mary's shouted words, Tom spun about to be confronted by Sybil, almost bent double, resting one hand against the door frame, her other clutching her stomach. Tom was by her side in an instant, his arm about her shoulders.
"What is it? Is it the..."
"The baby? Yes, I think so" answered Sybil weakly. Droplets of sweat beaded her brow, her breathing was laboured and she screamed as a sudden pain shot through her, then the spasm passed. Mary was now kneeling by her side; looked up questioningly at Tom.
"What on earth do we do?" she asked querulously. biting her lower lip.
"Go on, Tom" urged Sybil. "Do... do... as Mary says. I'll only slow you down. I'll be all right, I'll follow in a moment". She winced as another spasm of pain shot through her.
"Jaysus, no! I'm not leaving you!" yelled Tom, tears starting in his eyes. He would not let anything happen, either to her or to their unborn child. "Whatever happens, we face this together! Whatever we do, we do it together!"
As once again the pain began to recede, if only for the moment, Sybil instantly relented.
"All right then, but you'll have to help me".
"Darlin', it'll be my pleasure!"
At that, Tom caught Sybil up in his strong arms and, with her hands clasped tightly about his neck, her face nestled comfortingly into his shoulder, with Mary following close behind them, together, the three of them made their way out of the bedroom, now moving slowly further along the landing towards the corridor which led towards the bedrooms occupied by Edith and by the earl and countess of Grantham.
From below, in the hall, and resounding up the main staircase, there came the unmistakable, terrifying crackle and roar of flames, interspersed with all kinds of other sounds: the creak of timbers and woodwork contracting, splintering and splitting asunder, the noise of breaking glass as window panes crazed, then shattered, accompanied by a cacophony of cracks, bangs and minor explosions as all manner of fixtures and fittings whether of glass, plaster, or woodwork, ceilings, doors, windows, panelling, skirting, floorboards and furnishings, were consumed by the relentless progress of the flames.
As they continued their tortuously slow way across the landing, through the smoke and flames, Tom glanced briefly down into the hall, where to his utter amazement he espied, standing fully dressed by the inner main doorway to the abbey, the august and portly form of Mr. Carson. Despite what was now taking place, just like the slow measured ticking of the grandfather clock on the landing, somehow, the presence of the old butler was faintly reassuring. While all about him there unfolded a scene of complete pandemonium and everything dissolved into chaos, Mr. Carson continued to do his duty as he saw it; was even now, on the telephone, his sonorous tones clearly audible above the crackle and roar of the flames, asking prosaically that he be put through to the local constabulary; to inform the fire brigade in Ripon that their immediate assistance was urgently required at the earl of Grantham's residence. Downton Abbey was on fire.
Elsewhere, clad in a mixture of night-clothes, hastily donned part uniforms and mufti, servants were running in and out of the front doors of the abbey, backwards and forwards across the stone-flagged hall, trying to save what they could of both furniture and paintings from those rooms immediately at risk from the all-devouring flames.
Halfway around this side of the landing the three of them were now met, unexpectedly, by Edith, ashen faced, clad in her nightgown and a thin shawl, and who, like Mary, had been awoken by all the noise. Seeing Sybil held safe in Tom's arms, but nonetheless so obviously in pain, Edith's hand flew to her mouth. Rapidly Tom appraised her of the situation. That done, all four of them set off again, along the darkened, smoke-filled landing.
Once across the landing, Mary banged hard on the door to her parents' bedroom, and when she received no immediate reply Tom kicked open the door to find that what was transpiring elsewhere in the house had neither gone unheeded, nor unheard, by both the earl and countess of Grantham. Both Sybil's parents were already awake, Cora in the act of sitting up hastily flinging a shawl around her shoulders, Lord Grantham climbing out of bed and reaching for his dressing gown.
"Lord Grantham. Downton Abbey is on fire!"
Of course, not only had Tom heard of the British aristocratic reserve, he had also had ample opportunity to observe it at close quarters during his time in service, but never had he seen it displayed so openly as it was now by the earl of Grantham. For all the reaction his words produced, Tom might just as well have said that the Renault was awaiting the family at the front door for an afternoon run into Ripon.
"Indeed. Thank you, ...Tom" responded Robert quietly, then hastily averted his eyes, well away from the sight of Sybil, heavily pregnant, clad only in her night-clothes, held fast in her husband's arms, and with her hands clasped tightly about Tom's neck.
On seeing Sybil, then hearing her moan, realising only too well what might be about to happen, Tom heard his mother-in-law gasp, saw her hand fly to her mouth, just as Edith's had done but a short while ago, although, as yet, Cora still made no attempt to move.
"Lady Grantham ...Cora. You must get up. We all have to leave, now, while there is still time".
Just behind him in the smoke-filled shadows Tom heard sudden movement as a flustered, black-clad O'Brien bustled self-importantly into the room.
"I'm very sorry, Your Ladyship, but I'm afraid that what Mr. Branson says is true".
"Thank you O'Brien. I didn't think for a moment that it wasn't", said Cora equally dispassionately and in the most prosaic of tones, almost as if she had been informed that afternoon tea was about to be served on the terrace, not that her house was burning down about her. Even if it was but an act on the part of the countess of Grantham, it was an outstanding performance, a veritable tour de force. and Tom mentally awarded full marks to his mother-in-law for her phlegmatic approach to the gravity of what was now taking place.
"O'Brien, would you be so good as to please see to my jewel box?"
"Yes milady". O'Brien moved towards Cora's dressing table.
Tom couldn't believe what he was hearing. Did heirlooms, jewels and trinkets matter more than their very lives? Something of what he was thinking must have been evident in his face, for it was then that Cora bestowed upon Tom the very warmest of smiles, nodded her head, indicating, that, despite all appearances to the contrary, she did indeed appreciate the seriousness of the situation, and what it was that she must now do.
For his part Tom readily understood that he, let alone the others, should make himself scarce as his mother-in-law climbed out of her marital bed. But, as she did so, Thomas, whatever his private vices, always so impeccably presented, now disheveled, jacket less, collar awry, shirt torn, his face begrimed with smoke and soot, and heedless of all propriety, burst unannounced into the room.
"Your Lordship, the main staircase is on fire" stammered Thomas, horrified by what was happening, letting slip his customary mask of composure, both his distress and fear laid bare before them all.
"Calm yourself, man! Now, what about the fire brigade?" asked Robert, once again in the most placid of tones, as if he was simply enquiring about the time of the next train to York.
Thomas still said nothing.
"Thomas?" repeated the earl of Grantham with infinite forbearance and in the same measured tones as before which, somehow, now worked wonders on Thomas's frayed nerves, as when, at last, he responded to his employer, the de facto footman, and ersatz valet, did so much more calmly.
"Beg pardon m'lord, but Mr. Carson has already alerted the local constabulary to our present predicament. I understand the fire brigade from Ripon will be here directly". Thomas's tone was now as measured as that of the earl of Grantham; as if he was announcing that expected guests had just arrived for dinner.
"Thank you Thomas. Now, tell me, where precisely did the fire first take hold?"
"Below stairs, m' lord, in the area of the old kitchens. Some of the house servants and workers from the estate are trying to fight the fire using the pumps with water taken from the Great Fountain on the west parterre, although there was some delay".
"Delay? How so?"
"I believe the water in the fountain was frozen, m'lord".
The earl of Grantham grunted, nodded his understanding of what he had just been told.
"And you say the main staircase is on fire?"
Thomas nodded his assent.
"Good God! Then we have no alternative. We will make use of the back stairs instead".
But in that they were all to be sorely disappointed.
Author's Note:
Whether or not started deliberately, at the time of the story, the outbreak of fire in an English country house was an ever-present threat. Of course, by virtue of what they were, most such houses were situated well away from the nearest fire station. Accordingly, many of them had their own fire buckets and pumps, although the latter were often antiquated and sometimes worse than useless, with water being obtained for both from any suitable nearby source.