***chapter 42***

More criss-crossing tramlines had been laid since he was a boy and the No 92 now stopped in Arthur Street, one of the "little prince" streets, on its way to the newly opened tram station outside the Market. Aiden would say he was sixpence short of a bob when he heard he'd jumped off here, he thought, smiling to himself. He always smiled when he thought of Aiden. The warmth of his arms and the softness of his gaze, his touch, the feel of his skin against his own.

But they said you never forgot your first love, that they would always hold a very special place in your heart, and though he was long gone, cruelly taken in the diphtheria outbreak when they were just thirteen years old, he still felt a pang of sadness when he remembered his first sweetheart. Of his merry blue eyes, silken fair hair and crooked front teeth, of how sometimes the sun would tan him so well that he would be mistaken for a foreign child, of his hearty laughter at Thomas's jokes, of how beautiful he looked when he laughed, so beautiful that Thomas yearned for them to kiss. And they did, just once, down by their secret place on the canal towpath, the last time they ever saw each other.

And he needed to visit again the streets he and Paul Latham had walked down - or, if other lads happened to get wind of their whereabouts, leg it bloody fast! They always had to be on their guard for that. Kids who wanted to beat them up for being different. Paul was never as fast and never as strong and often, without Paul realising, Thomas would deliberately slow down, allowing him to get away while he took the kicks and punches just as he did for Jimmy Kent so many years later.

The "little prince" streets, though, they were a great place to lose any bullies. The four long streets consisting of rows of sturdy town houses built in the mid 1850s and inhabited by the middle class, were named after Queen Victoria's four sons, and led down to a maze of centuries old, cobblestoned streets and meandering alleyways and, eventually, to the canal, their favourite place, where they could be alone together.

They always felt giddy with happiness and freedom if they managed to reached the "little prince streets" without being followed. Paul had even made up a nonsense rhyme that they would chant in between splutters of laughter about being imprisoned in the Tower of London if, by some wild chance, Royalty ever heard it. What was it now? "Now Alfred and Arthur brain were both p****d "as a newt when they thought for a hoot 'twould be so bold as to kick a boot at Leopold...then something about Bertie being shirty..."

"'Afternoon, sir." The policeman approaching from Alfred Street tipped his helmet.

"Good afternoon, constable." Thomas briefly touched his own hat in return, albeit puzzled. What the hell did the police want with him?

He had his answer soon enough. "Hope you don't have too far a walk home, sir. More heavy snow forecast - as if we ain't got enough already!" He sighed at the heavy flakes swirling around them.

He hid his amusement while the officer continued his beat. Jesus, a bloody rozzer mistaking him for a toff! Paul would have laughed till he cried. Back in the day, coppers would clip them round the ear or swipe the back of their head soon as look at them. Not just because they were kids either. He remembered well how different their attitude, everybody's attitude, was towards the poor compared to their deference, everybody's deference, towards the rich. He still wasn't sure where he stood on the Them and Us divide. Young Daisy was forever harping on about politics, causing some of the younger servants, who'd never thought of it before, to question exactly why they should regard the gentry as their betters. He'd had to put the tin lid on their occasional mutinous mutterings and have a word in Daisy's ear over that. And remind her of the fact, unlike many of the upper classes, the Crawleys genuinely cared about their Downstairs staff. Which was why, with the only stipulation from the Earl of Grantham (who had confided in Tom Branson when he boarded at Eton as a boy he knew several schoolfriends "experiment") that they "must always be discreet", Aiden now lived in the Gatekeeper's Lodge.

Gatekeeper's Lodge was something of a misnomer. A gatekeeper was no longer required since, in these more modern times, the gates were always left open, and, unlike in days gone by, the gardeners, not the gatekeeper, took care of Downton Abbey's imposing entrance. Aiden, who now worked with his brother and Lady Mary's husband Henry Talbot in their burgeoning car business, was in a unique position, neither servant nor family, and as the lodge was neither servant nor family quarters, this arrangement was ideal. Although "being discreet" meant it was unwise to see each other every day and they could never live together, it was the closest they could come to being a couple as man and wife could. Maybe in a hundred, even fifty years from now, people like himself would be accepted. Maybe they never would. The changes since the Great War had been fast and furious, but nobody could see into the future. Nor could they alter the past.

Thomas walked more swiftly now, the thick snowflakes immediately covering his footsteps as if they never were. Reminding him of how far too soon those we love are gone. And perhaps it was only the snow that stung his eyes.

XXXXX

For hours, he had wandered the old streets where not a soul knew him now, watching the crowds thin out as the swirling blizzard froze them to their very bones, those lucky enough to have a roof over their head, be it the filthiest hovel, hurrying to its dubious comfort as keenly as if it were the most luxurious palace, those who had nothing but the clothes on their back seeking something, anything, that might provide them with warmth, however brief, alcohol, a cardboard box, a doorway, a bench, their faces gaunt, their eyes wary. They passed him by, the drunks and the whores, the sad and the strange, the beggars and the lonely, in shouts and whispers, screams and sobs and laughter, flitting through their ghost-like world.

Lost in his thoughts, he finished his walk outside the clockmakers, his old childhood home a shadow of its former self, as lonely and empty and wretched as he had felt the day he left. He struck a match in its doorway, cupping his hands over the small flame to light a final cigarette. It was time he caught the train back to Downton. An early evening moon had already risen to glisten over the snow. Anyroad, Mr Bates would start to panic if he didn't show up soon!

"I imagine it will still be a very emotional journey for you, Mr Barrow," he'd said, when Thomas told him the reason he would be absent today was to collect an overlooked item from his late father's estate. He knew of the unhappy relationship Thomas had with his father.

Thomas himself had spilled the beans last year in the Bates's cottage while they sat together awaiting Aiden's arrival for the meal to which they had been invited. Not that Thomas had intended to tell him about the misery of his early years, but he was bouncing baby Johnny on his knee, and there was the delicious aroma of Anna's cooking, and while Mr Bates contentedly sipped tea, the whiskey the Bates's bought in for their guests tickled his throat deliciously and the words slipped out as they reminisced about their childhoods while Anna, firmly rebuffing all offers of help with the roast dinner, every now and then contributed an anecdote of her own.

Bates had a habit of drawing him out like that. Somehow it worked the opposite way too. He knew how hard it was for him to avoid the demon drink and how even one sip might send him spiralling back down into alcoholism, how lucky he was that Anna had no taste for alcohol so they never normally kept any in. But it being just a few days after Christmas they wished to provide a Christmas drink or two for their friends, although it was essential, John Bates said gravely, extracting a firm promise from Thomas that they would, Mr Barrow and Mr Branson took any unfinished whiskey back to the Gatekeepers' Lodge with them to ensure he avoided any temptation. Sharing such confidences as they were, he suddenly understood why the name for their cottage on the plaque above the door was simply Home.

"Look after yourself, Mr Barrow," Mr Bates added, and patted his shoulder. Bloody hell, he half expected the man to wipe tears from his eyes! Still, the memory made him smile. There was something warm and reassuring in knowing he always looked out for him. Not that he was ever going to tell him that. Nor would he ever tell him how concerned he was when the annoying fellow unwittingly put his walking stick down on a patch of ground frost and slipped and fell. He had a feeling Bates knew, though, damn him!

The irony not lost on the clockmaker's son, he checked the hour on the "overlooked item", his late father's pocket watch, and then, out of habit from his boyhood, glanced up at the familiar large brown clock bearing the name Barrow and Son that still hung outside, where Time had died quietly long ago on some unknown morn or eve, its hands fixed forever at quarter past six. The thought struck him then. Six and a quarter - young Master George's age!

They had walked together in the snow yesterday morning, he and Master George, Miss Sybbie, Miss Marigold, and little Johnny Bates. The Rainbow Nursery, as Aiden christened the quintet.

XXXXX

"Mr Barrow! Mr Barrow, listen!" Master George demanded excitedly, and he stomped twice more on some deeper snow glittering in the winter sunshine, fascinated by the noisy crunching it made. "I'm a soldier marching! This is fun!" He added, his face ruddy with the freshness of the morning air, his eyes shining with happiness.

And he lifted his chubby legs higher in imitation of the marching soldier of his imagination and held his gloved hand out towards Thomas in invitation. Thomas took it at once, thankful he never wore his uniform when spending time with the children. His finely polished butler shoes would have been highly impractical wear, unlike the sturdy boots he had on now, as he, too, obligingly dug his feet into the snow with George, and called out to the other youngsters. "I have an idea. We'll ALL be marching soldiers! Come on, everyone together!"

Slipping and sliding a little in their eagerness, the newly falling snow soft enough to cushion any fall, Sybbie, Marigold and Johnny excitedly hurried to join in. After ensuring Johnny, the youngest and most likely to be unsteady on his feet, was sandwiched between himself and Sybbie and that George was tightly clutching Marigold's hand at the other side, Thomas yelled in mock authoritative sergeant major tones, "Step lively, you 'orrible lot! One, two, three...Soldiers, forward MARCH!"

With squeals of delight and screams of joy, the newly-appointed troops attempted to do so, raising their knees and bringing their feet heavily down on the blanket of white in an effort to move forward – but, their legs being too small to make much of a dint, they found themselves constantly sliding backwards in zig-zag fashion and making no progress whatsoever. It was an impossible order to follow and fortunate they were not a real army as they quickly disbanded and slid here, there and everywhere, their laughter matching Thomas's own.

Giggling, Sybbie wagged a reproving finger at Thomas. "You knew that would happen, Mr Barrow!"

"Miss Sybbie! I am so hurt you should even think that!" Thomas pressed his hand on his heart. "Of course I did." He winked, making Sybbie giggle all the more.

As a boy, he often used to play the "marching soldier" game if the snow was deep enough, or the "follow the footsteps" game or "smash the ice" game or simply throwing snowballs, with Paul or Kate or Ben. Memories that had slipped away with the beatings and darkness of his existence until the children brought them back so vividly. There was something else he hadn't done since he was as a boy and there was certainly enough snow this winter for it. "Right, kids! Who's ready to build the biggest snowman in the world? So big it might even come alive?"

Arguing, shouting, jostling, crying, laughing, they all were. Thomas herded the four children around him, soothing tears, straightening those who looked likely to fall, dusting snow off those who did, issuing instructions, sorting quarrels, giving praise and encouragement. He loved their company as much as they loved his. He loved the way they always needed to ask him "important" questions such as how long it would take to dig to Australia if they started right now, if clouds were made of mashed potato and could they eat it, whether cavemen kept pet dinosaurs, who was hiding inside the wireless to make it talk? And today's question: did he think polar bears and penguins would like the snowman?

As usual, the Rainbow Nursery was hectic. Little Johnny Bates had broken off from the snowman project to try to catch snowflakes on his tongue, Miss Marigold, who had lost one of her gloves twice before and had it found and returned twice before, tugged Thomas's sleeve to inform him (very proudly) she had lost one of her gloves again, Master George wanted to know if he should fetch his seaside bucket and spade to dig snow for the snowman, Miss Sybbie (who, to Tom Branson's despair still refused to wear hats no matter how cold or hot the weather, had, however, reached a compromise with Thomas and agreed to wear a thick woollen scarf tied around her head as though recovering from toothache) was enthusiastically piling snow into a heap as fast as if her life depended upon completing the task within minutes, taking a brief time out to jump up and down and wave Marigold's lost glove that she'd just discovered next to the snowman-to-be, and obviously envisaging the end product as a well-to-do snowman about town, for with a wicked glint in her eye she confidently stated her intention of obtaining Donk's top hat and "very best" scarf.

He would have to ask the nurse to fetch coal for the eyes and a carrot for the nose, Thomas thought, enjoying himself as much as the children. The day was perfect. The sky was a breathtaking pink, the winter air was fresh and bracing, Downton Abbey was covered in a Christmas card blanket of pure white save for an interesting circle where they had earlier played "follow the footsteps" on a shallow area under the shelter of the trees. And tonight he would be with the man he loved.

"I do declare, Mr Barrow is the oldest child here!" Nurse Venables, Miss Marigold's nanny, whispered to Lottie in fond amusement as they helped with the snowman building. "And the kindest, sweetest, most patient man I ever met," she added, as Thomas re-acquainted Marigold's glove with her tiny hand, fixed Master George's loose boot, picked Johnny Bates up because he was upset at being "too little" and together with Miss Sybbie - who seemed determined the snowman would live up to his public's expectations of being the biggest in the world - rolled her second huge ball of snow into place.

There was no romantic notion in Bertha Venables' remark. Like many of the staff, she suspected Thomas's relationship with Aiden Branson went beyond friendship, but she was of the opinion it was their business and nobody else's.

"Oh, he is!" Lottie emphatically concurred. She was now Nurse Lottie, assistant nanny to all the children, and she and Nurse Venables were on duty today to accompany Thomas on his regular outings with the youngsters. "He really, really is!"

He was. He always had been. Everybody said so. Because these days it wasn't just the children who knew.

XXXXX

Like the steady ticking of the timepieces in the clockmakers shop predicted long ago, the years would pass and a boy would grow into a man. And the boy who became a man no longer belonged in yesterday. His family, his home, his life was Downton Abbey, and it was time to return home.

Thomas inhaled a last deep lungful of nicotine, withdrew the cigarette from his mouth, tossed the stub down into the snow, prepared to leave. But then a large patch of ice sparkled in the early moonlight and his heart leapt with joy. Miss Sybbie, Master George, Miss Marigold, little Johnny Bates, they never would have missed a thrilling opportunity like this! He'd done the same as a boy, but as an angry and bitter man his world was only ever dim and dark. Until they awakened the child who slept within. Their world was magic. Their world was filled with laughter and colour and wonder. Their world was rainbows.

And there were large patches of ice. Waiting. Glittering, enticing, welcoming, calling to the child within.

He brought his boot heavily down in the icy gutter, watching in quiet satisfaction as cracks branched out like spider veins, then kicked and heeled gleaming pebbles of ice along both gutter and frozen pavement, listening to the crunching underfoot, remembering the winter the water pipes froze when he and Kate broke slabs of ice in the clockmakers yard and turned the chore into fun.

And, lost in the childlike thrill of play, he almost didn't notice when someone slipped, barely managing to save themselves by catching hold of the nearby gas lamp.

"I had hoped to get home without breaking any bones."

The voice, weary and emotional, snapped him out of his daydream and he looked up guiltily. There were areas in the vast grounds of Downton Abbey where he and the children could smash ice, safe in the knowledge nobody else would stand on it. But he wasn't at Downton Abbey. He was in a busy Manchester street, and people had no choice but to walk on its pavement if they wished to reach the butchers or general store or Market. Or home.

Shivering with cold, the woman who'd spoken stood uncertainly with one foot on the slippery cobblestoned road and the other foot balanced precariously on the kerb, with one arm holding on to the gas-lamp and a wicker shopping basket hooked over the other arm, afraid to step on the chunks and slivers and shards of ice that Thomas had lately spread, and which now, thanks to his endeavours, dangerously covered every conceivable space underfoot.

She was pale and thin, her face was wrinkled, grey strands of frost-covered hair peeked out from under the ragged shawl that covered her head and shoulders. She should have been dressed far more warmly than she was in the bitterly cold weather, but it was clear she had not the means to do so; the shopping basket held few items: a loaf, a cabbage, a couple of small potatoes and some unidentifiable packet, perhaps tea or flour or rice, was all it contained. She gripped a small black purse as tightly as if it contained a fortune although her fortune must only be a handful of coppers with which she probably meant to haggle for the fattest and therefore cheapest cut of meat, for she had chosen to shop when shopkeepers were pulling down shutters and selling off their goods quickly.

Having lived so long among lords and ladies and earls and countesses, it was a long, long time since he'd known such poverty. The old, bitter Thomas would have made some scathing remark in answer to her timid rebuke and left her to her fate. But, softened by the friendship of the children and Downton Abbey, he was again the Thomas he'd been as a boy, kind, caring and generous, and sometimes thoughtless, sometimes wild. Never very bad and never very good either, Miss Baxter would laugh to Kate after yet another of his misdemeanours..

He reached out to help the woman and at that moment their eyes locked. And suddenly they knew. They were not strangers. Nor were they friends.

The years had not been kind to Paul's mother. He cast his mind back to when she had been a young, pretty widow that many a man, including his father, lusted after. Most women in her position, widowed with a child, would have been plunged into poverty. But Helen Latham was not plunged into poverty. Her late husband, who suffered a fatal heart attack in the bank where he worked, had foresight enough to bequeath to his wife a fair amount of money "In the hope," he wrote in his will, which Paul showed Thomas one afternoon when Mrs Latham was out and they were playing a silly game of "ladies drinking tea" in the Latham's parlour, and which involved lots of hugs as the "ladies" had apparently not seen each other for "decades"; "it will prove enough until our son can provide for his mother."

"And I will, Tom-Tom," Paul vowed, using his pet name for his friend. "I mean to get a very good job when I grow up and be a very wealthy man and look after my mother very well indeed." Except Paul never did grow up. He died when he was only thirteen years old. Perhaps the money was already dwindling even when his mother moved from the splendour of North Drive to smaller lodgings in Newton Street, and, that fateful day, called with her young son into the clockmakers with a carriage clock in need of mending. It was probably all gone now.

Realising who he was, Helen Latham tried to pull away in terror, but his grip on her arm was too firm. For the dark threats he made so long ago when she refused to give him anything of Paul's as a souvenir was on both their minds.

She would give nothing to him, she declared, having found the letters and poems and tokens of love he and Paul exchanged, and, accusing him of being unnatural and leading her son astray, she said she would call the police if he didn't leave immediately. But her face turned ashen when he promised "dire consequences" when they met again, in quiet, menacing voice, aware he could be arrested for the innocent declarations of love by two people whose only crime was being of the same gender. And they would meet again when he was a man and stronger, he said, and he would hurt her. Perhaps, he added, with a cruel smile, he would even kill her.

But now he was a man he understood. His threats were the wild ramblings of an angry, confused thirteen-year-old boy who had lost his best friend and sweetheart. And hers the desperate heartbreak of a mother who'd lost her beloved only child. They had both lost someone they loved greatly. The same person.

And he knew then, in memory of his first love, he would take Paul's place and "look after her very well indeed". As though she were his own mother. It would take a long, long time to persuade her to trust him, but, as anyone who worked with him in Downton Abbey could testify, perseverance, determination and ambition were the hallmarks of Mr Barrow. They had been ever since he first stepped over the threshold of the first grand house to enter service as a hall boy. Besides he had friends and to help him now. Once he got Mr Bates, Anna and Mrs Molesley nee Baxter in on his plan, it would succeed. But then everything Thomas Barrow put his mind to did.

After all these years of fury, of hating Helen Latham, he'd changed and he and she would no longer be strangers but friends. Because, thanks to Miss Sybbie, Master George, Miss Marigold and little Johnny Bates, he'd truly broken the ice.

XXXXX

He stood in the porch of the Gatekeepers' Lodge longer than he intended after smoking his cigarette, gazing up to where the twinkling stars dotted a darkening sky. Thinking. After a while, Aiden turned down the light under the pan on the stove and came to find him.

"Is something the matter, my sweet?" He asked in concern, massaging Thomas's shoulders.

"Oh, I was just remembering something a friend said once."

"Should I be jealous of him?" His lover teased.

"A female friend!" Thomas laughed.

XXXXX

"Thomas." She never called him Barrow when they worked together at the cottage hospital. "Have you ever read anything by Oscar Wilde?"

"I have, m'lady. Everything." He doubted it was considered proper for an aristocratic lady to read literature by the flamboyant Mr Wilde, who had been notorious for his homosexuality and subsequent imprisonment in Reading Jail for it, but he had learnt never to be surprised by anything Lady Sybil said or did. Lady Mary and Lady Edith were rebels in their own way. But they could never hold a candle to the youngest Crawley daughter.

She'd noticed the tears shining on his cheeks. It was less than a week since Edward Courtenay's suicide. When still his heart was broken.

"When it rains, look for rainbows," she reminded him in a tender whisper. "When it's dark, look for stars."

XXXXX

"I found both here at Downton Abbey," he said, leaning back into Aiden, loving the way he was nuzzling his neck. He turned to his lover to return his kisses. "Especially rainbows."

END

*rozzer - policeman

When it rains, look for rainbows

When it's dark, look for stars (Oscar Wilde)

A/N: Well, finally finished! Hope you enjoyed the journey :)