The train clattered and it seemed to sound a rhythm in a remote part of his memory. He dozed in the corner of his seat and awoke with a start, having dreamed he was in the village of his childhood. He found himself in his old children's room with his bed with a form that strikes one as mannered and a dark chest beneath the window. At last he managed to catch himself in a moment of waking and forces his legs up. He stood at the window and gazed at the fields. It took some minutes before he could convince himself that he was not dreaming and that he indeed was in the train back to his childhood, back to his father.

After the conversation with Mrs Hughes and Mr Carson, who was unusually taciturn, they had agreed on the following: Thomas was allowed to leave Downton Abbey for three days. Furthermore, he got a wage advance, but only if his brother worked as a hall boy for this time span. Thomas had protested, but since Jacob had agreed immediately, he couldn't do anything for his brother.

"This is just fair," his brother had said, "And I don't mind. Or do you think I can't do this?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Everybody can do the work of a hall boy. Just look at ours, some boys who can hardly write their own name." Jacob had looked at him sternly.

"Come on," Thomas had sighed, "I show you where you can sleep and maybe we'll find you a white shirt."

Thomas yawned and covered his mouth with his right hand, before he sat down again. He still couldn't believe his luck; a wage advance and three days off without telling the whole truth. 'A private matter' he had firmly said while looking straight into Mr Carson's eyes. He could see that the other man had wanted to say something but since he had kept quiet Thomas had left the room as quickly as possible. Equally quickly, he had packed his suitcase and instructed Jacob in the proper work procedure of a hall boy, and the next morning he was in the train back to his long forgotten past.

Thomas yawned again and rubbed his eyes. A brief glance at his old pocket watch revealed that he'd arrive in ten minutes. This pocket watch, however, also revealed that he had a past. A fact, Thomas tried to forget, to hide and delete from his memory. Albeit born as the son of a clockmaker, as the grandson of a clockmaker, he was doomed to live a life on his own; far away from his home, and from the clocks with their familiar ticking. Carefully, he turned the pocket watch around. The engraving on the back was hardly visible, but he knew by heart what the single letters tried to conceal: From father to son - A hand for each one. Thomas sighed. As a small boy, he had admired this watch from a distance. His father had got this watch from his grandfather and Thomas had known that one day it would be his. He had imagined over and over again how his father would give him this valuable item. 'The moment you finished your training as a clockmaker, I'll be proud to give you this watch,' his father had always said. However, Thomas never finished his training as a clockmaker, and his father had never been proud.

Three minutes left, the watch whispered before Thomas put it in his pocket again. It felt heavy, but pleasantly familiar. In three minutes, he would be back. In three minutes his past became his present, but he wouldn't let it become his future. His future was at Downton Abbey. One day, he would be the butler and one day, the people would respect him for what he was and today, he would lay the foundations for his future success.

As the train stopped, the first thing Thomas noticed was that the village looked exactly the same. Nothing had changed. As he was walking, his first impression was confirmed. He saw the old pub on the left side of the main street. It was the pub, his father used to visit after a long day. Across from the pub was Mrs Tenner's Sewing Shop and, Thomas couldn't believe it, the old bookshop. As a child, he'd spent hours in this bookshop. The owner, Mr Remington, was very friendly and always good-humoured. Thomas would even say that this man was one of his few friends as a boy. They'd talked hours about a book, exchanged opinions and even quarrelled about their favourite characters. It was childish, Thomas knew by now, but Mr Remington had always seemed to enjoy it.

As he entered the shop, the familiar smell of old books welcomed him. 'How could I forget this place,' Thomas thought as looked at all the books, reading the titles in his thoughts.

"May I help you?" a young woman from behind suddenly asked.

"Oh, no. Thank you. I was just looking." Thomas stammered, feeling like his nine-year-old self. But then, he had an idea. "I'm sorry, but can I speak to Mr Remington?"

"Yes, of course. He is unwrapping new books at the moment, but I'll fetch him for you." Thomas nodded, unable to speak since his heart seemed to lie on his tongue.

"How can I help you, sir," a rough voice said, but Thomas didn't listen.

"You're not Mr Remington," he said rudely.

"Yes, I am. Mr Robert Remington Jr." After a pause he added friendly, "You expected to see my father, didn't you?" Thomas nodded again.

"Yes, yes. I am sorry. I didn't want to be rude. I was just surprised. I… I didn't… I came into this shop spontaneously and I thought, I could talk to him… but… Nevertheless, thank you very much." Thomas just wanted to leave and hide his disappointment, but one last question held him back. "When did he…?" Remington Jr. looked surprised.

"Oh, let me think. Three years ago. One day, he went to bed and the next morning, he was dead; his favourite book still in his hands. All in all, it was a peaceful death." He concluded.

"Thank you. Good-bye." Thomas said and left the shop. 'Three years ago,' he thought, 'Three years. Why haven't I written at least one letter?"

Time was a cruel companion.