Chapter Seven:
"You realize you have left me with little choice, Thomas."
Thomas curled his upper lip in distaste and looked down to his hands‒lying open, fingers gently curled upward‒resting on his thighs. "I have done nothing."
"That is precisely my point. You have done nothing. Said nothing." Dr Clarkson placed his clipboard down on his desk and rubbed his palms over his eyes. He was feeling increasingly frustrated with Thomas's selective muteness, and though he tried hard to hide it, sometimes the frustration slipped through his doctor's mask. "This is our fifth session together, and I know little more about you now than after the first."
It was true. On certain topics, Thomas could be quite articulate. Cricket, for example, or his dislike of John Bates, or surprisingly his feelings over Lady Sybil's and Matthew Crawley's deaths. Even certain aspects of his time during the war he would freely speak about. But whenever Dr Clarkson tried to prod him further, take him down the darker paths that left him waking and crying in the night, Thomas would turn silent as a corpse; and despite Dr Clarkson's best efforts, he could not convince Thomas to confide in him. He was keeping all his bleak memories locked inside.
Spring had begun to arrive, and rain pattered against the windows of the office. Dr Clarkson rather liked the rain, how the sound of it often helped to soothe his fraying patience.
Today the hospital was nearly empty, save for a child who had broken his arm falling from a tree, the boy's mother, an elderly man who had come in with breathing difficulties, and a lone nurse to watch over them. His mind flashed back to the noise and hectic busyness of the hospital during war time, Thomas in the midst of it all, and he much preferred things as they were now.
Except for Thomas. If it weren't for the enigma of Thomas Barrow, Dr Clarkson would have considered the present to be almost perfect. As it were, even when Thomas wasn't sitting in his office, his blue eyes flickering between staring haughtily at Dr Clarkson and then at the ground, he was a constant presence in Dr Clarkson's mind. He was the puzzle that Dr Clarkson couldn't seem to solve, but also the one that he couldn't forget.
Thomas was looking at Dr Clarkson again, and Dr Clarkson realized that he had not spoken in some time.
"I know about all the nightmares, Thomas."
He saw those blue eyes widen in surprise and then glance down, as he continuously did when he didn't want to reveal anything.
"I know how you whimper every night, how you wake up in a cold sweat, how you can't sleep afterwards because of the monsters in the dark. I know that it's only gotten worse over the course of the last few weeks. I know that the rest of the staff fear for you, but they're also afraid of you. I know all this, but I don't know what frightens you so much every night. And until I know, I cannot help you."
Thomas said nothing. Dr Clarkson could see the tendons in his forearms tightening, how his jaw muscles clenched and his hands quivered. None of it was entirely remarkable, but Dr Clarkson had become practiced in studying Thomas's nonverbal cues. Sometimes it was the only way he knew Thomas was even listening to him.
Dr Clarkson sighed. "Look, Thomas, I am genuinely concerned for your wellbeing, but it seems I cannot be the one to help you. I have been recommended a psychiatrist, one who specializes in shell shock and trauma, and I have asked him to come and talk with you."
"I don't want to see a head doctor."
"I understand. However, I think it is necessary that you see one. You are not well. Your mental stresses are rapidly undermining your physical health, and I am worried about what should happen should the root of your problems continue untreated. Dr Martin has agreed to meet with you on Monday at two o'clock. I would strongly recommend coming."
Their appointment was finished. Thomas quickly gathered his things and was nearly out of the office before Dr Clarkson halted him.
"I intend to let Mr Carson and Lord Grantham know about the appointment with Dr Martin.
Thomas only shrugged into his coat and walked out, the door clicking shut loudly behind him.
Dr Clarkson sat back in his chair and stared up at the dark wood-panelled ceiling. The rain was falling harder now, but Dr Clarkson was too preoccupied with thoughts of Thomas to find it calming. He wondered if Dr Martin would be able to open Thomas up. He fervently hoped so. He was even willing to put aside his professional pride in the desire to have someone help Thomas, even if that someone could not be him.
Thunder rumbled in the far distance. Dr Clarkson stood up and went to the nearest window and looked out at the road. Did thunder make things worse for Thomas? There were many veteran soldiers who despised thunder, because it reminded them of an exploding bomb. But he didn't think that was so in Thomas's case. Dr Clarkson had the feeling that it wasn't memories of the war that triggered Thomas's nightmares; rather, it was some unknown variable that triggered the war memories and the nightmares.
The rain was falling in torrents as Thomas left the hospital and walked along the road. He didn't always have to make the journey to the doctor's office ‒ often Dr Clarkson would come and see Thomas at Downton Abbey. But every once in a while the doctor would insist that Thomas leave the estate and travel into the village; he seemed to think it was beneficial for Thomas to escape from Downton at times.
Thomas glanced upwards as thunder crashed overhead, but the rain like falling stones forced his head down quickly. This wasn't beneficial for him at all.
Rather than head directly back to Downton, Thomas ducked into the village pub and shook the rain from his coat. It was warm and dry inside, with a fire crackling in a hearth and a few scattered men seated at the tables. Thomas went to the bar and ordered a stout from the barkeep, then found a table in a dark corner near the fire to sit at.
The interior of the bar was entirely of old, strong, faded oak. The floors were scuffed and warped in places; the walls pale, though darkened by heat above the fireplace. The tables and chairs were heavy and ungainly things, greying but made to last. Only the bar top gleamed, from constant polishing.
The fire popped loudly and spat smoke into the room, and Thomas briefly considered how easy it would be for this place to go up in flames. The thought didn't perturb him ‒ he only wished that if it were to happen, it would be while he was sitting there.
Not a single patron looked over at him. They were all immersed in their drinks and their problems, and could care less for the young man who looked like Death and hunched protectively over his mug. Thomas often wished that Dr Clarkson would treat him exactly how these men were treating him: with obliviousness. Thomas didn't need another face, another voice in his head ‒ he had far too many in there already as it were.
And now Dr Clarkson wanted to add in another one. Already Thomas despised this Dr Martin, who had made his career on invading the minds of traumatised men.
Thomas snorted. "'Traumatised men'," he mumbled to himself. "Well, if he ever does get into my head, he'll very soon figure out I'm not traumatised. Just…a failure."
He nursed his drink slowly, waiting out the storm. He had never liked the taste of stout, but drinking seemed like a better thing to do than just sitting, or walking in the rain. He should have taken Mr Carson up on the offer of having the chauffeur, Mr Williams, drive him to and from his appointment; but Thomas hadn't cherished the idea of having yet another person studying him‒and pretending not to‒in fearful curiosity. Just the thought alone made the bile creep up his gorge, and he swallowed heavily and took a sip from his mug.
The storm passed quickly in a gust of blowing wind, leaving behind a misting drizzle. Thomas put his money down on the table and left the pub, his drink unfinished.