DISCLAIMER: I don't own Downton Abbey and I make no money from this work.
It was a rainy afternoon and Edith was sitting in the drawing room, listening to jazz records on the gramophone and reading 'Dubliners', a collection of short stories by James Joyce that Sybil had recommended to her. She was enjoying them. The house was peaceful and quiet, mainly because Dorothy had gone out on a mysterious 'lunch date' that she had yet to return from. Edith sighed and stretched. She had been feeling a little purposeless over the last few days. There were only so many parties you could go to before you realised that you weren't actually doing anything with your time. She had begun to think about finding employment again, but the idea of working in a shop had lost its gleam.
Niggling in the back of her mind was the advice of Vanessa and Walter, telling her to write if she wanted to. Edith had used to make up stories when she was a little girl; it was the only time when Mary had wanted to spend any time with her. When Sybil had been just a baby, Mary had used to sit next to Edith in their little nursery bed and Edith had continued the stories the Nurse had told them, taking the Princesses to fantastical and far-fetched places that had far exceeded the ones Hans Christian Anderson had written. Those nights had been the only times she remembered being friends with Mary in their childhood, the only times they hadn't fought over toys or dresses or – as they got older – boys. One night Mary had loftily told Edith that she had outgrown stories and Edith must be a baby to still want to tell them. Edith still remembered that feeling of smarting embarrassment that had flooded through her at that moment. That had been when she started confining her story telling to pen and paper, when it had become something she was slightly ashamed of. If she was so inclined, Edith knew she would be able to recover all her notebooks from the ages of 12 to 17; filled with little tales about beautiful dark-haired boys called Patrick and sad girls with awkward faces who faded into the wallpaper. After that she had given up and written diaries where she pretended she had had fun during her Season, rather than felt like a gawky disappointment. After Patrick had died she had given up writing altogether. It became too painful to try and articulate what had happened to him. Edith had found solace in hundreds of other people who had loved and lost and written poetry and novels about it, and given up any ideas of writing her own. She really admired the new crop of war poets who had been able to rationalise their pain into stanza's and syllables and rhythms.
She wondered if it was time to try again. She kept thinking about Vanessa:"And if you want to make people happy then make them laugh. People are rarely as happy as when they laugh. Write comedies." Write comedies. Edith thought that Granny was like a character in a comedy already. She had even begun to make a list of things that she could turn into funny stories; The Flower Show that Granny always won; the endless little power struggles between her and Isobel; even Mary featured, being cruel to Manchester Matthew in the days before she had loved him. All these ideas had stayed confined to a silly bit of paper stuffed in her stocking draw, taking root and growing in her uncertain mind.
"Yoo-hoo!" Edith's thoughts were interrupted by Dorothy's loud, sing-song voice calling echoing through the house.
"I'm up here! In the drawing room!" She called, turning down the gramophone. Edith heard Dorothy running up the stairs and wondered what on earth all the commotion was for.
"I've got a job!" Dorothy appeared in the door of the room and then ran across to Edith, throwing her arms around her.
"You've what?" Edith asked.
"I've got a job! A real, proper job!" She began to bounce up and down with excitement.
Edith laughed at her childlike excitement. "Doing what?"
Dorothy stopped bouncing and took a step back, straightening her pretty lavender skirt and silk blouse. She assumed a serious expression and said, "I, Dorothy Madison, am going to be a secretary at an art gallery."
"Really? How? When did you learn to type?"
"Oh, I did a correspondence course in typing and shorthand during the war when I was trying not to go mad. And it paid off!" She grinned.
"Do you know anything about art?" Edith asked.
"Yes. I do, actually. Quite a lot." She said nonchalantly.
"How?"
"I used to know an artist. He taught me all about it." She shrugged dismissively. "I start tomorrow! I have a job, Edith!"
OoOoO
"Now Dorothy has a job I feel at a bit of a loose end again." Edith shrugged, taking a sip of her coffee and sighing.
Walter looked at her with raised eyebrows. "Writing's a job."
She rolled her eyes in exaggerated frustration. "You never give up, do you?"
"Never." Walter had gotten in to the habit of turning up at irregular intervals to take Edith out for coffee or lunch or dinner or cocktails. He never gave any notice and she always fussed around pretending to have other things to do, but she always went. She enjoyed his company; he was funny and interesting and he seemed to want to spend time with her. When they went out he talked to her about the plays he had been to see and the reviews he'd written, but he always returned to the subject of her writing.
"I wish I'd never said anything to you." Edith said.
"Of course you don't. Someone has to nag you into being brave until you can do it yourself."
"You've got me all wrong. I'm not brave at all." She pushed her fork around her empty plate.
"I think, Edith, that you are brave. You just need someone to push you into it at first." Walter stood up from the table. "Would you care to take a stroll around the park with me?"
"Why not?" Edith smiled, and took his arm. They sauntered out of the café and onto the street, laughing and joking. They had slipped very easily into the pattern of old friends, albeit old friends who shared passionate – very passionate – kisses on doorsteps and in empty drawing rooms. Occasionally Edith wondered if she should put an end to their dalliance, but whenever she began to think she really should, Walter kissed her again and she decided that it couldn't hurt. Dorothy said she had kissed lots of men – and done more besides – and that it was perfectly alright.
"Honestly though, I really think you should write something. All those things you've told me about your Grandmother – she's a hoot!" Walter said. "And your sister's elopement has all the characteristics of a proper little high society play! The theatres are full of them, and everyone wants to read about the upper classes in magazines." He lit a cigarette and they stood in front of a little fountain for a moment, watching two magpies playing about in the water. "Just try it for me. Write a little short story and I can get it published for you in a magazine I know."
Edith looked away. "I'm really not sure I can…"
He kissed her then, right in the middle of the park in broad daylight, and Edith wondered if it was alright to want someone this much but not to want to fall in love with them or marry them, just to kiss them. "Please?" He whispered. "I know you can do it, Edith."
She nodded. The earnestness in his eyes was all she needed to convince her. It was enough to know that here was someone who believed she could do it if she wanted to. "Alright then. I'll try."