Chapter 47
Spring and summer passed quietly enough for John and Anna. As the weather warmed, he and Anna were more able to have their evenings completely to themselves, but he found their trysts less satisfying now. It wasn't that they were any less enjoyable. They weren't. If anything, they had become more passionate, more exciting, but John missed the quiet intimacy of falling asleep and awakening together. Stopping was more and more difficult; parting for the night was near torture. It was no longer sufficient to make the best of what they had. Anna hadn't said anything about it since that day at his mother's, but she didn't need to. John knew. He just didn't know what he to do.
John realized one afternoon, as he and Anna walked back from the village, talking about everything and nothing, that he was just waiting for his mother to die. That was all it would take. She had written him again, reiterating their conversation. John had almost begun to believe that it was possible, that there was money. He knew better. There wasn't. But it was all he had. The way Anna was laughing, and smiling. The way he was laughing and smiling with her. Something had to change. Anna wouldn't bring it up again, but she knew he knew and he knew she knew he knew. The one proper night together, less than ideal as it had been, had been perfect. John was tired of waiting.
Of a sudden, the waiting stopped. It was a cool, clear October day, with that exciting autumnal bite in the air. John was in the courtyard, polishing shoes. William was on a break, reading the newspaper aloud. It was nothing but death. It had been for weeks. William stopped reading as Benjamin, the new hall boy, ran towards them clutching a telegram. Mr. Carson was out, and it was for Mr. Bates.
John knew as soon as he saw it. His mother was dead. No. But she would be soon. Taken a turn. Please hurry. Doctor said. John sighed, and ran his hand over his brow. She was suffering. He wished he had been correct. He took out his watch. It would be just possible to make the five o'clock train.
John barely had time to catch Anna before he left, the afternoon passed so quickly. Another maid had left, so she was busier than usual. She managed to steal out to the courtyard just before he had to leave. It was such a beautiful day.
"I'd say I'm sorry, and I am. I'll miss your mother," Anna's eyes were so wide and honest. "But really, I'm relieved that her suffering is nearly over."
John let out his breath. "I am too." He wasn't aware he had been holding it. "She didn't want to live like she has, this last year." She hadn't even died yet. She loved Anna. He'd miss her.
"I know." Anna always knew. A bird was singing. "And we'd both best be going. There's work to do." She looked to make certain they were unobserved, stood on her toes, and kissed his cheek. She squeezed his hand and smiled before returning to the house.
On the way to the station, Mr. Branson was excited. Edinburgh Castle had been bombed. That was, in the scheme of things, fairly nearby. John couldn't follow. He didn't actually know how funerals worked. Would the undertaker dress his mother? What was the problem with Edinburgh? Filthy city. Irish couldn't possibly be in it with the Germans. He almost hoped he'd be too late, and that his mother would be gone by the time he arrived. Surely the undertaker had people to do those things. She'd wear her Sunday best. Mr. Branson looked confused. Perhaps he hadn't been complaining about imperialism for a change.
The train was not crowded. But for a few young men in uniform, John's carriage was empty. He wondered what they thought of all this, of going off to France to kill, to fight, to defend. At least most of these boys knew where France and Germany were. John remembered men from his time who didn't know South Africa was a place, and didn't even attempt to pronounce the names of the places they were. England sped by. One the boys was studying a picture. John couldn't tell if it was of his mother or his girl. From the look of the boy, for boy he was, it was of his mother. The changes in the landscape were so subtle. John loved autumn. The trees were so vibrant.
John wondered what he'd find when he got to his mother's. Death, and dirt. The boy was starting to weep, quietly. John couldn't watch. There was nothing he could do. And hovering women, telling him she was a good woman, and it was blessing. He turned to the window. He couldn't watch the boy cry, and he couldn't embarrass him by noticing. He'd learn that as he was turned into a soldier. John thought of Mr. Crawley and his mother. He thought of himself and his mother. She was a fine woman, and she had led a good life.
The train stopped. She so wanted him to marry Anna. She wanted it almost as much as he did. An older man missing an arm entered the carriage, and sat opposite John. He wished he hadn't. There were plenty of empty seats. He wished it was as easy to dispense with Vera and marry Anna as his mother believed. William would be taking care of Lord Grantham while John was away. All he could do was keep trying. The man was studying John. John wished he could read on the train, but he couldn't. Lord Grantham and William would have a great deal to talk about. Both were so eager to help out in this war. The man was short. Both felt so useless, and John could say nothing to either of them about the price of war that they could understand. He didn't mean his leg or his life.
The old man was smiling at John. He really didn't want to talk. Perhaps the man was just being friendly. John smiled. His arm. He wanted to talk. It was blown off in the last war. John turned to him. The last war was in Africa. He was still talking. Blown off during an ambush in the veldt. John had assumed, from the look of him, he was a relic from the Indian Mutiny at least. John began to listen, but he didn't actually hear anything the man said. They were the same age, roughly. Boys would be called up soon. That was true. William and Lord Grantham both hoped to be. This man was so old. Why did he look so decrepit? He was asking John about his leg. He'd have to say something. How old was he, anyways? John remembered that he was nearly 51. Anna was young, and beautiful, and fresh and full of life. She loved him. How could he possibly endeavor to deserve her love? The old man wanted to show John his stump. He worked at a post office. He looked dirty. John didn't care. Anna loved him. Apparently he did deserve her. John decided that perhaps he had had too much tea before leaving, and it was beginning to call attention to itself. He excused himself. With luck, he would lose his way between the carriage and the water closet.
John thought of all the things he'd need to see to once she had died. So much of it was vague to him. He had been young when his father died. Everything just seemed to happen. He knew there were things he'd have to keep in the family, whatever that meant. He smiled. She had threatened once to haunt him if he ever sold a particular sewing machine. He believed she just might. The train stopped. London was dismal. He would walk to his mother's house.
Rain began to fall as he walked. John wondered if he should stop and get something to eat. He didn't. The sooner, the better. He hoped, for his mother's sake, for his sake but he barely wanted to admit it, that it was over quickly. He arrived. He saw a low light burning in his mother's bedroom. John took a deep breath, and knocked.
A young woman he didn't know answered. A friend of Mrs. McGuinness. Mrs. Bates was upstairs. John smiled. That was where he expected her to be, all things considered. The girl blushed, and stammered. Both Mrs. Bateses were upstairs. John froze while hanging up his coat. Both Mrs. Bateses. The girl's eyes widened. John didn't want her to be uncomfortable. His marital drama was not her concern. John smiled and thanked her. He took another deep breath. Vera was alone with his mother. He suddenly, violently, wished for a drink. Nothing could prepare him for this. Vera was in the house. The girl was starring. The sooner, the better.
John was certain his leg grew heavier with each step. He had never noticed how steep the staircase in this house was. What would he find? The third step was creaky. Which Vera would greet him? He was very glad he hadn't eaten. How did she know? John remembered. Mrs. McGuinness. He suspected it would be the controlled Vera, the most dangerous. This was good. The loose step two from the top was not good. Why was she here? John heard voices. He stopped at the top of the stairs. His mother's was muffled, weak. Vera's was changed, but unmistakable. She had never lost her accent. If anything, it was stronger. John couldn't quite tell what they were saying. He disliked listening at doors, but he needed to prepare himself.
He took another deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and knocked. His mother's voice. Where was Johnny? Vera answered. Was that Johnny? Vera stepped into the hall, and closed the door. John had almost forgotten how tall Vera was. She hissed. Where had he been? It was so unusual for him to be able to look a woman in the eye without stooping. His mother was dying, and he couldn't even be on time! John looked from side to side. He wasn't sure what on time meant in this situation. He thought better of responding. That was what she wanted. He would not argue with Vera, especially outside his mother's bedroom. Was Anna with him? He sighed, and opened the door.
John noticed, as he sat in the chair by the bed, how small his mother was. He had always thought of her as a large woman, in body as well as personality, but now she was frail, tiny. She took his hand. Vera had not followed him in. John hadn't noticed. Her hand was bony, veiny, birdlike. He sighed. Oh Johnny. Her eyes were twinkly as ever. Anna's eyes were wide, and deep. Vera's had been so bewitching once. That striking combination of height, dark hair, and pale pale eyes had had John in thrall. He sat up. He had seen something in them tonight he didn't remember. They were cold as ever, but there was something else. Had the madness finally won? His mother was trying to speak. She had just shown up. Ordered everyone else around like she was some grand lady. John had suspected as much. Slippery as ever. She tried to laugh, and began to cough. He tried to find a glass, a teacup. Surely there was something to drink the sickroom. He knocked a book off the bedside table and his cane fell off his chair. The book was Keats. Oh Johnny. She laughed and shook and he could tell how it tired her. He found a teacup with someone's tea in it. He sniffed. Vera's own special blend, judging from the aroma. He poured it out the window. After all these years, the smell of whisky still made him feel sick.
Oh, Johnny. She sighed. Remember the money. She was just going to rest her eyes. She loved him. The money. Don't worry so, Vera would be back. Such a fine boy, her Johnny. John looked out the window. The sky had cleared. He heard a man screaming somewhere in the darkness. He looked at his mother. Leave the window open, she knew how he preferred it. Johnny. Always knew what to do.