In Sharp Relief

Late Fall 1920

This was it then. After the weeks, months, of waiting, of feeling simultaneously trapped inside her own unpredictable, potentially traitorous body and almost entirely removed from her own life, from who she was, and who the world thought she was.

She despised the way Beryl Patmore squeezed her arm as they waited for the nurse to call her in to see Dr. Clarkson. No. That was wrong, and it wasn't fair. She despised that she needed that squeeze, that reassurance, and, that if the news was the worst they could imagine, the small, red-haired cook would be there, her work-worn hands holding her up.

She was seething with anger, and didn't know where to direct it. What was she even angry at? The potential disease, even now, simmering in her body, slowly destroying it? Was it the overwhelming kindness of Lady Grantham, or her own deep gratitude towards that kindness? Was it the permanent crease between Mr. Carson's eyes when he looked at her these past few weeks, a softness appearing in his face that tugged at her heart while wrecking her pride? Was it the way those eyes assessed her now, not as an equal, but as something soft, destructible. Vulnerable. What a loathsome word that seemed, right now. Vulnerable.

She was strong.

She was independent.

She got things done, all day, every day. It was what she did. It was who she was.

This damnable, unavoidable weakness wasn't something she'd ever considered having to handle. Being a sick person wasn't something she could be. And, yet, there it was: she very well may be.

The young nurse finally opened the door, ushered her in. With a final glance and nod at her friend, Elsie Hughes stepped in, to find out from the doctor who she was.

Dr. Clarkson looked up as she entered, nodded to the nurse, who left them on their own. He immediately started speaking, but Elsie didn't hear anything but her own roaring heart at first. But he was smiling at her, his eyes bright. The roaring in her ears became louder and the edges of her vision were fading to grey, but that was quite alright, thank you very much, because right in the center of the growing grey cloud was Dr. Clarkson's grinning, speaking mouth, and he wouldn't have been smiling like that at her if she was ill, and that's all that really mattered.

And then suddenly she inhaled a sharp combination of lavender and ammonia, and the doctor was crouched by her chair, holding a packet of smelling salts gently in front of her.

"Most people nearly faint when being told bad news, Mrs. Hughes," he gently placed the salts packet in her hand, patted her shoulder, then walked towards the door leading to the hallway. "Might I bring Mrs. Patmore in now? I am sure she'll be nearly as relieved as you are."

Elsie nodded absently. Frankly, the doctor could have asked her if she wanted a line of dancing girls to come in and share the good news, for all she cared at the moment. She was fine. She wasn't ill. She was herself. Again.

And then Beryl Patmore was rushing in after the doctor's tall figure, and her eyes were blurry with unshed tears. And the doctor was saying things like "fibroadenoma" and "entirely benign" and "no cause for concern." And Mrs. Patmore was nodding and smiling at her encouragingly, but Elsie couldn't move. She was too busy relishing in the feeling of her body, sitting in the chair. Her entirely healthy, non-traitorous body.

"Alright, then?" Mrs. Patmore was nodding at her, helping her to her feet. She and the doctor exchanged glances, then looked back at Elsie.

"Mrs. Hughes, I just want to say one more thing. One of the biggest responsibilities a doctor has is conveying sometimes life-changing news – for good and bad. When I got your test results, I was, of course, mightily pleased for you. But, I was pleased for many other people too, and not just Mrs. Patmore here. You are a pillar of Downton, Mrs. Hughes – the village, and the house," he held his hand out and she took it, shaking it silently. She knew she ought to say something in response to his kind words, but the most she could manage was a nod.

Mrs. Patmore rolled her eyes, took Elsie's arm. "Let's get ourselves a nice cuppa, shall we? Perhaps with a wee bit added to it, to celebrate?" Then she winked at the doctor.

"That's a sound idea," the doctor replied. "And ladies, I do believe one of you should let Mr. Carson know Mrs. Hughes' test results. He was quite concerned." And Elsie wasn't entirely sure, but she thought she saw the doctor wink back.

oooOOOooo

They made it all the way to the street before the tears suddenly started falling. And almost before she realized it, they were streaming down her face, warm relief, her chest hitching with gasping, watery breaths. Beryl Patmore pulled her to the side of the thoroughfare, in an unassuming spot mostly shielded from passersby.

The smaller woman engulfed her in a hug and Elsie surrendered herself to it. These tears felt good, letting them out felt good. These felt cleansing, not like the ones that seemed perpetually caught in her throat the past few months.

"Well, that's a relief, then?" The cook handed her a simple blue handkerchief from her pocket.

Elsie took a shaky breath, wiped her face dry hastily. She knew if, at that moment, anyone they knew happened to pass by, she'd be the talk of the town for days to come. Most of her didn't care a bit. But part of her did, the part coming back to herself.

"I think it's time for that cuppa, plus a touch more, wouldn't you say, Mrs. Patmore? Have we time for a stop in the Grantham Arms?"

"Indeed we do, Mrs. Hughes just about. I do believe a toast is in order."

"Mrs. Patmore, I must ask you one last favor," Elsie said as they paused outside the pub. She placed her hand on the other woman's shoulder. This boisterous, cantankerous, kind-hearted woman, who'd been more than a good friend to her. "I need you…I need you to let Mr. Carson know I'm alright. That I'm not…that I don't have…"

"Yes, of course," Beryl Patmore nodded, as if she'd already planned on it. "I know how the two of you operate."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Elsie heard herself and almost burst out laughing. She was back to herself, thank goodness. "I am not sure you understand what –"

"Oooh, I understand just fine, and more than either of you probably credit me. Or want me to." Now it was the cook's turn to look like she was about to erupt in giggles. "Never mind that, though, and let's get that drink you promised me."

Elsie debated the numerous paths this conversation could take, and finally chose gratitude. "Thank you, Beryl. For everything. Really." It was she who squeezed the cook's arm this time.

"Lordy, we really best get that drink before the sky come's a-fallin' down on us. 'Beryl,' is it, now?" Their mingled laughter followed them into the pub.

oooOOOooo

"Sailing away with a smoothing iron, sailing away with a smoothing iron…"

She'd caught herself humming the old tune several times over the course of the day, which had felt like one of the best days of her life, and kept having to stop herself. She kept turning that moment in the hallway, listening to Charles Carson's rather pleasant singing voice as he resumed polishing the silver, and think that is was her that had put that joy into his voice. Her health. Her return, to who she was.

She shook her head, smiled again to herself. She went back to balancing the amounts on the kitchen stores, taking satisfaction in the task in a way she hadn't for weeks. Today, the banal felt spectacular, the routine tasks, thrilling.

"I'm off to bed, then. Must be that afternoon drinkin'," Beryl Patmore was standing in the doorway, smiling at her.

"I think you've earned the right to retire a bit early tonight, mayhaps even the whole week," Elsie replied, rubbing her face. "I ought to throw it in, myself, really. I've not been sleepin' as well as I'd like recently, for obvious reasons. But, somehow, I can't let this day end yet. It's a day I'll never forget, that's certain."

"A new lease on life, it 'tis, though getting there was a bit rocky, I'd say. Not somethin' you'd want to go through, regular-like, but, well, I remember when I got my eye surgery. I thought I was done for, my career, my life here. 'Twasn't life and death, of course, but it felt like my life was endin', Mrs. Hughes. I felt outside myself, but also trapped by my failin' vision. Some days, even after all of this time, I get up and just look around the kitchen. Just glad to be seein' a pot, or a tea cup. Sounds daft, I know."

"Not to me, it doesn't. Not one bit," Elsie grinned. "Go, now, before someone pulls you back in. You can look at pots and pans tomorrow." They both laughed a bit, and she continued. "Thank you, Mrs. Patmore, for your friendship. I'd not got on without it, these past few months."

Mr. Carson appeared in the doorway next to the cook, two glasses and a bottle in hand.

"Mrs. Patmore! I didn't know you were here. I'm happy to get another glass, if you care to join us?"

"No thank you, Mr. Carson, I'm off to be. Only one tipple a day, for me." And she was off with another chuckle.

"Should I ask what that was about?" He wasn't looking at her, not yet, not really. He sat the glasses down carefully, almost as carefully as he set out his words. They were…trying to get back, she realized. To where they had been. To what they were. Together.

"I expect not. I shan't shock you with wild tales of the pair of us throwing several pints back at the Grantham Arms," her heart bubbled in her chest and she joined him at the small side table. She took a sip.

"This is divine, Mr. Carson."

"It's from southern France, a small vineyard. His Lordship didn't care for it, but I can't say I agree. There's something special about it, I think, though it's a touch dry, tart even, though I perfectly understand why it may not be to everyone's liking."

"Are we talking about the wine, now, or Miss O'Brien?" She hid her smile behind her glass.

He raised one eyebrow at her. The corner of his mouth twitch, almost smiled.

She rolled her eyes, topped her glass off.

Everything was going to be just fine.