A Chelsie Christmas
O – Over the River and Through the Woods
December 15th, 1926
The water is wide
I cannot cross over
And neither have I wings to fly
Build me a boat
That can carry two
And both shall row, my love and I
The river was vast. Hardly even a river anymore. It stood alone in its magnificence. A beautiful, tranquil scene that stretched to eternity. Out to the edge of existence. She walked to the edge, brave enough to dip not just a toe but her entire body as she waded in. She was courageous, bold and captivating. He kept his eyes fixed on the back of her head, the long plait hanging loose, freer than she had ever been before.
Charles woke with Elsie in his arms, it wasn't unusual for him to wake first, but over the past six or seven months he'd taken more of a backseat and, predictably, his body clock had responded. He slept more. It was a bi-product of not working, but oddly, it didn't mean he had more energy.
He lay for a long time enjoying the feel of her in his arms. Her head resting lightly on his upper arm, loose strands of hair coming free from her plait, a blush to her cheeks brought about by sleeping cuddled against him. It was comforting, having her there, waking with her, or before her, before she got up and readied herself for work.
There were another twelve minutes until her alarm would sound. He held her tighter.
He supposed it wasn't odd to still be dreaming of the river. His body was recovering, he hadn't given credence to his mind, or the remnants of the ice that might lodge there. He wasn't one for dwelling on things; one would never recover from anything if that were the case.
Outside he could hear rain battering the top of his shed, pattering the window pane. He closed his eyes and saw the river.
"Whatever are you doing here?" Elsie asked, closing her door behind her and coming to take Charles' coat. "You shouldn't be out on your own."
"You make me out some sort of dependent."
"No," she bid him to sit closer to the fire. "Just recovering. You've been quite ill."
"And now I'm feeling quite better."
"Not well enough to be walking distances in the cold and rain."
"It was less than a drizzle when I set off."
"Goodness Charles. I'll ask for tea, and then I really must get on, I have to supervise upstairs, I don't want the layout for the ball to be clumsily done. You know how the young lads can be."
"Quite." He slapped his legs, "I think I'll join you."
She raised her eyebrows, "Oh, and would anyone mind?"
"I should think not, I am official advisor."
"Hm, I'll fetch that tea. And one mince pie, no more."
"Has er, Mrs. Patmore made any of her sausage rolls?"
She huffed, but allowed him a smile, "I should think so. And, it is lunchtime, I suppose."
Charles hadn't caught sight of Elsie for a while, she had been distracted by her own tasks and he had immersed himself in the sights and sounds of the Abbey again. It reminded him of how it felt to be in command of the ship, the fleet responding to his every word. Thomas was finding his way but he had used Charles that day, had needed him, and with the two of them offering instructions things had been much more efficient.
He felt the draw of sleep by the time it reached three o'clock, and it saddened him to realise he really couldn't cut it anymore. He perhaps still had his uses, but they would one day be obsolete and he had a slow-moving realisation that it might be closer than imagined.
Escaping down the back stairs he took a route he'd taken perhaps a thousand times before, if not more, into the cold sterile corridor, down to the flutter of below stairs. The sound of Mrs. Patmore, the fragrance of rich food, that warming orange light and the knowledge Elsie's office was right next door to his own.
He stood for a moment in the stillness of that tight corridor, a hundred ghosts of memories sneaking by, staring at the closed door, the Butler's pantry. With effort, he placed his hand on the handle of her room and pushed it open, going in there instead.
What he saw startled him.
In the middle of the carpet was a pram, and inside a squirming little creature.
"Oh," he started, "hello." The baby gurgled and suddenly realisation kicked in, "Oh… John. Yes, now I see." He bent over the contraption and lifted a finger to tickle the baby's chin. "How's that then?"
The baby opened its mouth, silently blobbing its tongue before a sudden cry came forth that quite surprised Charles.
"No, don't… don't do that." He tried to jiggle the pram but the baby wouldn't stop and so he did the only thing he thought of, he lifted the baby into his arms. "Now then, we need to calm down, no need to be upset, making all that noise."
The door opened behind him and Anna rushed in, "Mr. Carson. I'm so very sorry, Mrs. Hughes said it would be alright."
"Of course it is, no bother at all. Little fellow just wanted some attention."
"He's hungry," she explained, "I need to feed him but we're rushing about." She sighed, "I'll find somewhere else; Mr. Bates has been called upstairs."
"No, no. You use the room," he handed the baby across. "I will go into the kitchen, find some tea."
He was flustered when he left the room, understanding the fact that she must have been removing her top… Blushing he went to sit in the staff dining area, taking the head seat without a second thought.
Around him servants rushed back and forth, but the room remained empty, and he sat for the longest time feeling like he was in a dream. When Elsie finally came down she went immediately to open her door and then spotted Charles, a warmth in her face as she came towards him.
"This seems familiar."
"I needed to escape."
She placed a hand on his forehead, "Tired?"
"No," he lied, "but Anna…" he flustered, "do you realise what she is doing in there?"
"No, oh, feeding John?"
"Yes, are you sure it's quite right? She must have," he shook his head. "It isn't right."
"Charles, all women have them, as you very well know."
He pursed his lips, looking quite put out, and she patted his shoulder with a smile.
"I need to walk to the village, to the post office and to collect a few things. Will you join me or should I get a car to take you home."
"You will do no such thing. I will walk with you."
It was agreed with Anna that a crying baby John would go with them into the village, as both parents were needed and there was no settling him to sleep even after he'd eaten. Elsie pushed the pram and Charles walked by her side.
"Odd situation," he noted, "one we might never have dreamed of."
"Perhaps not," she smiled down at the baby boy, "but a very lovely one nevertheless."
He glanced to her face, the jaunty angle of her hat shifting as she bent to rearrange the baby's blankets. "Do you remember, as a child, the joy of Christmas?"
"I do indeed, though we had very little. I remember the joy of it, singing, huge family gatherings, grandparents."
"That is just what I was thinking of. My grandparents." He rubbed his thumb against his palm. "Did you see yours often?"
"Quite, I suppose. They were the other side of the woods, Becky and I would run through them when we were young, we could get from door to door in less than fifteen minutes I suppose."
"It sounds like fairy tale."
She chuckled, "Little Red Riding Hood? I would have loved a red coat as a girl. Ironically, Becky was always afraid of that. Wolves. She took the tale literally."
"I'm so glad you feel you can talk more freely about her now. Share things with me."
"As am I. All the things we share." She waited as he opened the gate and closed it behind them. "And your grandparents?"
"My grandmother was quite formidable, I suppose my grandfather less so, I spent more time with him than my own father it seemed. Father was working most of Christmas."
"We both know it to be our busiest time."
"Yes. Grandfather was skilled, a craftsman, if he hadn't gone into service I wonder what he might have done. One year he made a sledge, it was the finest gift I ever received."
"What a lovely tale."
John gurgled in the pram and pushed his fists out from beneath the blankets, his face scrunching as he searched the faces of the two people glancing down at him.
"We're not his parents, we can offer little comfort," Charles observed as they reached the post office.
"Maybe not, but we can try." She lifted the baby out of the pram and jiggled him about, "He needs keeping warm. Affection." She kissed his head. "I must go in here; can you cope without me?"
"I should think so," she handed the baby across and after a few seconds of grasping him as one might a bag of potatoes he snuggled him against his chest, wrapping his blanket around him.
"There, you see, you make a fine grandfather."
He dreamt of the river again that night. A vastness he thought he'd never conquer. The blank emptiness, loneliness, isolation. She'd been brave enough to dip a toe in but in the end they'd crossed it together.