A Chelsie Christmas
R – Reading
December 18th, 1926
She had said two little words to him. Two words that had sustained him throughout the day. Whenever he thought there was too much to do, and Christmas was too close, or that organising with people who weren't properly trained or used to following orders was going to kill him… he thought of those two words and instantly relaxed.
Yorkshire. Pudding.
Oh thank the heaven's for it. She'd made beef stew the night before, left it on very low whilst they sat playing dominoes before bed (she had won five games, he three – she quit whilst ahead). And there would be stew and Yorkshire Puddings for dinner and just the thought of it made him peckish the whole day through.
As it was he was feeling considerably better, refreshed; he'd slept long and deeply without waking to cough or in a fever. The first proper night's sleep since the accident. There was a weight off his mind too; Jack had agreed the Grantham Arms could be used Christmas Eve for the party, and he had done the newspaper interview (grudgingly) in order for word to be spread. There was still the matter of Father Christmas, and organising entertainment. But that would come, in time, he would sit and make a detailed list that evening of all the requirements. He was thankful for Jack, he'd barely known him a month before, now he was giving of his time and, perhaps more importantly, his establishment. He'd make money from sales of drinks of course, but it was a family event and children were messy, noisy and unpredictable.
The reality was he had the time to do these things, the demand for him up at the house had lessened somewhat this year and, though it stung, he had to accept it for what it was. Filling his time with other projects would maybe help.
Elsie hadn't mentioned the idea of semi-retirement again, but then they had hardly had the time to really discuss it. Perhaps he would broach it tomorrow, before church, when they had their quiet morning together.
He took the back door into the house, closing it behind him and breathing in the goodness of being back. It was as close to home as he'd ever been, until the cottage and Elsie and the home she'd made for the both of them. He took the few steps down to the hall, and he could hear raucous laughter, the unmistakeable sound of his wife's voice, Mrs. Patmore's extravagant laughter, Anna and Daisy's giggles.
They paused abruptly when they noticed him appear in the door, tall and foreboding in his hat, wet from the drizzle of rain.
"Mr. Carson," Daisy said and Elsie turned from facing the others to find herself almost up against his chest.
"Hello, are you early?"
"I believe I am perfectly on time," he said, looking from face to face.
"Sorry, we were just having a moment, I'll get my coat." She squeezed his arm and then disappeared off down the hallway leaving him alone with the women, not his most comfortable of situations though he was loved dearly by all.
"So, then Mr. Carson, throwing a shindig we hear," Mrs. Patmore said.
"A shindig?" he frowned.
"At the Grantham Arms, Mr. Carson," Daisy added. "We'll all be there."
"Well, I'm glad of that Daisy. It will be a family event, respectable, certainly not a shindig."
The ladies all seemed to smirk and he had no idea what was so amusing but Anna stepped close to him and stood to kiss his cheek, "We all miss you, Mr. Carson," she said, and there was genuine affection in her voice.
"Whatever is this about?" He questioned and then Elsie was there, tying her scarf in place.
"Are you ready?"
He nodded, confused, and bid the others goodnight.
Outside she took his arm, holding on tight to be steady on the damp and rapidly freezing path.
"What an odd day," she noted as they set off. "Look at this wonderful sky, so clear. It's crisp out here."
"Whatever was so funny?" He blurted out. "And why did Anna kiss me?"
"Anna kissed you?"
"She did. I am not comfortable with being the source of amusement despite my diminished status."
She stopped, "Hold on, what are we arguing about?"
"Are we arguing?"
"Well your tone towards me is certainly argumentative."
He started them walking again, "I am not arguing. I am merely stating –,"
"We weren't laughing at you Charles. Goodness."
"What then? Who? Why was I involved?"
"You weren't, as far as I know. We were laughing at Thomas."
"Oh," he held the gate open for her and they took the path towards the village rather than home. "Whatever for?"
"Because he often likes to think he knows it all, like many men I've known, and he doesn't. That's all. And we found it amusing at the end of a long and busy day. You remember how it is."
"The camaraderie of working together. Sorry I was grumpy."
She squeezed his arm, "Anna kissed you, did she?"
"Said they all miss me."
"Of course they do, as sharp as you can be you're also kind and people recognise that Charlie." Her hand slid down his arm to grip his hand. "People respect authority and order, but they work for someone they love, someone who they know is working for them too. Someone they can rely on to be kind if ever a moment arises where they might need it."
He felt his cheeks warming, "Did you read the article?"
"We all did, Mrs. Patmore pinned a copy to the noticeboard too. Who would have thought, my famous husband?" She smiled, leaning against him, "Please don't go kissing any other girls though."
"Elsie," he admonished but chuckled anyway with her.
Charles had little patience for hospitals.
They reminded him, as he was sure they did everyone, of the deaths of his parents. That white everywhere. And stony faces. Metal beds, bedpans, something odd about the scent of food against that medicinal pungency.
He shook his hands together in frustration, waiting for Elsie to find information out about where the child was. If he had gone home, all the better, he wouldn't have to try and find the words. How did one speak to a four-year-old traveller about a near-death experience?
Tutting and puffing he wandered a little, down a corridor, glancing back every now and then for Elsie but once he'd set his route and got going there was no turning back. He peeked in through open doors to wards, nodded amiably at nurses, and nobody stopped him so he kept going. How easy it would be to sneak in here, he thought to himself.
And then he was there, the kitten he saved from the bucket, the boy from the iced river. He could still feel the weight of him in his hands, the pull on his wrists as the water fought to keep him. Sodden and dragging on him.
He breathed deeply, stepped in through the doorway and cleared his throat. Every child in the ward looked up.
"You're Mr. Carson," some broad Yorkshire accent said, "I'm Samuel Brown, I broke my leg. You want to sign the pot? We saw you in the paper today."
Charles looked down to where the chirpy chap lay reading a comic book.
"Ere, come sign my pot when's you done his," another lad said and Charles found himself quite disorientated.
"Yeah Mister, sign my arm too. And the newspaper."
Charles held his hands up, "I will happily oblige, but right now I came to see this young man."
The quiet little boy, like a half-fledged thing, held his gaze with saucer-like dark eyes, so brown they were almost black.
"I'm Tommy," he said, his voice the tiniest tinniest thing.
Charles held out his hand, standing by the side of the bed, "I'm Mr… I'm Charlie, pleased to meet you."
His hand felt warm, clammy but warm, and his skin was pink and flushed.
"May I?" Charles said, indicting the seat by the bed. He removed his hat and sat down.
"Mam says I gotta thank you, for what you did. I can't remember it though see."
"I can, unfortunately."
"Was I dead?" The boy asked, squirming round on his pillows. "I think I was."
"No, I don't think you were dead."
"Mam says she prayed to Jesus to bring me back. And Mother Mary."
"Nothing wrong with that," he really wasn't very good with spiritual talk, he still struggled to find the words to tell Elsie how he loved her. "It doesn't do to dwell on upsetting things. Much better to think of the good instead."
"Doctor says I should be home Christmas Eve."
"There you see, that's a good thing."
"Yes Mister, and I hope to get a present this year. I wanted a spinning top, have you seen them?"
He thought of the one George had back at Downton. "Yes."
"I really like my sleigh," Tommy said, pointing to where it stood on the bedside table. "The boys are jealous I got it."
"I was proud of it as a boy too, it's a real work of art, fine construction." He realised he was probably going over the boy's head. "Have you had dinner yet?"
"Nope. We usually get something soon though. Not meat pie again though, that makes me feel sick."
"Least you're eating, that's good," Charles said, rigid in his chair, thinking of his Yorkshire Pudding. "What's this?" He touched the book that lay closed on the boy's lap.
"They bring us books in the afternoon, trouble is, I don't read too good, I just look at the pictures but most of them had gone and I had this one three times now."
"They need a wider selection of books," Charles noted, taking hold of the one on the bed.
Elsie hurried down the corridor searching for Charles, worried he'd changed his mind and gone outside, or even worse, that he'd taken a funny turn again.
She paused when she got to the children's section, scanning every room until she reached one for young boys. Slowing, she caught her breath, hung her handbag back on her arm and made her way inside.
By the glass door she stopped. And smiled.
Charles was reading to the boy, and the boy was laughing. A sweet, wondrous sound. She stepped inside, listening as Charles altered his voice to suit the characters, as he growled like a tiger or slithered like a snake over his words. The other boys listened too, enraptured, he had them in the palm of his hand.
She'd always loved his voice. Commanding, yes, but as deep and luxurious as velvet.
He caught her eye momentarily and she gave him a warm smile and a nod. He could go on reading, she would wait. As long as it took.