What Is and What Can Be
The vivid colors of autumn begin to fade marking the changing seasons and with the slight nip in the air Christmas is just around the corner. In the four months since that weekend at Downton, since they shared their burdens and uncovered their deepest secrets, Charles Carson cannot remember when he has been happier.
He watches as she moves into the kitchen and begins preparing food, arranging it just so. He watches the fine movement, the glide of her hands and the slip of her wrists, the gentle, long curve of her fingers as she moves with grace and purpose. Charles watches as Elsie silently ticks off a mental checklist of everything that she is to have done before their guests arrive. Our guests, he thinks. Charles realizes, not for the first time, that they are settling into a pattern. Quiet evenings with Elsie writing or reading, him reading the newspapers and catching up on news and sport. A shared bottle of wine while watching telly, her legs outstretched, feet in his lap. Long walks through the park and Sunday brunch. Entertaining friends together. The only things they do not share are lingering mornings, the comfort of someone to come home to every evening, a shared address.
To say that she hasn't thought of it, hasn't lain awake at night in the stillness of a lonely bed and wondered what it would be like to have him beside her every night, would be a lie. Elsie has wondered; she wonders now as she frets about in the kitchen and knows that he is just there, laying the table in the refined way his mother taught him. To see him so easy now, so at home, in her home. Her heart clenches at the thought that they might one day have a home together. Stolen weekends at the cottage on Brouncker Road is as close as they have come.
"Shall we play strict rules?" Elsie inquires as she places the game box on the table and settles in beside Charles.
"Are there any other?" Charles asks innocently as he places the dictionary on the table beside him. Elsie cannot help but smile as she casts an eye to the giant tome pinched from her bookshelf.
"Well, when Elsie and I shared a flat together, we sometimes played a different version," Beryl grins mischievously. "I doubt you will find any of those words in your dictionary there."
"What she means to say is it degenerated into a version where Beryl began to see how many naughty words she could spell and dared me to match her," Elsie replies as she turns the tiles over, places her palm on them, and shuffles them about.
"Who won?" Charles asks innocently as he begins to select the requisite number of alphabet tiles.
"You obviously haven't heard Bee when she's upset," Bill jokes before his wife jabs a playful elbow in his ribs. Bill collects his letters, arranges them on his tile rack. D*H*C*W*I*K*E
"Why are we even talking about this? It is undignified," Elsie protests. She places her letter tiles in alphabetical order on the holder. M*U*S*T*A*R*D She attempts to sneak a peek over to Charles's direction; she interested to see if he does the same, or if perhaps he arranges by consonants and vowels.
"Yes, but who won?" Charles asks again as he arranges his letter tiles and angles his tile rack and covers it with his hand so that Elsie's prying eyes cannot see the letters he has collected. S*C*O*W*L*R*Z
"Usually, we were well matched until your lady friend here began to spelling in Gaelic and then, well, it was all over," Beryl laughs boisterously while arranging her tiles. A*E*I*X*M*Z* *
"Elsie Hughes, you are full of secrets aren't you," Charles laughs, bumping his knee against hers under the table.
"That's me. A woman of mystery if ever there was one," she replies with mock seriousness.
Bill rummages into his coat pocket and retrieves his pipe and a small black pouch; he looks to Elsie, and asks a silent question. He knows that she has quit, put the cigarette packages in the bin months ago, and he doesn't want to tempt her. She nods, gives him the all clear and he gently lays out his tobacco things.
Charles watches as Bill lays out a pinch of sweet cherry tobacco on his handkerchief, rids it of any clumps, and then fills the bowl of his pipe. As Bill tamps the tobacco in the bowl of the pipe and then lights it, swirling the match over the top of it, and then puffing slowly, gently, patiently, a snapshot of a memory flashes through Charles's mind. A singular snapshot of a tall, robust man, with a great shock of thick white hair, crisp blue shirt, braces, dark pants, and polished shoes. He is standing by the fire lighting his pipe. Charles stops for a moment and wonders if the figure is from a dream or a photograph he has seen. Perhaps something that his parents may have told him but then he remembers the setting, the room, and the nearby window. The man with the pipe, his Uncle Charlie*, at the house on Brouncker Road. So, I do have a memory of him, he thinks, a smile tugging lightly at his lips.
"A penny for them, darling," Elsie says softly as she gently caresses Charles arm, rousing him from his daydream.
"Oh, um, yes, just a nice memory of my uncle," Charles fumbles shyly, placing his hand atop Elsie's.
"So how is the movie going Elsie? Any news?" Bill asks, taking a puff from his pipe.
"Hurry up only to wait," she replies, voice tinkling with laughter. "Thomas tells me that's how these things work. They wanted the script in such a hurry but now they are busy sorting a place in the production schedule, a director, the crew, and they've yet to cast it. Though they have some idea of the major roles." Elsie plays her letters. "Mustard!" she rejoices. "I used all of my letters. Now, how many points is that?" Charles counts the spaces and calculates the points, writes the tally next to Elsie's initials on the game sheet while Elsie collects more tiles.
"Oooh, who do you think they'll cast as the main characters?" Beryl asks as she places her word. "'Mixed'. Add it up Charles," she said sounding every bit as if she is issuing an order from her kitchen as she chooses four tiles.
"I don't know," Elsie admits. "They've mentioned the girl who does all those period pieces. You know the one who dresses all peculiar at the premiers. And I'm not sure about the male lead."
Bill places his tiles to spell 'Wicked' and Charles tallies his score and records it next to his name. "So how is your new broadcast partner, Charles? Settling in all right?" Elsie watches as Charles's shoulders tense and his jaw hardens slightly. She doubts that Beryl or Bill have noticed, Charles is too well mannered to let them see his discomfort but she has noticed. He has complained every day of every week for the past four months about his new on-air partner and she wonders what he will say now.
Building off the 'C' in 'Wicked' Charles spells out 'Scowl' and Elsie bites her lip to keep from dissolving into laughter. "When I first met him I thought he was there on work experience. If I could only be so lucky. He still has spots on his face. Young Mr. Kent has a lot of learning to do and I am not much interested in training a young hobbledehoy who is more interested in how his hair looks than his reporting of the game," Charles replies sternly. Elsie and Beryl look to one another and stifle a giggle that only serves to make Charles brows knit together more harshly.
"Sorry mate," Bill sympathizes.
"So you're going to the Crawley Christmas party this year?" Beryl asks as she watches Elsie carefully place her tiles on the game board. Charles looks skeptical and stops just short of opening the dictionary, fingering through the 'D' section to see if she spelled a real word. He knows that even if she didn't, he will likely lose the battle.
"We are," Elsie replies taking a sip from her wine glass, then leans over Charles making sure that he totals her points.
"I'm catering again so I'll be rowing with the other slaves," Beryl huffs dejectedly placing her tiles down to create a modest three letter word.
"And making a small fortune so I'd not complain," Bill reminds her. Beryl shrugs and nods her head in agreement. Though she protests, Beryl is just as content to remain in the background, directing the whole affair from the kitchen. She knows that she can depend on Thomas and Elsie to fill her in on any of the gossip that her wait staff misses.
"Goodnight," Beryl says kissing Elsie's cheek. "Next time is at our place."
"Goodnight," Elsie replies. "Drive safely." Elsie closes the door focuses on the word our. More and more she wishes that she and Charles could say our place, collectively. The cottage felt, still feels, like our place, she thinks as she brushes her hand through her hair and sighs. Charles is busy clearing away the wine glasses and she looks at him relaxed, dressed in his plaid shirt and dark jeans, his dark, curly hair unruly. He is doing the mundane things and she can almost see it. See him as her husband, helping to clear after supper. She can see him as the father of a son who grows to be tall and broad like him, with her blue eyes and quick wit. Or perhaps as the father of a daughter, who with dark ringlets bouncing as she runs across the room, tugs Charles' trouser leg, and asks him to play tea party.
"Elsie?" Charles calls from the kitchen and when she does not answer, he turns around to find her looking out the window into the night sky.
"Now, who's lost in thought?" he asks quietly, wrapping his arms around her. She leans back into him, relishes the warmth of his embrace.
"Just thinking," she answers quietly. She will not push him on this. They have known each other for nine months, been together for just barely eight and perhaps it is too early to think of it. He has told her that he is over Alice and she believes him. She has pulled, lead him to change in some ways, helped him to heal. But she will not push the next step; Charles must do that when he is ready.
"Tell me about it?" He feels her breathing slow. Most times, he feels at a loss with women, with her in particular, though she can read him so very well. She knows when to push him, when to step back, let him be. But to him she is a puzzle. A beautiful menagerie of pieces with jagged corners and smooth edges that fit together with such complexity he thinks that if he lives a thousand years he will never figure out how to put them all together.
"It's nothing, really," she explains. He pulls her tighter into his embrace, rests his chin against the side of her head. Tonight it is his turn to let her be. To let her talk when she is ready.
*If memory serves in the script book for Series 1 Julian Fellowes has written in the notes that Charles Carson smokes a pipe.
TBC….. Thank you all for the reblogs on Tumblr, reviews, comments, and those who read along. Reviews are most appreciated.