Finding Time

It was Saturday before Tom had a chance to return to Archie Merrifield's shop. Friday Lady Cora had decided to accompany her husband to York and Tom was busy waiting outside of shops and carrying parcels. Today Lady Edith was along to pay a call to a friend. Tom had a list of errands for Mrs. Hughes as well. He sighed in frustration, thinking there would be no way he would have a minute to himself. He was relieved to hear Lord Grantham instruct Lady Edith not to take up too much of the chauffer's time as he had errands to do for the estate that did not include waiting on her every whim.

"But Papa," Lady Edith had started to complain.

"I mean it Edith, with the fuel shortages the maximum advantage must be made of every trip."

Lady Edith had sat back with a "Huff," but finally gave in. Tom had both his passengers dropped off and would have two hours to accomplish his tasks. He moved as quickly as possible, plotting the shortest route between stops. When he finally arrived at the Merrifield's he had thirty minutes to spare.

He entered the shop. Archie Merrifield was nowhere insight. A middle-aged woman with a pleasant face greeted him. Her once auburn hair was streaked with grey and she wore a plain cotton dress covered by an apron.

"You must be Mr. Branson, my husband told me to expect you," she said with a smile.

"Yes I am. I've come for the typewriter."

"My husband has done nothing but rave about the repairs you did the other day to our lorry. It's a big part of our business. He was lost without it," she said as she moved to bring a case with another box to the counter. "He thought this machine might suit you better. It's from America."

Mrs. Merrifield opened the leather case to display a typewriter with a folding carriage. It was small, light and obviously meant for someone who moved from place to place. The gold letters spelled out Corona 3 and while the case was worn from use the machine itself was in pristine condition.

Tom eyed the machine with longing. It was perfect. Small enough not to take too much room in his quarters and light enough that he would not have any trouble moving it.

"It's very nice Mrs. Merrifield. How much do I owe you?"

"Ten pounds," she said.

"I couldn't possibly take it for so little."

"You've done us a great service already. This machine is doing no one any good just sitting on a shelf collecting dust. It was meant to be used," she said almost wistfully.

Tom nodded and reached into his pocket for his billfold. He was a bit shocked at the Merrifield's generosity when he knew this type of machine sold for forty pounds or more new.

"Would you be able to wait for my husband to return?" Mrs. Merrifield inquired. "He really wanted to speak with you on another matter."

"I'm afraid I can't today. I have to be back in a few minutes." Tom said.

As they completed the transaction, Mrs. Merrifield handed him the second box.

"A few things that go with the machine," she said.

Before Tom left the shop she extracted a promise from him to return when he had more time. Tom returned to the car, stowed his purchases out of sight under the driver's seat and headed off to retrieve Lady Edith who was just emerging from the door as he pulled up.

The rest of the day was busy. It wasn't until late in the evening when he was able to retrieve the typewriter and box from the car and sit down at the table in his cottage. On closer inspection he noticed the well-used case for the typewriter bore the faint initials G.H.M. on the leather. He opened the second box Mrs. Merrifield had given him. Inside was a small leather bound notebook with the same initials inside the front cover, a gold plated fountain pen, a stack of typing paper, four boxes of spare ribbons and a roll of correction tape. The notebook and pen were obviously of high quality and worn smooth from handling. Tom frowned at the assortment of items in the box. It was a bit odd, but then you never knew with used items. He turned his attention back to the typewriter. He took out a sheet of paper, rolled it into the carriage and tried a few tentative pecks at the keyboard. He tried typing out a few words and promptly caught his index finger between two keys. "Well, this wasn't as easy as it looked," he thought as he sucked the end of his throbbing finger.

He inserted another piece of paper, got out his draft story and started typing very slowly. He though he was doing pretty well until he realized the paper was crooked and the ten lines of type were running at an odd angle down the page. He groaned. At this rate it would take him all week to transfer the draft. He dropped his head on the table.

"What have I gotten myself into," he blurted.

By the end of the week, things had been going much better with the typewriter and he had something he could send in to the paper.

A few weeks later an acceptance letter arrived from the Yorkshire Herald with a publication date, a request for another story and a check for the first article. This time the editor had requested a specific topic with a three-week deadline. Tom could write or telephone if he accepted the article. Tom's eyes widened at the offer. The payment wasn't huge but at this rate he would have the typewriter paid for in no time and he would be able to put together a portfolio of published work.

It was almost four weeks before he was able to get back to the Merrifield's shop in York. This time his Lordship had an afternoon meeting and dinner that was expected to last until at least 9 p.m. Tom's second article had gone well and he was getting much better at typing with regular practice.

When he entered the shop, Mrs. Merrifield greeted him right away.

"Mr. Branson, I am so glad you managed to find your way back," she said. "I am just getting ready to put the kettle on for tea won't you join us? My husband will be through in a minute."

Tom's eyes widened slightly at the invitation. Since his arrival in England he had been greeted more than once in local shops with "We don't serve Irish." Often people were polite but distant, not encouraging anything beyond the most basic conversation. Even at Downton Abbey the majority of the staff treated him as though he was somehow second-class, rather than in a higher position. He wasn't used to the open friendliness exhibited by this couple.

"Yes, thank you. That would be lovely."

He followed Mrs. Merrifield through to the apartment above the shop, once she had put up a small sign on the door, "Gone to Tea."

"You can wash your hands through there," she instructed.

As Tom emerged from the small washroom, Archie Merrifield arrived.

"Oh Tom, I'm glad you're back. How are you making out with the typewriter?" he inquired.

"Quite well thank you. Although I must admit at first I had rather sore fingers from pinching them between the keys." Tom's face broke into a wide grin when the older couple started to laugh.

"That sounds about right," said Archie. "We saved a couple articles in the Yorkshire Herald written under the name T. Branson. We wondered if that was you."

Archie brought out two papers that he had stacked on top of a bookcase.

"Yes, it was," Tom admitted while feeling the blush creep up his face. "You know you are the first person to ask me. No one else seems to realize it was me."

"Well, people often can't see what is right under their nose."

"I suppose you are right."

Just then the kettle came to a boil and Mrs. Merrifield shushed them to the table.

"I'm afraid our tea isn't very fancy," she said. "Just suet cakes with gravy. I always seem to make too much. I guess that is how it is when you raised a pack of boys."

Tom thought of the bread and cheese he had left in the car that seemed to be his standard fair these days when he had these long waits. It was filling, but tasteless.

"I'm sure it will be wonderful," he assured Mrs. Merrifield.

After a few minutes, Archie addressed him.

"I wanted to speak to you about a business proposition," he said. "Since you fixed my lorry I have had lots of other business owners around these parts ask who did the work. I was wondering if you might take on some repair jobs. In your spare time of course."

"I'm afraid I don't have much time off. I don't know when I will be in York and even then I am not sure for how long. I really don't see how I could manage it, Archie."

"Let me give you a better idea of what I was thinking. I haven't got where I am without being able to smell a good business opportunity," said Archie with a serious expression. "People around here are desperate with the army taking over the repair depot and there is a labor shortage. You could let us know when you are going to be on one of these long waits or when you are available to come up. I could arrange one or two vehicles for you to look at and you can work on them in our back yard. You would be well paid for your efforts and I would take care of collecting the funds. More of a partnership of shorts, I guess you could say."

"You might have something there," said Tom. "As long as you realize my trips to York and time here are very irregular. Are you sure people won't mind an Irish mechanic working on their motors. It wouldn't be the first time I've met with resistance to my nationality."

"If anyone has anything to say, I will charge them double," Archie said with a laugh. "You might find that kind of attitude at the top of high street, but the people in these parts are just decent hard working folk trying to get by. Believe me your efforts would be well appreciated. Have we got a deal then?"

A smile slowly spread across Tom's face.

"We do."

With that the men shook hands.

By November of 1915 Tom had published eight articles in the Yorkshire Herald and four others in two socialist circulars. His experience was starting to build, as was his understanding of what different editors were looking for. Only one article had come back with request for a re-write. The others had been accepted as written. As well he was learning some of the technical jargon of journalism such as pitch, option and by-line. He pretty quickly realized he could write the articles by hand while waiting for his employers while they paid calls or went shopping. He would type them up in the evenings when he didn't have to wait in the servants' hall to shuttle diner guests back and forth. No one noticed his absence as they assumed he was avoiding the ever annoying Claire and Hazel, who would be moving to factory jobs after the first of the year. He didn't mention his writing to anyone at Downton, nor did anyone ask him about it. Archie had been right. People often didn't see what was right under their nose.

He had only shared one of his articles with Sybil on her afternoon visits to the garage. He had written an article on the changing rolls of women in the workplace as the war had necessitated women taking over many traditionally male jobs such as lorry drivers. He thought it was safe enough if anyone discovered the circular in her possession as the typesetters had made an error and put B. Transon as the author's name. She had praised his efforts and asked if she could keep the copy as a souvenir.

Sybil often stopped by while he was working on the motors to discuss the progress of the war. Her father sheltered much of the information from his daughters and Tom who was always up on current events was a treasure trove of information. His keen sense of observation often gave further insight into the shifting tides of public opinion and the ensuing political upheaval.

At times he thought he saw something more in her eyes. He had caught her staring at him more than once. Was a relationship with this Lady from a different class a dream he could ever realize? Sometimes he though their worlds were too far apart to ever merge but when he allowed himself to look into her eyes, he felt as though his home lived in their depths.

He had managed to arrange to visit the Merrifield's at least six times over the last few months. On one of Tom's few full days off he had taken the bus to York and spent the day at the Merrifield's. Archie had been good to his word and each time had two or three lorries or motors for Tom to look at. The majority of the repairs were not complicated but stemmed more from lack of maintenance. Each time Tom stopped by there had been an envelope with cash waiting for him in the till and a list of people looking for repairs if he wished to do them. The Merrifields were always welcoming and had become close friends. As well he had met a number of people in their neighborhood who would wave when they passed him working in their yard or if they saw him standing by the motor waiting for one of the Crawleys.

Tom's savings had built up steadily over the year and he now had almost doubled the amount he had managed to save the previous year. So many of the young men in the area were eager to enlist. They had the lust of adventure and the youthful belief in invincibly fueling their drive. Tom thought the war was a fool's errand and nothing would convince him otherwise. He would wait for conscription and make his decisions if and when it came.

As he stood and watched the first snowflakes of early December start to fall on the grounds outside the garage his thoughts turned to Ireland and his Mam back home. This year he could afford to send her a decent amount and perhaps a small package besides. He would like to send her something nice. He knew if he sent cash she would never spend it on herself and most likely save it for a rainy day under her mattress. He wondered what she would think of his life here and his burgeoning writing career. He would include copies of his articles with his Christmas parcel, but for right now he needed to decide what to get. Maybe he would ask Lady Sybil's advice he thought to himself as he turned to go back to work.