Getting Angry

A week before Christmas 1916 Mr. and Mrs. Merrifield had finished their dinner and were sitting in their small sitting room in their above store flat. Archie Merrifield had the store account books spread out on the desk before him, while his wife worked on her darning.

"Tom Branson was by this afternoon," said Mrs. Merrifield. "He wished us a Happy Christmas and dropped off a basket of apples. He didn't stay long."

"That was nice of him. I'm sorry I missed him."

"His employer has some new appointment with the North Riding Volunteers. He said the man will be having regular meetings once a month in York that should take all day. He'll let you know when he will be in town so you could set up some motor repair appointments."

"That's fine," said Archie. He hadn't looked up from his books.

Mrs. Merrifield paused for a few minutes.

"He had that look," she said.

"What look would that be?"

"The one when a young man is having problems with a girl. I haven't raised three boys to adulthood without seeing that look before."

"He's an adult. He'll work it out."

"I suppose your right. Have you ever told him about . . .?"

"No, it's just not something you bring up in a casual conversation. The time just never seemed right. Now come and explain this receipt you wrote out the other day. I can't find the corresponding transaction."

Over the next six months Tom stopped by the Merrifield's to do repair work at least once a month. He was quieter than he had been in the past, and while he still smiled easily it didn't quite reach his eyes. Both of the Merrifields noticed the change but respected his privacy and didn't comment.

Tom was still writing regularly. Labor shortages were also being felt in the journalism world and he was getting regular requests for articles from a variety of newspapers and periodicals. His articles were more polished than they had been in the past but they lacked the underlying passion of his early work. He had to force himself to clear his mind or the words would just not come.

Tom's grief over his cousin coupled with his disappointment and humiliation at his failed proposal in November was steadily turning to anger and resentment. He questioned his motives for staying at Downton. He had enough saved to support himself for the next two years if he didn't spend foolishly. At the same time he had a fairly easy job that provided regular meals, a uniform and a roof over his head, not to mention enough free time to do pretty much as he liked within reason and pay that was three times that of the same job in Ireland. "Whom am I kidding?" he thought to himself. "You still don't have your answer. She didn't say yes and she didn't say no. You proposed to a scared little girl."

When Tom had visited his friend Iann last year, they had discussed their options for avoiding conscription. Tom was not a violent man. He had no desire to fight for the British army. The brutality of the British in Ireland, coupled with the reports of men being sent to their deaths in droves by incompetent officers on the front lines gave him more than enough reason to refuse to fight. The tales of conscientious objectors being beaten and degraded in prison were no worse than the sight of the mangled bodies of the men in the local hospital. If death didn't find you first, the alternative was much worse. If the notice came Tom had known what he would do.

He was reeling in shock from his rejection by the army for a heart murmur. It must be worse than they were letting on, as they were pretty desperate for soldiers these days and took almost anyone who could stand and hold a gun. He had never been much for running around outside when he was young. Everyone had put it down to his being "bookish", but now when he thought about it, it made sense.

When Sybil made a comment about the English not being their best in Ireland, he had seen red. She spoke from the arrogance and ignorance of her social status. It hit his grief and shock dead center. He had been angry. The pain and humiliation he felt the previous November in York when he declared his feelings to her had come rushing back and he wanted nothing more than to hurt her as badly as she had hurt him. His words had rushed out in a tirade and he could see the hurt in her eyes. He was surprised she hadn't said anything and gotten him fired. He had certainly over stepped the bounds. Even more surprising was when she had sought him out a few days later to apologize for the insensitivity of her remark. He had accepted her apology but had not lingered to chat. The pain squeezing his heart was still too intense.

At the beginning of July 1917 everything he had been feeling over the last year, came to a head. Mr. Carson was at the head of the table in the servants' hall discussing an upcoming visit by a famous general.

"We will be most honored here at Downton to be hosting General Sir Herbert Strutt, Hero of the Somme. I want everything to go smoothly. We must present everything to the very highest standard to honor such a great man."

"Hero of the Somme, indeed," Tom wanted to scream at the butler. "More like a butcher with shiny brass buttons!" Tom could feel the rage building inside himself. How could anyone be so blind as to spew such nonsense? Didn't these people read the papers? Didn't they talk to those around them outside the estate? How could anyone not see what this man and the other generals in charge of the battle had done.

The Somme had been a bloody battle with high loss of life. The men at the front had been ordered to walk into battle. Walk not run into a hail of machine gun fire. Entire regiments had been ordered to advance when the generals knew they would have one hundred percent loss of life. There were small towns all over England, Ireland, Scotland and Canada where entire generations of young men had been wiped from the face of the earth in the course of one battle. All anyone had to do was to talk to the families left behind to understand the finality of the general's incompetence.

Early the morning after Tom's failed attempt to humiliate the general Mr. Carson showed up at the chauffer's cottage. Tom stood in the middle of the room wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled back and a plain pair of pants with suspenders. He hadn't bothered to shave and his hair was uncombed.

Mr. Carson's eyes narrowed slightly. This was not the Tom Branson he knew over the last four years. This man looked haunted, as though he had lost something and didn't quite know where to locate it.

"Mr. Branson I have come here this morning to let you know of my decision regarding your behavior last night. Your service to the house has always been of the highest level. The estate could not have managed without you last summer and it is for these reasons that I am willing to overlook your transgression. Mrs. Hughes and I have discussed the situation and have decided as long as you will give me your word of honor nothing like this will ever happen again, you may retain your position."

"I don't know if I can do that, Mr. Carson," Tom said lifting his chin slightly.

Mr. Carson looked Tom straight in the eyes for a few minutes, when Tom suddenly said, "Please excuse me," and dashed outside.

Mr. Carson could hear the unmistakable sounds of Tom loosing the contents of his stomach somewhere outside the cottage. While Tom was composing himself, Mr. Carson took the opportunity to look around the cottage. It quickly became apparent something was very wrong with the young man. Tom was normally meticulous in his appearance and dress and could rival his lordship himself in grooming. If one didn't know better they would swear a valet dressed the man every morning instead of living on his own in a cottage.

This morning the cottage was in a state of total disarray. Cloths and books were strewn everywhere about the room. The dishes on the sideboard had been washed, but instead of sitting on the shelves they had been tossed all over the counter and shelves. Some were stacked on the chairs by the small table. Amongst the dishes books and circulars were laying where they rested, as though someone had been throwing them at the dishes for target practice. On one shelf in the midst of the chaos where neatly staked newspapers and flyers that appeared to have never been touched, while at the same time the table and floor were covered with pieces of paper in no particular order. A leather notebook, gold plated fountain pen and a black case sat on top of the mess on the table.

"That's odd," thought Mr. Carson. "Lord Grantham has a fountain pen exactly like that in the library." While he was sure Mr. Branson had not pilfered it, he would double check when he returned to the house.

When Tom re-entered the room a few minutes later Mr. Carson turned to him and said, "Mr. Branson I have informed his lordship you were taken ill yesterday evening. I will excuse you from your duties for the day. Please take the day and consider your position with the house. I will expect your answer this evening after the staff meal."

"Very good, Mr. Carson I will do that."

As soon as Mr. Carson left the cottage, Tom shaved, finished dressing and headed out the door. He didn't know where he was going, but he had to get away from the estate.

On his way out the gates Tom came face to face with Lady Sybil. She had been called to the hospital in the middle of the night when one of the nurses had taken ill and was just returning. Anna had told her last night about the attempt to humiliate the general, which would have certainly landed Tom in jail and brought down shame upon Sybil's family.

"Branson, I heard what happened last night."

"I see. Did you have a good laugh?" Tom's face was dark and he wouldn't look at her.

"What? What are you talking about? I'm worried about you."

"Why bother?"

"Branson, please. Please promise me you will stop these protests. You are going to get yourself jailed or worse."

"I can't do that, Lady Sybil. Now if you will excuse me," he said and started to walk past her.

"Tom Branson, what is the matter with you?" she called after him.

Tom did not look back. He just kept walking.