Grief and Answers

Later that same morning Archie Merrifield returned from doing his errands. He had made the rounds of the post office and bank and had been dealing with an unsatisfied customer who was complaining about some chairs she had purchased. The color of the fabric was just "too red" she claimed. "Annoying old trout," he had thought to himself as he dealt with her complaints.

"Tom's here," his wife informed him. "He showed up an hour ago out of the blue. He said he thought your lorry needed some maintenance. He looks terrible."

She motioned for her husband to follow her to the back door that lead to the yard. The sound of tools being dropped and a steady tirade of Irish could be heard coming from under the lorry. One didn't have to understand the words to know they were all curses.

"That's been going on since he got here."

"Alright, I'll have a word with him," said Archie.

Tom had become a close family friend over the last two years. They had both been worried about him and his steady withdrawal into himself since last Christmas.

Tom was just finishing replacing the oil plug when a pair of feet appeared beside the lorry.

"Have you told it off sufficiently?" Archie inquired in a neutral tone.

"I suppose," came the reply followed by a short self-deprecating laugh.

"Right then, when you're finished up here let's go for a pint. Just don't tell my Mrs."

"Alright."

A short while later the two men made their way to the Rose and Thistle a few doors away. Once they had their pints they settled at a small table near the back of the establishment. Tom was unusually quiet. A fact not lost on Archie.

"Have I ever told you about my eldest son?" Archie inquired.

"No you never mentioned him."

Each of the men took a drink from their ale and settled back into their chairs.

"George was a good boy. He would be about ten years older than you are now if he had lived. You know the first time I saw you standing there asking me if I needed help with my lorry, I thought a ghost had risen from the grave and had come to visit. He was a little taller than you and wore spectacles, but he was always cheerful and willing to lend a hand to anyone who needed it."

Tom's eyes widened and he stared at Archie but said nothing.

"He was always a smart one, always reading not like our other two at all. Devoured books he did when he was young. He couldn't get enough. He went to grammar school and attended Cambridge on a full scholarship. He could hold his own with the toffs. His mother was right proud of him. We all were."

Tom's gaze shifted back to his pint. George Merrifield, the name sounded familiar but he couldn't quite place it.

Archie took another drink before he continued.

"He had a knack for languages and writing. He was interested in world events so he took a post at a large paper in London when he graduated. It wasn't long and he was traveling all over Europe covering the news."

Suddenly it hit Tom where he had heard the name before.

"George Merrifield was your son? The George Merrifield? The acclaimed war correspondent?"

"Aye, that's right."

"George Merrifield, George Merrifield," the name rang over and over inside Tom's head. "Bloody Hell! I'm sitting here with George Merrifield's father," Tom thought to himself. George Merrifield had written eyewitness accounts of Bloody Sunday at the beginning of the Russian revolution and reported on almost every important event in Europe until his death at the beginning of the Great War. Very little was known in the public about how he died, but his stories were almost legendary in the journalism world.

"He died in France, during the first barrage," Archie continued. "He wasn't even anywhere near the front lines. There was an accidental discharge when a soldier was cleaning his rifle. The bullet went right through his heart. It killed him instantly."

Archie paused and slowly twisted his glass in his hand. Lost for a moment in his memories.

"The grief and anger at first was terrible when we got the news. He had such promise and it was gone in a second with a foolish accident that could have been prevented," he paused and took a drink. "A few weeks afterwards a letter arrived. The boy whose rifle had discharged had been killed and they had found a letter to us in his personal affects. He had written to tell us how sorry he was. You could see how his hands had shook when he wrote and the paper was slightly smudged. He never lived to post it. He was seventeen years old. Just a wet behind the ears boy."

At this Archie raised his eyes and looked Tom straight in the face.

"Now I ask you who is it that I should hate? Is it that poor young boy lying dead in a grave in France? He was a Scott. How about his countrymen? Should I hate them? How about the government who sent him to war with an outdated rifle that was known to discharge without warning? Maybe the politicians who started this war in the first place, or how about the Huns or the Turks or maybe the French? How about the person who made the bullet that killed my son or the miner that dug the ore in the first place?"

Tom's gaze was now locked on Archie's.

"All I can tell you is grief and anger are a one way street leading to a brick wall, going nowhere. That wasn't how my son lived his life."

Archie finished the rest of his pint and stood to leave.

"I had better get back before the Mrs. skins me alive."

He took a step away from the table, before he turned back.

"Oh another thing. If you still love that girl, tell her so."

With that Archie plopped his cap on his head and headed out the door.

Tom sat for a long while staring into his ale lost in his own thoughts. He rose from the table and made his way to the bus that would take him back to Downton.

It was late afternoon by the time Tom returned to his cottage. He walked to the table and looked down at the typewriter, notebook and pen lying on the table.

"Jesus Christ," he said aloud. It all made sense, the initials on the typewriter and notebook, Reggie Merrifield asking him if he was putting his dead brother's things to good use. The times Mrs. Merrifield would make a casual comment on an article he had just published. "Jesus Christ."

Tom grasped the edge of the table and closed his eyes. The faith these people had placed in him and he had almost thrown it all away on a stupid stunt. George Merrifield had made a difference in this world. His stories were eloquent and pushed people to think beyond themselves. They spurred debate and forced people to take a closer look at themselves.

Tom's thoughts turned to his cousin. Back home everyone had said how alike they were, although Tom had thought his own touch of red in his hair made him more hot tempered. His cousin abhorred violence and had always said change in Ireland would belong to those who maintained their honor and used their minds not their guns.

Tom chided himself. He had been a fool, a complete bloody fool. "I won't always be a chauffer. Bet on Me. I will make something of myself. I promise." His words came back to haunt him. "You Tom Branson are an idiot, a god damn idiot," he said into the empty room. He had allowed his grief and anguish to put him on the fast train to nowhere. He was done with that.

Tom opened his eyes and looked around the cottage. What a mess. He got busy and started picking things up and putting the place to rights. When he was done he glanced at the clock and headed up to the main house to speak to Mr. Carson.

"Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes, might I have a word in private," he said as he entered the kitchen. Mr. Carson looked up. This wasn't the lost young man he had spoken to this morning. There was a maturity about Mr. Branson that had never been there before.

When they entered Mr. Carson's office. Tom spoke before either of the senior house staff had a chance to speak.

"No more protests, Mr. Carson, no more stunts. I give you my word of honor. I will resume my duties in the morning if you are agreeable." Tom extended his hand to shake with the older man.

Mr. Carson took his hand and said, "Yes, quite agreeable."

Mrs. Hughes could only stand there with her mouth slightly agape.

"Mrs. Hughes, my apologies for my behavior yesterday." Tom gave her a slight bow before he turned and strode out of the room.

"What brought that on?" the housekeeper questioned.

"I have no idea," was Mr. Carson's only reply.