Inspiration

The end of July 1917 was a quiet time on the estate for Tom. Fuel was being strictly rationed which meant errands, shopping trips and meetings were limited to essentials only. Tom's job became more of gopher for Mrs. Hughes than anything else. Mr. Branson go for this, Mr. Branson go for that. There was only so much walking into the village, playing with the engines and washing of cars you could do before the boredom drove you crazy.

Thank goodness for his writing. There was a story that had been in the back of Tom's mind since he met Reggie Merrifield. He had been collecting information since last fall and it was time. He had done a short article since the fiasco with the general and the tone of his work was changing. His old passion was back, but now it was tempered with a desire to challenge the reader and bring the story to life on the page.

The evening was warm, crickets chirped in the bushes and he could hear the rustle of owls' wing as they flew past the open doors of the cottage. Tom unbuttoned his shirt, laid out the contents of the folder and began to type. His words and thoughts flowed out of him as they hadn't in a very long time. When he finished the piece he knew what he would do with it.

The following week Lord Grantham planned a trip to York. Tom had a large list of errands to do for Mrs. Hughes as the extra people staying in the house for convalescence was taxing the household resources to the limit. Lady Mary and Edith were also along, but their father had made it clear that Branson had the next four hours to get the household business done. He was not to be toting packages or running them to their friends' homes.

Tom had one task of his own to accomplish and as most of the errands were in the same street as the Yorkshire Herald, he took the time to stop in. The secretary at the reception desk had a sour expression on her face as she peered through her spectacles and reached for the envelope in his hand.

"I'll take that," she said. Her nasty expression had turned to one of haughty disdain at the site of his chauffer's livery. Tom had been in a rush to get as many errands accomplished as possible and he was still wearing his hat and driving gloves.

He took off his hat and tucked it under his arm.

"Please inform Mr. Wilson that Tom Branson is here and would like to speak with him." Tom's steady gaze and the determination in his face gave her no room for argument.

In a few minutes, a slight man in his late thirties with thinning hair came bustling out of a back office.

"Mr. Branson. I am very pleased to meet you at long last. Please come in." If the uniform surprised him he had the good grace not to show it. "What can I do for you?" he said as he closed the door and moved behind the desk, indicating Tom should take the chair opposite him.

"I've written an unsolicited piece. You were the first editor to give me a start and I thought you might be interested."

Tom handed him the envelope, removed his gloves and balanced his hat on his knee. Mr. Wilson picked up his editing pencil and began to read. He slowly set his pencil down and didn't look up until he had finished.

"I must say this piece is good. It's beyond good. It's excellent. Mr. Branson your writing is regularly of a high quality but this is not what I expected and if I may be so bold to say, you are not what I expected."

Tom's eyes twinkled with a suppressed laugh.

"I get that a lot."

Tom's article told the story of the merchant navy on convoy duty in the North Atlantic. It was poignant and hard hitting and didn't spare a government who gave no official recognition or compensation to the men who transported dangerous goods, food supplies and munitions to the beleaguered British Isles. The job was no less dangerous than the naval escorts who accompanied them. The living conditions were often substandard. The voyages were fraught with peril from mines, submarine attacks and surface raiders. The men of the merchant navy sailed because it was the right thing to do, not for medals, not for glory but for their people regardless of borders or accents.

Mr. Wilson went to the door and called, "Miss Pearson, please have this article placed front page, bottom right in tomorrow's edition. I don't care whom you are holding the space for. It could be the Duke of York for all I care. Just see to it."

"Now Mr. Branson I would like to offer you a staff writing position with the paper." Mr. Wilson named a sum that was more than fair for a paper of the size.

"I'm sorry to say, Mr. Wilson, but I must decline your offer. I have some unfinished business at the estate where I am employed."

"I understand, but it is our loss. Is there a way I can contact you quicker in the future?"

Tom gave him the code for Mr. Carson's telephone, but asked that he not identify the paper when he called.

"My employers and the other staff members wouldn't understand. Now I must get back to my duties."

Tom put his hat back on as he exited the building and headed off to finish his errands and retrieve his employers. He had no way of knowing he had just submitted a story that would be reprinted in ten papers across the British Empire and start a parliamentary debate on both sides of the Atlantic that would last for the next eighty years.

A week or so later a letter arrived at the Merrifield's shop. When Archie opened it he found a newspaper clipping with a note. Inscribed on the note were two words.

Thank You.

In the spring of 1918 Tom was working on the Renault when his unfinished business approached him wearing a grey nurses' uniform and carrying a blanket draped over her arms.

"Why did you promise Mr. Carson you wouldn't stage anymore protests when you wouldn't promise me?"

It was time to move forward, to make Sybil Crawley aware that he still loved her and force her to come to terms with her own feelings. He had his reasons for promising Mr. Carson he wouldn't stage anymore protests, as he had his reasons for not telling her about his writing. The details weren't important, it all came down to whether or not she loved him. The end of the Great War was coming and with it the old class structures were starting to fall. There would always be those who resisted change and those who embraced it. Tom would wait for his answer and one way or the other he would have it.

By the end of 1918 Tom had received two more offers of staff writing positions with different papers. He was making a name for himself and regularly received requests for articles. Two of the papers had offered him by lines, but he had turned them down.

"What would I say?" he quipped. "Irish socialist, chauffer, sometimes mechanic and writer? Maybe Jack-of-all-trades? No, no one would ever believe it. T. Branson is fine."

He now knew who he was as a writer. His was the voice of people, regardless of class, sex or nationality. It didn't matter what government was in power there would always be those who needed a voice and those who needed someone to make them sit up and take notice. It wasn't the political, controversial slanted jargon he once dreamed of. Archie Merrifield had been right. People didn't see what was right under their nose and he had been just as bad as the next. The stories were there in the everyday people and in their lives. You just had to open your eyes and look for it.

That December Reggie Merrifield celebrated his wedding. Tom was invited and wondered if Reggie had seen the article on the merchant navy and how he would react. At the reception Reggie came over to him and slapped him on the back.

"My Dad was right about you. You're a shit disturber just like my brother George. Now let's go find that bottle of Canadian Whiskey I smuggled in. I swear those folks from the colony have the best darn drink on the planet."

Tom threw back his head and laughed. Reggie Merrifield wasn't far off. His Da was right about a lot of things.