Chapter 8 The Underbutler's Complaint

Cooperation

Mr. Barrow sat in the chair on the other side of the butler's desk and tried to pay attention to the cascade of information and directions pouring forth from Mr. Carson about the obligations and responsibilities attached to the position of butler at Downton Abbey.

"You will only be away one week, Mr. Carson," Barrow reminded him, his gentle tone at odds with the impatience he felt. He wasn't a novice here. He knew how things worked at Downton Abbey. He'd watched Mr. Carson closely for years, determined that one day he would be the butler here. Indeed, Barrow had long felt a subconscious smugness about the prospect of slipping into the job fully formed, as it were, not needing a period of adjustment, but able to effect a seamless transition because of this long apprenticeship.

Of course that dream was dashed now. His days at Downton Abbey were numbered. He'd heard with his own ears His Lordship brush away Mr. Carson's laments about declining staff with the words, "Who has an underbutler these days?" Barrow knew that Mr. Carson resisted this trend because it went against his own perceptions about how Downton must be run, but knew, too, that the butler would carry out His Lordship's instructions in the matter. And that meant that he, Thomas Barrow, would soon be out in the streets. The butler had already been encouraging him to look for employment elsewhere. So much for being the butler of Downton Abbey.

It was a bit unfair, then, that they - His Lordship and Mr. Carson - should expect him blithely to fill the role of butler while the Carsons were on their honeymoon. So they wanted him to move on, but were content to exploit his presence for their convenience when it suited them.

"There will be a wine delivery that week," Mr. Carson said curtly. "And that requires particular care. Lady Rosamund is also expected for a few days, we're not exactly sure when. There'll be more of a fuss for dinner in consequence, with the Dowager and likely Mrs. Crawley up for that as well. These things in addition to the usual round of responsibilities, all of which require an exacting attention, do not allow for a moment's distraction."

Barrow was tempted to respond boldly, reiterating his long years of service and his almost impeccable record of service, if not honesty, but held his tongue. Miss Baxter had been encouraging him to take a different approach toward his colleagues, to demonstrate a more obliging nature, and he'd been trying. Though they all seemed to take notice when he cut them with his sharp words or made fools of them, no one had yet acknowledged his efforts to turn the page. He was still nursing a particularly abrupt rebuff from Andy, who had less baggage than any of them - none at all, actually - with him. He resented Mr. Carson's patronizing tone here, speaking to him as though he were a junior footman. But then he summoned what internal resilience he still had to make another go at collegiality with this, his most formidable of co-workers. If only he could make a dent here, then the others would surely fall into line. Mr. Carson's influence over the staff, exercised in deed as well as in word, was undeniable.

"I will do my best, Mr. Carson," Barrow said humbly. "I'm well prepared. You've trained me well." A little careful flattery never hurt.

But Mr. Carson was unimpressed. "Actions speak louder than words, Mr. Barrow."

So they did. "About the wedding, Mr. Carson."

This did catch the butler's attention.

"I wondered if I might be of some help to you there. I know that you and Mrs. Hughes are more than capable of organizing such an event, but if I may be of any assistance or play any role in the preliminary plans or on the day itself, you should know that I would be only too glad to do so. You shouldn't have to be worrying about the details. Especially in last minute arrangements to do with the reception and the wedding breakfast."

Barrow spoke as sincerely as he knew how and endeavoured to look as earnest as possible. And it wasn't entirely a facade. The Carsons' reception would be a large affair, if not of the grand Downton Abbey variety, and Barrow could pick up some much-needed good will if he were seen to be being helpful and efficient. And, almost as much as the senior staff members, Barrow took pleasure from exercising his skills in a challenging opportunity.

Mr. Carson stared at him in silence for one full minute. Few people other than Barrow could have tolerated such scrutiny with equanimity.

"That is very kind of you, Mr. Barrow," Mr. Carson said at length. "And I would appreciate it very much. It is Mrs. Hughes's view that everything ought to be so organized ahead of time that all of the guests, including the Abbey staff who are preparing food and helping with the decorations and such, should be able to leave off those tasks and enjoy the party. And so you should, too. But it would relieve my mind to know that someone competent was keeping an eye on things." Mr. Carson spoke formally, giving no emotional overtone to his words. But that was his way. His sincerity was not in doubt.

Barrow responded with an obliging smile. "You may rely on me for that, Mr. Carson."

Betrayal

It was unrealistic to expect that one good turn could reverse a decade and more of considered disdain, but Barrow was unaccountably disappointed that this exchange with Mr. Carson had no apparent effect. And coupled with what he saw as a continuing series of slights from other members of the staff, he found it difficult to stick with his new resolve to be a better member of the Downton community.

The only meaningful development came in his relationship with Master George, who was now old enough to venture downstairs on his own and who had no history with Barrow to taint his interpretation of the underbutler's kindness. As he found himself answering the boy's questions, explaining to him the inner workings of the grandfather clock, or piggybacking him endlessly through corridors upstairs and down, Barrow discovered a new appreciation for the relationship between Mr. Carson and Lady Mary that he had observed for decades. Lady Mary was almost an adult by the time Barrow had joined the household, but there was no mistaking the deep emotional bond between the eldest daughter of the house and the butler, and Barrow quickly understood that it was something that had grown up between them over years. He wondered what childish games Mr. Carson had entered into to amuse the little Miss Crawley. And he wondered, too, if loneliness had a role in the butler's indulgence of and affection for Lady Mary. For the butler's job was a lonely one, as Barrow understood it. The butler stood between the stairs, neither an upstairs resident nor fully integrated downstairs because of the absolute authority he held over everyone there. It was almost impossible to be friends with people whom you might have to sack.

But an upstairs child was that unexpected loophole. It was possible to abandon with a child the formality required between the butler and the adult community upstairs. And there was no obstructive power relation either, as existed with the staff downstairs. In that overlooked crevice between social worlds, a loving relationship had flourished between Mr. Carson and Lady Mary. Barrow did not deceive himself that it was an equal exchange. Lady Mary certainly got the better of it. But Mr. Carson seemed quite content with his share. Barrow had seen how the man's eyes lit up when they rested on the young woman, had noticed the easy and intimate banter between them that spoke of trust and confidences built over a lifetime. It came to him that Mr. Carson had transcended the limitations of a butler's solitary existence and set an example thereby. It was a scrap to Barrow in his careful study not only of the work of the butler of Downton Abbey, but also of the butler himself.

But Mr. Carson hadn't adhered to the rules, had he? No, he'd broken out of the shell in which a butler must exist to find love in more conventional avenues. Butlers didn't marry. It was an unspoken rule and while there were exceptions to every rule, it was hardly to be expected that Mr. Carson should be among the radical few. His preferred position was the status quo. He resisted change and violations to tradition as though it were his life's vocation to do so. Barrow did not begrudge him Mrs. Hughes's friendship. That might have been managed within the framework of convention. But love? Marriage?

There was no other word for it. It was a betrayal.

A Bitter Truth

"I think you're overreacting."

Barrow made an impatient sound and took another drag on his cigarette. He could see that Miss Baxter was trying to help, wanted to help. But she had no credibility.

"Andy only wants to find his own way. Mrs. Hughes just wants to let him. Mrs. Patmore knows you're not interested in him. No one thinks as ill of you as you do yourself."

He dismissed everything she said but the last, because it was true enough. Miss Baxter knew it, too, as she had been privy to that stupid effort on his part last year to change his nature. But he didn't like to be reminded of it.

"I wish it weren't so," she went on, in that almost tremulous way she had, and with that permanently pained look on her face. "You have a lot to give."

"Not that it does me any good here," he responded sullenly. "Not when I'll be out on my ear any day now."

"You don't know that."

"But I do," he said coldly, glancing at her. "Has anyone suggested to you that it might be a good idea to look for a job? No. Only me."

She fretted, unable to think of what to say that might comfort him.

"I might have been butler here," he said aggressively. "It's only what I've hoped for ever since I came to Downton. And by rights, I ought to be preparing to step into that job right now. But, oh, no. Mr. Carson's not going anywhere. Anywhere except on a honeymoon." Barrow quickly pushed that unwelcome thought from his mind. "It'd be one thing if he was just determined to go on on his own, like." Even as he said this, he knew he wasn't being entirely sincere. He rather thought Mr. Carson was getting a bit long in the tooth and might have been expected at least to consider retiring, although Barrow knew, too, that there were butlers who ground on into their seventies, and even their eighties. "But he's getting married. That ought to have put paid to it. He can have one or the other, but not both."

"Why must he choose?"

Baxter's bewilderment exasperated him. "Because it isn't done, not in proper houses. He's made his choice. He's getting married. He ought to relinquish the job to someone who can give it his full attention. It's impossible for a married man to do that."

That was the traditional rationale and Barrow knew it to be a lot of rubbish propagated by the upper classes to ensure that they remained at the centre of things and possibly that the lower classes were discouraged from reproducing. Barrow had a highly-developed class consciousness and the simmering resentment that came from an involuntary adherence to that feature of English society. That he was resurrecting a class argument here was a testament to his ill-considered irritation.

"And that's what you're angry about?" Miss Baxter asked doubtfully. "That he's getting married but he's not giving up his job?"

"Isn't that enough?" Barrow demanded fiercely. "I'm being pushed out of my job, after years of solid service, and Mr. Carson, who rightfully ought to be giving up his job now that he's dividing his loyalties, isn't. If there were any justice in this world, he'd just step aside."

Baxter flinched as he spat out these words. It did not matter that his anger was not directed at her. She was sensitive to all displays of temper, as though she had been a victim of some prolonged abuse. Barrow had no patience with this. What did she know of persecution?

"I don't understand," she said mildly, and when he gave no indication of explaining further, she gave up. With a resigned sigh, she moved toward the house.

Barrow turned away from her, exhaling a stream of smoke as he did so. Of course she didn't understand. He was having difficulty coming to terms with it himself. He was angry with Mr. Carson for hanging onto his job when he, Barrow, so clearly needed it.

But there was more to it. And it went back farther than Christmas and the announcement of the engagement between Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes. It went back almost a decade to that sickeningly sweet romance between Mr. Bates and Anna. The man was a crippled, insolent, arrogant bastard and Anna, of all people - Barrow didn't much like her, but he knew how attractive she was to others - had fallen in love with him. And Bates with Anna, too. And everyone had cheered them on, and prayed for them in their many trials and tribulations, and celebrated their reprieves. They were the darling couple of Downton Abbey. Barrow had only to think of the joy that had erupted earlier this year when Anna had been cleared of all complicity in the murder of Lord Gillingham's valet. Everyone was one their side. Everyone admired them for their devotion and love.

Everyone except Barrow, who had never resented anyone more than he did John Bates.

Until, that is, Mr. Carson had turned traitor.

How could Baxter possibly understand? No one who did not share Barrow's nature could hope to do so. It wasn't about Mr. Carson not leaving his job to get married that festered in Barrow's soul. It was the fact that the butler was getting married at all.

In doing so he was breaking the code. Barrow was not one of Mr. Carson's greatest admirers. There could never be warmth between them when the man harboured such controlled disgust for Barrow's nature. It wasn't open hostility. Mr. Carson tolerated him, better than many would in like circumstances. But he would never accept. So there was no love lost there.

But the old man had been a model, even if Barrow did not explicitly identify him as such. For almost all of Barrow's professional life, Mr. Carson had shown him how it was possible to live as a single man in a world where the prevailing trend was toward marriage, and to do so in a socially acceptable and personally satisfying way. He had forged a career, risen to a position of authority, and gained the respect and often the affection of those who knew him, and appeared happy with his lot in life. Frankly, Barrow had always wanted more, hoping against hope for a loving relationship in the manner of those contented couples with whom society was so oppressively populated. But he'd always held the example of Mr. Carson in reserve. Failing a conventional 'happily ever after' - and Barrow knew that such conventionality would never fall to him - he could aspire at least to contentment.

But now it turned out that Mr. Carson had been living a lie, that he had not, in fact, been satisfied with the course his life had taken, with the half-life he'd had. When the opportunity arose to join the 'normal' multitudes, he had quickly seized it. Mr. Carson wasn't even settling for warm companionship to see him comfortably into his old age, which might also have been forgiven. No, he'd found real love and was about to embark on the adventure of wedded bliss, beginning with that quintessential expression of heterosexual felicity - a honeymoon.*

Barrow was bitter indeed.

And his bitterness was compounded by another revelation that he almost dared not admit to himself, let alone to Miss Baxter or anyone else because it saddened him beyond all telling. He wasn't just angry with Mr. Carson. He was jealous of him.

*A/N1. It might be anticipating a little for someone of Mr. Barrow's age to use the term "heterosexual," but, according to the Merriam-Webster, the term was first known to have been used in 1892. If there's a more appropriate contemporary term, I'm open to suggestions.

NOTE: The contours of this chapter and of Barrow's intellectual and emotional contortions emerged from an exchange on the subject of Barrow's reaction to the Carson-Hughes marriage with lemacd. Thanks for helping me to develop the idea.