***Winter 1927***
In the end, the wedding gift for Miss Baxter and Mr Molesley was obvious. What else would a clockmaker's son have chosen? The beautiful wall clock,with its swinging pendulum, was given pride of place in the same village cottage where Joseph Molesley was born and where he and his wife now lived. And a framed photograph of Thomas walking the bride down the aisle had pride of place in Thomas's room at Downton Abbey, where he had been promoted to butler since Mr Carson's semi-retirement.
Though he lived long enough to see his only son married, William Molesley passed away one warm spring morning when the birds were waking and the grass greener than it had ever been and trees covered in early blossom lifting their branches to the pale blue sky, slipping quietly and peacefully into the arms of an eternal sleep. Phyllis and Joseph still tended the allotment he cultivated so lovingly and, much to her surprise, for she had never attempted, nor thought to attempt, gardening before, Phyllis discovered she had quite a flair for it and almost everything she planted flourished under her tender care. Sometimes they would visit old friends at Downton Abbey to take gifts of fresh vegetables and fruit and, now and then, these goodies would make their way to the family dinner table. And how she could tell, nobody knew, yet on these occasions the Dowager never failed to gladden the heart of every servant when she declared her meal to be more delicious than ever. And, Heaven knew, they were determined to tempt her decreasing appetite, for age was fast catching up with the once sprightly lady, though her mind and wit were sharp as ever.
Now that Phyllis was married, Lady Grantham had a new lady's maid, a pleasant and hard-working young girl by the name of Miss Farrell. The interview did not go well, however, when it was learned she hailed from Liverpool. Memories of another Liverpool lass and her attempts to blackmail Lady Mary were still fresh in the Crawleys' minds though many years had flown by since Rita Bevan entered their lives, and poor Eva left without knowing a thing about Miss Bevan, but knowing, by the smiles that faded and the expressions that hardened, something had coloured their previous opinion. Yet some things in our lives would seem meant to be. Perhaps that very same gremlin who often likes to throw every obstacle in our way decides every once in a while a little luck and a little fate would not go amiss, for by pure chance, Phyllis and Miss Farrell met that very day.
Mrs Molesley – how strange it is not to know her as Miss Baxter! - had gone to the village general store to buy tea and rice, and while Mr Whitmore was busy weighing out her purchases the shop bell rang, and Miss Farrell entered to enquire where she might locate a policeman; she had found a purse in the street outside. She was skinny as a rake and pale as a ghost and looked so much in need of nourishment it was as though she would fall down any moment while the purse was fat and full and self-satisfied. Phyllis recognised it at once. It belonged to Mrs Lewis, who ran Ye Olde Downton Tea Shoppe, and while a grateful Mrs Lewis, who had lost her purse on the way to the post office to bank the takings, was keen to reward Eva with a high tea of thinly-sliced sandwiches and dainty cakes, Phyllis realised she needed a more filling meal and insisted on taking her to her own cottage for an enormous helping of beef stew.
She had come to Downton be interviewed for the position of lady's maid at Downton Abbey, but was told there and then "it was hoped she would soon find a position to which she was better suited", Eva explained, with a sad smile, swallowing a piece of crusty home-baked bread and delighting Phyllis with the relish with which she ate – though, after learning the girl had not eaten all day since some oatmeal at breakfast that morning, and being so often awed by Mrs Patmore's and Daisy's culinary creations, knowing her own skill in the kitchen was very basic, a whisper at the back of her mind reminded her the eagerness with which Miss Farrell ate was probably more to do with hunger than appreciation of her cooking.
The next afternoon, when Phyllis called at Downton Abbey to ask Mrs Patmore's advice about a new recipe, she told her about Eva and the purse and, in turn, Mrs Patmore told Anna, who, mentioned Miss Farrell's honesty to Lady Mary. Upon hearing the story from her daughter, Lady Grantham, who had liked Eva immediately, but not her background, made up her mind she would employ her until a more experienced lady's maid could be found and wrote to tell her so – but this proved unnecessary; the "temporary" arrangement suited everyone so well it was no longer temporary. Some of Lady Crawley's more snobbish associates did strongly disapprove of a lady's maid with a Liverpudlian accent, it is true, though Eva practised hard to "speak proper" as she confided in Daisy (and a certain Dowager, who, if their paths happened to cross, was only too happy to spend five minutes or so coaching her in this ambition, though she admitted it was a complete mystery to herself and the rest of mankind how anyone could talk so consistently and so determinedly through their nose) and while those same snobbish associates never did change their opinion and did their utmost to persuade Cora to look for a more "ladylike lady's mind" (their words, not mine) Cora would not be persuaded.
"If only Thomas were ten years younger and Miss Farrell ten years older and things very different, they would have made an excellent match," Joseph Molesley remarked. Thomas was a regular visitor to their home whenever he could be spared from his duties and Joseph had finally warmed to him.
Phyllis sighed in mild exasperation. No matter how many times she explained to her husband that Thomas would not because he could not change the way he was, he refused to believe it impossible and still entertained the idea he might. For an intelligent and sensitive man, he could be incredibly close minded in regard to homosexuality, she thought. But, then, so were many others. "Well. It's never going to happen. I'm glad Thomas is happy with Mr Branson's brother although it makes me said to think they can never settle down together."
They often spoke like this. As parents might speak of a favourite son. Of how proud they were of him being promoted to butler since Mr Carson's semi-retirement, of how he always looked smart even when he was off duty, of how he was accepted in the village despite many knowing his secret, of how good he was with the children. And he had so many tales to tell about the Downton youngsters! It almost seemed as if they were their own grandchildren, especially as sometimes, when he could, he would bring one or two, even three or four, of the children with him. Sybbie, George, Marigold and Johnny knew the Molesleys' cottage quite well, while poor Caroline, Lady Mary's small daughter, remained at home and heartbroken because Mama considered her much too young as yet to accompany Thomas and Lottie on these exciting and very noisy outings.
Although born to working class parents, Johnny Bates was a very privileged little boy. It was highly unusual for a married woman to go out to work, and more unusual still for that work to be in domestic service, but Anna and Lady Mary got on so well together that they saw no reason to topple the status quo. Consequently, Johnny spent a good deal of time with the Crawley grandchildren and their nurses.
The Molesleys never had children of their own. Having married so late in life, their marriage was one of companionship and they were content enough with each other. As Mr Molesley often said, with a twinkle in his eye for what might have been long ago, when he arrived home from school with an armful of essays yet to mark and tomorrow's lessons yet to prepare, as well as their Downton "grandchildren", he had a whole classroom of children to nurture.
XXXXX
And so time passed. Night turned to day and day to night and night to day again, tides ebbed and flowed with the sun and the moon, flowers bloomed and died and bloomed anew. A terrible health scare over the Dowager cast a dark shadow over the Crawley family and their servants, but Violet had never lost her fighting spirit and surprised everyone by cheating the grim reaper at the very last moment. But, much as I wish I could tell you all was as it had always been, I can't pretend that it was. She rarely now crossed paths with Miss Farrell; she rarely now crossed paths with anyone and was more often to be found in bed in her room, with a shawl around her bony shoulders and a blazing fire roaring in the grate, while a maid read to her or brought her meal on a tray and, though there were days when she was well enough to be out and about, she no longer roamed as frequently as she did before. Great age can and will often demand of us a cruel toll and the long illness left her so very much weaker.
Oh, but there were happier times too! Lady Edith became Marchioness of Hexham when she married Bertie Pelham and they now lived at Brancaster Castle with her daughter Marigold. Lady Mary married Henry Talbot the very same year and, as we have observed, they had another child, a daughter. At four years old, George Crawley was an amiable enough little boy, alternatively jealous and alternatively protective of his younger sister, and while like all young children he was only naturally sometimes very good and sometimes very bad, he was no longer prone to the tantrums of old when he would fling himself on the ground and scream or hold his breath until he got what he wanted. Lady Mary said it was Thomas's influence, but he denied the accolade. It had been, he said, remembering his little brother Ben's behaviour when he was very small, only Master George's way of asserting his independence, and now he was older and able to explain things, his frustration at not being understood was gone.
Another wedding was on the horizon. Tom Branson was to marry Lucy Smith. He asked Thomas jokingly how far ahead he need to book for a slot in The Rainbow Nursery for any children they may have in the future. Thomas laughed at that. It was easy to laugh these days. His relationship with Aiden had grown ever stronger, and while they could never marry or have children, it was, as Phyllis said, the closest he could come to settling down.
It was Sybbie who gave the Rainbow Nursery its name. Tom liked nothing better than to spend time with his daughter without the straight-laced Victorian tradition of great houses when an exact time would be set aside for nannies to bring scrubbed, well-behaved, polite children to their parents. And Thomas approved, which made his resolve to bring Downton Abbey into a more modern 1920s way of rearing children a thousand times easier! If there was one thing he (and everybody else) knew for certain about Barrow, it was if he thought kids were unhappy he would dig his heels in and refuse to let that something happen.
Marigold was on one of her regular visits to Downton Abbey and, with the rain pounding furiously down and their weekly walk with Thomas out of the question, Tom thought it an ideal time to gather the youngsters together for an impromptu painting session in the drawing room. Thus four children – little Johnny was very much included in their group – were kneeling on chairs around the table with paint-boxes, paints and paper, over enthusiastically dipping paintbrushes into water (thrice a maid was rung for to wipe up the spills) and George and Marigold in particular creating what must surely have been artistic masterpieces, to judge by the frequent plaudits that fell from their mothers' lips.
"Be careful, George!" Lady Mary cautioned her young son - belatedly, as he had already managed to paint his fingers and the table as well as his third or fourth sheet of paper. And she continued to pull silly faces for the amusement of her baby daughter, who was cradled in her arms, gurgling in delight. Mary was much more relaxed with her second child. She was much more relaxed with Edith too.
As George's elbow almost knocked a tin of paints over – and would have done save for Thomas's quick reflexes honed through years of playing cricket - the sisters shared, as they'd shared so many things since they made their peace, knowing smiles at the hard work as well as fun of bringing up children. She was glad of Edith's support these days. Henry was very much involved in his car scheme, and on days when Aiden was there too, which meant he had some precious time for himself, and Lucy was busy looking after Lady Bagshaw, Tom always chose to be with Sybbie. And while Tom and Barrow were a great help with the children, Mary was not yet confident enough to be the perfect mother – though Edith repeatedly told her nobody wasa perfect parent. Still, with Mama and Papa away on a prior engagement and Bertie dealing with estate matters it was reassuring to bond with her sister during Tom's free and easy "no nanny" get-togethers.
Tom regarded Sybbie in amusement. "You look like a rainbow!" he said.
"I AM a rainbow!" Sybbie declared, and she immediately jumped off her chair to look proudly down at the splodges of yellow and red paint on her "play pinafore", unaware of the splashes of blue and green paint on her cheek and in her hair. What strange rainbows Sybbie had witnessed, we can only wonder, for, arms outstretched, she circled like a spinning top to prove her point. "I'm a rainbow like Marigold's picture!"
"So am I!" Marigold always copied her adored older cousin, and she left her mama to admire her artwork alone in order to join in the spinning.
"Whoa, you'll both be dizzy!" Tom chided himself for putting the idea in Sybbie's head in the first place. "Help!" He pleaded, half in jest, half in earnest, to Thomas, who was kneeling on the floor next to Johnny.
But Sybbie's comment surprised him. It was over two years since Marigold scribbled her "portrait" of Thomas Barrow and he thought, being so young, she would have forgotten all about it. Then again, "Marigold's Picture", as it was known to the adults, or "Mibow" as the children christened it when first Marigold drew several colourful squiggly lines that apparently represented Thomas, was often talked about in fond amusement by the family, and no doubt Sybbie had overheard. And of course she saw it often enough. As if it were a rare and valuable painting, the picture was framed and on display at Brancaster Castle, where Sybbie and her beloved papa were frequent visitors. It was certainly priceless in its own way, and so was Marigold, Tom remarked to Bertie and Edith.
(There is a rumour that a distinguished guest, an art critic, no less, was so taken by "this superb work of modern art" that he predicted a great future for the nameless artist, but nobody knows where this rumour came from. And I would suspect Vinnie and another of his tall tales except I can't think of a single instance when he would have been required to visit the castle so the source of the rumour – if it was - must remain a mystery forever.)
"I'm in the Rainbow Nursery with Mr Barrow!" Sybbie stopped spinning, not because she wished to, but because she was dizzy and needed to hold on to the table to steady herself.
"So am I!" Marigold would have agreed with Sybbie even if she claimed she was a hundred years old and the Queen of England, and unable to stop herself as quickly as her cousin, she would have toppled over but for Thomas's fast reflexes again in catching her.
After that, The Rainbow Nursery became the name for the children's weekly walks in the grounds with Thomas and only one or two nannies and Lottie in tow.
And The Rainbow Nursery was growing rapidly. In addition to Sybbie, George, Marigold and Johnny – and Caroline, when her mother deemed her old enough – Lady Rose intended to visit Downton Abbey in the New Year and, having heard all about it, was keen for her little girl Victoria not to miss out on the fun and to join the throng. With so many children, the walks were going to be more chaotic than ever, Thomas thought. Still, and even though it meant the inconvenience of swapping round for someone else to help Mr Carson cover his butler duties, and ensure whoever did worked to both his and Mr Carson's exceptionally high standards, he knew he would thoroughly enjoy that chaos and he was very much looking forward to it.
But there was another matter to attend to before then. The solicitors' letter in the winter of 1927 had come entirely out of the blue…
A/N (1): Just one more chapter left to write now, but will be after Christmas!
A/N (2): It annoyed me that Julian Fellowes wrote blackmailer Rita Bevan as being from Liverpool and giving the impression Liverpudlians are dishonest. I am a Liverpudlian and justifiably proud of my home city.