***chapter one***
Quietly, quietly pushing the key in the lock, softly, softly stepping inside, tenderly, tenderly smiling as he pictures her sleeping with their son by her side. Johnny has his own little bedroom now and Anna sometimes takes a late afternoon nap when Johnny needs one since the pregnancy began tiring her more.
His walking stick taps through the silent rooms. There are no stairs to negotiate, the cottage being on the same level, and he limps through the newly-decorated nursery, where Johnny still likes to play with his toys, to reach the kitchen, the heart of the home, retrieves the copper kettle and holds it under the tall tap above the deep enamel sink. Cold water runs forth in more of a slow, meandering stream than a gush, but the cottage is centuries old and tap and sink are late editions of only a decade or so before.
Sunlight is streaming inside, catching dust motes in its wake, dancing wherever it pleases, and the tempting aromas of a hearty stew and homemade bread mingle with the smell of paint from the nursery and the morning's memory. But that moment is gone now. Over, over, never to return.
He lights the gas under the copper kettle and settles it on the hob, spoons tea-leaves into the large brown teapot, and from the larder takes three cups – Johnny has his very own small cup for his very own milky tea - on to the tray. It's not a silver platter the way tea is always served to the Lords and Ladies of Downton Abbey, but it's set just as properly with sugar bowl and tongs and milk jug. For they are, he and Anna, Lord and Lady of their cottage home, and his smile grows as he thinks how blessed he is with his little family.
The kettle whistles merrily and he draws a breath, but nothing has disturbed the sleepers lost in their quiet dreams. He pours the boiling water in the teapot and while it brews watches a tiny bird fly from bough to bough on the tree in the garden and thinks how perfect is the March day. Still unaware.
So let him be happy for just a while longer, let him stay untouched by sadness. He will know soon enough.
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"Mum! Mummy, watch me!"
Johnny jumps up once, twice, three times in vain to jump high enough to snatch one of the apples from the tree and then, realising the futility of his efforts, picks up one of the several small brown apples fallen nearby.
"Not one of those apples, Monkey, they'll give you belly-ache!" Anna chides, plucking it from his hand and throwing it back down on the overgrown grass.
"I want apfel." Johnny's bottom lip quivers and for a moment he debates whether or not to add tears to plead his cause.
But his mother distracts him by reaching into her pocket to produce an already carefully peeled and chopped apple that she'd had the foresight to bring along, removes the paper she's wrapped it in and presents it to the little boy. "You can eat this one instead. No, Johnny, don't run when you're eating..." as he takes a bite and makes to run after his ball again, and Johnny obediently plonks himself down on the damp grass amid dozens of rotted apples. His mother sighs inwardly, though she can't help but laugh, and then wonders how she can.
The apple is soon eaten and he is quickly on his feet, and she notices as she holds him to dust the grass and mud from his shorts while he strains to be free, there is still paint inside his fingers though she'd scrubbed him well.
And she sighs again. A deeper sigh.
XXXXX
It's difficult balancing a tray when he needs a cane to help him walk, but over time John Bates has perfected the art. Carry the items one a time, impatient with his slow progress, impatient to see the beautiful smile of the woman he loves.
He puts down the tray laden with tea things in order to rap on the bedroom door and as he pushes it open muses on the toys left scattered in the nursery where Johnny played earlier. Their son owns far more toys than a child of two people who are servants in a grand house would usually be expected to own and though not everything had been taken out of the toy-box there was still plenty.
His beloved pedal car, a gift from Lady Mary last Christmas. A small tricycle. A book showing colourful pictures of animals. A wooden jigsaw. A fort. A large scrapbook of drawing paper. As yet unused. The paint-box and paintbrush have gone, moved somewhere out of harm's way too late.
XXXXX
The ball he's been kicking is momentarily forgotten as Johnny, suddenly remembering that he can, decides to hop first on his left foot and then on his right, counting in his own inimitable way.
"One, two, three, four, eight, five, nine, ten..." He will be five next birthday – at least, he will be five according to Johnny, who, only last week, was equally adamant he would be six - although his parents are quite sure he is three years and nine weeks old.
He turns, proud of his clumsy hopping, and his mother claps enthusiastically. Because she is proud of her son, of his every achievement, and thinks he's perfect. Even when he makes her tired or makes her worry or splashes paint on newly-decorated walls.
"Race!" Johnny challenges, already running on ahead.
Anna accepts the gauntlet thrown and soon they're both breathless and they're both laughing as she catches up and declares "You won, rascal!" and ruffles his golden hair, he truly believing he outran his mother, and Anna wishing she could run forever until there are no more tears.
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Tea up, sleepy-heads!" He announces and hopes being woken with the tea is enough of a peace offering for her to begin to forgive him. But the room is empty. Silent and still. As if in reproach.
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She will have to turn homewards eventually. Darkness if gathering and a chill has crept into the air where once there was a gentle sunny day.
"Johnny!" She calls to where he is kicking the ball against a tree, and she waves the coat she has carried over her arm all the while. "Time we went back," Anna glances up at the overcast sky that matches her mood.
He shakes his head emphatically, pulls a face. "No!" "Yes," she says firmly as she wriggles him into his coat.; "quickly now, before it buckets down. Walking race together!" she adds to coax him, putting the ball under her arm and catching hold of his small, chubby hand.
Johnny is fooled, the game is on, each walking fast and faster. Already the first splash of rain is falling as the sky weeps, but she is glad they have covered a fair distance in their walk because her heart is still heavy and she, too, is secretly reluctant to return to a home where love no longer is.
XXXXX
"Anna? Johnny?" But John Bates calls their names in vain. Still the only sound is the lonely tip-tap of his walking stick as he searches every room.
He stops and stares longest in the room where the silence is the loudest, the nursery where the open paint-box had lain that afternoon to taunt with its complicity, and the blur of colours streaked over the floor and walls. Anna is angry with him and she has every right to be. But he'd meant to apologise. He'd thought an apology would make everything all right. How can he live if she no longer loves him? They were two parts made into a whole and he would be nothing without her.
The time before they met, he had been living an empty existence. Johnny, the proof of their love, had her hair, her eyes, her smile. And spirit of mischief.
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It was a few months away as yet, but almost everything is ready for the summer baby. Johnny's old pram blankets and more blankets knitted and crocheted anew, baby clothes and baby towels, Johnny's old rattle and brand new toys, all are stored in the large wooden chest. But Johnny's old cot and pram are being kept at Downton Abbey because, as with Johnny, Anna was superstitious about them being under the cottage roof before the new baby arrives.
The nursery, Johnny's former nursery because he now has his own little bed and bedroom and likes to brag about how he is now a "big boy", was newly decorated in neutral yellow where the sunlight likes to play. They are hoping for a girl this time round, but will be just as happy if it's another boy. Names are mulled over, Lily, Emily, Irene. Dennis, Michael, Charles. Johnny scowls when he hears them. He doesn't want either a boy or a girl; he wants a puppy and a baby can go and live in Dinner Abbey instead.
No matter how often his parents explain it's Downton, the little boy insists on it being called Dinner and is convinced everyone at the grand place his parents visit frequently, his father as valet and his mother as lady's maid two mornings a week when Mrs Phyllis Molesley nee Baxter looks after little Johnny, goes there for the sole purpose of enjoying dinner and he wants to go there for dinner too one day.
And so, last Christmas, as well as shyly whispering his request to a somewhat baffled store Santa Claus more used to dealing with wishes for train sets and dolls, Anna helped him write a letter to the fat, red-suited gentleman and they sent his letter with list of toys up the cottage chimney to the North Pole.*
A few days later, proudly clutching his parents' hands as they trudged through the crisp white snow, he was welcomed to "Dinner Abbey" where Mrs Patmore had prepared another Christmas dinner for Johnny and his family, and Lady Mary came down to the servants' hall specially to present him with a red pedal car, apparently left there by Father Christmas, and everyone clapped and cheered and took turns at pushing their distinguished guest through the servants hall in his shiny new car.
The large paint-box complete with large paintbrush had been one of many gifts he'd received for his birthday and Christmas, the dates being so close together, from their friends upstairs and downstairs at Downton Abbey. As the only child among the serving staff, for it was rare indeed for a woman to remain in service once she married, Johnny was a very lucky and rather spoilt little boy.
The paint-box into which he'd several times dipped the large thick paintbrush and painted the once gleaming nursery floor and walls with splodges of blues and greens, reds and yellows, pinks and browns.
to be continued…
A/N: Many years ago, it was common for children to throw their letter to Father Christmas into the fireplace to float up the chimney and fly to the North Pole. If the letter caught fire, they simply rewrote it to ensure Santa received their list!
