Coronation - 1937
Chapter One
Old Sins Cast Long Shadows
"But you must believe me when I tell you that I have found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility and to discharge my duties as King as I would wish to do without the help and support of the woman I love ...
And now, we all have a new King. I wish him, and you, his people, happiness and prosperity with all my heart.
God bless you all.
God save the King!"
From the Abdication Address of Edward VIII, broadcast from Windsor Castle, England, 11th December 1936.
Butler's Pantry, Downton Abbey, West Riding, Yorkshire, England, December 1937.
Outside the window, the bare, black branches of the trees in the park, what could be seen of them from down here in this brick built, chill, subterranean vault of a room with its single, barred, half-moon window, were being tossed this way and that by the strength of the wind. A sudden gust of sleety rain splattered against the panes and despite the bright fire burning merrily in the fireplace beside him, Billy shivered.
"So, when do they all arrive, Mr. Barrow?" he asked.
Billy - although since his arrival here at Downton as second footman a few months earlier, he had been told he would answer to William - had never seen the inside of a Butler's Pantry before, now stood looking about him. Took in the polished oak floor, the long central table, and the granite sink with its brass taps. But what principally attracted his attention were all of the cupboards, also of oak, ranged around the walls, the upper ones glazed, behind the glass of which could be seen, on green baize covered shelves, the gleam of silverware: salts, salvers, tea pots, coffee pots, jugs, ewers, pitchers, plates, bowls, dish covers, cruets, egg cups, many engraved with the crest of the earls of Grantham, the list was endless. Anything and everything which could ever have been made from silver was there, along with, in the drawers, cutlery - all manner of knives, forks, and spoons. Taken together, in monetary terms, the ensemble had to be worth a king's ransom, and most of it, according to Mr. Barrow, had been in the possession of the family for centuries.
However, this apart, with its heavy door, whitewashed brickwork, and the single barred window, the room resembled nothing so much as a prison cell which, given all the circumstances, somehow, seemed rather fitting. After all, there was something dark, not to say faintly sinister, about Mr. Barrow. Billy didn't like him much but, for the purposes of ingratiating himself, he was prepared to do what needed to be done. Well, almost. But not ... that.
In this regard, shortly after twenty two year old Billy Price had arrived at Downton, from being in service with a family down in Worcestershire, when he had asked, in all innocence, if there was a Mrs. Barrow, Johnny Ellis, with whom Billy found he was to share a room up in the attics at the top of the great house that was Downton Abbey, had, as together they had made their way up the backstairs, merely sniggered.
Downton Abbey, some months earlier.
Here, upstairs in the bedroom he was to share, having placed his battered suitcase on the bed which Johnny said would be his, Billy quickly snicked back the catches and raised the lid.
"So, you were sayin', about Mr. Barrow ..." Billy took out his pyjamas and stuffed them under the pillow.
"Was I now?"
"I asked if he was married," prompted Billy.
"Ah! Well, you could say he is ... least ways in a manner of speakin'. Here, fancy a gasper?" Johnny winked; proffered Billy a cigarette.
"Thanks. Don't mind if I do". Billy, continuing with the unpacking of his suitcase, glanced nervously towards the closed door of the bedroom.
"It's all right, me old china, no-one'll come in and catch us. Anyway, what with them bare boards in the passage outside, we'd hear them comin' this way, long before they ever got here. And, if we had to, we could always leg it along the leads".
"Leads?"
"Out through here". Johnny jabbed a thumb at the open window behind him. "Then along the roof ... keepin' low, behind the parapet".
"Along the roof?" Billy, who had a morbid fear of heights, gulped.
"Yeah. Want to take a look?"
Billy shook his head.
"No thanks. I'll take your word for it. I've no head for heights".
Carrying the small pile of underclothes and socks he had taken from his suitcase, he walked purposefully over to the battered chest of drawers, which Johnny had said was his to use. Now, as he put his clothes away, Billy glanced slowly round the shabby room, saw, above his head, the damp stains on the plaster of the sloping ceiling; the bare floorboards beneath his feet; the solitary electric light, the bulb of which gave off a feeble glow; the cracked washbasin - at least there was running water, both hot and cold; the two small chests of drawers and a pair of single wardrobes; the nightstands and two cast iron beds, all of which had clearly seen better days. As for heating, Billy saw the chimney of the small grate was stuffed full of yellowing newspaper, the flue obviously long since disused. Instead, there was one heavy coiled radiator which, according to Johnny worked ... after a fashion. But all the way up here it was a long way from the boiler, so it was sensible to wear socks in bed, at least in the winter months.
"Have it your own way. Anyway, like I was sayin', out along the leads, then in again through one of the other windows. Most of the other rooms up here ain't used no more, and there's a couple where the window catches are broken and you can climb back in".
Billy nodded; with some difficulty owing to the wood being warped, he now shoved shut the drawer containing his underclothes and socks, and walked over to the window where he took one of Johnny's cigarettes, lit it, and inhaled deeply.
"Where was you before coming here?" Johnny idly flicked ash out of the open window.
"Witley Court, down Worcester way".
Johnny nodded disinterestedly. Evidently, the name meant nothing to him, otherwise ...
"Big house were it?"
"Yeah".
"Bigger than this?"
"I'd say. Belonged to the Earls of Dudley but, when I went there, as second footman, it had been sold, a long while since to Sir Herbert Smith. He made his money in carpets".
Johnny nodded.
"Trade then, were he?" Johnny made the fact that Sir Herbert Smith, who had worked and made his own money, sound rather disreputable, as if it was something of which to be ashamed. While he hadn't liked Sir Herbert one little bit, Billy couldn't understand that. After all, in the past, there had to have been money made somewhere to pay for the building of places like Witley Court and Downton Abbey.
"Yeah. But, when I went there, most of the house was shut up and the family didn't spend much time there. Most of the staff had got the push and the gardens were all goin' to wrack and ruin. There was this big fountain. Enormous it were, with some bloke on a horse with wings, riding to save a woman from a great big sea monster".
Johnny nodded again.
"Like that all over. Staff being sacked. There's a fountain here too. Down on the West Lawn. And another, in Her Ladyship's Rose Garden. But they don't look nothin' like what you just said".
"So, why d'you say that about Mr. Barrow?"
"What?"
"What you said. That he's married in a manner of speakin'. Either he is, or he ain't".
While Johnny explained to Billy what he had meant, he continued standing where he was, over by the dormer window which, despite the chill night air and what Johnny had said about hearing anyone if they came this way, stood open so as to get rid of the smell of cigarette smoke. For, as the two young men knew, here at Downton, smoking was not allowed in the servants' quarters at any time on account of the risk of fire, something which Billy could well appreciate.
What he didn't understand though, was why he had to answer to William. At Witley, he had answered to his given name of Billy. Johnny explained that too. Here at Downton, shortened Christian names were not permitted - Her Ladyship didn't approve of them. Besides which there had once been another William here. A long time ago, who by all accounts, had been very well thought of, but who had died in the Great War. So, when Mr. Barrow had said it would be good to have a William on the staff again, that must have been to what he had been referring.
Johnny nodded at the clock on the wall.
"Best you get changed. Finish your unpacking later. Tea in the Servants' Hall is at six o'clock sharp. Think you can find your way down?"
Billy nodded.
"I'll do my best".
Johnny grinned.
"Back to the end of the passage, down the stairs we came up by, keep goin' all the way to the bottom, turn right, then first left". In the doorway, he paused, now turned back to Billy.
"And make sure you're on time. Mr. Barrow doesn't like to be kept waitin'".
Billy nodded; began slowly undoing the buttons of his shirt.
Witley Court, Worcestershire, England, summer 1932.
Before he went into service, young Billy Price had worked on the looms in one of the many carpet factories in Kidderminster, until that was, he had been let go. In other words, given the heave-ho. One of the three million who had lost their jobs at the time of the Depression. However, a few months later, a stroke of luck came his way. At least of sorts, in that it led to him finding a place at Witley Court, a huge mansion, the last place he'd been in service at - to be truthful, the last and first - which lay beyond Kidderminster, off the Tenbury road, deep in the Worcestershire countryside.
What happened was this: in the summer of 1932, Billy found himself working as a hop picker on a farm in the valley of the Teme. It was hard, dirty work, out in the fields all day, and at night sleeping, along with the other pickers, most of whom were Brummies, in a barn freshly whitewashed inside to hide the cow shit on the walls, with scant privacy afforded and that only by flimsy partitions made from old army blankets or else cardboard, on sacks filled with straw. But, it was summertime, the weather was fine, and it meant earning a few bob. However, the job lasted only as long as it took for the hops to be picked, and with the harvest safely in, the work was at an end.
Billy was on his way back to Kidderminster, walking disconsolately along the verge, kicking up stones and trying to thumb a lift, but so far with no luck, when, some distance on from Witley Court - he had seen the house from a distance as he passed by, a massive place, all towers and so forth - he chanced upon a motor that had run off the road, on account of a puncture in the offside front tyre. The female driver stopped Billy; asked him if knew how to change a wheel, which, he did, with, thereafter, one thing leading to another in the back of the motor. The appreciative young woman, whose name was Daisy, was the daughter of one of the keepers on the Witley Court estate, and, insisted on taking Billy back with her to her father's cottage where she made him tea and, on his return, introduced him to her father.
Hearing that Billy was looking for work, finding him to be a personable young lad, as indeed had Daisy but in an altogether different way from her father, while it was true enough that since acquiring the house just after the end of the Great War, Sir Herbert Smith had cut the domestic staff to ribbons and laid off a great number of the estate workers, Daisy's father knew the butler was on the lookout for a temporary second footman. If Billy was agreeable, he could have a word on his behalf. When Billy said he'd never been in service before, Daisy's father said that didn't matter. The family was usually away at one of their other houses, and most of the draughty old place were shut up. All the same, there was still work to be done up at Court and, given its isolation, let alone Sir Herbert's cussedness, the butler there was always in need of staff. If things didn't work out, then Billy would be no worse off than he was now; which was how Billy started out in service, as second footman of the skeleton staff retained at Witley Court.
In due course, when Sir Herbert had refused to countenance the butler's request, that Billy be kept on, he had been given a splendid character which served him well when, by chance, Billy saw the advertisement for the position here at Downton Abbey. On hearing he was to leave Witley, Daisy, with whom, in the time he was at the Court, Billy had become exceedingly well acquainted, repaying him many times over for all the help he had given her in changing the wheel of her motor, had been distraught. Which seemed to be her permanent state of mind. Of course, quite what her father would have said, had he learned just how grateful Daisy had been - in the back of her motor, in the hay loft of the old barn, in several of the disused bedrooms up at the Court of which there were many, indeed in just about anywhere that took their fancy - Billy was rather glad he never found out.
Besides which, he was in need not only of a change of scene, but also something of a rest.
Dearest Daisy had quite worn him out.
Downton Abbey, some months later.
Here at Downton Abbey, it transpired from Johnny that Mr. Barrow was not the marrying kind. Billy had heard tell of such men before, but that kind of thing was definitely not his cup of tea, as Daisy would, had she been asked to do so, have vouchsafed. All the same, even if he didn't like him, Billy could respect Mr. Barrow who he learned, had fought in the Great War, had medals to prove it, and had been wounded on the Somme while serving as a stretcher bearer, and which was why, indirectly, later in the year, Billy now found himself down in the Butler's Pantry, helping Mr. Barrow clean the silverware. From time to time, the bullet wound to the butler's left hand, which was not only unsightly, so much so that on occasions he wore a glove, gave him quite a bit of jip; meaning that he couldn't undertake the cleaning of the silverware on his own. Not that these days the family used much of the stuff. If at all. Some years ago, apparently much to Mr. Barrow's disgust, His Lordship had authorised the purchase of a large quantity of stainless steel cutlery. Undoubtedly, standards were no longer what they had once been.
Butler's Pantry, Downton Abbey, December 1937.
"God knows! According to His Lordship, Lady Edith and her family are expected to arrive in England from Cherbourg on board the Queen Mary which docks in Southampton the day after tomorrow. They were to have flown over to Croydon, from Berlin, but what with the crash of the Hindenburg, and now this dreadful business of the Grand Ducal family of Hesse, they have changed their plans; thinking it far safer to make the Channel crossing instead. They are now booked on the eleven o'clock express out of King's Cross the following morning, so should arrive here on Friday by the five o'clock train. As for Lady Sybil, and, I suppose, Mr. Branson, and their children – there are four of their brats - they arrive at Holyhead from Ireland by steamer from Kingstown, or whatever it now calls itself, then by train to Downton on the same day. They will also need to be met from the station, probably off the same train as Lady Edith and her family. Not that I have been informed of the fact. So, our new chauffeur will be kept busy for a change. Unless, of course, Paddy McGinty decides to walk on water across the Irish Sea, then after taking the train, drive the motor up here all by himself which, knowing Mr. Branson, is entirely possible".
Billy, who was engaged in cleaning the silver mounts of a large, old fashioned cruet set, this comprising a mustard pot, two large bottles for oil and vinegar, two pepper or spice bottles, and four smaller sauce bottles, stifled a snigger.
"You don't like him much, do you?" Billy set aside the second of the pepper bottles and reached for the mustard pot.
"Whether I do, or whether I don't, it is not my place, nor is it yours, to express any opinion about His Lordship's relatives ... or his guests. And I haven't. Is that clearly understood?" The butler's clipped tone brooked no other response. Billy nodded respectfully.
"Yes, Mr. Barrow".
"I'm very glad to hear it. But, just between ourselves, you're right. I don't".
Billy laughed nervously.
"I won't say a word. You can depend on it".
Mr. Barrow set down the last of the fish knives he had been polishing on the cloth which, temporarily, covered the top of the long table.
"Can I now?" he asked softly.
"Of course. So … this Mr. Branson … he's His Lordship's brother-in-law then?
"One of them. The other I've never met. He's a Hun". Thomas knew this to be untrue, knew that Lady Edith's husband was a scion of one of Austria's most noble families, and possessed of a far more ancient lineage than that of the Crawleys who, in comparison, were but parvenus.
However, in a perverse sort of a way, being the man he was, Thomas derived a frisson of pleasure in obsfucating the truth of how things stood regarding Friedrich von Schönborn. As for their children, two boys, he knew little about them, other than what he had overheard mentioned in conversation, that the older one, did not enjoy good health. Quite what was wrong with him, Thomas wasn't certain. Something to do with the blood, apparently. This would be the first time Lady Edith's family had visited Downton while she herself had not set foot here since 1931 following the death of her father. Unlike the Bransons who, much to the disgust of Thomas Barrow, came here most years, no doubt on the scrounge and looking for hand outs, just like the Irish always were.
"But you've met Mr. Branson?"
"Indeed". Billy saw the butler grimace.
"And, he knows a thing or two about motors, does he?" Billy smiled. His grin was infectious and whether he wanted to or not, Thomas Barrow found himself smiling back at the younger man, at the same time taking in the cheeky grin, the blue eyes, the broad shoulders ... Briefly, he let his gaze drift lower, before looking William directly in the face.
"Does Mr. Branson know a thing or two about motors?" he parroted. "Of course, you wouldn't know a thing about it, would you?"
"About what?"
"You mean to tell me, no-one in the Servants' Hall has said a word to you about it? Well, I never. Wonders will never cease!" Mr. Barrow replaced the lid on the tin of Goddards Plate Powder.
Billy shrugged. Repeated his question.
"About what?" he asked.
"It was all a long while ago, nigh on twenty years, and there's precious few here who would remember it now, but, during the Great War, Mr. Branson was the chauffeur here".
"The chauffeur? Here? You don't say!" Billy whistled; he could not conceal his astonishment. "So, how come …"
Billy broke off what he was saying in mid-sentence. Applied himself to the last of the sauce bottles. After all, he knew his place; did not want it to be the case that Mr. Barrow should think him impertinent. After all, he needed this job. These days, positions such as the one he had now at Downton were increasingly hard to find, what with so many large country houses having drastically reduced their staff, while others, their contents and land having been auctioned off and sold, had been turned into hotels or flats, or even demolished.
As for Witley Court, that enormous mansion nestled deep in the heart of the Worcestershire countryside, it had been destroyed by fire. Billy had read an account of what had happened scarce two months since, in a newspaper cutting sent to him here at Downton by Ernie Wills who had been in service at the Court on the night of the fire and with whom Billy had worked. There had been several photographs too, taken from the air, of the damage caused, showing the still smouldering building, smoke rising from the burnt out ruins of the house, with firemen's hoses snaking their way serpentine across the steps of the massive twelve pillared Great Portico, and with all manner of furnishings saved from the flames, standing forlornly out on the gravel in front of the wrecked mansion. Just like Johnny, Ernie had enjoyed a crafty cigarette, and Billy earnestly hoped that this had not been the cause of the fire.
"So, how come he married his late lordship's daughter? Good question that". Mr. Barrow's reply broke in on the other's abstraction. Billy now plucked up the courage to venture another question.
"And?"
Mr. Barrow tapped the side of his nose. "Perhaps, one day, if I have a mind to, I'll tell you all about it. Now, I think we're done here, I'll finish up. We then both have other duties to attend". The butler of Downton Abbey nodded; signified by a dismissive wave of his good hand that their little discussion was now at an end.
"Yes, Mr. Barrow".
Billy made to leave.
"And, William …"
"Yes, Mr. Barrow?"
"One thing more. Not a word to the others, now, is that understood? If you open your mouth and blab, I'll find out soon enough. So, it'll be … our little secret".
"Yes, Mr. Barrow".
Billy left the Butler's Pantry, closing the door firmly behind him. Outside, slipping off the white gloves he had been using while he cleaned the silver, as he sauntered along the passage, he smiled. That had been easy enough. And, save for the lock on the door, which would present no problem, there was no alarm. None whatsoever.
Raising his eyes to the opposite wall, Thomas took in the row of photographs hanging there, as they had done, unregarded, for many a year, one of which now piqued his interest. He walked over to the picture, took it down, and studied it closely. Like all the rest, this photograph had been taken here at Downton but during the Great War, at which time the principal rooms of the abbey had been converted into a military hospital. Thomas was in the photograph himself, smart in his army uniform. Standing next to him was the youngest daughter of the house, Lady Sybil Crawley also in uniform, that of a nurse, the profession in which she had remained ever since. Beside her, there stood another man, again in uniform, which surprisingly, given the date of the photograph, was not a military one. It was that of a chauffeur: the man wearing it was Tom Branson, now and for many years, the husband of Lady Sybil, and the father of her four snotty nosed brats. While Thomas was not of the marrying kind, he shook his head in disbelief. What a bloody waste! That she should have chosen a thick Irish Mick ... when Lady Sybil Crawley could have had anybody.
Billy - William - had been right.
Well almost.
He didn't like Tom Branson.
Didn't like him at all.
Put bluntly, Thomas hated his guts.
Author's Note:
With the description of the servants' bedroom, I have tried to portray what such accommodations were really like. What was seen on television painted a rosy view of how things actually were. Most of the landed gentry - not all of course - didn't give a damn' about their servants and ran them ragged. Employers like the Crawleys were the exception, not the rule.
Kidderminster, in Worcestershire, began producing carpets in the eighteenth century; it still does but on a vastly reduced scale.
Sir Herbert Smith (1872-1943) bought the Witley Court estate in 1920. He made himself very unpopular locally by promptly sacking most of the staff and then closing off footpaths which crossed his land. One has the impression that, being a self made man, he knew the price of everything but the value of nothing. That he was known as "Piggy" Smith rather says it all!
The Hindenburg airship, the pride of Nazi Germany, had crashed coming into land at Lakehurst, New Jersey on 6th May 1937.
The air crash, over Ostende in Belgium, which wiped out the Grand Ducal family of Hesse, who had been on their way to the wedding of the Grand Duke's brother in England, took place on 16th November 1937.
The port of Kingstown changed its name to Dún Laoghaire in 1920.
Goddards Plate Powder - for cleaning silver - was first formulated in the 1830s. A modern variety of it is still made today.
While Billy Price, Johnny Ellis, and Ernie Wills are my own creations, the sad fate that befell Witley Court in Worcestershire is true enough. The fire which broke out in the early hours of 7th September 1937 did begin in the servants' quarters - exactly what caused it is not known - this while the Herbert family were away. There are several photographs of the aftermath. Given the overall size of the house, which was enormous, the damage, while extensive, only affected two wings, and could have been repaired. However, the internal fire hoses had not been maintained and the insurance company refused to pay out, leading to an auction of the contents and many of the fixtures and fittings. The ruins are now in the care of English Heritage. The fountain which Billy describes to Johnny is the Perseus and Andromeda Fountain, one of the largest in Europe, now restored to working order, and which shoots jets of water into the air to a height of nearly 120 feet.
