Chapter 11
Author Note: Julian Fellowes' brainchild, not mine - I wish!
Muffled noises of cannon shells intermittently disturbed the peace in a French trench.
"Oh God, why do we bother?" Walter gasped in a moment of frustration.
"To damage Jerry, I'd imagine." a slender-faced man with a parting in his hair replied.
"Yes Edward, but Jerry is safe underground." Walter sighed. His group had only been in the newly-assigned area one day and it was getting under his skin. He reached into his rucksack and retrieved Sybil's photograph. Despite himself, he smiled. A particularly violent impact vibrated the trench. Walter and Edward walked out of the dugout and saw Anthony, who laughed darkly in the other two's direction.
"Must have been those tinned beans I had earlier." he quipped grimly.
"Anthony, we know that was the shells." Edward said, a tense grin on his face.
"Don't be a downer, Private Simmonds." Anthony teased. Walter rolled his eyes.
"I imagine this whole situation is a downer." he responded. Anthony shrugged. The sound of a gunshot tore the air. The trio saw two soldiers lying in a battlefield covered in dirt. One of them was Matthew Crawley, the other was a wounded comrade.
"Captain Crawley!" Walter exclaimed, raising his voice to get Matthew's attention.
"Private Metcalfe, Private Proby!" Matthew responded in surprise, forgetting to ask about Edward in a moment of single-mindedness. "Could you help Sergeant Stevens take every wounded man taken down the line before it starts to get dark? We've bloody well lost enough of them for one day." he said briskly without preamble.
"Not sure that's part of the telegraph troops' duties sir, but very well." Walter said, as he, Anthony and Edward nodded promptly. After that, Matthew and his manservant Davis popped into the others' trench. All five men let out a collective sigh.
"Did you just get here?" Matthew asked. Walter nodded. "Well, prepare yourselves."
"By the way, this is Private Simmonds." Walter supplied, tipping his head to Edward.
"Pleased to meet you, Simmonds." Matthew said, shaking Edward's hand.
"What's next on the agenda for you, Captain?" Anthony asked.
"I've got a few days' leave coming to me." Matthew replied, relief in every syllable.
"What will you do with them, sir?" Davis asked of his boss.
"London first to remind myself what real food tastes like. Then north for a couple of days, I suppose. Naturally there's a girl I want to see when I'm there." Matthew said. Walter, remembering Mary's reaction to the last time he saw Matthew, kept silent.
"Strange, isn't it? Think of our old lives just going on as before." Anthony piped up.
"More than strange, I'd say." Walter chimed in. There was another collective sigh.
"When I think of my life at Downton, it seems like another world." Matthew said.
"I could say the same of Fenwick or Wisbech." Anthony agreed. "How about we play poker?" the curly-haired man suggested. "It'll divert our minds from what's going on."
"Why not? Without the Crawleys trouncing me, I might actually win against someone." Walter supplied, rubbing his arms to fight the late October chill.
"I'm a Crawley." Matthew pointed out, somewhat unhelpfully. Walter laughed.
"I meant your cousins, Captain. You have no idea how thoroughly Edith and Sybil made mincemeat of my cards." the auburn-haired man explained.
"You let Sybil win." Anthony mumbled gleefully. Walter threw him a glare.
"Oh that is so not true!" the latter protested, his face morphing into an odd look.
"What are you thinking, Metcalfe?" Matthew asked.
"Nothing much. It's just that your mentioning leave got me remembering what I did the last time I had some." Walter replied. Anthony's eyebrow arched.
"Which was what?" the curly-haired man pondered. Walter stuck his tongue out.
"Fine, don't tell me." Anthony responded, dealing the cards. "First hands, gentlemen."
Two weeks later, while decoding a message outside the trench, Walter felt the ground tremble. He moved, but so did the ground, and caught unaware, what turned out to be a landmine jolted his entire body. Anthony and Edward, who were inside the trench, heard their friend yell. Rushing outside, they were met with the grim scene of Walter's legs having been blown off, his top half trembling with blood loss.
"Sergeant Stevens!" Anthony yelled. But when the sergeant got there, Walter was deathly pale. Anthony rushed inside and grabbed the photo on Walter's bedside, retrieving it for his friend. Sergeant Stevens was tending to the former musician, but it was clear time was running out. Anthony placed the photo in Walter's eye-line.
"Sybil…" Walter whispered. "Thanks Anthony, that was quick thinking…" he breathed.
"She's always your morale booster." Anthony said. Walter nodded weakly.
"When you make it out of here, dear friend… tell Sybil and Bea how much…"
"I will, mate. But just hang on and you'll-" but Anthony was cut off by the sergeant.
"Private Proby, he's- he's gone." Stevens said glumly. Walter's eyes had shut.
Edward looked at Anthony, who shed a tear and punched a muddy wall.
"I'll tell the C.O." the curly-haired man choked out gruffly. Edward nodded.
Two days later, the morning sun rose over Downton Abbey's dining room.
"General Robertson's invited me to be Colonel of the North Riding Volunteers." Robert said proudly. "And this is the best bit - the idea was given to him by General Haig. If Haig's involved, it means I'm back in the army properly."
"How can that be? You were told you weren't wanted for active service. You can't jump in and out of the army like a jack-in-the-box." Cora pondered. Sybil, in the act of reading her post, suddenly went white as a sheet.
"I don't see why not. Churchill went back to the front after the Gallipoli business. If he can do it, why shouldn't I? Sybil, are you all right?" Robert asked.
"Sybil, darling? Whatever is the matter?" Cora prompted gently.
"Would you excuse me? I think I'll just…" Sybil trailed, taking her post and leaving, Carson opening the door for her. Cora's eyes followed Sybil's retreating figure.
"She's had more bad news." the countess sighed in sympathy for her youngest. Within a few minutes Sybil had made it outside. Walking around the gardens, her mind was in a flurry. She knew this might happen. Walter was at war, of course. But he was part of the telegraph troops. Not, she thought hotly, in the active line of fire.
Her best friend... just the thought made her shed some tears. It was too painful. In that moment it seemed callous to use the phrase, but it felt like she'd lost a limb. She spun around and aimed herself southwest. In the direction of Fenwick Cottage. Sobs shook her body. Memories flooded her conscience, and two in particular. The Christmas just gone, and the Christmas before that, with the truce. Both festive seasons, she'd shared a moment under the mistletoe with Walter at Fenwick. He had dwarfed her, and yet been so gentle. Something twisted in Sybil's stomach on remembrance, just as her stomach had twisted in curiosity then. She had found herself asking internally - did Walter think of her romantically? But she'd never really opened that box, so to speak, because their friendship was valuable to her. She didn't want to potentially ruin it. And now he was gone. Muffling a sob, she changed direction and headed back. Sybil entered the house, crying with the note in her hand. She walked by Isobel without looking at the older woman.
"Sybil, my dear, what's the matter?" Isobel asked in concern.
"Walter Metcalfe has been killed." Sybil sighed in sadness.
"What a terrible thing. I know he was a good friend of yours."
"I remember at my ball. He made me laugh out loud just as Papa was giving a speech, and many times after that. Sometimes it feels as if all the men I ever danced with are dead. I just feel so useless. Wasting my life while they sacrifice theirs."
"You've been a tremendous help with the concert." Isobel pointed out.
"No, I d- I don't mean selling programs or finding prizes for the tombola, I want to do a real job. Real work." Sybil said, her voice coloured with emotion.
"What about being an auxiliary nurse? There's a training college in York. I know I could get you onto a course. It may be something of a rough awakening. Are you ready for that? I mean, have you ever made your own bed, for example, or scrubbed a floor? O'Brien, what is it?" Isobel asked, noticing the sour maid eavesdropping.
"Mr. Platte is taking Her Ladyship and Lady Grantham down to the village, she wondered if you'd like to go with them." O'Brien said.
"That's very kind. Thank you." Isobel responded. O'Brien left, sulking slightly.
"Go on. What else would I need?" Sybil asked.
"Well, if you're serious, what about cooking? Why don't you ask Mrs Patmore if she could give you one or two basic tips." Isobel stated. Sybil nodded and starts to smile, remembering the basics that the Cambridgeshire trio had taught her.
"W-Walter, Beatrice and Anthony already gave me some." she replied, a lump in her throat rising and tightening on her best friend's name.
"When you get to York, it might be useful to know a little more than that." Isobel smiled and stroked Sybil's chin affectionately. Sybil smiled back. Half an hour later, the brunette was in her bedroom dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, when there was a knock on the door, disturbing the maudlin peace she'd created.
"Come in." she sighed, husky voice heavy with emotion. Mrs. Hughes entered.
"There's a telephone call for you, milady." the housekeeper said. "It's Miss Taylor."
"Bea…" Sybil whispered, the knot in her stomach returning. "I'll take it, Mrs. Hughes. Miss Taylor has received some bad news, and I want to be there for her."
"Very good, milady." the Scottish woman replied, knowing the youngest daughter's gentle nature. Sybil made her way to the telephone and picked up the receiver.
"Sybil, have you heard?" a raspy voice sounded through the brunette's ears.
"I know, Bea." Sybil sighed in sympathy, shedding a tear. "I... I can't believe it either."
"Could... could I pop by Downton?" the dirty-blonde asked.
"Anytime." the blue-eyed brunette replied, hanging up to wind up the gramophone.
The lawyer's office was cold with the mid-November air. Another door opened.
"Beatrice Taylor, is it?" a portly gentleman asked, walking in. Beatrice nodded.
"Excellent, excellent." he said as he sat down, unrolling some parchment. "Now let's get down to it. I, Walter Metcalfe, of sound mind and body, do bequeath Fenwick Cottage and half of my monetary assets to Beatrice Taylor, the other half to Agnes Metcalfe, and my piano to Anthony Proby." he read. There was a loaded pause.
"There's one thing I don't follow. Walter was very close to Lady Sybil Crawley of Downton Abbey. I'm puzzled as to why she's not mentioned." Beatrice hiccoughed.
"It seems Mr. Metcalfe foresaw your curiosity, Miss Taylor. He left you a letter to explain his actions." the lawyer said. Beatrice blinked as he passed her an envelope.
"Dearest Bea, you probably know that Fenwick is yours, and here's why. Of course, I love Sybil without restraint, and she'd appreciate a cottage life. I'd gladly give her that. However she wouldn't leave Downton without letting her family know." she read. "I've left my favourite brunette something else, and I'd like you to deliver it. Remember me fondly, and enjoy Fenwick. Your dear friend, Walter." she finished, shedding tears.
"He obviously cared for you both very much, Miss Taylor." the lawyer said gently. "The 'something else' he mentioned in that letter was two pairs of earrings."