Fic: The oldest, yet the latest thing (Part 1) II
The man is running towards him with an open umbrella in his hand. He reaches Jimmy just as the skies open up and the downpour begins in earnest, a downpour that looks as though the end of the world has come.
“Are you following me?” Jimmy manages to get out between heaving breaths.
“Of course, I am,” Barrow insists vehemently, holding the umbrella above both of their heads. “Here!” he gasps, thrusting Jimmy’s coat at him with one hand. (It almost bounces off Jimmy’s chest; Jimmy only manages to catch it at the last moment.) “You’ve left this.” There are actually two patches of colour blooming on Barrow’s high cheekbones, Jimmy notices.
“I need to get to the bus stop in time,” he suddenly remembers, tearing his eyes away from Barrow’s face. “I need to go into York.”
“Why don’t you take the train?”
“The bus is due in a few minutes. The next train isn’t until later in the afternoon …”
He can actually see it: the way a thought crosses Barrow’s mind like a cloud drifting across his forehead, ‘Does Jimmy know all the timetables by heart?’
The rain is drumming out an impatient rhythm on the taut fabric of the umbrella above them.
“I’ve got to dash-”
“Wait, if I give you my umbrella, how will I make it back to the house without getting soaked? I haven't brought a second one,” Barrow argues.
Above them, a peal of thunder resounds, erupting like a warning, like an announcement that this is the critical moment, the tipping point past which there will be no stopping and no going back, the point of no return, because this time they might be winding a mechanical clock whose delicate balance wheel oscillates at an unpredictable speed … The effect is only heightened by the way the rolling sound of thunder is thrown back and forth between the different buildings of the estate in the distance, like the rumbling drumbeat of an invisible orchestra amplified a thousand-fold by a gigantic gramophone horn …
“Right. Run!” the underbutler suddenly decides. “I’ll walk you there … Let’s get you to that bus.”
They break into a run again, Jimmy struggling with the sleeves of his coat, attempting to get his arms through the cuffs without tearing his livery while, at the same time, trying to keep pace with Barrow, who, seemingly without effort, is jogging down that deserted country road alongside Jimmy, holding the umbrella over the two of them.
Thankfully, the thing is big enough for both of them to fit under without their elbows touching. It’s the large black one Barrow likes to carry about with him in winter. It usually hangs from the crook of his arm by its handle, folded and waiting to be used as a walking stick at any moment, emphasising the underbutler’s slender yet masculine build. ‘Maybe a walking stick would suit him,’ Jimmy catches himself thinking for some reason between two ragged breaths. The man could probably pull off such a distinguished look easily, what with those debonair looks and that suave demeanour, that seem to conceal a deeper, darker undercurrent simmering away underneath, what with those sharp cheekbones and that brilliantined black hair, that would make Rudolph Valentino weep with envy …
Jimmy only snaps out of his thoughts when Barrow’s voice suddenly cuts through the sound of their feet splashing through the puddles. “See? There … The bus hasn’t arrived yet,” the man says, breaths coming out quickly as he points ahead. “We’re fine … Now slow down; I’m not twenty anymore.”
Jimmy almost yells at him at that. It’s so obvious the underbutler is just being condescending again by playing up the age gap between them, so clear that Barrow, agile cricketer that he is, is the better sprinter of the two of them, so humiliatingly plain to see that the man has got the longer legs and the quicker pace.
But Jimmy bites his tongue and manages not to explode in the other man's face. He has got plenty of other things to worry about right now.
They stop at the bus sign, catching their breath.
“You should at least button up that coat,” Barrow states after a moment, his warm breath touching Jimmy’s cheek and making him shiver more than the cold rain ever could. As he says it, the underbutler instinctively reaches out one hand up to Jimmy’s collar in a routine way, that shows he still knows his valeting business. But before his fingertips can so much as graze the fabric of Jimmy’s lapel, Barrow has already abruptly dropped his hand again, averting his gaze.
Jimmy starts buttoning up his coat over his crumpled livery as quickly as his cold, stiff fingers will allow.
All the while, the rain only intensifies, coming down around their small umbrella-covered island of dryness like a waterfall.
The little red bus pulls up to the kerb, and a sigh of relief breaks free from Jimmy’s chest, only to be replaced by the sudden shock of realisation piercing through him. “I … I haven’t brought any money for the fare,” he whispers, feeling himself blanch.
How could he have forgotten that? Why has he just stormed out of the house on impulse like some lunatic?
Barrow merely raises an eyebrow at him, putting away the cigarette that he had been about to light just moments before, then proceeds to the front of the bus, already pulling out a few coins from his coat pocket.
“I’ll pay you back,” Jimmy remembers to mumble by way of thank you, directing his words at Barrow’s retreating back. Then he quickly hurries after the man and his umbrella in order to stay out of the rain.
There is only a slight trace of hesitation in Barrow’s flat Mancunian vowels when he addresses the bus driver. “Can I have … two tickets to York, please?”
At that, Jimmy feels his head snap up in surprise, and he glares daggers at the back of the underbutler’s neck from behind. But he refrains from saying anything, ducking his head and clenching his teeth. He has been given a favour and doesn't want to have it withdrawn again just because he couldn’t keep his yap shut.
They make their way down the narrow aisle of the bus, taking seats beside each other.
“Look … I won’t pry,” Barrow breaks the silence after a moment, not looking at him. “But chances are the weather will be just as frightful in York as it is here. I’ll walk you wherever you need to go, and then I’ll be off … I won’t meddle in your affairs.”
“All right,” Jimmy concedes meekly as the rocking bus pulls away from the kerb.
His mind is occupied with other things, anyway. They are the old familiar concerns, the sorrow he keeps under tight wraps while at Downton - his life, his thoughts, his feelings neatly compartmentalised - the buried worries, that have returned in a flash the moment the telegram arrived. The fears that something might happen … or has already happened … or will happen … This feeling of inadequacy and unworthiness and guilt and failure and inferiority. This frustrating powerlessness that has his stomach in knots and his head swimming, dark thoughts attacking his throbbing temples just as forcefully as the rain that keeps pattering on the roof of the bus, an all-too-familiar panic setting in …
In his hand, Jimmy is still clutching the crumpled and partially rain-soaked telegram that has sent him into this state of utter despair, its manila paper rough against his palm. He relaxes his fingers slightly, willing his body to calm down, and his palm half opens of its own accord, revealing the little crown printed at the top of the creased slip of paper.
From the corner of his eye, he can see that Barrow’s posture is just that hint too rigid to be natural. It’s almost unnoticeable - except where it isn’t: The bus hasn’t got any glass panes in its window openings, which means that one of Barrow’s arms ends up getting sprayed with water from outside periodically. The man could, of course, just as well lean slightly into Jimmy, who is sitting next to the aisle, in order to avoid getting his coat sleeve all wet. Curiously enough, though, he chooses not to.
On to the contrary, actually: Barrow seems to be holding himself almost unnaturally stiffly and at a slightly uncomfortable angle away from Jimmy, making sure their knees and elbows don’t touch inadvertently, his back a bit too rigid, his eyes focussed a bit too hard on the road. He always looks as if he is keeping himself in check, constantly in control of his emotions, and right now isn't any different. It’s as if he has deliberately decided to keep still, to actively not inconvenience his travelling companion in any way.
Jimmy doesn’t say anything, just holds out his half-open palm to the other man, letting him take a look at the telegram. It feels like a peace-offering of sorts.
Then he watches the soft grey shadows of raindrops slide over Barrow’s face as the man’s eyes quietly scan the one line printed on the small scrap of paper:
IT IS THE FLU STOP COME AT ONCE STOP M.P.
For a moment, he can see a silent question glide across the man’s knitted brow, just alongside the velvet shadows caressing his handsome features, ‘Didn’t James say he didn’t really have any family? Is he really that worried about some cousin or other?’
But Barrow’s lips remain pressed together in a firm line, obvious in their determination to keep silent. The man doesn't seem to want to meddle, resolved to keep out of this. And yet, Jimmy can practically sense the suspicion radiating from Barrow’s tense body, knows what thought it is exactly that has just occurred to the underbutler … That this might not be about Jimmy’s cousins at all. That Jimmy might be hiding a secret lover. There, in a dubious corner of the city, where nobody from Downton will ever find her … That it must be an intensely close and devoted relationship for him to descend into such a state of distress …
Only a moment later, though, Jimmy observes how Barrow schools his expression back into one of casual disinterest; he almost has to admire the man’s self-control.
The bus rocks and sways along the winding country roads like an old battleship wallowing across the ocean, and Jimmy briefly wonders if he should have perhaps eaten something at the staff lunch. (But then again, maybe that would have only made things worse.) In any case, whether the hollow feeling in his stomach is down to the rolling motion of the bus or his anxiety, it all feels much worse than being seasick. And he is all at sea right now …
It’s as if they have embarked on a seemingly endless odyssey (with considerably less Cyclopes and more potholes, though). Outside the window, walled-in fields alternate with rugged villages and shallow hills, all doused in a bleak, drizzly grey instead of the usual lush shades of green and vibrantly warm, earthy browns. Even the few sheep that seem to brave the weather outside do look dirty grey rather than white …
Barrow remains silent for the rest of the journey, and when they finally arrive at their destination, Jimmy is out of the bus before it has even fully stopped.
It's precisely at this moment that all the bells of York Minster start to peal in the distance, the whole carillon chiming out an ear-splitting, polyphonic tune, that somehow only adds to the apocalyptic atmosphere bearing down on them, black clouds hanging so deep that they almost touch the roofs of the ancient city.
It isn’t anything like the big metropolises, of course, where sleek automobiles fight for attention with flashing lights and blinking electric advertising hoardings. But nonetheless, the streets of York are bustling with life, people milling about despite the heavy downpour.
There are women returning from the shops - basket in hand, long skirts soaking up the muddy water from the puddles - clutching their shawls to their bosoms as they rush along the narrow cobbled streets.
There are police constables blowing their whistles, black helmets glistening with rain.
There are telegram boys on their bicycles, ringing their bells and racing one another through the puddles.
There are paperboys in short trousers, their thick wool socks pulled up to their knobbly knees, their newsboy caps askew, running for shelter, frantically trying to get their precious periodicals somewhere dry. Some of them look as if they have only just stopped calling out the day’s headlines to passers-by while waving the afternoon editions of their gazettes in the faces of those who had dared to approach their street corner.
There is even a shoeshine boy - waiting for customers near the bus stop - who, despite the torrential rain, tries to talk Barrow into getting his shoes cleaned for three halfpence. When Barrow declines, stating in a clipped tone that he is perfectly capable of doing that on his own, and the boy trudges off with a dejected face and hanging shoulders, Jimmy can’t help it but feel sorry for the child. ‘How old is he, anyway? Six? Seven, perhaps?’ he wonders. ‘And doing it out of poverty, no doubt.’ They’re orphans, all of these children, having lost their fathers in a war they barely know anything about and forced to look after themselves now. It’s scary to imagine what can happen to children in a big city if there’s no one there to provide for them, Jimmy realises, shivering at the thought.
In all this ruckus - angry skies bursting with thunder, shaking the very ground and echoing in every peal of the church bells behind them - the profound silence between the two of them is all the more conspicuous as they weave their way through the busy streets, huddled under Barrow’s black umbrella.
The underbutler, true to his promise, doesn’t utter a single word, doesn’t ask any questions and doesn’t offer any opinion on the subject of their heading towards some destination that, to him, must seem shrouded in mystery. And somewhere deep down, Jimmy feels vaguely grateful for the man’s silence - even if his mind is on other things right now; the nearer they draw to their destination, the more erratic his heart beats in his clenching chest. This suppressed worry inside of him has become so overwhelming that he literally feels like being sick all over the pavement right there and then although he hasn’t even had any lunch earlier. His cold, clammy fingers are trembling in his coat pockets, where Barrow (thankfully) can't see them, and an absolutely rotten feeling, a cross between guilt and fear, remorse and agony, is gnawing away at his insides like a cancerous growth insidiously working its way to the surface. He barely recognises his own voice anymore as he hoarsely gives directions to the other man, “This way … That way … We've got to cross the street here …“
They stay outside the old city walls, on the other side of the river, the sound of Great Peter getting fainter and fainter behind them the further they head away from the city centre and into South Bank, the neighbourhood turning poorer with every step they take.
It might not look as bleak as the soot-blackened houses of Sheffield or Leeds, where ‘dark Satanic Mills’ churn out smoke day and night, but it's hardly a sight to swoon and sigh over, red-brick terraced houses spewing water from every burst rain pipe and rubbish lying about everywhere, not a single tree or flower pot in sight.
It’s the epitome, the face, of the Poor Law - the exact opposite of Downton with its polished marble floors, where artfully coiffed beaus dash about in well-tailored suits, sporting a buttonhole and a monogrammed pocket handkerchief … where rosy-cheeked ladies in seemingly endless strings of pearls sip champagne from Bohemian crystal glasses in damask-covered boudoirs …
Yes, this here is to Downton what a glass plate negative is to a photograph, all the shades of black and white reversed into their opposites.
It’s the sort of place where pauperism isn’t just a newspaper story but a reality that’s etched into the faces of countless destitute war orphans out on the streets, that’s alive in every derelict workhouse filled with the unemployed and crippled and disillusioned … and that persists on the stale breath of every drunk trying to drown his sorrows in ardent spirits.
Somewhere nearby, Jimmy can hear the electric tram rattle its way along the street. Ever since it replaced the old horse-drawn one, the god-awful stench of horse manure in the neighbourhood has subsided considerably. So, at least that’s something …
The foul smell does, however, still waft over from the Knavesmire racecourse from time to time, reminding Jimmy of his past fruitless attempts to get rich at a galloping pace. (If only Lady Fortune had been on his side! But apparently, the fickle goddess isn’t in the betting business or really just doesn't favour fools at all.)
When finally they arrive at their destination, a gloomy old boarding house, Jimmy feels himself shiver the way he always does in front of the multi-storey Victorian building towering threateningly over the workers’ two-up two-down cottages surrounding it.
The house is more than just a little run-down, and Jimmy curses himself silently for the hundredth time for not being able to find a better-paid job or not at least having a luckier streak at the bookies. At least then he could rent a nice, bright, clean flat …
He watches Barrow size up the building with his pale grey eyes. The man’s lips are pressed together in a thin line, and his body looks tense, as if he is preparing to turn on his heel and stalk off in the direction of the city centre.
“Wait,” Jimmy hears himself whisper all of a sudden, his voice coming out even deeper than usual.
Barrow just arches a silent eyebrow at him.
“I can’t do this alone,” Jimmy suddenly realises. And it’s true. As irrational as it seems, he needs someone’s support right now.
And just like that, his stomach is all in knots again.
He casts his eyes down to the ground, gulping. “It’s on the top floor,” he offers softly.
Barrow folds up his umbrella, giving it one, two deft shakes to get the excess water off it, then yanks open the heavy, battered wooden door with one fluid movement of his arm.
Their eyes need a moment to adjust to the darkness in the hall. The pervasive stench of overcooked cabbage invades their noses immediately, though, disgustingly reminiscent of a dingy, old school refectory and clinging to their every pore.
A low clicking sound indicates that Barrow is trying to flick the light switch, but Jimmy knows all too well that the lights haven’t been working for months. It remains dark.
There are people living in virtually every last room in this house, he knows. Even the cellars are tenanted.
Somewhere a woman suddenly starts coughing. Violently. It’s a rattling, whistling sound erupting in the silence of the house, as if she is going to cough up a lung any minute.
In front of them, in the semi-darkness, a half-starved cat comes creeping down the stairs towards the ground floor and starts hissing aggressively the very moment it catches sight of them, its eyes two evil green flames in a sea of black.
“Come on,” Jimmy whispers, and they start climbing the creaking wooden stairs.
On the first landing, they stop for a second, catching their breath. There are two shrill voices drifting out from behind one of the doors, a couple screaming at each other at the top of their lungs.
“T’were me own broother? Tha bloody whore!” they hear the man shout, his voice laced with an even thicker working class accent than their own.
“Sa what?!” the woman replies in a shrieking voice. “Will tha get it inta thy thick ‘ead that ah loove ‘im? At least ‘ee knows ‘ow ter appreciate a lass!”
“Ah’ll kill the bloody bastard with me bare … Ow!” the man suddenly exclaims. (There has just been a loud smashing sound as if she has thrown the chamber pot at him.)
“Oh, the joys of matrimony!” Barrow mutters wryly out of the corner of his mouth. And Jimmy feels himself smile despite everything.
Then they quickly hurry up the next flight of worn-out stairs.
There is a girl standing on the next landing, resting her back against the bannister. Jimmy knows her from his previous visits to the house - she seems to be a permanent lodger - but he has never talked to her or even looked at her twice.
It’s hard to tell how old she is. Probably not of age yet; that’s his guess. But she always wears so much make-up that it's impossible to tell. He also has a strong suspicion that she makes a living in the world's oldest profession.
Today she is in a white nightie with a half-open floral-print dressing gown thrown around her shoulders. Its silk fabric is threadbare and frayed, the faded flowers barely visible anymore. And the cigarette she is sucking on unenthusiastically has traces of her too-bright, coral lipstick on it.
She looks a bit as if she is pretending to be all grown-up and worldly-wise, languidly blowing out smoke in small rings like some depraved femme fatale, trying (but failing) to come across as a high-class courtesan, who is used to providing the most exquisite pleasures to clients in ritzy Grand Hotels and illicit opium dens alike.
In fact, she looks a bit sickly, with her dishwater blond hair in tangles and her snub nose reddened like a child’s - even if she is just as cheeky as always, the hand holding the cigarette resting on her hip, her bust pushed out, obviously striking a pose for them. Her free hand is playing with the dressing gown cord, twirling its end in a circle in front of herself, and her kohl-rimmed eyes - smudged with so much black that the sight would have Mrs Patmore screaming with terror - are following Barrow.
She is ignoring Jimmy completely (as she always does), yet clearly giving the underbutler an appraising up and down once-over, obviously noticing the finer cut of his coat as well as the fact that he is older than Jimmy and pegging him as a gentleman caller.
“Well, hello, mista,” she purrs at Barrow, pulling up her nightshirt a bit to expose a sliver of snow-white thigh.
It’s almost worth it just to see the utterly unimpressed expression on Barrow’s face, Jimmy thinks and has to bite his lip to keep a straight face.
“Put on some clothes, kid,” Barrow replies coolly like an uncle scolding an insolent child.
And then, they’re already climbing the next flight of stairs.
When they’ve finally reached the top floor, Jimmy freezes for a second, worry and trepidation creeping back into his heart.
It’s not even a real bedroom. Behind that battered door, there is a hastily refurbished attic, he knows, a feeling of humiliation burning in his chest. It’s a dingy hole of a room, too small to swing a cat in, dank and dirty, and he is about to open that door and show Barrow in.
All of a sudden, he feels incredibly self-conscious about his poverty again.
‘Don’t be silly,’ he reprimands himself. ‘The man’s probably seen worse. He wasn't born an underbutler … Besides, you’ve got other things to worry about right now.’
And yet he hesitates.
For a moment, the only thing that can be heard is the heavy pattering of rain on the roof above them.
“What’s behind that door?” Barrow asks with a neutral expression on his face.
“Edward,” Jimmy whispers, noticing, to his surprise, that Barrow’s pupils dilate for a second in the dim half-light. It’s as though the name has made something inside the man resonate with a faint melody.
Then Jimmy raises his left hand and raps his knuckles on the door.
🚬
Continued here