The oldest, yet the latest thing (Part 2) V
No, Jimmy doesn’t hear anything anymore.
It’s as if his head has been pushed under water with brutal force in an attempt to drown him. He is standing there, swaying on his feet as an ice-cold dread washes over him … Because, yes, this is his worst, deepest, best-hidden fear. What is he even trying to do there? What is he trying to achieve by raising a motherless child? He’s a man, only a man, and his son doesn’t have a mother. It’s the worst cruelty of all. Something nature never intended. Something that makes God avert his gaze in anger and the angels weep with sorrow. A child being raised by a single father - what a joke, what a cruel cosmic joke. It’s not even about whether he is a neglectful, absent father or too young or too inexperienced in parenting. Hell, he could be the most well-meaning, caring, devoted parent in the world; it still wouldn’t matter one jot! He’s just a man. He’s not what his child needs. Because men aren’t made for that. They aren’t loving and affectionate; they aren’t nurturing and empathetic. And if he sometimes thinks he feels that he is, well, then he must be mistaken. Yes, that must be it! He’s probably just lying to himself. It’s not in a man’s nature to express tenderness and warmth. And Eddie, poor innocent little Eddie, doesn’t even know he’ll never get the love he deserves. That’s what’s so cruel; that’s what’s so unjust, so painful and irrevocably tragic about it.
Jimmy feels his hands shake where they’re hanging limply by his sides, his palms getting sweaty against the fabric of his livery.
Every single one of Lady Dullop’s gaffes has been funny so far, a bit hair-raising, admittedly, and embarrassing, but, all in all, funny and playfully light-hearted. This one isn’t.
This one makes Jimmy sick to his stomach, turning the polished wooden floorboards under his feet into a wallowing ocean liner and making him heave.
This one isn’t funny; it’s true.
What she’s said is true. It must be. And it’s this sad truth that rises from the banal and mundane around him like the head of a giant mythical beast from the black sea.
And it makes him tremble, gripping him by his throat and choking him. It’s as if his throat is suddenly constricting around his pain, tightening and making him feel as if he’s about to mutely scream into a storm, that’ll wipe out all sound and, with it, all meaning behind his existence. Because what is he, after all? There’s nobody who really needs him. His child doesn’t. Nor does anyone else. He’s a nobody. A joke.
It’s only when he slightly and inconspicuously leans up against the wall with his shoulder blades to stop himself from swaying that he suddenly notices Barrow’s face, realising that, in breach of protocol, the man’s eyes are fixed on him from across the room.
Jimmy knows that the staff aren’t allowed to do that; they’re all supposed to stare straight ahead and pretend to be furniture.
And yet, Barrow’s looking right at him. And not with concern or pity, but with a smile on his face. With a smile so warm, so kind, so open and uncharacteristically unguarded, that it calms Jimmy down instantly.
It’s a smile that, across the room and over the din of human chatter, says, ‘You are all right. There’s nothing wrong with you. All of this doesn’t concern you. It’s not about you. You’re not them. You don’t have to be. You’re you. And that’s all right.’
Barrow’s smile feels like a lifeboat, a safety buoy, an outstretched hand reaching out to a drowning man, and it floods through Jimmy like a wave of warmth and reassurance holding him up and his head above the surface, above the darkness, above the pain. ‘You’re not alone. You’re never alone.’
It's a precious, silent, yet powerful moment, in which time is trembling in both their naked hands, pulsing warmly like something living, like a wounded animal healing itself through the silent music of their shared smile.
It’s a moment in which Jimmy realises that the other man isn’t angry with him, that he probably never was and never could be.
It’s the first time since his parents died that Jimmy feels that some things in life are unconditional, and you don’t have to do anything to earn them, and they’re as certain and firm as the ground you walk on and as reliable as gravity that holds you in its palm.
“Barrow, what are you smiling about?”
Lord Grantham’s voice cuts through their little bubble of light like a gramophone needle abruptly scratching across a shellac record. And all chatter in the room suddenly dies down, all heads turning to look at the underbutler. Indeed. How dare he! Why is he smiling when they’re discussing such serious and sad topics?!
Jimmy knows how a servant is supposed to respond in such a situation. (‘It’s nothing, my lord. I’m sorry.’) And he knows that, having apologised in that manner, one is expected to straighten up and fix one’s eyes on a distant spot on the opposite wall again.
Which is why he is so shocked and surprised when Barrow doesn’t, in fact, comply with that rule, but opens his mouth and says in a steady voice, “I was just thinking of Lady Sybil, my lord. And I can’t help it but smile whenever I think of her. Because she always brought out the best in all of us.”
The silence that has descended upon the room is almost deafening, and despite his own shock, Jimmy dares to take a quick look around.
There’s an expression of mild befuddlement on Lord Grantham’s face, but he doesn’t exactly look put out by Barrow’s rather unorthodox intrusion. No, if anything, it seems that he isn’t entirely sure how to react, furtively glancing at his wife for help.
Lady Grantham, for her part, seems to have made up her mind already, her more laid-back American instincts winning out apparently: she is smiling motherly at the underbutler, a deeply touched expression playing on her usually serene face, her eyes shining with unshed tears and unmistakable gratitude. And yet she is keeping her countenance, not a single tear staining her creamy cheek as she delicately places her knife and fork on the now empty faïence plate in front of her to indicate that she is finished eating.
What Barrow’s just said there isn’t even an outright lie, Jimmy muses. Everyone knows how strongly the underbutler had always felt about the Crawleys’ youngest daughter.
“Ah, right … ahem …” Lord Grantham finally coughs a bit uncertainly.
Then suddenly, everything happens very fast, and Barrow breaks at least three cardinal rules at the same time: he speaks up without being addressed first; he interrupts his employer, and, to make things even worse, he offers his opinion on matters of the family, which is something that is strictly forbidden for anyone working in service. It’s usually tolerated - even encouraged - as long as it happens in private between a master and his valet, or the lady of the house and the lady’s maid. It is, however, a serious affront to the house (even grounds for dismissal) when done in the dining room, and in front of strangers at that. You never, never, shoehorn your way into the conversation. Everyone knows that.
And yet Barrow does it. He just comes right out and says it. Unblinkingly. Without hesitation. His voice isn’t even wavering when he interrupts Lord Grantham and tells his stunned audience, “Also, if you don’t mind my saying, my lord, I think Lady Sybil would be tremendously proud of how Mr Branson is holding up. After all, he fulfils the Herculean task of raising a child and being a loving parent with admirable and exemplary devotion. I’m sure there are plenty of children who would think themselves lucky to have a father like him. We should all applaud him, and Lady Sybil would too.”
By now, it’s got so quiet in the room that you could hear the proverbial pin drop. Alfred, who is standing not too far away from Mr Barrow, has apparently forgotten about dinner etiquette as well, his mouth hanging open in a most unbecoming fashion, eyes as wide as saucers.
Mr Branson, for his part, is smiling gratefully at his former colleague, probably a bit confused as to what has brought on this sudden vote of confidence from a man who, not so long ago, refused to even dress him. Confused and overwhelmed too, his eyes looking a bit glassy and red around the corners, his throat working as if he’s fighting tears. For a moment, it almost seems as if he is going to leap out of his seat and fling his arms around the underbutler in a most inappropriate display of emotions, that would have Mr Carson fainting with horror if he were present. Thankfully, the Irishman then seems to think better of it.
Jimmy knows, of course, that this whole speech wasn’t directed at Branson at all. He knows why Barrow has thrown him a cautious look out of the corner of his eyes just now. He knows Barrow was talking about him. About him and Eddie. He knows that the man has, in breach of every rule under the imperial sun, comforted and consoled Jimmy right in front of the world and his wife, has told him to be proud of himself as if they weren’t both standing in the middle of the dining room. And Barrow, a man usually so intent on self-preservation, has done so in such an unashamedly brazen, daring, yet underhand way that Jimmy is suddenly left speechless, surprised and, yes, even humbled to be able to call this prudent-impudent man a friend.
But Barrow hasn’t just seen red and lost his head there. No, it looks quite deliberate actually, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing. He doesn’t look desperate; he looks surprisingly self-controlled. Like someone who knows that the stakes are high, but also that he's got the better hand. It’s as if, by tearing all the rules to shreds, he has just established, once and for all, who the alpha dog of the pack is around here. It’s as if he’s just told his employer to his face that he’s in charge - an employer who, for his part, still looks as if he doesn’t know what’s just hit him and for what reason.
They all know, of course, that every house is secretly ruled by its butler. The butler is the one even the upstairs lot listen to. And most earls, dukes and marquesses would probably freely admit that, when it comes to who’s in charge in their household, it’s always their butler - closely followed by their wife. And that they themselves come fourth or maybe fifth on that ladder, somewhere between the housekeeper and the cook.
Barrow, for his part, has now made sure that everyone knows where he sees himself in the pecking order. He has said it loud and clear: he is the butler’s right hand, and whenever Carson isn’t present, he is the dark power that nobody should cross.
From the look on Lord Grantham’s face, it’s quite obvious that this message has just hit home. And the man doesn’t even look unhappy about it. Probably because an underbutler taking control of things can turn out to be quite the relief to a gentleman: Barrow has made sure Lord Grantham knows where Barrow sees his place in this household, but he has also shown his employer that he can trust him to defend the family against any attack from an outsider, has shown the whole family that they can rely on him to make sure that a remark such as the one Lady Dullop has made won’t go unpunished, thus making himself the crown prince in the line of succession to Carson’s throne, and Lord Grantham seems to appreciate that.
Jimmy can’t help it but admire the brazen audacity Barrow has, once again, shown in committing this well-calculated affront. Anyone else would have been given the sack for interrupting the family dinner in such a disrespectful manner. Barrow, however, has just pulled off the triple feat of showing Jimmy his support at the precise moment when he needed it most, of putting a cheeky comtesse in her place for speaking ill of the family, and of making sure Lord Grantham knows where Barrow sees himself should Carson ever retire.
And all of that, with just a few words, a sure smile and a cool head. It is admirable, this way in which he seizes an opportunity and just claims something for himself, always in control of the situation.
Continued here