The oldest, yet the latest thing (Part 3)

[sagestreet]

🚬

The news that Jimmy has got a secret child hits Downton like a bombshell. For a day, it seems as if there’s no other matter to be discussed, dissected and gossiped about upstairs and below, and Jimmy wishes, more than once, for the ground to open up beneath his feet and swallow him whole.

Every time he turns a corner, there is some wide-eyed maid or open-mouthed hallboy standing there, staring at him, silent curiosity in their unblinking eyes telling him that the news has already travelled this far. He even supposes that each time the rumours are retold, another son or daughter is added to the story. Until finally, he will be depicted as someone who has spawned an entire busload of secret children.

There are, for example, those three laundry maids in their white mob-caps and starched aprons, standing there in the downstairs hallway, bursting into giggles the moment Jimmy walks by, whispering something to one another in hushed tones. (As Jimmy hurries past them, he glimpses, like in a snapshot, the way one of them holds an old washboard in front of her bosom, reddened, raw skin extending from her broken fingernails all across the wrists and up to her elbows, the skin on her knuckles dry and cracked from the lye soap she uses day in, day out to scrub other people’s bed linen and towels clean. And for some reason, that still image of her work-roughened hands stays with him like the blow-up of a photograph, a picture frozen in mid-frame, while all the whispering and chuckling is quickly muted by his memory into a bizarre silent film scene.)

Yes, it’s as if he’s suddenly moving through an expressionist film set, a somnambulist in a picture show at the cinema, reduced to an extra with a walk-on part in his own life, staggering about through the artificial fog and stumbling headfirst into the walls of the scenery, all in a dreamlike state and completely clueless as to what he is supposed to do with no lines and no direction, waiting for the curtain to drop on his celluloid ‘glory’.

And that heavy curtain is about to come down on the final act of his stint here at Downton. Because once the news reaches Mr Carson’s formidable ears, the situation stops being just annoying and becomes downright frightening.

“James, my office. Now!” Carson’s booming voice echoes in the downstairs corridors.

For a moment, everything goes quiet. The laundry maids in the hall seem frozen in shock, their mob-caps the only things still moving in a simultaneous, barely perceptible tremor like the little white heads of snowdrops being ruffled by a harsh wind in early spring. Through the open door, Jimmy can hear that everyone in the servants’ hall has fallen silent as well, the usual hum of work, gentle clanking of teacups and low murmur of voices stopping as if controlled by the hand of an invisible conductor or film director. Even the kitchens are suddenly enveloped in absolute silence, which is a rather rare occurrence. (Just a moment ago, Mrs Patmore was still shouting something about ‘courgettes that need chopping’ at Daisy, who, in turn, was yelling at Ivy that ‘that aubergine won’t cut itself to bits’.)

Jimmy shuffles his feet, giving the maids a forced smile, trying to look as if he doesn’t know that a heavy storm is brewing on the horizon.

“If you would step into my office for a moment, James,” Carson growls in a low voice. And there’s no Mr Barrow there to give Jimmy any reassuring looks from across the hall, no one to calm his nerves or buoy him up.

Once Jimmy has shut the door behind himself, he squints at the butler perched regally upon his leather-covered chair behind the desk.

The office itself gives the impression of a gloomy cave, with the brass bankers’ lamp on Carson’s desk switched off and just some grey light filtering in through the small grilled cellar window.

For a moment, all that can be heard is the soft, yet insistent ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the faint patter of rain outside as Carson’s eyes silently bore into Jimmy’s from under his massive eyebrows. Despite the all-pervading cold downstairs, the air in the room feels almost stifling, and when Jimmy moves his shoulders uncomfortably, there’s a sudden ‘pop’ in his neck, that seems overly loud in the small room, making it appear as if the sound got trapped inside a cardboard box.

Then Carson clears his throat and announces in a thunderous voice, “It has come to my attention, James, that you are father to … a child!”

‘Well, who did you think I was father to? A lion cub? … Of course, it’s a child!’ Jimmy thinks bitterly. Out loud he says, “That is correct, Mr Carson,” squirming under the silent crescendo of the butler’s withering gaze, his throat suddenly as dry as dusty old paper.

“So, does my memory deceive me, then? Or did you choose not to divulge this particular information to us when you entered His Lordship’s employ? … Would you care to explain yourself … sir?”

Jimmy has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from shouting at the man. But what exactly he would be shouting he doesn’t know, and so he remains silent, standing there, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down between his shoulder blades and something like a vice clench around his chest. He clears his throat once, twice, but doesn’t seem to be able to get anything out.

“I …” he whispers guiltily, fidgeting where he’s standing like a pupil about to be scolded by a master, trying to avoid eye contact with the imposing man looming majestically behind his massive oak desk.

He casts his eyes down, looking at the small, gold-rimmed magnifying glass on Carson’s desk instead. He knows that the butler picks it up by its handle sometimes to read the small print in his paperwork, but, right now, Jimmy feels as if its gleaming single eye is directed at him in a menacing glare. It’s essentially as if he’s become the small print now.

“Why haven’t you told us?” Carson presses on in an almost animal-like growl.

Jimmy closes his eyes. That’s it. He’s going to get sacked now. And who knows what’ll become of Eddie then.

Jimmy doesn’t read the papers with the same enthusiasm as Barrow, but even he knows that the economy is in steep decline at the moment. Finding work is nigh on impossible these days, as he knows all too well from his own experience of knocking on countless doors after handing in his notice to the Dowager Lady Anstruther. It seems so illogical and unfair, all things considered. After all, a large percentage of men didn’t make it back from the war. One would think any and all kinds of workforce would be in high demand. But that isn’t the case at all (unless one is a highly trained cook or French governess or something). Jimmy doesn’t understand it, but amongst unskilled workers like him, the unemployment rate is astronomically high right now; it has been for several consecutive years and doesn’t show even the slightest sign of improvement. Barrow has tried to explain it to him several times, in the evenings in the servants’ hall - something about the gold standard and a deflationary downward spiral and high interest rates - but Jimmy would be lying if he said that he’s understood any of it.

‘That’s it, then,’ he thinks bitterly, drawing a deep breath. ‘The moment I open my mouth to try and explain myself, Carson will shout me down, talk over me and announce that he will have to let me go … Poor Eddie to have a father like me! He’d deserve better.’

Jimmy’s palms start sweating where he’s standing, trying not to sway as his knees go weak with panic all of a sudden. ‘Now what? The soup kitchen? Eating out of rubbish bins? Stealing milk from other people’s doorsteps?’

But before Jimmy can so much as say a word, Carson clears his throat again. “Why haven’t you told us about your bereavement, that is?” the butler then clarifies in a slightly softer voice.

Jimmy looks up at him in surprise.

There is a deep crease between the man’s enormous eyebrows now, and his usually stern face has taken on an expression of concern. It’s the same expression that seems to unwittingly appear on his face whenever Lady Mary is mentioned these days, especially when talk comes to her never leaving her room anymore. Carson’s face is much more deeply furrowed and creased ever since Matthew Crawley has died in that motorcar accident, more weathered somehow. And Jimmy has noticed lately that the butler looks downright old and defeated whenever he returns from one of his visits to Lady Mary’s room.

So, it’s not the first time that Jimmy has seen this worried expression on his superior’s face: he’s seen its heralds after Lady Sybil’s funeral, those first signs of dark sorrow creeping across his face, those first black shadows around his eyes, those worry lines etched (more deeply than ever) into his tired features. And he sees traces of it in the corners of Carson’s eyes every time Branson picks up his little daughter to hold her close. But it’s worst when the butler returns from upstairs, having spent an hour or two in Lady Mary’s company, a strange emptiness in his eyes, his shoulders slumped. It’s at times like these that everyone downstairs knows not to bother the man and to stay out of his way.

Yes, upon closer inspection, Carson looks more like a deposed king than like the ruler of the downstairs empire that he’s supposed to be. He is still sitting on his throne, of course, but he looks resigned and beaten down now, as if he’s lost some unknown and unnamed battle, as if he’s got smaller all of a sudden, as if all that’s still sitting there were his large, shell-like suit, while he himself has shrunk and deflated inside of it. He doesn’t look angry anymore, Jimmy notices with surprise, the pale eyes under the man’s bushy eyebrows having turned unfocussed and empty, his stubby fingers playing idly with the marble ink blotter on his desk, rocking it back and forth, back and forth … The thing seems to move in unison with the thoughts Carson is turning over in his mind, its yellowed underside with the old ink-stained blotting paper appearing and disappearing in front of Jimmy’s eyes, the blue-black inkblots flitting across his line of sight like silent ghosts of all the words ever written here at Downton.

It’s as if, all of a sudden, Carson doesn’t even expect Jimmy to reply anymore, as if he’s forgotten what he’s asked him, caught up as he is in his own dark thoughts.

To Jimmy’s surprise, the butler then sighs deeply and mutters, “You see … Had we known about … about your loss, we would have, ahem, responded accordingly. Of course, you will understand that I cannot offer you a raise in remuneration. However … His Lordship has always insisted that widows and, er, widowers be granted several additional days off around Christmas and Easter.”

He then proceeds to roll his tired eyes as if to say that he thinks Lord Grantham goes a bit too far with the sentimentality.

(It’s just a quick eye-roll and a pained little sigh, that’s supposed to convey exasperated indulgence along the lines of ‘Well, what can you do?’ That’s supposed to demonstrate that he, Charles Carson, is of course above such sentimental nonsense. But it comes out weak somehow, forced and hollow. As if he had once thought so, as if he had once prided himself in being able to show a firm hand with the servants - orphans and widows alike - but as if, by now, only a pale shadow of his former more disciplined, more stern self has remained, as if he’s started to lie to himself over time, trying to pretend, to no avail, that his façade is still up, that he’s remained unchanged, untouched and unmoved by the tides of time, that all the devastating grief in the house hasn’t had any effect on him, whilst in reality it has hollowed out everything, rendering his eye-rolling and sighing woefully unconvincing and turning it into an empty ritual, a mechanical, meaningless gesture, a mere exercise in Carsonian disapproval.)

“Several additional days off,” the man repeats with an air of distracted importance. “And Her Ladyship usually requests that a condolence card be sent,” he adds, as if that were a particularly great boon.

“So … I’m not sacked?” Jimmy dares to ask in a small voice.

“Well, James …” The butler gives a dry little cough, grabbing one of the wooden penholders that have been rolling about on his desk and picking up a box of steel pen nibs, as if he’s already contemplating drafting Lady Grantham’s condolence card. (Jimmy can hear the steel nibs rattle around inside the cardboard box as Carson shakes one out into his open palm. ‘Perry & Co. - Birmingham. Aluminium-coated,’ it says on the box in ornate letters.)

“… I won’t say that I’m happy with your decision to keep this vital piece of information to yourself,” Carson then grumbles on. “Telling the truth is, of course, always of paramount importance whilst working in a prestigious and highly sought-after position such as the one of the first footman in a grand house. And a lie of omission remains a lie, young man, which is hardly befitting someone of your station … But … from what I have been told, the, er … child in question is, in fact, a boy?”

“Edward, yes,” Jimmy confirms quickly, not really understanding what that’s got to do with anything.

“Of course,” Carson nods approvingly, eyes focussed on the wooden nib-holder in his hand as he attaches one of the steel nibs to it. “Named after our late King.”

‘Not really, no,’ Jimmy thinks, but he doesn’t voice that thought, nodding instead.

“Well, I am, of course, aware of how many sons of this nation perished in the service of King and country,” Carson ploughs on, undeterred. “Their noble sacrifice will never be forgotten, of course, and we shall remain forever in their debt. But that doesn’t change the tragedy of this loss, which can only be remedied if England cherishes each and every single son born into her midst to renew her blood. It is of the utmost importance that the Crown be able to draw on a new generation of young men willing to lay their lives upon the altar of the Empire.”

‘In other words, if I had made the unfortunate ‘mistake’ of fathering a girl, I’d have been out on my ear on the spot,’ Jimmy thinks, snorting darkly and feeling something twist painfully in his stomach where he is still standing to attention in the middle of the office.

“And, seeing as it is … indeed, ahem, one of those sons we are talking about here,” Carson continues, his voice a deep flustered rumble, “one of those for whom England ought to make sacrifices - even hard and bitter ones - it is only just and proper that I make sacrifices, as well … No, no, James …” The butler extends his large, chubby hand at that, as if to stop him, then continues in a sickeningly generous voice, “… there is no need to be thanking me, I assure you. It is only morally right to do so, after all. So, no need to express your gratitude, James. Yes … yes, I will do you the great favour of letting you stay on. But mind you, it is only for the unfortunate boy in question,” he adds in a warning tone. “And only because I’ve been told that it would look unpatriotic if I let you go and your boy were to suffer because of it … It has been brought to my attention that this could be construed as treasonous, cowardly and selfish, as an ignoble act of desertion, nay, defection unworthy of an upstanding Englishman.”

‘Brought to your attention? By whom?’ Jimmy wonders, trying hard not to let his confusion show. ‘By Mrs Hughes? Can’t really imagine there’s anyone else you’d be inclined to take advice from.’

“Honour is, after all, all we have got on the arduous journey of our earthly life,” Carson continues his lecture. “And, as a self-respecting subject of His Majesty, I am not willing to jeopardise that, James. Because I know that patriotism is the one true love that transcends even a child’s love for his mother, in that it offers us sanctuary in the bosom of the civilised world and distinguishes us from the coloured people in the colonies- … James? James?! Are you listening to any of this?!”

“Er … Yes, Mr Carson. Of course!” Jimmy exclaims, snapping out of his half daze and feigning rapt attention.

“Good. I was under the impression that you were rolling your eyes just now.”

“‘Course not, Mr Carson!”

“Right, er, where was I?”

“The bosom of coloured people …?”

“Don’t try to be clever with me, boy! This is a valuable lesson for you to learn! Erm … ahem … as I was saying, patriotism is the one stable anchor in an unstable world, and our being welcomed into the midst of this great nation by King and country is, of course, a direct reflection of the love our Creator has bestowed upon us, His creation,” the butler explains importantly, but it still sounds strangely as if he’s trying to recall and repeat somebody else’s words, as if he has memorised them and is reciting them now. “It is this patriotic honour that makes life worthwhile and, thus, is worth all our devotion, allegiance and loyalty. It is worth even the greatest sacrifice and heaviest burden … Keeping a troublemaker such as yourself under this roof, young man, is a burden, I will freely admit it. But I understand that it is a necessary evil if we want to protect a young and otherwise defenceless subject of the Crown such as your son … That being said … you do, of course, understand that I will be keeping a close eye on you,” the butler then adds after a beat, the leather rustling as he shifts in his seat.

He seems to have grown in front of Jimmy’s eyes over the last few minutes, his bearing projecting authority and self-imposed importance again, his starched white waistcoat straining over his wide chest and well-rounded belly now, which makes him look a bit like one of those penguins Jimmy once saw at the circus.

“O-of course, Mr Carson,” Jimmy says quickly, thinking, ‘Well, aren’t you a basket of sunshine and cheer today?!’

The butler nods distractedly to himself again, drumming his chubby fingers on the corked bottle of iron gall ink in front of him.

“And I expect you to fulfil all of the tasks assigned to you promptly, properly and on time,” he harrumphs, wagging a warning forefinger at Jimmy. “There cannot be any leeway on this. Absolutely none, James. I won't tolerate even the slightest deviation from my orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will carry out all of your duties as though there were no child … as though there never has been … Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. You won’t even notice that he’s there,” Jimmy replies, feeling his pulse quicken again as it begins to sink in that he might, just might, get away with this, after all.

That he might get to stay here instead of having to sleep rough on the streets with the other paupers and turn to vagrancy, begging, stealing, and eating out of skips. That he might not have to send Eddie to Blue Coat or some other overcrowded, disease-ridden and insanitary orphanage, where he’d have to constantly fear for the boy’s life - be it because of the typhoid fever outbreaks or the bouts of pneumonia and tuberculosis running rampant in those godforsaken places. That somebody has insinuated something to Mr Carson, stirring his patriotic blood to the point where he’d be willing to overlook Jimmy’s transgressions. Yes, it is at this point that Jimmy begins to realise that he might come out of this unscathed - if only by the skin of his teeth.

“We cannot have dawdling servants who don’t know their place, are uppity, unreliable, unstable, unwilling or unable to fulfil the duties that this house is so kind as to be paying them for. We cannot and will not tolerate disloyalty of any kind … You will have to work just as hard, nay, harder than before to regain my trust. Are we clear?”

“Absolutely, Mr Carson,” Jimmy replies, his back now ramrod straight, yet still trembling where he is standing in front of the stern old butler.

“Do not think me unsympathetic, James. I suppose there’s no one who could understand the difficult situation you have found yourself in better than the people in this house,” Carson continues his tale in a more generous voice again, thus confirming Jimmy’s earlier suspicions that he has, indeed, gone a bit soft over the past few months, that, sometime between that lorry hitting Mr Crawley’s AC Six and little fatherless George crying in his arms for the first time, the once-feared butler has lost his bite and become more lenient towards all of them. “Ahem, please …” The man gives another uncomfortable cough. “… do accept my condolences on your wife’s passing, James. I know this must be a time of hardship for you.”

‘Oh! So, he thinks I’ve just lost her,’ Jimmy finally realises. ‘On the day when that telegram arrived.’

Well, if that’s what the man would like to think, then Jimmy won’t correct him. Apparently, it is this assumption (amongst other things) that has just saved Jimmy’s sorry behind. ‘He probably thinks we’ve been separated for years and that now that my estranged wife has died, the boy has ended up with me.’

“Th-that’s very kind of you, sir,” he stammers, treading from one foot to the other.

Carson nods regally again as if to say that he, indeed, thinks of himself as very, very benevolent and kind. The man’s tired old eyes are already scanning the words ‘Stephens’ blue-black writing ink; always fluid and reliable; 2 fl oz, 6 d’ on the cork-sealed bottle in front of him as he picks up his brand-new (still unused) dip pen and, seemingly out of habit, brushes it across the nib wiper on his desk with a distracted expression on his face.

Then he raises his eyes at Jimmy again, surprise registering on his features, that seem to say, ‘Are you still here?’ and Jimmy knows that, technically, he is dismissed now.

But he can’t leave just like that, staying rooted to the spot where he is standing. It’s the nerves probably. Because suddenly he blurts out, “So, can I really stay?”

Carson looks up at him in puzzlement for a moment. “In my office? Certainly not! You may go and attend to whatever task it was that- … Oh, you mean here at Downton? I thought I had made that abundantly clear already, young man. As long as you follow my orders to the letter … Mine and Mr Barrow’s, that is,” he adds with a dismissive wave of his hand, half muttering to himself, half to the ink bottle he has just picked up.

It’s at this point that Jimmy suddenly remembers …

“Eddie will be living at Mr Barrow’s new house,” he says quickly.

“Who?” The confused furrow between the butler’s eyebrows couldn’t possibly be any deeper; he is frowning so hard. “Oh - the child, you mean. Yes … yes …” It is almost funny how quickly he seems to have forgotten the topic of their earlier conversation.

With this low growl, the man then looks away from Jimmy again and unstops the ink bottle in his hand, measuring out some of the writing fluid into the bulldog-shaped marble inkwell on his desk.

The smell that fills the air at that moment is strong and fusty, a mix of evaporating ink and downstairs humidity. Jimmy doesn’t like the scent of ink. He never has. But even that cannot spoil his mood right now. It’s a familiar smell. The smell of home. Of Downton. Because yes, given the choice between having to turn to a workhouse and living at Downton, he would always choose the latter over the former. He can stay. It’s true. It’s real. With a roof over his head and food to keep him from starving. With Eddie close by and looked after. It is more than he has ever dared to hope for. It is …

“Are you still standing there? Has the iceman not come yet? I thought Mrs Patmore had asked you and Alfred to chop up some ice blocks for her … Now, would you kindly get to that, James?!”

Jimmy snaps out of his dreamlike daze again. “Aye aye, sir,” he stammers, quickly turning round to leave. Behind himself, he can hear Carson tut-tut something about “young people and their language these days,” under his breath. “What is this? The Bounty? Am I about to be set afloat in a shallop by mutineers?”

As Jimmy reaches for the brass door knob, he can make out the rustle of paper behind himself that indicates that Carson is already engrossed in his work again, drafting a letter of condolence for him or getting back to scribbling something in his Domesday Book - or whatever it is that a butler does when he isn’t scolding the staff.

And at that, Jimmy exits the room as quietly as possible.

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When he steps outside into the corridor, Jimmy almost collides with one of Downton’s peskier hallboys, who has apparently been standing there the whole time with one of his protruding, reddened ears pressed to the keyhole, passing on all the fresh intelligence obtained in this way to the rest of the group gathered in the downstairs hallway in a heated whisper.

As the hallboy flees down the corridor like a scared headless chicken, Jimmy suddenly catches sight of all the people loitering about in the vicinity of Carson’s office in pretend-casual poses, leaning against the walls or poking their heads through the many open doors lining the gloomy hallway, all quite keen not to appear too interested, their eyes focussed on their feet or inspecting their fingernails, yet furiously curious nonetheless.

To Jimmy’s utter surprise, there is one person, though, who seems to behave differently to the rest of the bog-standard nosy-servant types gathered in the hallway. One person who appears to be genuinely worried, exhibiting clear signs of nervousness.

Continued here