Work Text:
France, 1914
Everything in France smelled like fire. Which was strange, Thomas thought, because there was nothing on fire that he could see. He couldn't even hear any gun shots yet. But they would come soon enough. Everyone was keen to assure him of that. He kept to himself and went about setting up a medical station on the north end of the trench; one long line with turns and burrows being dug as he laid out bandages and alcohol on wooden shelves stuck into the dirt wall. It was hardly dawn and already he was up with the others. He had only managed a couple of hours' sleep. Nerves had kept him up, his heart racing. He had thought he might be more stoic about the whole thing. But he had already heard stories to curl his toes and he hadn't been out of training hardly a week. He eyed Captain Blake who speaking to some men at the other end. He had been particularly helpful to Blake but not, he hoped, overbearing. He aimed to avoid stretchers as long as possible. They said medics weren't supposed to be shot at. Well, Thomas didn't much feel like taking anyone's word for it. Besides, how could even a polite German see that little red cross through the smoke? It wasn't worth the risk. He would prove himself too much of an asset to lose carrying stretchers. So he would toffee up his nose a bit. It was obvious, but sometimes effective. That was his plan.
"Barrow." Lieutenant Rogers appeared beside him and Thomas saluted. Rogers was humorless and the men didn't like him for it. They mocked him at night over cards and drink: "Rogers rogers Blake, ya know, ho ho ho."
"Yes, sir," Thomas said.
Rogers shoved a short shovel into his arms. "You're needed on the southwest end for the turn. Go to it. Blake will show you."
"I'm a medic, sir-"
"You're a solider, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir." Thomas's jaw twitched in consternation.
Rogers gave him the evil eye and said, "So you'll dig, private."
"Of course, sir."
Thomas huffed and dropped the bandages, trudging through the narrow trench. Rogers was infantry, it didn't seem right that he could order Thomas around. He muttered to himself, and tripped over a rock sticking up between the wooden boards. The dirt walls on either side were irregular, sometimes they almost seemed to move. You had to keep your head. He found a dozen men going at it with their spades and Blake glanced at him, perking up as he wiped his brow.
"Ah, Barrow, there's a good chap. We've fallen behind. Need every man we can get."
Thomas only saluted and nodded his agreement before joining; an almost painful knot of resentment forming in his stomach.
"Have another one of those, Barrow?" Blake said, gesturing to Thomas's cigarette. His Woodbines were nearly out. Who know where he would get more or what he would have to trade? But Thomas only smiled and volunteered a precious cigarette to Blake who thanked him. Blake was handsome and ever confident, the sort who seemed in no danger of coming to a bad end.
I'll bet he's got an inheritance to go back to, and a whole parade of Blakes who adore him.
In fact, Blake probably had his own valet. Thomas briefly wondered if Blake had already pegged him as a man in service. If it came up in conversation, Thomas could always tell him he was a valet. Suppose Blake grew fond of him? It would be good to have something lined up for after the war. He certainly couldn't rely on going back to Downton...
Thomas dug and contemplated. Enough thoughts about "after the war" and a person could forget that it had hardly begun.
Four hours later Thomas was still digging. He had a fat and painful blister on his right hand from the way he had to grip his shovel. He hadn't had a blister in years.
Thomas woke in the middle of the night with a gasp. His blankets were tangled up around his legs and his heart was pounding. He had been dreaming of the war and his wound ached something awful. Outside it was snowing; the first snow of winter. Any other time of year, he hardly thought of his blighty. But in the bitter cold, the bones would get sore. He sat up and lit himself a cigarette, pushing away thoughts of Captain Blake. He had dreamed of the man getting his insides shot out. There was a time when such dreams came every night. He had been foolish enough to think they were long gone. Apparently not. Not in winter anyhow. He rubbed his hands together, half expecting to feel viscera, and wretched a little.
"Hell..." He stood, stretched, and leaned by the window.
It was two o'clock in the morning and he never got back to sleep.
In the morning, Thomas felt like he was carrying stones in his shoes, but he soldiered on and sat down to breakfast, plowing through three cups of tea.
"What do you look like?" Jimmy said, chuckling as he dug into his bangers. "Was there a pea under your mattress, Mr. Barrow?"
Thomas smiled and looked away. Normally he might've manged a retort but he was bothered by his dreams, it was all he could do to eat his breakfast.
"Are you well?" Anna said.
"Quite well," Thomas said, putting on his best face. "Just the winter. Cold disagrees with me."
Jimmy pointed his fork at Thomas's hand and said, "Oh, because your... Ah, never mind. It does get gloomy, I suppose."
"I quite like the first snow," Bates said, and in spite of himself Thomas was grateful for the interruption. "Makes everything fresh and new, I think."
The others talked about how they would soon be unpacking the Christmas things, but Thomas didn't miss Jimmy's look in his direction. It seemed the quieter Thomas was, the more Jimmy looked at him. But Thomas couldn't sum up the slightest comment, even to poke at Alfred who was sputtering nonsense about building a giant snowman.
Alfred had been in the war, Thomas thought. And the idea seemed ridiculous. But some men were like that. They came back and everything was the same. They managed to put it behind them. Or perhaps they had resolutely unseen what they had seen. Most of the time, Thomas could do that too. Jimmy, he was less certain about. They had spoken on the subject once, when Thomas had shown him his wound. Jimmy had made light of it. But sometimes Thomas wondered. He had heard Alfred tell stories about playing poker for clean socks in the trenches to Bates who responded with stories of the Boer war. But Jimmy always stayed quiet. Usually, there was a reason for that.
Thomas's day proved arduous. By four o'clock that afternoon he hesitated to sit down for tea in the hall, afraid he wouldn't be able to rise again. But he did. And it was the sort of day that made him grateful for busy work; less time to mull about his dreams.
"Chess?" Jimmy said. That evening they sat in the hall with the others, nibbling on left over tarts. Jimmy smiled at Thomas, eyebrows raised. Thomas felt Apollo at his feet and thought they were both likely to get cat hair all over their livery. Apollo seemed to ignore everyone but the two of them.
"Ah, alright," Thomas mumbled, and lit himself a cigarette.
Jimmy had been his normal self all day, and they had interacted little. But when he managed to beat Thomas at chess, his eyes widened.
"You let me win," Jimmy said. "I told you not to do that."
"I didn't." Thomas was wide awake, but a bit bleary in the head. "I'm not on my game, I'm afraid."
"I suppose not," Jimmy agreed. "Or maybe I've improved."
"Doubtful."
Jimmy rolled his eyes and rose to play the piano. Bates requested a rag and he shuffled around with Anna; the two of them laughing. Thomas stared at the back of Jimmy's head through cigarette smoke and thought: Well, I suppose things worked out well enough in the end.
It was a vacant thought. He didn't know where it came from. A little demon said that Jimmy would someday find either a girl or a better place in another house and that would be the end of that. Jimmy was ambitious. He wasn't likely to stay in one place very long.
You sad pathetic sack, he thought.
"I'm turning in," Jimmy mumbled an hour later. They were the only two left in the hall. "Aren't you coming? It's awfully late. Carson'll-"
"In a bit. You go ahead."
Jimmy frowned but finally he turned, leaving Thomas alone at the silent table. Thomas found he wasn't tired at all, and dreaded the idea of sleep. He sat for hours, reading and rereading the paper, playing cards against himself, and watching snowflakes fall outside the window. His hand ached terribly.
France, 1914
Thomas couldn't feel his face or his hands. His fingers were numb, frozen in the grip of the stretcher as he trudged through the snowy battlefield. Clarke was trying to distract everyone by talking about his girl back home and the size of her bosoms relative to cannon balls. It wasn't doing much to distract Thomas, who had not had a cigarette in eight hours.
"She lets me put it in her mouth," Clarke said, gleeful, as the other men nodded, entranced by his story. "Don't want a bun in the oven, ya know. Her tongue dances like a cabaret girl."
If Boyle weren't so ugly, Thomas might've offered up his own tongue. Men got desperate in war. But then again, you could never tell who would be willing and who would stick their gun under your chin.
"What's color's her hair?" Boyle said, rubbing his constantly runny nose on his sleeve. He was carrying a stretcher with Clarke as Thomas and Wright, who couldn't have been eighteen yet, carried beside them.
"What difference does that make?" Clarke said. "I'm talkin' about the important things."
"I want to get a good picture in me head," Boyle said, and Wright giggled like a girl.
"Have you got a girl back home, Barrow?" Clarke said.
He didn't want to be teased, so Thomas quickly said, "Yeah. Daisy."
"Is she pretty?" Wright said.
"'Course she's pretty. She's with me, isn't she?"
"Have you gotta picture?" Clarke said. "I've got one of Emma, I'll show it to you all later. You'll shoot yourselves for envy."
"I had one," Thomas said. "Left it in a boot and it got stolen."
"Shame," Boyle muttered.
"Does she let you put it in your mouth?" Clarke said, and smirked.
Thomas nearly lost his footing in the snow and he righted himself. The last time he'd had it in someone's mouth had been in RAMC training. By some miracle of God, a freckled young accounting clerk from Manchester had taken a hint and there had been a satisfying bit of tussling in the shadows.
"Sometimes," he muttered, and felt a little disgusted at saying something like that about Daisy. He ought to have made up a name.
"Oh, God..." It was Wright. He was looking away at a body sunken in the snow but for a hand reaching up, still as stone. The rest of them crowded around. Thomas didn't know who it was, because the soldier's face was blown off. He had long ago frozen and now snowflakes fell into the cavern of his wrecked skull.
"Leave him," Boyle said. "There might be live ones."
They walked on, now silenced. Until Wright said, "That was Harper."
"How would you know?" Thomas snapped, and his breath puffed out in the cold. He wanted a cigarette so badly he might've killed for it.
"The ring on his hand," Wright said. "It's his family's signet ring. He showed it to me."
Thomas had no reply to that and they walked past three more corpses. Wright burst into tears. Thomas's gaze fell on Wright's boots. He had tied a blue ribbon on his laces. Thomas couldn't remember what it meant. Something to do with his father. But if Wright was blown apart, Thomas supposed he could recognize the lad by it.
He had lost the feeling in his toes. Maybe he would offer to put his mouth on Boyle after all, if only in trade for socks. The idea was almost amusing. What was more precious to a man in war? Sex or socks?
Couldn't smoke now anyhow, he thought as they searched for a live man. My fingers wouldn't hold the cigarette.
The morning was cold and bracing, but Jimmy hummed a jaunty tune and gave up on getting his hair just right. Winter air always made it flat no matter how he combed it. On his way to breakfast, he said hello to Apollo and gave him a dish of milk in the kitchen. Twice the cat had shown up in the hall over meals and Mr. Carson had not been cheerful about it. But at least the fib about mice had worked out. Jimmy was meant to sharpen knives after he served the family that afternoon. Carson would doubtless inspect his work too. He seemed eagle-eyed lately. More so than usual. Jimmy didn't know what it meant, but he was on his guard. He made a note to himself to ask Mr. Barrow for advice on that count.
At breakfast he sat next to Anna and spotting Mr. Barrow across the table, he made a stuttering noise of dismay. Mr. Barrow looked awful; pale and not in the usual way he was pale. Dark circles framed his usually sharp blue eyes. He was slumped in his seat. But at least he was eating his breakfast.
"Something the matter, James?" Mr. Carson said.
"No, but..." Jimmy picked up his fork and said, "Mr. Barrow, are you alright?"
"He's had trouble sleeping," Anna said.
"I didn't say that, did I?" Mr. Barrow said.
"Didn't have to," Anna said under her breath. "Is it the cold? Perhaps you need another blanket."
"It does get right drafty in the attics," Alfred put in.
"I'll inspect my windows," Mr. Barrow said, shoving eggs around on his plate.
At the family's breakfast, Jimmy's mind was on the under butler. He didn't like the twinge he felt in his stomach at seeing Mr. Barrow so stood straight, staring at the walls of the breakfast room as the family murmured about Christmas plans and the subject of Matthew remained unspoken until Lord Grantham sighed and eyed his empty chair. Jimmy saw Branson smile sadly and Lady Edith looked up from her newspaper.
"Oh, papa..." Edith whispered.
Lord Grantham said, "I wonder if I might have Sybbie and George for the day... An afternoon with grandpapa might be nice.
"Of course," Mr. Branson said quickly. "Sybbie adores you."
"Mary and I are going to the Firstwhiles for luncheon," Lady Edith said. "So that would be fine, I'm sure."
Jimmy pretended to ignore their interaction but the expressions of concern Lady Edith shared with Mr. Branson only made him think of Mr. Barrow. But they had no chance to talk after leaving the family, and soon enough he was trapped in the silver room sharpening knives. After twenty minutes of the dull mindless work, he was joined by the man himself who quietly sat down next to him and took up a sharpening stone.
"Isn't this beneath you?" Jimmy said. He had been expecting Alfred.
"I traded. Alfred's gone to fetch some meat in the village." Mr. Barrow's voice was hoarse.
Jimmy saw him clench his left hand and shake it before he went to work on a steak knife. "Is it your hand then? Is that why you can't sleep?" Jimmy said.
Mr. Barrow said, "My hand?"
Jimmy swallowed and focused on his knife, watching the dulled edge scrape against the sharpening stone. He was careful not to run it too close to his skin. "Because your blighty hurts when it snows, you told me. Does it give you war dreams?"
Mr. Barrow's knife sounded a particularly shrill scrape and he stopped, staring at Jimmy. "Do you have war dreams?" He finally said.
"Sometimes," Jimmy said. "They're usually boring though, and not frightening. I'm always waiting for the quarter master. I was ASC."
"Oh."
Jimmy felt a little embarrassed. Moving supplies around on the ports was hardly as heroic as being a medic. "It was a bit hairy at the end but..." He didn't finish his sentence and regretted starting it. He didn't want to tell the story about getting the news of his father while taking horses to the front. No. He didn't want to ever tell that particular story. His mouth had run away from him. Instead he said: "What are yours like? The dreams, I mean."
Mr. Barrow's expression darkened and he said, "Nothing interesting. You finish here. I'll see you at dinner."
Jimmy opened his mouth to speak but Mr. Barrow was already leaving the room. At dinner his friend was equally as quiet, and Jimmy missed the dry wit that sometimes put certain noses out of joint. At the end of the work day, he was at least up for playing cards but the silence was thick between them. Apollo, at least, was in good spirits and because Carson wasn't around, they let him sit on the hall table.
"Are you excited for the Christmas ball?" Jimmy said abruptly.
"Oh. I suppose."
"Only Daisy says you dance like a dream," Jimmy said. "Her words."
"Ah." Mr. Barrow was blushing, Jimmy could've sworn to it. "I'm usually dancing with the Dowager or Her Ladyship. Not much opportunity for showboating."
They spoke about the best and worst dancers at Downton and then about Christmas and how quickly yet slowly the year had gone, until Jimmy felt tiredness creeping up behind his eyes. He knew it was late. But he also knew that Mr. Barrow wasn't sleeping. He'd had his own share of sleepless nights and could say from experience that to sit by yourself in a dark room with your own thoughts and no ability to quiet them was a sort of loneliness without equal. So he straightened up at the table and drank tea, resisting his own exhaustion.
Finally Mr. Barrow said, "The only reason you're still allowed to be down here is because Mr. Carson trusts me to roust people out. But you ought to turn in, it's nearly one o'clock."
"Oh, I'm alright," Jimmy said, with a wave of his hand. "Unless you're pulling rank."
Mr. Barrow rubbed his gloved hand over his face and said, "Ugh, we both ought to be in bed." He started and looked at Jimmy. After a pregnant pause, Jimmy burst into laughter. "God, you must be tired if you're laughin' at that."
"Your face!" Jimmy said, slapping the table. "It's not as if I didn't know what you meant."
"Glad you can joke about it," Mr. Barrow mumbled.
"Seems like a long time ago now," Jimmy said, shuffling and reshuffling his cards. The light was dim and yellow in the hall and it cast soft shadows on Mr. Barrow's face. He seemed smaller with his jacket off, leaning over on his hand, a cigarette hanging precariously from between his lips. "You're not the same person."
"No?" Mr. Barrow said, raising an eyebrow.
"No, well... I mean you aren't to me. I'm sure you are, that is," Jimmy rambled, not certain where his words were going. "Only I didn't know you at all and I wasn't payin' attention. And then after...that, I didn't want to pay attention. I kept expecting us to have it out, ya see. But then..."
"Then what?" Mr. Barrow sat in rapt attention, the lantern light making his eyes glitter.
"Then the fair," Jimmy said. "It uh... It took me by surprise because I didn't... understand what kind of man you are."
"And what sort of man do you think I am?" Mr. Barrow said, his eyes downcast.
"Decent," Jimmy said, with an accidental nod of his head. "Decent. Deep down. Very deep down. Far far down-"
'Yes, alright," Mr. Barrow said but Jimmy could see that he was smiling and they both laughed. "Look, I'm turning in myself so you might as well go in..."
"Oh," Jimmy said, and was relieved. He rose and stretched. But Mr. Barrow didn't look anymore likely to sleep than he had in the afternoon and he was massaging his left hand. "Has your hand been sore all day?" Mr. Barrow grimaced in response and Jimmy said, "Maybe camphor would help."
"I'll try that," Mr. Barrow said, and they trudged upstairs. Jimmy wished he had some reassurance that Mr. Barrow would sleep untroubled and he had it in his mind to stay up a piece and check for a light beneath the under butler's door. But once he was ready for bed, his body fought him and he sank down into his cot, drifting into a dreamless slumber.
France, 1915
"What a clean wound you have, Pritchett," Thomas said, glaring as he bandaged the young soldier's injured foot. "It's almost as if it had been done on purpose."
Pritchett's head jerked and he gripped his knees, a forgotten cigarette growing a head of ash as he held it between his trembling fingers. "My gun went off," he said flatly.
"Of course it did."
"Barrow, please-"
"None of my business is it?" Thomas muttered, pulling the bandage tight. "You'll never walk right again."
"But I'll be out of it, won't I?"
"Long as no one else takes a closer look, yeah," Thomas said. "But if they do, you could be court-martialed. And that's the least of it."
"Yeah." Pritchett laughed. He sounded a bit mad. He had fine thin hair like a baby's and it hung over his eyes. "What else'll they court martial us for though, eh? The Christmas Truce? Or firing into thin air? You know I never aimed at anyone since I've got here? I couldn't bear to."
"Quiet!" Thomas glanced around. Blake and some new men were speaking in a huddle not far from the medical station. They were alone next to the stack of stretchers, in the triage area. But some things, Thomas thought, should never be spoke of aloud. Gun fire sounded above them and dirt and pebbles skittered down the side of the trench wall, falling over the brim of their helmets. Thomas muttered obscenities and rubbed his eyes.
"There's men put their hand up," Pritchett said quietly. "Get it shot on purpose. But I wanted to do it myself. Couldn't stand waiting for the bullet."
"Toldja to be quiet," Thomas said, and he clenched his hands for a moment. "Wouldn't catch me doin' that. I happen to like my hands." He finished dressing Pritchett's wound. "Go see Blake then. Guess you'll be home soon enough."
"Thanks, Barrow. I hope you get out of it too." Pritchett shook his hand and taking the crutch Thomas offered, he limped away.
"I hope you get shot for treason," Thomas said under his breath. But he didn't mean it. He only begrudged the man his going home. Now that he had a minute to himself, Thomas lit a smoke and crouched down next to the stretchers as dirt and detritus rained down on him. He was starving, though it was his own fault. He had traded half his Bully Beef and biscuit the night before for six cigarettes, and he hadn't eaten since. A week ago he might've begged something off Blake. But he had fallen out of favor with the Captain. Three days before he had been speaking his mind on the treatment of officers versus the treatment of enlisted men, and Blake had turned a corner of the trench, throwing him a meaningful glare.
So much for Blake then.
Thomas stuck the cigarette in his mouth and stared down at his hands. What if he were to do it? It would have to be the left one, of course. But who knew what sort of damage a bullet could do? Well, Thomas did. He'd seen enough of it already. He'd seen hand wounds too that were not purposeful; fingers blown off, bones shattered... Something exploded nearby and he twitched, clutching his hand as if it had already been shot. No, he could never. People could be shot for treason for such a thing. Or go to prison at least. Though prison would have to be a step up from the battlefield. The thought that he would ever go to prison for something other than loving men was so oddly funny that he laughed out loud.
I could go to prison for being with men or I could go to prison for getting out of being killed by men...
It wasn't just the thought of getting killed though. Death seemed almost a blessed relief compared to the dread of it or a worse alternative... He kicked at the stretchers. He was due to go out again that evening. The night before he had carried back a man who'd lost his mouth and chin. But he was still alive. Off the soldier had gone to an evacuation hospital. The lad would never speak again. He wouldn't ever kiss anyone and he would likely breathe through a tube for the rest of his life. Was that living?
Thomas touched his fingers to his lips, imagining them gone; blown away and replaced by a void. His stomach rumbled. At the far end of the trench, Blake and the other officers had gone. But Pritchett was there speaking in low tones to Wright who was weeping and leaning his head on Pritchett's shoulder. Pritchett put his arm around the younger man and held him close. Thomas didn't think either of them were his sort. But men tended to be more affectionate in the trenches, as a matter of survival. But Thomas had not allowed himself to get too close to anyone, not with live ammunition nearby. So he huddled alone by himself and thought of Downton. He hadn't appreciated it much before. Now all he wanted was its comforting routine and quiet halls; silly gossip about the family's drama, Patmore's wit, Daisy and William's insufferable innocence, Mrs. Hughes stern fairness, and everything in its place.
He closed his eyes and imagined putting his hand up above the trench, waiting for a bullet. The thought alone made his stomach twist. No, he could never. It wasn't as bad as all that. But that evening as he carried the stretcher with Wright, who hardly spoke anymore, he could think of nothing else.
Thomas had lied to Jimmy and didn't sleep at all. Instead he spent three hours intermittently reading and smoking at the window. It was a wretched stretch of emptiness until the sun rose again and he redressed for the day. But in the morning when he saw Jimmy, who was snippy to the others, yet smiled warmly at him when he sat down, he was overcome with gratitude. No, his love for Jimmy was not likely to fade anytime soon. Not while the man was as kind as he had been the night before.
"What's that smell?" Anna said, her mouth twisted up. "It's not bad, but it's strong."
"Camphor," Thomas said. "My hand was sore."
"Does it help?" Jimmy said.
"A bit," Thomas said, and sipped his tea. He had found camphor oil in the supply closet and massaged it into his palm. It had eased the ache of his bones. Yet the smell agitated the eyes and most of it he had washed off again before putting his glove on.
The family had guests that day and there was much running about with specially requested liquors and cigars. Thomas caught Jimmy leaning against the counter in the kitchen before luncheon, half asleep, until Mrs. Patmore shrieked in his ear.
And you ask me not to love you, Thomas thought. Impossible.
Yet that evening, Jimmy was even more determined to stay up as long as Thomas, and guzzled tea to stay awake.
"Right, cards then," Jimmy said, sitting up straight in the dark hall.
"You're mad," Thomas said.
"I know you didn't sleep," Jimmy said, sneering. "You've been less quiet today so you didn't have nightmares. But you still look drawn and quartered."
"I look a sight better than you I'd wager," Thomas said. Jimmy only shrugged and grunted in response.
So they played cards and spoke of the day and Thomas repeatedly caught Jimmy widening his eyes in a comic fashion, likely trying not to doze off. Thomas was massaging more camphor oil into his hand since there was no one around to mutter about the scent, when Jimmy suddenly got to his feet. It was only midnight and Thomas was let down. So much for a long night of talking.
But instead Jimmy said, "Let's go outside."
"Outside?' Thomas said. "It's freezing."
"Yeah, but it'll be...mysterious. And it'll wake me up a bit too."
"You don't have to stay up-"
"It's my good turn," Jimmy said, looking suddenly very serious. "I said I was goin' to do you one. Now let's go outside. Unless you think the snow will bother you."
"No," Thomas said, and stood. "I'll be fine."
"Good. Wait a minute..."
Jimmy left the hall and when he returned he had a nearly empty bottle of whiskey he'd nicked from the kitchen.
'It's not stolen," Jimmy insisted. "Not really. I served the bottle before. I just didn't throw this bit away. It won't be missed."
"You don't have to make excuses to me," Thomas muttered, as they made their way into the yards without coats. "I used to steal wine. A long time ago. Loads of it."
"Did you?" Jimmy said, and shivered in the crisp cold air, closing the door behind them. His eyebrows turned down when he said, "Were you throwing private parties then?"
"Nothing so interesting," Thomas said with a shrug. "I just drank it by myself."
"Well..." Jimmy held up the bottle. "Now you've got me, so I'm sorry but you'll have to share."
Thomas couldn't stop his heart leaping at that notion but he only took a seat on the least icy bit of the work table in the yard and Jimmy hopped up next to him. "You're right, it is mysterious," Thomas said.
Downton was strange in its silence. The snow and the darkness made everything less real. Thomas knew if he were alone in the yard at night, the emptiness would have been total. It would have been like that feeling in the trenches; people all around yet nowhere. But now Jimmy was sitting close beside him, a little wild eyed, and staring up at the black sky dotted with stars. So instead it felt for a minute as if they owned all of Yorkshire. Just for this time in the night it was theirs.
"What do you think you'd have done if you hadn't gone into service?" Jimmy said, after he had taken a sip of whiskey.
Thomas was about to say he might've made clocks like his father, just to have something to offer. But instead he said, "I think I'd run moonshine in America."
Jimmy burst out laughing and said, "I could see you doin' that! With your pinstripes and your flashy hats."
"And you'd have been a film star," Thomas said lightly.
"Ha," Jimmy said, nodding. "Too short."
"I've heard they're all short when you meet them," Thomas said. "Charlie Chaplin's a meter tall, you'd fit right in."
Jimmy punched him in the shoulder and said, "Bastard!" They drank up the whiskey and Jimmy said, "I could be living in Paris right now, you know."
"Yeah, I've always wondered about that," Thomas said. "Why didn't you go with Lady Anstruther? It's rough finding a new job."
Jimmy didn't answer and Thomas thought he had successfully killed the mood. But finally Jimmy sat forward, leaning on his knees and said, "When I came back, after my mother died, there wasn't anyone left. Anything really. With the war and all I felt like England was all the home I had, more than Anstruther's so... I couldn't bear to leave it. Seems silly now."
"I don't think so," Thomas said. "Although I didn't think you were so patriotic."
""I'm no. I just don't like French food." Jimmy grinned and played with the whiskey bottled, turning it over and under his wrists. "Do you think of Downton as your home?"
"It's the closest thing a man like me's ever likely to get," Thomas said. He might not have said such a thing if not for the liquor, which he now resented a little. When they were both shivering to the point of becoming ill, they went back inside and played chess. But by three o'clock in the morning, Jimmy had fallen asleep on the table, Apollo curled up behind his head.
"I shouldn't have let you stay up," Thomas muttered, and he poked Jimmy in the chest.
"Hmm," Jimmy said.
"Time for you to turn in," Thomas said.
"No, s'fine."
Thomas shook his arm, "Come on, you're daft. Get up and go to bed."
"Mmm not leavin' you again," Jimmy murmured, and it was a good job his eyes were closed so he couldn't see the look on Thomas's face. Thomas gave up for the moment and sat, regarding Jimmy; his hair tousled and his mouth slightly open as he slept, the cat purring next to him.
"It's alright that you don't love me back," he said quietly. "You're still the best thing that's ever happened to me."
France, 1915
"I'm not goin' out there, ya can't make me!" Thomas shouted. Rogers was close enough that his spittle landed on Thomas's lip. His face was red. But Thomas said, "Blake's dead. You're mad if you think he's not. You want to get his body, you go collect him yourself-"
"You'll go! You'll take Wright and a stretcher. You'll go right now, Corporal, or I'll throw you out of this trench and I won't let you back in it!"
The mortar fire over their heads was so loud that Thomas could scarcely make out the lieutenant's words, but he got the gist. Thomas was shaking. He couldn't control it and that angered him. But he threw Rogers off and because he had no choice, he grabbed the stretcher and his medical bag. He found Wright dressing wounds.
"Wright, come on," Thomas said. "We're goin' to find Blake."
"Now?" Wright said. "But the mortars-"
"Yes, now, come on."
Wright followed Thomas down the length of the trench. "You fought Rogers on it though, didn't you?"
"They aren't supposed to be sendin' us now," Thomas said. "Hope you've had a good life, Wright. It's probably over."
"We could go over his head," Wright said, and they stopped at the ladder. "It's not right. Blake wouldn't have done it."
"There's no one," Thomas muttered. "Come on."
The truth, though he hated to admit it, was that Thomas truly hoped Blake was alive, even if he wasn't keen on searching for him under fire. The fellow had soon got over Thomas's grumbling about officers. They had shared a laugh over some absconded tea not a week before. Though it had tasted of vegetables. Blake had shown Thomas pictures of his children and Thomas had managed to feign interest. Blake was a good man, and a thoughtful sort. He had a copy of The Odyssey squirreled away that he read in his free time and had offered to loan it to Thomas. He had even told Thomas to try for something more than service when the was was over.
"Things'll be different after the dust settles," Blake had said, "if you're interested in business or the like, a chap such as yourself."
Now Thomas and Wright crawled on the ground, along the rocky field. The sun was setting and the fences and barbed wire in the distance made inky black silhouettes on an amber horizon. Blake had taken twenty-four men in an attack to the rear of the German line. Twelve had returned, half of them wounded. They had claimed the others were likely dead. Thomas's heart pounded in his chest.
I should've put my hand up a long time ago, he thought. It had remained an obsession since Pritchett had told him about it. He dreamed of it often. He stared at his hand and tried to imagine how much it might hurt and whether prison might be better if it did come to that. But his mind resisted. No, never that. Soldier on. He would make it through.
It was spring in France and unseasonably warm. That was good in some ways, and in other ways wretched. There was no hiding from the gore any longer. Corpses didn't just freeze up easily. Now they decayed in the heat. Thomas and Wright passed a dozen bodies on their way to a stretch of fencing. He recognized some of them. Clarke lay dead in the dirt, his uniform darkened by blood. He had volunteered to search for walking wounded.
"Should've waited, bloody idiot," Thomas said, and he was sad for Clarke, who had possessed the dirtiest mind of anyone he'd ever met. Emma's mouth would be lonely, he thought.
Miss O'Brien had been writing him letters. They meant more than he liked to admit to himself. He wrote back in terrible detail and could never remember what he had written once he sent them off. But judging by her responses, it was upsetting. He didn't even mind hearing how easy things were at Downton. It was a pleasant distraction, even if it made him bitter.
"There he is!" Wright whispered, and pointed to Blake who lay half covered in dirt. He was clutching his jacket closed. He looked alive. "Sir!"
They scurried over and lay down the stretcher. "Captain Blake," Thomas said, feeling a wave of relief. "We've got you, sir. It's alright."
"Ah...Barrow..." Blake muttered. "I...the men..."
"A dozen returned, sir," Wright reported. "We'll look for the rest. But we've got to get you back first. Rogers sent us-"
"Damn foolish," Blake rasped.
Thomas reflexively went about his duties, readying the stretcher to carry Blake back. A mortar went over their heads, and he hunched over Blake, ducking down, Wright crouching beside them. Blake groaned.
"Bloody hell, that was close," Wright said.
"No...no, I'm done for..." Blake said.
"No, sir, you're alright," Thomas insisted. Blake had a head wound, at least that was all Thomas could see. But his uniform was bloody and he was still clutching his jacket tight over his stomach. "Sir..." Thomas felt a creeping sense of dread and exchanged a fearful look with Wright. "May I open your jacket, Captain?" Funny how his practiced footman's ways snuck in even on the battlefield.
"It's bad, Barrow," Blake said under his breath. But his shaking hands relaxed and Thomas opened his jacket. Blake's belly was ripped open. He had been holding his own entrails inside.
Thomas was nauseated. But he had said he would bring Captain Blake back and that was his job. There was nothing he could do with his paltry medical bag and bandages so he closed the jacket back over Blake's warm guts. "Oh."
Wright was gagging behind him. "He'll die-"
"Yes."
"We could get the chaplain-"
"Fuck the bloody chaplain," Thomas said. "We'll bring him back, that's all we can do."
"No," Blake whispered. "You'll...carrying me...the mortars... It's too much..."
"Rogers sent us," Wright insisted.
"No... I'm dying... Won't be long."
Thomas felt tears behind his eyes and he coughed. "Ah... W-what do we do then, sir?"
"Stay here..." Blake was speaking in gasps. "Won't be long..."
"Stay here?" Wright hissed, as mortars and gun fire fired around them.
Blake grabbed Thomas's hand and held it tight. "Please..."
Thomas crouched in the dirt and mud so that he was effectively lying down next to Blake and he said to Wright, "Go back."
"Wha-"
"Go back. Tell Rogers. I'll stay with him."
"Barrow-"
"Just go!"
"Right. Alright."
So Wright went away. And Thomas, to hide from the mortars, lay down next to Blake, clasping his hand.
"You're...a good man...Barrow," Blake said.
"Glad you think so, sir," Thomas said. "No one else does."
Blake chuckled weakly and groaned. "H-have a fag... Know you want to."
Thomas shared the cigarette with Blake who said between shaky drags, "Rogers...he knows what to do."
"Yes, sir."
"Uh..I wonder... Would you tell me. Where you come from? Downton, you said. Ah...tell me about it..." His eyes were half-shut.
"Oh, al-alright, sir-"
"Hold onto me, Barrow."
Thomas felt odd about it, and more than a little sickened, but he threw one arm over Blake and smoked with the other; an embrace for the dying. He could smell the inside of Blake's body, but his own stomach was empty and that helped. The mortar fire was just starting to lessen.
"W-well like I told you, I was a footman," Thomas said. "For the Earl of Grantham. It's an alright family, I s'pose. The land is pretty though. I hadn't thought about it before. But I miss it now, the land. There's a uh...rose garden. In spring you can smell it from the yard-"
"Yes..." Blake whispered. "I do...like roses..."
Thomas had a lump in his throat that he couldn't swallow and tears slid down his dirty cheeks. "Um...and well, I haven't got much use for most of em'. But Daisy's alright. And O'Brien... Got on her good side just to stay off her bad side, I guess." He sniffed and wiped his eyes. "But she's a friend. I miss whingin' in the yard with that witch, heh. And...uh...they always have me dance with the Dowager at the Christmas ball... Fuckin' hell, I even miss that old dog Carson. Sir...?"
But Blake was dead and Thomas couldn't stop himself bowing his head to sob into the man's uniform and it was rough and muddy on his skin. He took a minute and then he rose to scuttle back to the trenches for Wright. They would collect Blake's body later with the others when the mortars stopped. Staggering back, Thomas fell to this knees into a puddle of mud and dry heaved until he thought his lungs were fit to burst, and then he rose to his feet and dutifully marched on to the trench.
Jimmy woke up in his own bed. He had a dim memory of Mr. Barrow walking him back to his room.
"Damn," he muttered, and rolled out of bed. His muscles were sore, as if he'd been moving boulders around the day before. He had a desperate desire to go back to sleep but instead he splashed cold water on his face and went about getting ready for the day. When he opened his door he knocked right into Mr. Barrow in the hallway and blurted out: "Are you alright? Did you sleep at all?"
Thomas's mouth was a straight line and he shook his head. On their way downstairs Jimmy said, "You know, you can't sleep because you don't want to. Because you don't want war dreams probably."
"Are you an expert?"
"Don't need to be," Jimmy said. "It's common sense."
The day was a light one, and Jimmy thanked his lucky stars. Most of the family was out paying calls and there was only Branson and the children to see to. Jimmy was sent with Alfred to take down tapestries for cleaning in the parlor and the saloon. In the hall, over tea, he begged to go on a walk to the village, ostensibly to post a forgotten letter to a cousin, though there was no such letter. He said it in front of Mr. Barrow, hoping he would take the hint. Although if Mr. Barrow was as tired as he, he might not be up for it.
Jimmy impulsively made up his friend's mind for him and said, "Maybe Mr. Barrow would like to go?"
Mr. Barrow glanced up in surprise, his tea cup hovering near his mouth. "Go to the village?"
"You might want to buy your own camphor oil," Jimmy said. "For your hand? At the village shop."
"Oh, that's a good idea," Thomas muttered.
"I can spare you both, I suppose," Mr. Carson said. "Mr. Branson always seems a bit...edgy with too many people serving at dinner when he dines alone."
They changed into civilian clothes and soon enough they were off in coats and gloves, traipsing through the snow on their way to the village. Truly, it was an awful idea because Jimmy was wracked with exhaustion and Mr. Barrow didn't look any better. But he had been overwhelmed with concern for days now. It startled him and plagued his thoughts.
"What've I ever done to you?" Mr. Barrow said as they set off down the road.
"You didn't have to come," Jimmy said, and smiled.
"Nothing to do but inventories and I'll not let a free pass from Carson go to waste. Besides, the snow ought to do me good, even if my hand hurts."
"M-Mr. Barrow," Jimmy stuttered, and felt foolish. "Will you tell me about the war? I just mean... What was so bad that you still dream about it? If you don't mind my askin'..."
Mr. Barrow looked at him sharply and he lit a cigarette as he walked. "A lot of things," he said. "Nothin' I've talked about. Wouldn't know where to start, to be honest."
"Well...at the beginning, I suppose," Jimmy said. "Or...I-I don't know..." Jimmy ran a hand through his hair. He had not made a plan for this. He had only wanted to get Mr. Barrow out of the house for his own good, thinking an afternoon walk might be pleasant even in the cold.
Mr. Barrow smoked his whole cigarette before he spoke again in low tones. He told Jimmy about training to be a medic and about his first days on the front; Clarke's dirty stories, Wright's placating shyness, kind Captain Blake, and the antagonistic Lieutenant Rogers. He told Jimmy about the first time a man had died in his arms, and the first time he had seen a face blown off all frozen in the snow. Jimmy listened, his mouth hanging open, as Mr. Barrow jumped around in time. He spoke of Pritchett shooting his own foot and how he had obsessed about holding his lighter up for over a year before he had finally had the nerve to do it.
"And before that... See, one day Captain Blake took some men out to the German line..." Mr. Barrow's voice broke off.
'Yes?" Jimmy said softly.
"I lay next to him as he was dying," Mr. Barrow said, and looked away from Jimmy, stopping in the middle of the road. He was shivering. "His insides were outside of him. I could smell it. And the guns were going, the mortars and... It's funny, it was the first I'd touched anyone in a months, I think. I mean at all. The other fellows were always embracing, leaning on each other's shoulder. Only I didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea. Because...because I needed them. Men could turn on you so quickly. So I...it wouldn't have been for anything... anything like..."
"I understand," Jimmy said, and Mr. Barrow started walking again.
"Just companionship. Just...we were all so frightened is all. So I held this man as he was dying. It was the only time..." Mr. Barrow sniffed and shook his head. "And then there was Lieutenant Courtenay... He was blinded by the gas. I took care of him with Lady Sybil, ya see, but he killed himself. And then I came to Downton and it was all...different. But also completely the same. It was an odd feeling. So I just went back to things. The way I was used to them. What else was I supposed to do? After I put up my hand I thought that was the worst of it. But comin' back and it all bein' the same but not feeling the same... That was almost as hard."
Jimmy stopped and considered Mr. Barrow who was shuddering from the cold, massaging his hand, his eyes red. Off the road there was a stone chapel on the green where the tenants like to pray, though it was nothing so grand as St. Michael's in the village. Jimmy said, "Let's go inside for a minute."
"In there?" Mr. Barrow said. "What, why?"
Jimmy's heart hurt. He didn't want to think of why. He said, "Because you're cold and tired. We'll go in a minute and get warm. Come on, Mr. Barrow..." He held out his hand and waited, his breath puffing steam. Mr. Barrow gazed at him warily for a moment and then took Jimmy's hand in his.
The chapel was dimly lit by candles for praying and Jimmy saw a reflection of the pair of them in the thick dark glass of a round window as they made their way to a pew. They sat on the hard backed benches; the seats typically unforgiving. Jimmy wasn't one for church, but he had always imagined that uncomfortable pews made for parishioners that stayed awake. There wasn't much else to the simple chapel; just a cross and a cushioned bench for kneeling at the front. Jimmy had let go of Mr. Barrow's hand and now he stared down at his own palms. They sat close because it wasn't any warmer in the church than out of it really.
"I told you that things got hairy," Jimmy said suddenly, and his low voice echoed. "When I ran supplies..."
"Yeah," Mr. Barrow said, blinking at him.
Jimmy licked his lips. They were starting to chap. "Yes, well... I was good at getting things for people. On the supply line. I was at the ports in France. For a year and half and it wasn't bad at all. I never saw the front, I hardly knew what was going on. Officers asked me for things. Say, Jimmy, can you get me peaches next week. I'd suss it out for em'. Pure luck. I played cards with all the men on the docks and the distributors. I made trades. The officers'd slip me some money under the table and I'd have a fine time on a Sunday night. Then finally, this vising colonel came to clean up the supply line, he said. That was the end of that. He didn't like the cut of my jib, I suppose. He sent me to a base depot closer to the front where they ran horses to the trenches. That was a shock, I'll tell you. I had no idea. I can't believe I made it out a week, I hadn't a clue what I was doing, running horses and wagons down to the front and getting shot at half the time. Then...then I got the news my father'd died."
Mr. Barrow looked up at him in surprise and Jimmy cast him a faint smile as if to assure him not to feel too sorry. "No one close to me had ever died before. I'd never even thought about it. And that on top of seein' the war up close suddenly I...I had the letter from mother... Typical army. My father died not so far away from where I was stationed, but I heard about his death from my mother. I had just taken a pack of horses down from the depot. But I had to wait there. This was the Somme.. Uh... Bapaume to the north. I had never seen anything like it, all these shelled roads and buildings and between that and my father I... Well, I lost my head. Just for a minute. I thought the world was over somehow and I didn't want to live in it anymore. I climbed out of the trench and walked in front of the guns. The stupid thing of it is, we were winning. But just for that minute I... I did want to die. And I didn't see half what you saw but... And then I thought of my mum just then." Jimmy's heart twisted a little bit just thinking about that time and he sat straight in the pew, staring straight ahead. It was too hard to look at Mr. Barrow. "I thought of my mum who'd just lost my father. I told you, they really loved each other. And I couldn't do that to her. Have her lose her boy, so I ducked down. I was glad I did, that feeling went away but... She was the only reason just then. And...and then I went home and..." He chuckled a bitter laugh that sounded hollow against the stone walls of the chapel. "And she died of the flu anyway. And then I really felt I might as well have died because...what was it all worth? There didn't seem to be a reason for anything."
Jimmy had run out of words and he looked at Mr. Barrow who sat to his right who's eyes were bright blue from the crisp cold air; strange how someone who put on a pretense of cool disinterest so often could have such lively eyes. And Jimmy thought as he had before: He feels things so keenly. How hard that must be whether it's happiness or pain.
"It's worth somethin' to me," Mr. Barrow said. "I'm sorry she died. And your father. But I'm grateful if she's the reason you lived."
"Thank you," Jimmy said. Mr. Barrow chuckled and it turned into a crackling laugh. Jimmy gawked at him. "Are you laughing at me?"
Mr. Barrow said, "The way you said thank you just now..."
"Happy to amuse," Jimmy said and smirked to himself because it was good to see Mr. Barrow laughing.
"I'm so tired I can't think straight is all," Mr. Barrow said and sat back to rest his head against the pew. Jimmy rested his own head and the backs of his eyes ached from exhaustion. It was nice to have someone who was grateful just for your existence. Though Mr. Barrow certainly had no cause to love him- if that was the way things were going to be then Jimmy could hardly stop him. He could at least be a good friend, if nothing else. A very good friend. Mr. Barrow deserved that much, and Jimmy supposed he did too.
"You should tell Carson you've been ill," Jimmy said quietly. "So you can turn in early. When you can sleep, I mean. And we should get you some camphor in the village..." But Mr. Barrow had fallen asleep on Jimmy's shoulder. His face was softened and relaxed. He seemed contented. "Mr. Barrow," Jimmy whispered. "Thomas?"
They wouldn't be missed after all, Jimmy thought. Not for hours. And if so, they could make some excuse.
"Yes, it's alright," Jimmy said, and he lay his head against Thomas's. "Let's rest here a while."