1 - 20 of 25 Bookmarks
Navigation
List of Bookmarks
-
Tags
Summary
No more silver trays, not now, not here. It’s tin trays for him; scalpels and clamps and needles instead of shining silver cutlery, but he places each tool on the blood-spattered front as precisely as if it were dinner for a duke. A man should take pride in his work (Mr Carson always said).
-
Bookmark Tags:
Bookmark Notes:
***
Thomas heads for the door, almost running, as if he could run away from this.
Outside it’s even colder than before, and his fingers feel numb as he fumbles for a cigarette. He never should have pinned his hopes on getting that job as His Lordship’s valet, that’s what. He’d deserved it, though. Everyone knew it. Carson’d said so. Bloody Bates.
His breath comes out in sharp puffs; the smoke in hazier clouds. That Christmas, 1911 it had been, he and O’Neill had stood out in the kitchen yard smoking and stamping their feet, having a bit of a gossip. The kitchen door had been ajar, and the light had streamed out. Could hear them all – Mrs Patmore laughing her head off at something, and Gwen and William squabbling over the mistletoe. That rumble of Mr Carson’s, when you couldn’t quite hear what he was saying. You could smell the Christmas pudding, and somewhere in the house someone was playing carols on the piano. Lady Edith. It was always Lady Edith.
One of the soldiers inside is crying out in pain. Thomas’ hand steals into his pocket and pulls out the letter. Black ink, upright letters. Sickly light flickers out from the hospital, and he tears open the envelope. Doesn’t matter what it says. Downton’s not his home any more. He doesn’t care.
He reads it. More forgiving than he deserves (he doesn’t care). He reads the letter and his hands shake, and he remembers that last Christmas before he ruined it all.