The oldest, yet the latest thing (Part 3) II
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.
And that person is Alfred, who’s currently pacing the floor like a father-to-be nervously awaiting the delivery of his child. It’s quite astonishing, actually, how upset the good-natured footman is about Jimmy’s potentially facing the sack - and all of that despite the fact that all of Jimmy’s anger and impatience are usually directed at him.
And there’s something else that’s a bit odd about the scene Jimmy manages to catch a glimpse of in that split second before everyone’s eyes suddenly turn to him: Barrow looks as if he hasn’t got a single worry in the world, as though nothing were wrong at all. He isn’t fidgeting like Alfred, and he isn’t giggling nervously like Ivy and the maids in the corner. He looks surprisingly relaxed, calmly leaning against that door frame, blowing out long plumes of smoke, one hand hanging by his side, cigarette smouldering between his lean fingers. It’s a strange sight. As if he is completely untouched by all the commotion around him, his shoulders a line of relaxed certainty, his half-closed eyes two dark-lashed curves over the chiselled calm of his cheekbones.
But before Jimmy can even begin to wonder about that, he realises that all eyes are suddenly on him, everyone looking petrified, as if a film reel at the cinema had somehow got torn or stuck and had made every actor up on the silver screen freeze in place, right in the middle of their scene.
And again, it’s the burning intensity in Alfred’s eyes that surprises Jimmy.
“Well?” the tall footman asks, proving, with his question, that the hallboy-turned-informant hasn’t managed to catch the entire conversation between Carson and Jimmy.
“I …” Jimmy takes a deep, long breath. “I’m not sacked. I can stay on.”
The hall erupts in congratulatory cheers and applause at that. (It’s a far more positive reaction than Jimmy would have dared to hope for. Maybe his colleagues don’t really hate him, after all. Or maybe the fact that they see him as a widowed father now has made them rethink the way they feel about him.)
As his confused brain still tries to work out what is going on, they all start crowding around him, congratulating him and shaking both his hands with surprising enthusiasm. And Anna announces, “Your son should be so proud of you, Jimmy,” which causes him to flinch inwardly.
For a moment, he doesn’t know where to look, his ever-present fear that Eddie might, in fact, come to hate him in the not-too-distant future rearing its ugly head again. He considers a nasty retort because nastiness is what he usually resorts to whenever he feels defensive and insecure, but Anna, who has been working two jobs ever since the dreadful Miss O’Brien left, has already disappeared down the corridor again, making room for Ivy.
The kitchen maid appears in his line of sight and makes a point of looking deep into his eyes, rubbing his upper arm in what is probably supposed to convey how glad she is that he hasn’t been let go.
It’s funny how the same kitchen maid who, just a few hours ago, had only had eyes for Wright, the visiting valet, now seems to have forgotten about him, reverting back to her earlier obsession with Jimmy. Apparently, being a single father beats being six feet tall and doe-eyed by a mile. (Not that Jimmy is particularly happy with her rekindled interest in him.)
Alfred, for his part, doesn’t think twice and throws both his long arms around Jimmy, hugging him tightly to himself, a gesture that is made half awkward by their difference in height (or possibly by the fact that Jimmy is never entirely sure how the other footman can still stand him and why he is so patient and forgiving of all of Jimmy’s moods).
Once Alfred releases him, Jimmy gives a half startled, half choked laugh or gasp, still surprised by all that’s going on around him. He tries to catch sight of Barrow again and realises that the man is still standing there, calm and poised and beautiful like an illustration from The Tailor & Cutter, one side of his face cast in the shadow of the gloomy corridor, the sharp plane of his other cheek outlined by the light streaming in through the open door next to him. There’s … something in the way the underbutler holds his cigarette, Jimmy notices, something in that seemingly effortless half-turn of the man’s elegant wrist, that exudes confidence and control.
And it’s at that precise moment that it hits Jimmy: Barrow knew.
He’s known all along that Jimmy wouldn’t get sacked.
It was he, not Mrs Hughes, who talked Mr Carson out of it. It was he who hit the butler’s weak spot by appealing to his patriotism and sense of duty.
And there’s something else that’s astonishing about all of this: Barrow usually makes a point of never talking about the war.
It’s a silence that’s conspicuous - even for someone who is always fairly tight-lipped about his personal life. It’s a silence that’s there to rein in the demons that would undoubtedly resurface the moment one called them by their name. It’s only a coincidence, really, that Jimmy even knows about Barrow’s having served as a medic. He wouldn’t if it hadn’t been for Eddie’s illness and that telegram on that rainy day …
Because, like most men who have survived the war that only fools dare call ‘great’, Barrow never talks about his experiences in the trenches, never mentions the horrific slaughter at all. Not to capitalise on other people’s sympathy, not to persuade anyone that he is deserving of their respect, not even to score points with Carson or His Lordship. No, he doesn’t use it to his advantage in any way. He behaves as if it’s never happened, as if he has managed to banish it from his memory once and for all. (Which is almost certainly a lie, judging by the way his gloved hand shakes ever-so-slightly each time he’s got to lift a heavy tray. Jimmy usually notices it, of course. But Barrow would probably rather bite his own tongue off than admit it or use it as an excuse to avoid work. Even though he usually doesn’t hesitate to use every conceivable excuse to do so.) The man doesn’t even show that wound to anyone, hiding it under his glove and never so much as mentioning it in conversation.
Yes, that is the man who walked into Mr Carson’s office earlier today and persuaded the butler to keep Jimmy on. That is the man who convinced Carson by broaching a subject he usually tries to steer clear of because he loathes talking about it: the World War. A man who did what he hates most. Just to help Jimmy.
And apparently, Barrow got through to Carson by appealing to the one thing that Carson tries so desperately to hide underneath his grumpy, grouchy façade: his sense of guilt.
When they had all received their call-up papers, Carson had already been too old for conscription. A fact that had, much to the butler’s dismay, put him into the same group as the feeble-minded, cripples and womenfolk … and worse still: conscientious objectors.
Of course, Carson would never admit it, but that’s the reason why he gets so defensive and indignant the moment anyone so much as mentions the war, usually grunting something along the lines of, “Surely, it cannot have been that bad if Mr Barrow has made it out in one piece.”
Of course, it’s easier to just roundly (and harshly) dismiss other people’s heroism and courage as trivial if you can’t otherwise live with yourself. Of course, it’s easier to just grumble to yourself and trot off when you can’t face the guilt nor the cognitive dissonance of being a proud patriot who didn’t serve in uniform. When every passing mention of the war, even the most innocuous remark, feels like a slap in the face, a white feather handed to you by your own bad conscience.
Yes, in retrospect, it’s this incoherent grumbling that should have tipped Jimmy off a long time ago: Deep down, Mr Carson feels guilty. (It’s irrational, but he does.)
Guilty for not having been there. Guilty for not having served his country. And that’s the reason why Carson constantly feels the need to belittle Barrow and downplay the man’s sacrifice and everything he has gone through during the war.
Jimmy hadn’t realised it. Not until now. Barrow, with his keener sense for other people's weak spots, had known it all along, but had apparently chosen not to act on it, not to use this knowledge of Carson’s repressed feelings of guilt to his own advantage. (He had probably been reluctant to do so since that would have required him to bring up the war.)
But something’s changed. And that something is apparently important enough for Barrow to break his own rule. Barrow has finally gone for the butler’s Achilles’ heel; he has played this self-important blimp-of-a-man, using every trick in the book.
Obviously, it’s a huge, a colossal favour that Barrow has done Jimmy, and yet the man has been standing there the entire time as if nothing had happened, calm, relaxed and in control, patiently waiting for Carson’s door to open and reveal Jimmy, waiting for his plan to play out the way he has mapped it out in his mind, waiting for his turn to congratulate Jimmy on something that Jimmy hasn’t had any part in and that, in reality, has been all his (Barrow’s) work.
There’s a lump in Jimmy’s throat the size of his painfully throbbing heart, and while he’s still staring at the underbutler, trying to work up the courage to thank him for all that the man has done for him, something quite extraordinary happens:
They’re all still excitedly chattering away around him - Daisy is currently telling him how glad she is that he will be allowed to stay on, adding something that might or might not be her expressing her condolences (Jimmy isn’t really paying attention), but her round eyes seem very sincere and strangely knowing - when Barrow suddenly pushes himself away from the door frame he has been leaning against with one gentle roll of his shoulder blade.
For a second, the two of them are facing each other, Jimmy all tongue-tied, red-faced and jittery, and Barrow strangely calm, an unusually soft expression on his face and a warm, secretive glow touching just the corner of his silvery eyes, gleaming along with the cigarette in the man’s hand.
The loud voices around Jimmy are still all talking over one another, bombarding him with curious questions about his son and congratulating him on his success with Carson, but they have all faded into a faint, garbled background noise; Jimmy just doesn’t hear them anymore, doesn’t hear all the questions directed at him, doesn’t hear the laughter and the cheers, doesn’t hear Mrs Hughes’s motherly clucking, doesn’t hear Bates’s quiet muttering or Stark’s slurred gibbering, doesn’t hear the puzzled voice of the Dullops’ valet, who has just come down the stairs and is cautiously enquiring as to what is going. All that Jimmy does hear is the soft press of Barrow’s lips against the paper wrapping of his cigarette, followed by a long exhale. It’s as if his world were suddenly zooming in on the nearly black-and-white figure of the shirt-sleeved underbutler next to him.
Jimmy starts sweating under his stiff collar again, trying to come up with something to say, then decides to just shake Barrow’s hand as a way of saying thank you. He half extends his hand, then suddenly remembers that Barrow doesn’t like touching him and lets it fall awkwardly by his side again, quickly hiding it behind his back like a schoolboy caught with a crib up the sleeve of his Norfolk jacket. It makes him feel like an absolute idiot, seeing as how the whole charade has, of course, not gone unnoticed by Barrow, whose gaze manages to be as intense as a hawk’s even with his eyes half closed.
Jimmy clears his throat in embarrassment. Damn.
‘Oh, blast it all to hell! Just shake his hand already,’ he thinks. ‘Stop acting like such a pillock. First in Carson’s office and now again. Are you a child or an adult? Just thank him like a man - with a handshake and a silent nod - and be done with it. It’s not that difficult, for Heaven’s sake, he scolds himself.
But before Jimmy can extend his shaking hand again, the surprising thing happens.
They’re standing next to each other now, facing the same way, shoulder to shoulder in the narrow corridor, their elbows almost touching, only their faces turned towards each other. They’re standing so close that it’s not a particularly difficult thing to do, but it’s so unusual and just downright out of character for Barrow that it still shocks Jimmy into a near heart attack when the underbutler suddenly throws an arm around Jimmy’s shoulders.
It’s not a full-on embrace, more of a loose, one-armed side hug with a half pat, half squeeze to Jimmy’s shoulder - or rather to the taut cords of muscle connecting his shoulder to the side of his neck.
It’s a gesture that is supposed to convey affection and a sense of casual camaraderie, Jimmy realises, his heart rate all over the place. And yet when Barrow opens his mouth, what he says is, “Congratulations, James!”
It sounds wooden and stilted, almost rehearsed, and the smile that Jimmy spies on the man’s face seems forced. It’s only then that Jimmy realises that Barrow’s gesture isn’t for his (Jimmy’s) benefit.
It’s a calculated move, executed in a controlled setting in front of almost the entire downstairs staff.
Barrow is drawing lines in the sand, clearly demarcating borders for everyone to see, setting boundaries for their friendship in front of a dozen or so witnesses, thus reclaiming the power to define people’s perception of them. And all of that by means of a simple gesture that just screams, ‘See? Everything is all right between the two of us now. We have moved on … James has moved on since that unfortunate ‘incident’. And his son will be staying with me simply because I’m buying a house. I intend to rent out two rooms to James. That’s it. There is literally nothing interesting happening here. Nothing to gossip about. Now get back to work, all of you.’ Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy can see that the smile Barrow is giving the others looks like an animal baring its teeth in a snarl, an effect only heightened by the way the man sticks his cigarette between his teeth with a defiant sweep of the hand that isn’t currently clutching Jimmy’s shoulder.
It’s at this point that Jimmy realises it: Barrow is not lifting his self-imposed ban on touching Jimmy. This isn’t the beginning of a more relaxed relationship between the two of them. The man would have never done any of this if it hadn’t been for their audience. There is no closeness in this. No intimacy. Nothing will change in the way they interact once they’re on their own again. The ban is still very much in place.
Barrow’s awkward side hug is a gesture of distance, rather than affection, Jimmy realises, suddenly feeling further away from the other man than he has in weeks. This is less, so much less, than the intimate conversations they’ve been having lately in the servants’ hall. Less than the quiet, sincere words Barrow chose to admit to his loneliness and need of companionship.
Yes, as ironic as this is, it’s by putting an arm around Jimmy’s shoulder that Barrow is keeping him at arm’s length.
‘Say thank you,’ Jimmy remembers suddenly, the firm grip Barrow’s fingers have on the tendons of his neck and shoulder growing almost painful. He would have never thought the man’s slim white hands capable of exerting such force.
The cold smell of the downstairs corridor, this mixed scent of dust and humid air from the rain outside, renders Jimmy’s brain sluggish. ‘Be a man and thank him,’ he repeats to himself inwardly, straightening up where he is standing.
But what comes out of his mouth instead is an insecure question in a raspy voice, that is about an octave too low (even for him) and cracks on the last few words as he whispers, “So … what would you have told Carson if my child had been a girl, Mr Barrow?”
The other man just shrugs nonchalantly. “Oh, I’d have thought of something.”
And just like that, Jimmy knows that it’s true. Yes, yes, Barrow would have! He always does.
It’s as if suddenly nothing in the world could shake his faith in this extraordinary man. Yes, he would have thought of something.
“How is it that your schemes always work out?” Jimmy breathes with a half smile, voice even softer now to make sure the others won’t catch his words, inclining his face closer to Barrow, who’s still holding him with a steady arm around his shoulder.
It’s a look of disbelief and surprise that he sees flare up in Barrow’s eyes at that. Disbelief, surprise and something akin to an ironic smile. An if-only-you-knew of sorts. A fleeting shadow crossing the man’s forehead, a cloud hovering above a calm lake, the seconds hand softly touching the twelve on the clock face of irony, the finger of an imaginary magician going back and forth before Jimmy’s eyes like a metronome, befuddling him and making him question everything he has assumed about the other man. There’s just so much insecurity sparkling away in the dark below the surface of Barrow’s smile, far, far away in the depths of those sad eyes, that, all of a sudden, seem to reflect memories of times long gone by, of hidden secrets and lost battles, of lies told and mistakes made, and of momentous failure engraved upon the tomb of his heart.
It’s all there … or, at least, it could be, for all Jimmy knows. Because it’s at that moment that he realises how little he actually knows about Barrow. How wrong he could be on everything he thinks he knows about this man, whose past remains uncharted territory for Jimmy, covered and hidden like that hand that’s still holding the cigarette, this man who, until recently, has been nothing but a total stranger to him.
“Well, if that’s what you want to believe …” Barrow whispers back with a small smile, his right tightening even more around Jimmy’s shoulder for a moment.
But it doesn’t feel as uncomfortable anymore. Or maybe Jimmy’s just already too far gone at this point, too overwhelmed, too spellbound by the other man’s sudden closeness, by the faint scent of his cologne and the familiar smell of his hair, by the feel of warm breath touching his skin. By how close their faces suddenly are, everything coming into sharp focus and going blurry again in a matter of seconds, the darker specks in Barrow’s steel blue irises, the fine line between his straight brows (barely visible with his face so relaxed, yet undeniably there), the smooth line of his slightly aquiline nose, the faint freckles on top of his cheekbones, the way his raven hair is combed back at an angle that is just that tad too rakish to be considered common …
Through the fabric of his livery, Jimmy can feel Barrow’s arm on his back - warmer against his shoulder blade where the man’s bare forearm is resting - can feel the grasp of those long fingers around his shoulder and the way that thumb is pressed into the tendons of his nape, into the exact spot that could really use some loosening up, into the muscles that have been knotting up for what feels like weeks, years even … a lifetime …
Jimmy almost jumps at Mrs Patmore’s loud voice cutting through the low chatter around them.
“Oi! What is this? Stop cuddling the footmen, Mr Barrow!” the cook exclaims with a screeching laugh. “I need them to chop some ice for the oyster trays.”
And just like that, the underbutler releases his hold on Jimmy’s shoulder, stepping away.
It’s as if someone has suddenly changed the needle on a gramophone to turn up the volume in the downstairs corridor. Because, all of a sudden, Jimmy can hear it all again, loud and clear, the voices, the laughter, the excited chatter filling the air. It’s almost as if Barrow’s hand had muted all the sounds around them for as long as it had stayed firmly clasped around Jimmy’s shoulder, as if the strong press of the man’s finger pads into Jimmy’s muscles and bones had held down an invisible button, creating a sound-proof bubble around the two of them. It’s only now that Jimmy has been released from that odd half-awkward, half-affectionate side hug that he finds himself enveloped by the happy din of voices again and that reality unleashes a tidal wave of sound upon him.
As the crowd in front of them starts to disperse, with people returning to their respective tasks, Jimmy glances up at Barrow, expecting to detect a trace of annoyance on the other man’s face, of anger or maybe even embarrassment at Mrs Patmore’s blunt remark.
To Jimmy’s surprise, however, there’s just an amused glint in the underbutler’s eyes as he replies, “Jealous, Mrs Patmore?” in a teasing undertone.
The cook just lets out another raucous laugh, that echoes in the emptying hallway.
“Ha! You think I’d be interested in this scrawny lad?” (She actually gives Jimmy a little slap with her dirty tea towel for emphasis.) “Nah, you can keep this one all to yourself, Mr Barrow,” she says, scrunching up her round, reddened face as if she’s just smelled something rotten in the larder.
Jimmy whips his head around to look at Barrow again, fully expecting the other man to be irritated and embarrassed now.
But apparently, the dynamics between the cook and the underbutler are distinctly different from the difficult and tense relationship Jimmy has with the man. There’s something between the two older staff members that suggests a casual complicity, a silent understanding of sorts. At least, the woman’s apparently allowed to tease Barrow in ways that Jimmy would never dare try. There’s … something like a spark between them, and Jimmy instantly wishes he could share something so uncomplicated and comfortingly banal with Barrow.
“Much obliged, Mrs Patmore,” the underbutler murmurs with a cat-like grin and an over-the-top bow and scrape. “How shall I ever repay you? … Should I keep a look out for a suitable gentleman when I-”
“You can repay me by ordering your favourite footman to follow Alfred and get back to work already,” the cook cuts him off in that shrill voice of hers, her little eyes twinkling at both of them. “He’ll follow your orders, won’t he? Now that he’s all yours, I mean.”
Jimmy barely manages to keep his jaw from dropping. They’re poking fun at his expense! And over the past few minutes, Mrs Patmore has apparently somehow handed him over to Barrow like a toy or pet. He opens his mouth to protest. “But I-”
“James, go and help Alfred,” Barrow interrupts him. “Mrs Patmore and I have got some tea drinking to catch up on.”
When Jimmy turns the corner, he can make out Mrs Patmore’s heavily accented voice once again. “I really don’t know what Ivy sees in him,” she tut-tuts.
“Neither do I,” Barrow replies, his accent far closer to hers now than to his usually smoothed out and carefully controlled intonation. “He’s absolutely useless, isn’t he?”
Despite the jibe, Jimmy can hear the smile in the man’s voice, and when he glances over his shoulder one last time, there’s something gentle in Barrow’s eyes.
It’s a look that follows Jimmy like a grey bird silently flying out into the rain.
To be continued