Downton Abbey

by Julian Fellowes

  ROBERT: How sad. But how true… Come in and have some tea.

  * Robert has been tempted by this nice, pretty woman and she is tempted, too. I never thought she wanted to ensnare him. Jane is a perfectly nice character, but she’s lost her husband and she’s lonely, and Robert’s lonely because Cora’s busy elsewhere, and there you have it.

  We also see an expression of Robert’s thinking, which is interesting because it is typical of his kind. When Jane asks for help to get her son into Ripon Grammar, he does it. But he feels he has to say, ‘I hope it works. I don’t really see why it should, but you never know.’ Now, of course he is well aware that if he, the Earl of Grantham, writes to the head of the local grammar school and asks him to look out for a particular boy, then, unless he does it every week, and as long as he keeps his recommendations to a manageable level, the headmaster is very unlikely to ignore him, because the school may want some treat from the Downton estate, or they may need some money. Which is the key to the old system. It worked, as long as everyone trod gently. The moment they trod with heavy feet, it ceased to work.

  † I was very pleased we were able to keep this in. I had worried that it would be a casualty of the edit, but the truth is, an estate the size of Downton, because of the death rate of the war, would have lost quite a few, and the village would have suffered as well. We wanted to remind people that one of the curious things about the war was that, at the end of it, everyone knew an enormous number of people whose sons and husbands were dead. It was a phenomenon shared by all classes; nobody had been spared. And for a while the world was a haunted sepulchre, until a new generation came up, who’d only been in their teens at the end of the war. But for a few years it must have felt very, very strange.

  6 INT. SERVANTS’ HALL. DOWNTON. NIGHT.

  The servants are having their tea.

  ANNA: Will you miss the extra staff, Mrs Patmore?

  MRS PATMORE: Not really. When push comes to shove, I’d rather do it myself. Though God knows what I’m to feed them on. There’s nothing out there to be had. Oh well. The Lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.*

  DAISY: What about you, Thomas? How much longer will you stay?

  THOMAS: Well, now the last of the invalids have gone, I suppose I’m finished. I’ll report to Major Clarkson, but he won’t be taking anyone on.

  ANNA: I suppose the hospital will revert to the way it was, before the war.

  DAISY: Where will you go?

  THOMAS: What’s it to you?

  Daisy gives up on him, but O’Brien is curious.

  O’BRIEN: Where will you go?

  She looks at him. He winks. He lowers his voice. So does she.

  THOMAS: I’ll tell you where I’m going. Into business. It’s all set up.

  O’BRIEN: Do you mean black market business?

  THOMAS: Don’t look so surprised. I’ve found a dealer, and as soon as I make the payment I’ll have the supplies.

  O’BRIEN: Where will you keep them?

  THOMAS: I’ve got a shed in the village, and I’ll get a banger to deliver the stuff. I’ll be well fixed as soon as word gets out. You heard her. There are shortages all round.

  O’BRIEN: Isn’t it dangerous?

  THOMAS: I don’t think so. I don’t think the police are bothered about rationing, now the war’s over. It won’t last forever, but by the time it’s done I should have enough to go into business properly.*

  O’BRIEN: So that’s your future settled as a plutocrat. In the meantime, have you found somewhere to live?

  THOMAS: Not yet, but there’s no hurry. I’m sure they won’t object if I stop here for a week or two.

  O’BRIEN: I shouldn’t bet on it.

  The gong sounds and the ladies’ maids and Bates all stand.

  * Food shortages and rationing at the end of the First World War weren’t like rationing in the Second World War, which started pretty early on. In the 1940s, the Government knew there would be shortages and they prepared people for it and limited supplies. At the end of the First World War, when they started running out of everything, it was a surprise to most of the population. And actually, I didn’t even know there was rationing in the first war, so it was also a surprise to me.

  * What’s important about Thomas is that he represents those people who didn’t want to go back into service. He feels he’s too good for service, that there’s more in him than waiting at table, and I don’t disagree with him. I think he is a classic case of someone who, in the nineteenth century, probably would have gone through the whole thing without too much trouble, but now the door is open, he thinks there’s more to life than what he was doing before the war. We know his plan will be defeated, because nobody wants to lose him from the series, but nevertheless he stands for people who had a perfectly legitimate grievance and tried to change things. Naturally, we don’t approve of his chosen route out, the black market, but we do sympathise with his desire to escape.

  7 INT. ROBERT’S DRESSING ROOM. DOWNTON. NIGHT.

  Bates is helping Robert into white tie.

  BATES: I nearly put out the new dinner jacket, m’lord, but then Mr Carson said the Dowager was dining here.*

  ROBERT: Quite right. Mustn’t frighten the horses… By the way, her ladyship was asking if there was any more news about Mrs Bates.

  BATES: I don’t think so, m’lord. They’d like to know why she did it, but I don’t suppose we ever shall.

  ROBERT: You’d think she’d leave a note.

  BATES: Perhaps it was a spur-of-the-moment decision.

  ROBERT: But it can’t have been, can it? Wouldn’t she have to get hold of the stuff?

  Bates is increasingly uncomfortable, which Robert now sees.

  ROBERT (CONT’D): Please forgive me. I was thinking aloud. We’ll drop the subject.

  * As we saw in the previous episode, the dinner jacket was beginning to be worn for informal dinners, although on the whole they avoid wearing it when the Dowager’s coming, because she hates it, seeing in it a sign that everything is cracking up, which, of course, is a completely accurate observation. Eventually they become less careful, and by the fourth series they do sometimes wear it when Violet is there. She continues to make rather caustic remarks, however.

  The dinner jacket really started in America, as a sort of costume for all-men dinners and then completely informal dinners. They were called tuxedos, because they were invented by a man who lived in Tuxedo Park, a very swanky rich man’s village outside New York. The legend is that he had the tails cut off his coat, or perhaps he simply ordered a new jacket to be made without tails.

  The Prince of Wales saw an American friend wearing one, borrowed it and had his tailor copy it. He would wear it for informal nights, and later he would go out to nightclubs in a dinner jacket, which was considered very wild. But, with his launch, society started to take up this suspicious garment. Initially it was considered halfway between correct clothing and dining in a dressing gown, but it gained ground. It was certainly more comfortable, especially when the shirt eventually softened. That hasn’t happened yet, of course. They are still in stiff shirts here.

  8 INT. BEDROOM PASSAGES/CARLISLE’S ROOM. DOWNTON. NIGHT.

  Anna comes out of Mary’s bedroom, carrying some things.

  CARLISLE (V.O.): Anna. It is Anna, isn’t it?

  ANNA: Yes, sir.

  He is standing in an open doorway. She waits to hear.

  CARLISLE: I want to ask a favour of you.

  ANNA: Of me, Sir Richard?

  CARLISLE: You. I’ve been waiting for you. I wonder if you could step into my room for a moment?

  She does not want to, but she doesn’t see what she can do. Rather nervously, she walks inside and he closes the door.

  CARLISLE (CONT’D): You attend Lady Mary and her sisters, don’t you? In addition to your other duties?

  ANNA: I do, sir. Yes.

  CARLISLE: You must be kept very busy. I hope it’s worth your while.

  Naturally, she is silent at t
his impertinence.

  CARLISLE (CONT’D): Because I would be very willing to increase your stipend —

  ANNA: If this is about coming with Lady Mary when you marry, it’s very good of you, sir, but you see, my fiancé, Mr Bates, works here and I don’t think I —

  CARLISLE: No, it’s not that. Although it’s a pity. Lady Mary’s very fond of you.

  ANNA: That’s kind.

  They stand. She is puzzled. What else could it be?

  CARLISLE: You see, I’m anxious to make Lady Mary happy.

  ANNA: Of course you are, sir.

  CARLISLE: And to that end, I feel I need to know a great deal more about her than I do. Our customs are so strange in this country. A couple is hardly allowed a moment alone together before they walk down the aisle.

  ANNA: I’m not sure I understand, sir.

  CARLISLE: I’d like to know more about her interests: where she goes, whom she sees, what she says to them —

  ANNA: Excuse me, sir. Do you mean you want me to give you a report of Lady Mary’s actions?

  CARLISLE: It’ll be extra work, but I’m happy to pay.

  ANNA: I’m sure. But I’m afraid I wouldn’t have the time. Thank you, sir.

  CARLISLE: It’s your choice, of course.

  She takes this as a dismissal and goes to the door.

  CARLISLE (CONT’D): I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention this to Lady Mary. I wouldn’t want her to think I was checking up on her

  She leaves without another word.*

  * Carlisle entirely misjudges the relationship between a servant and their employers, but I’m not sure Anna’s loyalty was true in every case. One has to remember that, by the end of the Old World, and throughout the nineteenth century, one of the key positions for spies was to place them as personal servants. If they could get a spying lady’s maid into a politician’s house, or a spying valet, the thinking was that they would pick up an enormous amount of information, because their guard would be down when they were undressing. It was particularly the lady’s maid and the valet – even more than a butler – who were considered the best leaks.

  I’m not suggesting that Carlisle is breaking some fundamental tenet, but when the relationship between the servant and master worked, or, for that matter, works, there is a degree of trust that a professional servant would not wish to break. And here, Anna’s instinct instantly rebels against the notion that she is being offered money to spy. I felt Joanne Froggatt played this scene very well, because she managed somehow to make even his invitation to step into his bedroom feel tremendously uncomfortable and out of order. Which it would have been.

  END OF ACT ONE

  ACT TWO

  9 INT. DRAWING ROOM. DOWNTON. NIGHT.

  The family is there, having coffee after dinner.

  ROBERT: I nearly came down in a dinner jacket tonight.

  VIOLET: Really? Well, why not a dressing gown? Or better still, pyjamas?

  ROBERT: That’s why I didn’t.

  ISOBEL: I like the new fashions. Shorter skirts, looser cuts. The old clothes were all very well if one spent the day on a chaise longue, but if one wants to get anything done, the new clothes are much better.

  VIOLET: I’ll stick to the chaise longue.

  SYBIL: But Granny, you don’t really want things to go back to the way they were, surely?

  VIOLET: Of course I do, and as quickly as possible.

  SYBIL: What about you, Papa?

  ROBERT: Before the war, I believed my life had value. I suppose I should like to feel that again.

  There is a melancholy in this that makes them uncomfortable.

  MARY: Have you seen the boys’ haircuts the women are wearing in Paris?

  MATTHEW: I hope you won’t try that.

  Naturally, this sends a faint frisson through the company.

  MARY: I might.

  LAVINIA: I’m not sure how feminine it is.

  MARY: I’m not sure how feminine I am.

  CARLISLE: Very, I’m glad to say.*

  He’s fighting back. Cora decides to change the subject.

  CORA: Carson, I keep forgetting to tell Mrs Hughes we’ve had a letter from Major Bryant’s mother. She and her husband are in Yorkshire on Friday and she wants to pay us a visit.

  ROBERT: Why?

  CORA: The last time they saw him alive it was here. I can understand.

  CARSON: Will they be staying, m’lady?

  CORA: No, but we’ll give them luncheon. That way, they can talk about the Major with all of us who knew him.

  VIOLET: That let’s me out, thank heaven.

  * The whole business of dress and government is something that hasn’t really been explored and analysed much, but nevertheless it seems to me to be key. One of the basic facts about government in the old days was that people in power looked as if they were the right people to be in power. To this end, you had tremendous displays of splendour. Louis XIV of France, who’d emerged from a savage civil war, had such horrible memories of it that he was determined to strengthen the monarchy and never risk it again. One of his methods was to drive the Court around the country to show off these splendid, glorious people who ought to be in power.

  Women played a big part in the politics of display. Louis would pack them into open carriages and order them to dress in their best and display their jewels. You can imagine the roads, the mud and the dust of 1690s France, but he was completely without mercy. He would ride through the towns, followed by his diamond-studded Court, proclaiming through them that the reins of government were in the right hands. At Versailles, he would receive, standing at the top of the ambassadors’ staircase, with his glittering Court all around, wearing new clothes and new gems and under orders to shine.

  As late as the 1890s, when the Shah of Iran arrived in Great Britain, people like the Marchioness of Londonderry and the Duchess of Devonshire would be ordered to entertain him. In fact, the aristocracy became a shop window, a great exhibition, to show the splendour and the money and the style of these people. But when democracy came, one result would be that the new ruling class ceased to look like a ruling class. The trouble was that the old system meant dressing very uncomfortably in order to look superb, in corsets and uniforms and stiff collars and top hats, under the Indian sun as much as anywhere else. There’s a letter from Lady Curzon in Calcutta, saying that she can hardly do up the buttons of her evening frock because her fingers are so slippery with sweat, but she never thinks to abandon the formal costume and wear a cotton shift. Then it all changed. It is quite interesting, the moment when the upper classes – and it really came about in the Twenties – decided it wasn’t so important any more to look different from everyone else. This was a key moment in their loss of control.

  Here, Isobel is essentially democratic – not ludicrously so, but she believes in a more open and equal society, and she doesn’t agree with the system that keeps people like the Crawleys on top. They are discussing the shorter haircut and, of course, it was a tremendous step forward for women, who were going into the workplace in a serious way. If you have hair to your waist that takes an hour to put up, you are not a serious worker, but the new woman could just put a comb through her bob and get going. The modern world had begun.

  10 INT. GARAGE. STABLEYARD. DOWNTON. NIGHT.

  Branson is working when Sybil comes in.

  BRANSON: You look very fine.

  SYBIL: Everything I own is from my Season before the war. I’m trying to wear them out… Where have you been all day?

  BRANSON: Nowhere. I’ve just been busy.

  SYBIL: I envy you. I feel so flat after the rush and bustle of the last two years. They were sighing for the old days at dinner, but all I could do was think about how much more I want from life now than I did then.

  BRANSON: Does this mean that you’ve made up your mind, at last?

  SYBIL: Not quite, but almost.

  She reaches up and strokes his cheek.

  11 INT. CARSON’S PANTRY. DOWNTON. NIGHT.


  Carson is sitting with Mrs Hughes, drinking tea.

  CARSON: What do you mean, how did she say it? Mr and Mrs Bryant are coming for luncheon on Friday. That’s it.

  But the way Mrs Hughes nods means that isn’t quite it.

  MRS HUGHES: How are things over at Haxby?

  CARSON: Pretty good. Building materials are in short supply, but Sir Richard knows how to get around that.

  MRS HUGHES: I bet he does.

  CARSON: You should see some of the gadgets in the kitchens. And the bathrooms. Oh, goodness me. They’re like something out of a film with Theda Bara.

  MRS HUGHES: I’m surprised you know who Theda Bara is.

  CARSON: Oh, I get about, Mrs Hughes. I get about.

  She puts down her cup.

  MRS HUGHES: But will you be happy there? That’s what I want to be sure of.

  He looks at her and nods.

  CARSON: If you’re asking whether I’ll regret leaving Downton, I will regret it every minute of every day. I thought I would die here and haunt it ever after.

  MRS HUGHES: Well, then.

  CARSON: You see, I think I can help her. In those early years when it’s important to get it right. And if I can help her, then I must.

  MRS HUGHES: I wish I could understand. To me, Lady Mary is an uppity minx who’s the author of her own misfortunes.

  CARSON: You didn’t know her when she was a child, Mrs Hughes. She was a guinea a minute then. I remember once, she came in here, she can’t have been more than four or five years old. She said: ‘Mr Carson, I’ve decided to run away and I wonder if I might take some of the silver to sell.’

  He laughs at his own memory.

  CARSON (CONT’D): ‘Well,’ I said, ‘that could be awkward for his lordship. Suppose I give you sixpence to spend in the village instead?’ ‘Very well,’ says she, ‘but you must be sure to charge me interest.’

  MRS HUGHES: And did you?

  CARSON: She gave me a kiss in full payment.

  MRS HUGHES: Then she had the better bargain.

  CARSON: Oh, I wouldn’t say that.*

  There is a tentative knock. Anna is standing there.

  ANNA: There you are, Mrs Hughes. They said you were in here. Might I have a word?