Downton Abbey Script Book Season 1 (28 page)

WILLIAM (V.O.): Leave me alone, Mr Bates. I know you mean well, but let me be.

Is he crying? Bates closes the door gently.

THOMAS: What chance did he have? Up against a champion?

He is smirking by his door. Suddenly Bates seizes him by his waistcoat and bangs him hard against the wall, leaning in.

BATES: Now, listen, you filthy little rat. If you don't lay off, I'll punch your shining teeth through the back of your head!

But Thomas just grins into the face so close to his own.

THOMAS: Is this supposed to frighten me, Mr Bates? Because, if it is, it isn't working. I'm sorry, but it's just not working.

His smile is hard, and Bates is one step from murder.

Mrs Hughes is holding the scarecrow doll won for her at the fair by Joe Burns. She smiles at the memory.

Breakfast time. The place is a whirl of activity.

MRS PATMORE: Daisy! Chafing dishes! Now!

DAISY: They're right in front of you, Mrs Patmore.

MRS PATMORE: Are you trying to trick me?

But then she looks hard at the table. The dishes are there. Mrs Hughes has been watching all this.

MRS HUGHES: Anna's still not well enough. O'Brien, you'll have to dress the girls again, this morning.

O'Brien, laying Cora's breakfast tray, looks outraged. She whispers to Thomas.

O'BRIEN: When you think of what we know about Lady Mary, and here I am, waiting on her hand and foot.

THOMAS: Will we do anything with that?

O'BRIEN: Maybe, but not yet. I'm not sure we've got to the bottom of it, yet.

Thomas is distracted by William, who is about to go out with a serving dish.

THOMAS: What do you look like? Daisy, what do you think he looks like?

Daisy hesitates. This makes her uncomfortable.

THOMAS: A tramp. A vagrant. That's what. Do your buttons up.

For a moment, William doesn't move.

DAISY: Well, go on, then.

Silently, William puts down the dish, refastens his buttons, picks up his dish again and leaves. Daisy watches him uneasily. Then Thomas catches her eye and winks, as he goes out and she smiles. Gwen and Mrs Hughes have witnessed all this.

Sybil's hair is being arranged by O'Brien.

SYBIL: I'll have it down, today. With just a bow to hold it back.

O'BRIEN: Of course, m'lady, if you want to look like a milkmaid.

SYBIL: That's exactly what I want, thank you, O'Brien. How's Anna?

O'BRIEN: Gwen said she was a bit better.

SYBIL: Good. Ouch.

She has been punished. There is a knock and Gwen comes in.

O'BRIEN: What do you want?

GWEN: I've got a message for Lady Sybil. From her ladyship.

SYBIL: Thank you, O'Brien. I'll manage now.

Without a word, O'Brien puts down the brush and leaves.

SYBIL: Odious woman. What does Mama want?

GWEN: I just said that to get rid of her. This came today.

She brings a letter from her pocket and hands it over.

SYBIL: I
knew
they'd want to see you.

GWEN: S'your reference wot's done it.

SYBIL: ‘That's' done it.

They look at each other, brimming with excitement. Then …

GWEN: How'm I going to get there? They won't let me take a day off.

SYBIL: You're going to be ill. They can't stop you being ill.

GWEN: What?

SYBIL: No one has seen Anna for a whole day. They won't notice if you vanish for a couple of hours.

GWEN: I s'pose.

SYBIL: I'll get Lynch to hitch up the governess cart and drive you in. It'll work. I promise.

Robert is walking with Mary.

MARY: The only one who never sticks up for me in all this is you. Why is that?

ROBERT: You are my darling daughter and I love you, hard as it is for an Englishman to say the words.

MARY: Well, then …

ROBERT: If I had made my own fortune and bought Downton for myself, it should be yours without question, but I did not. My fortune is the work of others, who laboured to build a great dynasty. Do I have the right to destroy their work? Or impoverish that dynasty? I am a custodian, my dear, not an owner. I must strive to be worthy of the task I have been set. If I could take Mama's money out of the estate, Downton would have to be sold to pay for it. Is that what you want? To see Matthew a landless peer with a title, but no means to pay for it?

MARY: So I'm just to find a husband and get out of the way?

ROBERT: You could stay here if you married Matthew.

MARY: You know my character, Father. I'd never marry any man that I was told to. I'm stubborn. I wish I wasn't, but I am.

Isobel is pruning roses. Molesley arrives with a tea tray. His hands are still raw and it has spread up his arms.

ISOBEL: It's no better, is it?

MOLESLEY: Not really, ma'am, no.

ISOBEL: What about the solution I gave you?

MOLESLEY: Doesn't make any difference. If anything, it's worse.

ISOBEL: And you won't wear gloves?

MOLESLEY: Don't ask me to, ma'am. Please. I've been a footman, but I'm not a footman now.

ISOBEL: Are you busy at the moment?

MOLESLEY: I thought I'd walk up to give my father a hand, ma'am. And you did say it might take a week.

ISOBEL: Very well. But if it's no better by next Wednesday we'll ask the doctor. No point in keeping a dog and not letting it bark.

Cora is with Robert.

CORA: Are you doing anything?

ROBERT: Why?

CORA: I was taking Sybil to choose a new frock but I think I've caught Anna's cold.

ROBERT: I've arranged to show Matthew the cottages we're doing up. It is his idea, and he's getting away early on purpose. I'm no judge of hemlines, anyway.

CORA: I'd better cancel it.

ROBERT: Poor Sybil. Surely she can sort out her own frock at this stage. Branson can take her.

CORA: Hmm. She has such wild ideas.

ROBERT: Sounds intriguing.

CORA: Well, if you don't like what she chooses, don't blame me.

Bates, O'Brien, Thomas, William and Daisy are in there, when Mrs Hughes appears with Anna. Bates jumps up.

BATES: Does this mean you're better?

O'BRIEN: Don't tell me. Let me guess. She doesn't feel up to starting work.

ANNA: I do. I want to.

MRS HUGHES: Not yet. Try a little mending. But that's enough for now.

She puts the sewing basket down on the table and goes.

ANNA: I wish she'd let me do more.

O'BRIEN: Of course you do.

ANNA: I hate being ill. My mother used to look down on ill people. She used to say ‘Oh, they're
always
ill,' as if it were their fault.
*

THOMAS:
My
mother worshipped disease. If we ever wanted to get anything out of her, we had to start by pretending to be ill.

Daisy peals with laughter, infuriating William.

WILLIAM: You talk such rubbish.

DAISY: Don't say that. Tell us more.

Mrs Patmore has appeared, spoon in hand.

MRS PATMORE: Daisy, perhaps you can delay hearing Thomas's life story, and come and help with the dinner.

DAISY: Yes, Mrs Patmore.

She stands and goes, with a smile for Thomas.

BATES: Welcome back. It wasn't the same, without you.

He talks softly to Anna, but Thomas and O'Brien have heard.

O'BRIEN: Some people are easily pleased.

Branson is driving Lady Sybil.

SYBIL: Madame Swann's is just off the market place.

BRANSON: Will you have your own way, do you think? With the frock?

Despite Sybil's liberalism, she is rather taken aback.

BRANSON (CONT'D): Only I couldn't help overhearing yesterday and from what her ladyship said, it sounded as if you support women's rights.

SYBIL: I suppose I do.

BRANSON: Because I'm quite political.

SYBIL: Are you? I suppose you support an independent Ireland?

BRANSON: Certainly, I do … As a matter of fact I've brought a few pamphlets I thought might interest you, about the vote.

He has the pamphlets on the seat by him and now he holds them back with one hand, for Sybil to take. Which she does.

SYBIL: Thank you … But please don't mention it to my father. Or my grandmother. One whiff of reform, and she hears the rattle of the guillotine.

He laughs. She's less nervous now, if still surprised.

SYBIL (CONT'D): It seems rather unlikely. A revolutionary chauffeur.

BRANSON: Maybe. But I'm a Socialist, not a revolutionary. And I won't always be a chauffeur.

A few days later, Isobel and a wretched Molesley walk past the quiet, morning fair, on their way to the hospital.

Isobel walks into Doctor Clarkson's office, to find Violet is sitting there. Clarkson looks nervous as he stands.

CLARKSON: Mrs Crawley, how nice.

Isobel and Violet nod coolly at each other.

ISOBEL: You're busy. We can come back.

But by now, Violet has spotted the hovering Molesley.

VIOLET: Molesley? What are you doing here? Are you ill?

CLARKSON: Poor Mr Molesley. How's it going?

ISOBEL: The solution doesn't seem to make it any better.

VIOLET: My imagination is running riot.

She clearly has no intention of going.

MOLESLEY: I've got Erysipelas, m'lady.

VIOLET: Oh, I am sorry.

CLARKSON: Mrs Crawley tells me she's recommended Nitrate of Silver and Tincture of Steel.

VIOLET: Is she making a suit of armour?

CLARKSON: It is the treatment I would have recommended myself. But I take it there's no improvement?

MOLESLEY: Not really.

So saying, he unconsciously turns his hand back and forth as he looks at it. Violet glances down. Then looks again.

VIOLET: And you're sure it's Erysipelas?

CLARKSON: That is Mrs Crawley's diagnosis.

VIOLET: What it is to have medical knowledge.

ISOBEL: It has its uses.

Violet now turns to Molesley.

VIOLET: Mmm. I see your father has been making changes at home.

MOLESLEY: He has. He's got no use for the herb garden now me mother's gone, so he's putting it to grass.

VIOLET: And you have been helping him?

MOLESLEY: I have.

VIOLET: Grubbing out the old Rue hedge?

MOLESLEY: How did you know that?

VIOLET: Because this is not Erysipelas. This is a Rue allergy. If Molesley wears gardening gloves, it'll be gone in a week. You weren't to blame. I know you are
unfamiliar
with the country and its ways.