The Chronicles of Downton Abbey: A New Era (5 page)

Mrs Hughes
The world does not
turn on the style of a dinner.

Carson
My world does.

Carson is ruffled when things veer off course, whether it’s maids in the dining room, the thought of an absence of footmen for a Society wedding or the chauffeur sleeping above stairs as the husband of the Earl’s youngest daughter. While he may bear some of life’s harsher challenges with cool composure and British reserve – including war, death and leaving Downton Abbey – the sight of an inexperienced footman trying to serve the Dowager Countess potatoes sends him into a tailspin.

Carson needs more footmen, but they are ‘thinner on the ground than before the war’, as O’Brien reminds him, and their role is an exacting one, which means suitable candidates are not easily found. The usual channels – an agency in London, an advertisement in
The Times
, the ‘underground network’ (through which he could ask butlers in other households if they knew of anyone suitable) – fail to yield any results in 1920. When O’Brien suggests her nephew, Alfred Nugent, he is not averse to the idea, but he is taken off-guard when O’Brien fixes it so that Lady Grantham sanctions the appointment behind his back. Carson could not find the Countess at fault – he may concede that as an American she may not realise that this is the wrong way to go about things, but he knows that O’Brien has deliberately foxed him.

A butler expected to have absolute control in his domain, which included the hiring and firing of the male servants (Mrs Hughes was in charge of the female servants), and he would inform the mistress of the house of his decisions. (Of course, neither have much say over the other upper servants: the valet, lady’s maid and cook.) Patricia, Viscountess Hambleden, explained how the butler at Wilton House during her youth would manage things: ‘If he felt somebody was really unsatisfactory, he would come and say, “I’m afraid George is no good. I think you’d better get rid of him,” and he would then find somebody else.’

Mrs Hughes gave up the idea of marriage and a family for her career as Downton’s housekeeper. We don’t know why, but we can suppose she planned a life for herself more compelling than that of her predecessors, working as tenant farmers. She certainly doesn’t seem to have thrown in her lot with the Suffragettes: we never see her cornering Sybil for a discussion, let alone being sympathetic to any housemaid who expresses a desire to leave service.

This does not mean she was without ambition: a career in service was something to be proud of; the job was steady, she had respect from her colleagues and she could look forward to a reasonably comfortable retirement provided by the Downton Abbey estate, if she served the family for many years. She even has enough money and interest to spend on her look. For the third series the costume department have given her a dress that is ‘slightly more fashionable. The necklines are just a bit lower, and the hemlines higher,’ says McCall. It’s not what you’d call racy, but nor is it completely dowdy.

There was just one thing that could undermine a housekeeper’s carefully laid plans and that would be if she were to fall ill. Quite apart from the worry of being sick, if she were unable to work her accommodation would come under question. There would be no house of her own, and for the likes of Mrs Hughes at least, no apparent family ready to take her in. At that time there was only very limited state provision – it could not hope to keep anyone comfortable for long.

While Mrs Hughes has no enemies below stairs, she doesn’t have any close friends either. ‘There is a touch of Calvinist certainty about her,’ says Phyllis Logan, the actress portraying the housekeeper. ‘She has to maintain a certain stance with her girls. She doesn’t want them to see her as lax, or a soft touch.’ In times of personal trouble, there are few to whom Mrs Hughes can turn. As housekeeper, it wasn’t done to confide in any of the junior servants. Carson is her professional peer, but as a male colleague there is a line between them that cannot be crossed. In the end, despite their tussles in the past, whether over the kitchen store cupboard keys or the cost of groceries, Mrs Hughes turns to Mrs Patmore. They have worked in the same household for several years and they know each other well. Professionally, they occupy separate domains, so they can keep their distance when they need to, but right now Mrs Hughes needs a sympathetic ear. It’s just a pity that the brusque Mrs Patmore might not have the kind of bedside manner one would hope for at a time like this.

In many ways, Carson and Mrs Hughes are the mirror image of Lord and Lady Grantham. The Earl may be the master of the estate but it is Carson who is master of the house. The Countess may oversee the social life of the family and invite guests, but it is Mrs Hughes who ensures that visitors enjoy a comfortable and impressive stay. But however much Carson and Mrs Hughes respect the Granthams and enjoy their own superior positions, and however much the Granthams are grateful to their butler and housekeeper for doing their jobs well, neither party crosses the line and encourages any intimate familiarity.

Mrs Hughes
As you know, I don’t
worship them all like you do –

Carson
Well, I wouldn’t put it like –

It is a strange life for the likes of Carson and Mrs Hughes, sitting between the family and the servants and never completely belonging to either group. It’s easy to understand why the two of them seek refuge in each other, even in their own rather stilted fashion. But although they are relatively close (are there not shades of
The Remains of the Day
in their relationship, now and then?), they do find fault with one another. Mrs Hughes thinks Carson snobbish in his attitudes at times, while Carson thinks Mrs Hughes is unreasonably impatient with the family, asking them to do things that are not in their gift. To make his point, he could recommend to her a popular film that came out just the year before, in 1919.
Male and Female
(based on J. M. Barrie’s 1902 play
The Admirable Crichton
) features a Lord Loam and his family and staff, shipwrecked on a desert island. The butler, Crichton, is the most practical and adaptable member of the group – Carson would have enjoyed that – and becomes its leader. Lady Mary, Lord Loam’s daughter, falls in love with him. (Carson would have felt a bit unsure at this point. Mrs Hughes would raise an eyebrow.) They are about to get married when a passing boat spots them, and they are all rescued. The wedding is called off as they revert to their accustomed places in the social hierarchy on their return to civilisation. And Carson would consider that a very happy ending indeed.

Despite his avuncular position below stairs, Carson can be unmerciful when it comes to human fallibilities, unless the person concerned is either an aristocrat who plays by the rules or a professionally brilliant servant, in which case he forgives them everything. ‘He’s not a tartar,’ says Carter of Carson. ‘But getting things right is important to him. People must be good at their jobs.’ He knows, for example, that Thomas stole wine from the stores and is an arrogant, sly character, but because he cannot find anyone who can be as good a valet as he can (in Bates’s absence), he encourages Lord Grantham to take him on. Although Carson initially took against Bates on the grounds that his limp and walking stick would mean he couldn’t do his job properly, now that he has worked with him, and knows better, the fact that the valet is locked up in prison for murder is not enough for Carson to waver even a smidgen in his protection of him.

Carson
I am not dressing a chauffeur.

Mrs Hughes
He is not a chauffeur now.
Anyway, you don’t have to dress him.
Just see he’s got everything he needs.

Carson
May I remind you, Mr
Barrow, that in this house Mr Bates is
a wronged man seeking justice. If you
have any problems with that definition,
I suggest you eat in the yard.

Carson’s seniority is reflected in the tasks that are entrusted to him – cleaning the fine pieces of silver, managing the cellar (choosing and ordering the wines and port, then deciding which would be served at each lunch and supper), and decanting and pouring the wine. Often, filming the role is as tedious as some of a butler’s working hours must have been. Carter explains: ‘For me, the upstairs work is harder, because I have less to do. I’m literally standing around for most of the day, before passing someone a dish or pouring out some wine. It is very tiring and the time drags. But it is also very much what it must have been like being a butler. Downstairs, he’s the centre of attention. He walks into a room and everyone jumps to attention. The days filming those scenes at Ealing fly by!’

Over and above any duties, the butler felt a sense of responsibility for the running of the entire household. The work of the footmen had to be overseen, the needs of the family had to be ascertained and attended to, the family silver and her ladyship’s jewels had to be kept secure, locked in a safe in his pantry, and standards in general had to be maintained. This meant a butler was never off duty. The Duke of Richmond remembered the old butler at his seat, Goodwood: ‘I said to him once, “I’m worried about you. I want to see how far you walk.” So I got one of those pedometers and put it in his pocket, and found he’d walked 19½ miles in one day, all over the house.’

Striking the right balance between authority over the servants and enforcing a dictatorship, which would only encourage rebellion, was a challenge for a butler, although it is one which Carson has managed. In other houses the battle lines were more starkly drawn. One footman remembered the lengths to which he went to subvert the authority of his butler, Mr Petit: ‘He was a cunning bugger; his office was near the front door and, knowing we could hear him as he came from there to the pantry, he’d sometimes take his boots off and walk in his stockinged feet expecting, even I think hoping, to find that we were up to no good. I was able to sort him out for a time. There was a loose tile under the rug outside his room; I ran a wire there and connected it up to a bell in the pantry so that when he left we were given a timely warning. I can still feel the pain on my backside when I recall the day he discovered it.’