The Kind Ghosts
(Downton loses a footman and gains a player piano. Title from the Wilfred Owen poem of the same name, though perhaps not true its message.)

Downton, 1942

The Crawleys are fortunate to have a cook who remembers the lean days of the first War, for now their kitchen is against stripped of both staff and supplies. Mrs. Mason, bless her, does a fine job scraping meals together from the ration books, with only the help of the poor scullery maid, Rose.

This morning, though, with a bleak telegram crumpled up in her pocket, Rose is far, far away from the kitchen.

"Look, dearie," Mrs. Mason finally says, "Sit down and have some tea. You're no use to me like this."

"It's not Harry," Rose sniffles, but gracelessly obliges, "Or it is, sorta. You're goin' to think I'm weak in the head, Mrs. Mason."

"Go on with it, girl!" Mrs. Mason exclaims, wooden spoon in hand.

"I came down to the kitchen last night, 'cause I didn't want to wake anyone with my cryin'. And I were sittin' at the table, and I heard the piano playin'! There weren't anyone but me in that dark hall, and the piano were playin' itself!"

Rose succumbs to another bout of sobs, weeping for her poor lost Harry, buried in the desert. She's afraid, so afraid – Mrs. Mason knows she is – that she's become unhinged. Rose has seen it happen – her friend Doris, who works on old Mrs. Drake's farm, going mad with grief, saying she saw Jacob in the corner of every field – and she doesn't want that. She doesn't want to have to leave.

A fond smile creeps across Mrs. Mason's face, and she reaches out for Rose's hands, shushing her with quiet "There, there"s and comforting "It'll be all right, dearie"s.

"Oh, Rose," she says, when her crying has subsided, "ye musn't mind that. It were only our old William. He were one of the footmen, 'fore the last war, and he's as good in death as in life. Just tryin' to cheer ye up, is all - He plays that piano, now and again, when he thinks our spirits need liftin' and comfortin'."

"Truly, Mrs. Mason?"

"Truly. Nothin' to fret about. Now finish yer tea, dearie, and help me finish this luncheon."

The scullery maid smiles wanly, and goes back to her potatoes. Mrs. Mason, too, smiles, and continues her bustling, but after luncheon is prepared, she'll go to sit by the piano.