An Opportunity

Spring 1915

Tom Branson sat in the servants' hall waiting to take the Dowager Countess back to her residence. He snapped his newspaper in annoyance. He had just read an article on the Australian contribution to the war effort that cited outdated history and was largely based on innuendo rather than fact. He could easily pull out three texts in his Lordship's library in less than five minutes to dispute the article and shove it down the author's throat. "Well why don't you, you big dolt?" He thought to himself, "You have no trouble running your mouth off and getting yourself in trouble for less."

"Mr. Branson?" the question came from Claire, one of the line up of housemaids that had come and gone since the start of the war. "It's such a nice evening, would you care to step outside with me?" The request was delivered with a chorus of giggles from another maid, Hazel, and Claire batting her big round eyes at him.

"Thank you, but no," Tom said as he lowered his newspaper. These two were the worst so far. He had taken to sitting as far to the opposite end of the table from them as he could after he had felt a hand sneaking into his lap during a staff meal shortly after their arrival. He had no interest in a girl who's greatest ambition in life was to have children, live two doors away from her Mam and Da and had not a thought in her head besides how she was to find a husband. He hadn't wanted that in Ireland and he certainly didn't want it now. The truth was there was only one girl that occupied his dreams these days and she was upstairs entertaining her grandmother in the drawing room.

"If you will excuse me, I must find Mrs. Hughes," Tom stood up, folded his paper under his arm and went off to see the housekeeper regarding her errand list for the following day. Since the war broke out fuel was getting harder to come by and his lordship's meetings were getting longer. Tom was now regularly tasked with doing the household errands while waiting for his lordship.

As Tom and Mrs. Hughes were going over her list, they heard the voices of Claire and Hazel as they past by.

"That Mr. Branson is a handsome one, but so peculiar always reading like that. I saw him polishing some brass the other day."

"I wouldn't mind helping him polish his brass."

"Oh Aye, I could polish his brass for him, alright."

As the chorus of giggles faded down the hall, Tom's face was crimson with embarrassment.

"Mrs. Hughes, I assure you I have done nothing…"

"I am well aware of the situation, Mr. Branson. I will have a word with them." She didn't tell Mr. Branson but she had had a full report from Mr. Lynch on the escapades of the two girls at the stables.

"Mrs. Hughes I was wondering if I might visit his lordship's library when I return from delivering the Dowager Countess, if it is no inconvenience."

"I have no objection, Mr. Branson, I will await your return before locking up."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes."

Later that evening once Tom had finished his duties for the day and collected the books he wanted, he sat down in his cottage and reviewed the article that had set his teeth on edge. It was a smaller paper, The Yorkshire Herald, not the bigger Tory papers his lordship favored. Even if they did publish his letter to the editor he doubted anyone from the estate would ever see it. He got out his pen and paper, cleared his mind and began to write. He could post it tomorrow while doing errands. No one at the estate would be the wiser.

A week later Mr. Carson handed Tom a letter in a legal size envelope. Tom's curiosity was peeked but he quickly put the letter into an inside pocket so he could open it in private.

"I hope you are not having any difficulties Mr. Branson," came the polite inquiry accompanied by a small frown of concern.

"Not that I am aware, Mr. Carson,"

"Very well then, carry on."

Tom made a hasty retreat to the garage, as he did not have any scheduled trips or errands for the estate this morning. He was surprised at the contents of the letter. The editor of the Yorkshire Herald advised him his letter would be published in the Wednesday edition. The letter went on to say they were impressed with his citations and clarity of thought. They would welcome any story ideas he had for consideration. The editor had included a copy of their submission guidelines and would be happy to hear from him in the near future.

He had ideas all right, he thought to himself. They flowed out of him like a river that had burst a dam although he feared most of his ideas would be too radical or controversial for a small English paper. His mind slid back to the conversation he had with Sybil the year before when driving her back from a rally in Ripon. "Ambition or Dream?" Were his ambitions dreams or was the letter in his hand the first step in achieving something beyond his lot in life? For now he had work to get to, so he would think about it later.

By evening Tom had come up with a solid idea for a story exploring the issues surrounding employers giving permission for young men in their employ to enlist. He knew the topic was hotly debated in the surrounding towns and by people from all walks of life. He would have no trouble finding people to talk to on both sides of the issue. He reread the submission guidelines and groaned at the statement that all stories must be submitted typewritten. One-step at a time my boy, as his mother used to say. The first was to get the editor, Mr. Wilson, to accept his idea for an article. He set about writing his letter, outlining the key points and the controversy surrounding the issue.

"Like it or hate it, its worth a shot," Tom mumbled to himself as he got ready for bed.

Mr. Wilson's reply came six days later. He liked the story idea and as long as Tom painted a complete picture of both sides of the argument he could see no reason not to publish. Tom's stomach twisted into a knot. He was excited at the opportunity, but at the same time apprehensive of the tasks involved, especially the typewritten part. Where on earth would he find a machine or even know how to use it? Writing for a paper, even a small one certainly wasn't something he wanted to share with the staff or really have anyone know about in his current position. He could imagine his Lordship's reaction, "A revolutionary chauffer, writing for a paper! How preposterous."

Tom decided to look in the second hand shops while he was waiting for his Lordship in York. There were three trips for meetings scheduled later this week and he knew at least one of them would entail hours of waiting. Maybe he could find something he could afford with his small pile of savings. At least his lordship allowed him free time while waiting, unlike many of the other drivers he knew who were chained to their motors rain or shine while their employers were occupied.

Tom managed to secure a full day off early in the week as he had worked through his last two half days and lost another two afternoons off the previous month. He had set off very early and managed to conduct the necessary interviews for his article. One in particular had made him shake his head. He had secured an interview with a local Alderwoman whom he recognized from Sybil's involvement in the suffragette movement. He had seen her many times when standing at the back of the crowd at a rally or following Sybil's canvasing group from a distance. No one paid any attention to the insignificant chauffer. The Alderwoman had been more than cooperative with her viewpoint but certainly hadn't recognized him. By the end of his day off, he had plenty of material for his article and had already completed the first draft.

Thursday morning he drove his Lordship into York for a meeting that would last all day. When Lord Grantham stepped out of the motor he turned to Branson and instructed him that he would not be needed to at least four p.m.

"Very good your lordship," Tom knew this meant be back by three but it gave him the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon to accomplish Mrs. Hughes' errands and do his own shopping. He could easily have the motor wiped down and be ready for the return trip later that day.

Tom had left his hat and gloves in the car. He didn't like wearing a hat very much even though it was the style. Maybe it was his rebellious nature or his desire for change but he liked the feeling of the wind blowing through his hair. As he walked he kept his eye out for the type of shop he was looking for. He knew he wouldn't find a shop that carried used merchandise in the high street. After about twenty minutes of window-shopping he spotted what he was looking for. In the window of small side street shop was a typewriter. It was definitely used with a few paint chips missing but if the price were right it would suit his purposes. When he spotted the price tag he let out a long sigh. Thirty pounds. That would take a huge amount out of his savings and at the rate the paper was paying he would have to write at least ten articles to make the money back. He had come this far, there was no turning back.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a middle aged man with the bonnet up on a lorry. The writing on the side of the box was the same as on the shop door. The man was muttering to himself and scratching his head.

Tom stepped over to him, "Are you having mechanical problems?" His couldn't help but smile as his naturally friendly personality broke through.

The older man up looked at him with a slight start, "Geor…". He paused with an odd expression, his face changed and he said in a heavy Yorkshire accent, "Aye, I can't seem to find what's wrong and with the army commandeering the only motor depot in town, I can't find a mechanic to fix it."

"I see. Is this your shop?" Tom inquired.

"Aye, it is."

"I could take a look at your lorry for you," Tom said. "You wouldn't have to pay me. I am interested in the typewriter in the window. Just discount whatever you think the job is worth if I can do the repairs for you."

"The older man looked at him with raised eyebrows. "What might your name be?"

"Tom Branson."

"Archie Merrifield, and I'll take that bargain. From that fancy jacket I assume you're a chauffer. This lorry is no use to me sitting here. It hasn't worked for the last week."

The two men shook hands and bent over the lorry to discuss the issues. After a few questions, Tom quickly discerned the pins for the steering had sheered off. It would not be a difficult repair for him with some simple replacement parts available from any machinery dealer. He gave Archie a list of parts to purchase, while Tom headed back to the Renault to retrieve his coveralls and tool kit he kept under the seat for any breakdowns. Two hours later Tom had replaced the pins and adjusted the clutch and hand brake.

"Well, you did a fine job," said Mr. Merrifield. "Now let's see about that machine."

"I don't have enough with me today, Mr. Merrifield. Perhaps I could come by the next time I will be in town with my employer and retrieve it?" Tom glanced at his pocket watch, "Right now I have to get back to my post." Tom had already rolled his sleeves down, put on his cuff links and was buttoning his jacket.

"Yes, Yes that's fine, Tom. By the way call me Archie," he looked at Tom straight in the eye. "Do you mind me asking what you want the typewriter for?"

"I'm a journalist or at least trying to be," said Tom with a laugh. "Now I must be off."

Archie Merrifield watched Tom as he strode off down the street. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his face and headed inside his shop. "The Mrs. won't believe it," he thought to himself.