Chapter Text
May 1924.
Thomas was dreaming. His body was heavy, as if weighted, but the air was light with an unmistakable combination of cologne, smoke and youth. It evoked a visceral warmth in Thomas’ core, a warmth pricked with longing. The heady combination only ever meant one thing, or rather, one person. Yes, Thomas mused in the fog, I am dreaming. Let me stay in this dream.
But then the warmth deep in his body gave way to pain. Horrible, searing, unrelenting pain. It seeped through him like a slow, foul oncoming tide, omnipresent and all-powerful, destroying everything in it’s path. Pain when he breathed, pain when he didn’t breathe, pain in his bones, in his lungs, in his back, behind his eyes, in his fingers and toes, everywhere. But through it, the beautifully alluring scent reached out with fragrant, musky tendrils, offering him the promise of bliss. Maybe I’m dying, he thought with detachment. Maybe heaven smells like him.
Softly a voice drifted in, muted and indiscernible as if heard under water. Was it his voice? Was he calling his name? Thomas tried to move, but his leaden, mutinous body wouldn’t obey. His eyelids wouldn’t open. His voice had left him. He couldn’t tell where his limbs were, except for his right hand, which now felt strangely painless and warm.
~
“I’m afraid it’s septicemia,” Dr. Clarkson sat forward, leaning his elbows on the desk and regarding the two women before him. “Blood poisoning. From the infection in the gluteus muscle caused by the injections of non-sterile saline. I had hoped the incision and drainage I’d performed yesterday would have been enough, but frequently these infections are quite difficult to treat.”
“Is there anything to be done, Doctor?” Mrs. Hughes asked.
“Once again I’ve performed an incision and drainage, under anesthesia with ether, of course. I have evacuated the wound as much as I can, but it was quite extensive, more so than yesterday. And now, the infection has seeded the blood stream. I’m afraid he is much more gravely ill now than he was when Miss Baxter first brought him here.”
“God in heaven,” Miss Baxter breathed quietly. “I knew I should have made him talk to me sooner.”
“Now, don’t go blaming yourself, Miss Baxter.” Mrs. Hughes gently admonished the worried woman next to her. “Let’s not forget that when Mr. Barrow finally asked for help, you gave it. You’ve been a good friend to him.”
“There is one additional treatment that may be of benefit.” Dr. Clarkson offered. “We might improve Mr. Barrow’s chances if we irrigate the wound several times a day.“
“Irrigate?” Mrs. Hughes asked.
“Rinse the wound with copious amounts of clean water. We first used this technique during the war. It seemed to help by removing…” seeing their expressions he paused, then continued on in less detail. “It washes out the area, which helps the viable tissue to recover. But I’m afraid it’s very labor intensive, and Downton Hospital has suffered the same severe shortages in nurses and orderlies that have been plaguing hospitals all across England. Our nurses can manage once a day, but there is some evidence in the most recent medical literature that more frequent irrigations are associated with better outcomes. Does Mr. Barrow have any family that could come to assist in his care?”
“No.” Miss Baxter said definitively. “Not that would come, anyway. But I would help on my half-days, and any other time Her Ladyship could spare me.”
Dr. Clarkson’s brow furrowed. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be enough. The latest papers suggest that the irrigation really must be performed multiple times a day to be effective. In some extensive cases during the war, for high ranking officers usually, a nurse’s aide was charged with almost constant irrigation.”
Dr. Clarkson paused. “It’s a pity. Corporal Barrow served well as a medic. Now he needs one.” He looked appealingly at the ladies. “Are you sure there isn’t anyone? A family member? A friend?”
Miss Baxter and Mrs. Hughes looked at each other, their faces mirroring each others’ thoughts. Miss Baxter raised her eyebrows questioningly at Mrs. Hughes, who nodded in agreement. Then she turned back to Dr. Clarkson.
“There may be one.”
~
Jimmy stepped out of the third class train car onto the platform at Downton station and looked around. It seemed no different than when he’d left, except that spring was in full flower. He looked down at the telegram in his hand and reread the message, unnecessarily. He’d read it so many times since it’s receipt the day before that he had it memorized.
BARROW GRAVELY ILL. STOP. DOWNTON VILLAGE HOSPITAL. STOP. IF ABLE COME AT ONCE. STOP.
Quickly glancing around again, Jimmy saw no familiar faces. He turned, picked up his small bag and started walking toward the hospital.