Chapter Text
" I swear that the evidence that I shall give, shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God."
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August 1940- Finchley, England
Susan heard shouting coming from the boy's room across the hall. She let her head fall onto her desk until it stopped. Thank goodness Lucy was out with Mother for the afternoon. Susan didn't think the younger girl could take anymore of Peter and Edmund's arguments. The door to her and Lucy's room swung open with a creak. She looked up a red-faced Edmund marched into the room, slamming the door shut, and flopped face-first onto Susan's rickety bed.
"Do you ever knock, Edmund?" Susan asked sighing as she frowned at him.
He pushed himself upright before sitting cross-legged on her bed; as he answered, his voice irritated, "Peter's so—he just—sometimes I just want take a brick and—and—"
He trailed off as he looked down at his hands and Susan walked over to sit next to him. She squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. "Peter cares about you, and he just worries, that's all Ed."
"He's trying to take Dad's place," Edmund snapped. "He's not Dad!"
"He's not taking Dad's place," Susan protested. She pushed Edmund's dark hair out of his eyes, noting that he needed a haircut. "But, Dad's not going to be here for awhile," she began. She hesitated to say anything further. All the siblings except Lucy always had the doubt in their mind whether their father would make it back from the war alive. Susan shook the morbid thoughts from her head. "Peter's just coping in his own way. Honestly."
Edmund propped his chin on his hand and glared at the door as if this was all its fault. "Yeah, but I wish he wouldn't take it out on me."
Susan frowned. "You're not exactly innocent either, Edmund," she said quietly. "You don't have to fight him on everything."
Edmund shot off the bed as if he had just been electrocuted. "I knew you were on his side. All of you are on Peter's side —Mum and Lucy too! This is why it was better when Dad was here!"
Before Susan could argue, Edmund had already left. She let out a shaky breath and glanced at the picture of her father on the nightstand. "I wish you were here, Dad," she said under her breath. "You'd know how to handle him."
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire-October 1940
He huddles under Donk's writing desk in the library, covering his ears. He doesn't want anyone to see him, he knows he will be in trouble. But he is scared. Daddy and Uncle Tom and Donk are talking very loudly and something about 'bombs' 'dead' 'destroy' has him desperately covering his ears. He wants mummy, but she's somewhere with Granny Cora, Auntie Mary, and baby Vi.
He had finally convinced Paddy to play a game of hide and seek, and the twelve year old had reluctantly agreed, and so taking advantage of his brother's unusually forthcoming nature, Robbie leapt at the chance to play. He had decided to go hide in the library, as they were never allowed to play in there, so it was the perfect hiding spot really.
And so he waited to see who would find him first, he had been so excited when he heard footsteps coming into the library, but he quickly realised that it wasn't Paddy and that no one had realised that he was hiding here and as the adults continued their frightening conversation, Robbie realised that he didn't want to continue playing his game anymore. Not when he'd just his Daddy just say;
"They've done it before, Robert, they can do it again just as well,"
"He's right, Robert," his Uncle Tom said. "We should be prepared somehow."
Robbie heard Donk sigh. "Fine. What on earth would you suggest?"
"Well, for one thing, all these windows," Daddy said as he gestured to the various large windows lined along the library walls..
"In a blast, the windows would burst," Daddy said, gesturing to the few windows nearby. "What have they been doing in London for all of this?"
Robbie's eyes widened; the Germans would break the windows!
"I've seen photographs of shops boarding up windows and sandbags being laid out," Uncle Tom answered.
"Boarding up all the windows here would take a small army though." Daddy said and from the quick upturned motion of his mouth Robbie thought maybe Daddy was trying to make a joke, but to be honest, he didn't find it very funny. His stomach churned at the thought of the Germans attacking Granny and Donk's house. What if they got hurt or worse died!
Donk scoffed. "We won't be boarding up any windows. That's nonsense. They won't come here. They didn't in the Great War and they won't during this one. They won't do anything in London either! My granddaughter is there."
"Robert, do you think they're going to care if the Earl of Grantham's granddaughter is in London? They threaten our very existence!" Daddy said. "We must take precautions. One air raid is all it takes!"
Robbie covered his mouth was his hands as he realised that cousin Sybbie was in London, what if the Germans hurt her or cousin George. He was flying the RAF planes, what if they shot him. He didn't want Sybbie or Georgie to die. Georgie always let him tag along wherever he went and Sybbie always snuck him sweets even though he wasn't allowed to eat them. And they loved him and he loved them and if they died; he would be all alone then with only Baby Vi who was let's face it only a baby and cousin Marigold who didn't like him much. And well Paddy was always at school anyway. His eyes started to water and before he could stop himself he let out a loud sob as he started bawling.
"Daddy I don't want cousin Sybbie or Georgie to die!" He yelled sprinting out of his hiding place to run towards his stunned father; who hurriedly reached out to steady his son as the boy's arms shot out and wrapped them tightly around his father's waist as he sobbed into his shirt.
"There there Robbie. It's alright. Everyone's fine. We'll all be alright you'll see." His father cooed stroking his son's hair while shooting Tom and Robert a helpless look;.Edith would be furious with him for letting Robbie hear that.
"George and Sybbie will be just fine." Uncle Tom said comfortingly as he gently patted his nephew's back. "They'll keep each other safe."
"Besides," Donk cut in; "They know how cross Auntie Mary will be with them if they get hurt. They wouldn't dare face her wrath." Donk gave a shudder before continuing; "or hurt Granny Cora, you know how sad she'll be if they get hurt."
"See, they'll be just fine." Bertie said trying to comfort his son. He was after all only eight. He shouldn't be caught up in the horrors of war; but unfortunately war has a way of making children grow up far too soon. It was the bitterest pill Bertie had ever had to swallow.
October 25, 1940 (Friday: Somewhere over the skies of Germany)
The inky-blue of the sky was illuminated by the sparks of gunfire and motor engines and all George could do was dodge and weave as he fought for cover under enemy skies. He had lost most of his crew and some had turned back but George kept moving forward as he sought to destroy those damn krauts!
He had been flying somewhere over Hamburg or possibly even further-it was hard to gage- when he'd heard a sputter from the engine. He quickly throttled down, seeing, in the amber-orange light of the night sky, that the propeller was starting to slow.
He muttered an oath as he felt the Spitfire shot up, its wings starting to vibrate. With one last rolling click, the engine finally died.
Dammit not now!
There was a thunderous noise that deafened George in the sudden silence that overcame the cockpit. The ringing of the static radio as it slowly stilled sounded out like a death knell. And for a moment or two, the momentum that carried the plane in the air, made him feel almost like a gliding bird. But slowly the fighter began to dip and sink toward the earth.
On instinct, the young pilot flipped the switch for the wheels to come down, trying to start the landing cycle. But he was met with a buzzed protest that did nothing.
"Damnit!" He shouted, pounding on the dash. With the electrical dead, the landing gear was clanking against doors that wouldn't open.
'God in Heaven." He murmured to himself through gritted teeth. The dead hunk of metal began to pick up speed.
The aerodynamic design of the fighter made a loud whining noise as it streaked out of the sky. George pulled back hard on the stick, blood gushing from his wounded arm, as he strained to keep the plane level for a crash landing.
The Spitfire hit the ground hard.
George jolted sharply, growling in pain, as the plane skidded across the mercefully empty field. His wings tore away low hanging branches off of trees and dug up underbrush and dirt. The momentum carried towards a wide thicket hidden by overgrown shrubbery and large trees.
As the plane headed towards the sharp branches of the trees George immediately lowered his goggles to protect his eyes from shattering glass. With a mighty crunch, the plane slammed into the trunk of a tree.
Suddenly the world was quiet again.
Disoriented, George lifted his goggles back onto the top of his forehead and slumped in his seat. The world spun as he stared at the dirt and leaf caked cockpit glass. Smoke plums hazily sauntered from the front of the Spitfire.
It took him a few moments to register that he was on the ground again. He sat blankly in his for a moment catching his breath before ripping off his breathing mask in residual frustration of the day's action, losses, and his current circumstances.
Thankfully, George had his wits about him enough to know he was alive. He checked the plane with a good long look around. The wings had deep gashes and holes in them, the propeller was dirt stained and bent, and the engine was smoking like a fire grill.
He grunted in pain when he lifted his wounded arm. He cradled the graze with a hand while he flexed with a glare of extreme ache. It ripped through the side of the bicep, missing the bone. Arm. Thankfully.
That's when he heard it.
From somewhere in the distance there was a sputtering motor. It ran for a minute or so, and then it coughed, before running again. It sounded like a disoriented bee, brandishing it's stinger in threat, as it hobbled on one wing.
George immediately looked up and then behind him. He needed to find an escape quickly. And as he heard the rush of harsh guttural voices; he knew that his instincts were right.
The Hitler Youth was checking to see if the Heir of Downton was dead.
"Shit!"
George was moving before anyone else would've. Quickly George unbuckled his harness, and unscrewed the Oxygen hose on his breathing mask from the plane. With a yank, he went after the canopy.
CLUTHNK
"Come on ..."
CLUTHNK
"Goddamnit come on!"
The canopy wouldn't budge.
Pulling and pulling, George tried to get the lever to budge. But it seemed that it was sealed tightly after the extreme change in air pressure and hot shells grazing by it during the battle amongst the clouds. It was clear now that there was no way it was going to open by force.
He knew that back at base, the lads would've thought this funny, would've teased him, kept him in there for a minute or so, faking like the would be going to go get a drink down at the Officer's mess and leave him there overnight. But right now, this wasn't a joke.
In the distance, the youth could hear the Nazi fighters coming closer and worse he could hear the sounds of dogs barking, which didn't bode well for him at all.
George did what George Crawley did best. He quickly struck a match and lit his Spitfire on fire. Then he ran for it.
Trying desperately and failing, he could hear the Germans getting closer. It was no use, though he wouldn't give up trying. He knew that if he didn't keep on moving, his corpse would be paraded about as a sign of English defeat and all he could think of was that it was going to be a hard day for Mamma and Sybbie if they had to deal with the telegram from the War Office.
Suddenly someone grabbed the young pilot's wrist. He looked up and saw a shadowy figure standing in the road. He was a tall, straight postured, silhouette of a good English chap. He wore a helmet and some semblance of a uniform that was hard to make out in the shadows of the last light of the day.
"I've got you!" The voice shouted.
The man forced George to keep on running as he lead the young ace threw the thicket further and further away from the Germans. "Come on, chap, come on!" The soldier coached like a corner man in a boxing ring as a disoriented George's legs turned to pudding as his boots hit the ground. The youth ate dirt, dazed at the exertion, exhaustion, and air pressure all of which weighed him down. He might as well have been an infant in the man's arms.
The tin hatted soldier wrapped his arms around the young officer by the chest and dragged him hurriedly away.
Finally, after what felt like hours; George was mumbling incoherently when the man finally sat him against a tree under the shadowy cover of the forest.
The bump gave him a moment of clarity as he looked up to see a man kneeling in front of him. He was checking the pilots wounded arm, his eyes never leaving the young man. He knew his face, he knew this man...he'd seen him before.
"Who are you?" George asked in confusion of treading between consciousness and dream world vision while his world began to darken faster than the coming night.
"My dearest little Chap ..."
Slowly the soldier removed his tin helmet and smiled with the deepest mixture of pride and crippling sorrow. George knew sight of the dancing man from the foyer, his bird like nose; the pale face, the blond hair, and the way he looked ...looked at someone he loved so much.
"It cannot be..." George mumbled incoherently as his vision began to blacken and the man in front of him fluttered in and out like a mirage in a dessert.
St. Thomas Hospital, London-October 30 1940
Sybbie reached a hand up to brush away the hair that had fallen onto her forehead with the back of her fingers. The pads of her fingers sticky with blood. She closed her eyes as a small breeze from the open window filled the stifling hot room.
The room was full with white curtained screens, beds full of groaning soldiers, and nurses scurrying about as they tended to patients, or assisted the doctors in the crowded space. Not one person in the room had had a full night's worth of sleep for weeks-including Sybbie herself.
For they'd all been here stitching and dressing wounds. Soothing the soldiers and asistating the doctors in amputations and all sorts of the like. And even if by some miracle they had time to sleep.
The bombs made it impossible to rest.
The loud noises in the sky causing the rumbles of the ground to shake. No one could sleep with the icy fear in their veins or the nerves in their stomach.
Though after weeks of bombing, and continuous days and nights of bombing, the fear was still there but not as prominent as it once was. Fear was simply a luxury that they no longer had time to feel. For all their time, energy, and liberty was spent in doing their part for the war effort. Namely their duty towards the men who lied in various forms of sleeplessness in this room.
She peered down again at the sandy-blond hair of the man she stood above. Whose blood stained her hands and she felt a familiar sorrow take hold of her as she saw his blue eyes dance before him at a scene that Sybbie could not see, seeing a world so similar yet so different from Sybbie's.
She swallowed down the sob that threatened to escape her throat, as his face suddenly changed and blurred and suddenly it was George's. She felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, she prayed George was safe, and not lying out in a field somewhere, his blue-grey eyes searching out for the faces of their family through the mist of the endless cloudy skies.
Three days. He'd been missing for three whole days. All Sybbie could remember was Donk's hoarse voice on the line as he told her to come home before her Granny had taken over as she sent words of love and calm reassurances to her granddaughter. Her Aunt Mary was understandably too distraught to speak, all Sybbie could remember was her Granny telling her that her father couldn't come to the phone because he was taking care of Mary. Then the line clicked and all was silent. And Sybbie was left all alone as she mechanically did her shift at the hospital, her mind in a daze.
It was Great-Aunt Rosamund who insisted that her driver come and bring Sybbie to 35 Belgrave Square; where she had enveloped her great-niece in a tight hug as they both cried together. But Sybbie had insisted on going back to work, and so here she was now. Physically present but her thoughts consumed with worry and fear for her best friend and cousin.
Sybbie's fingers trembled as she placed the bowl on the metal tray, causing it to clatter.
"I'm so sorry," she murmured when the man on the bed shifted his head to look at her.
She was relieved when he simply sighed and shrugged against his pillow.
"It's okay," he replied, voice devoid of any inflection. "Can't sleep anyway."
Sybbie peered at him again, briefly, before lifting a brow to herself. "No. Of course you can't."
She collected the scissors quietly now, tucking them into her apron with the rolls of gauze and tape. The weight of the soldier's green eyes were on her as she worked; she glanced at him, and sighed. She wasn't particularly fond of polite conversation. Not now.
And yet she found herself inquiring about him as she worked; anything to distract her from her morbid thoughts that had been lurking in her head all day.
She let her eyes go from the white glare of the bedpan to the soldier sitting in the bed. He watched her earnestly, listening, clinging to her words as they spoke; and she found herself wondering how long it had been since he'd spoken to anyone, really talked to anyone, outside of orders, updates, polite nothingness. He couldn't be much older than she was. Again she thought of George, and she felt her tall walls fall smaller around her.
Please God, bring him back.
___
October 31, 1940 (Thursday)**
Susan sighed as she gazed at the headlines on the paper that Peter was reading. "BATTLE OF BRITAIN IS OVER. VICTORY FOR THE RAF..." Her mother shot her a sympathetic look before reaching over to gently pull the newspaper out of Peter's grasp. "Not at the breakfast table please Peter."
Peter reluctantly lowered the paper and put it away as they continued to eat their breakfast. Which was a rather bland sugarless porridge (made with water as milk rationing had started) and half a slice of bread for everyone.
Susan could see from the slight frown on Peter's lips that he was thinking about what was going on in the War and she knew that as a 14 year old he wished there was more he could do to help. They all wished it. But their bodies were simply too young in this world, and it was taking a toll on all of them.
She looked over and saw Edmund moresely pushing around his food in the bowl while Lucy was taking tiny bites of her food and swallowing it down with water. She shot Susan a small smile when she noticed her older sister look her way and Susan felt a rush of gratitude for Lucy; her sister always saw the good in everyone and everything; something which Susan had a hard time doing or believing.
Susan frowned as she took a look at her mother; her mother had started working at the factory when the children were in the country, and the effects it were starting to show. Mrs. Pevensie's once youthful face had faded due to the war, and hollowed cheeks, and chewed lips remained in its place, along with the frequent look of stress that seemed permanently etched into her skin, and she would come home every evening exhausted and tired to the bone; leaving Susan and Lucy to help prepare dinner, and clean the house, while Peter delivered the paper and Edmund did the groceries. Everyone was doing their bit to help in the Pevensie household, but Susan still wished for some way to help her mother, besides cooking and cleaning, for she knew that with her father gone, it was all the more difficult for all of them.
Susan ate the rest of her food in silence, trying not to grimace as she ate, knowing all too well, the hardships the nation was faring, and how there were people in far worse shape at home and around the world. She knew better than to complain yet she could not help but wish she was eating something else for breakfast, how she wishes for some fresh fruits and a slice of toast and eggs. She felt a glow of shame as she thought about how greedy she was being; after all wasn't gluttony one of the seven deadly sins?
Later after they had cleared the table, and washed the dishes, Susan went up to her room that she shared with Lucy and tried to focus on sewing the rest of the clothes and sheets that her mother had left, trying her hardest not to dwell on the bleakness of war.
___
"I think everyone is being simply ridiculous!" 17 year old Marigold Crawley-Pelham announced as she tossed her long curls as she watched her cousin Sybbie frown at the headlines in the paper. They were having breakfast at 35 Belgrave Square in London, waiting for their Aunt and Uncle to arrive. Marigold had come to London a few days ago for some errands (for what she didn't say) and instead of staying at Aunt Edith's flat, she decided she wanted to come and stay at Great-Aunt Rosamund and catch up with her older cousin and maybe go shopping. Though she didn't expect the giant wrench fate had thrown in her plan.
"What is ridiculous?" Sybbie asked wearily.
"Well, just that we've won the battle and everyone looks as glum as ever." Marigold stated matter-of-factly.
"And at what cost, we've lost so many men-George could be lying dead somewhere! So many people's families have been destroyed because of it." Sybbie said her voice hoarse with grief.
"I know Sybbie, but at least the Germans are no longer looming over our heads as we walk." the younger girl said; "and besides the War Office are looking into it, they did say that George probably landed somewhere outside allied zones and that they've got a team looking for him. So we really shouldn't jump to conclusions, besides he's survived being shot down before." Marigold continued on oblivious to the sharp intake of breath and flinch that came from Sybbie as she heard 'Shot down.' .
"It doesn't matter that we cannot see the fire they are raining down on us, I still see the results of it everyday." Sybbie said sadly as she thought of all the people she had to take care of at base and at the hospital."and I hope you won't speak so callously in front of Aunt Mary, she'll go to pieces." Sybbie said her voice shaking in suppressed fury and grief.
"Oh Sybbie." Marigold said as she gave her cousin a sad smile, "I do care you know, it's just sometimes you just have to think pragmatically,instead of immediately reacting, you always did care too much, wearing your heart on your sleeve." Marigold trailed off as she noticed Sybbie frown as she looked at the younger girl in front of her. When did Goldie become so hardened, had she always been so cold or had the War taken her away too?
"That's because no one cares enough." Sybbie murmured sadly and Marigold sighed heavily;
"I'm only trying to be realistic that's all-"
"-No. you're trying to be smart, as usual!" Sybbie huffed annoyed at the way her cousin was behaving, didn't she care about George at all, and what his 'disappearance' was doing to the family (she refused to say or think that he was dead. He couldn't be. She was barely holding onto her sanity as it was.) Sybbie gazed at Marigold who had a peculiar look in her eye, but before Sybbie could ask, Marigold suddenly stood.
"Come along, we ought to get going else Aunt Mary will wonder where we are. You know how fussy she gets." Marigold wrinkled her nose at the thought of her aunt and Sybbie sighed.
"You don't make it any easier on her by constantly goading her, honestly you and G-George just love to push her buttons." Sybbie strutted over his name.
"As opposed to you, the golden child, we all know she loves you best anyway." Marigold said teasingly trying to ignore Sybbie's force of habit of referring to George every other sentence; though they were always thick as thieves, those two.
Being only children, both losing a parent, and growing up together; they were the brother and sister they never had. So it was only natural that Sybbie and George had the bond that they did with each other and how along with Uncle Tom and Aunt Mary, the four of them had formed a sort of makeshift family. They were always grouped together so it just seemed natural that they all fit into their respective roles. Uncle Tom being the father, Aunt Mary being the mother, Sybbie being the eldest child with a wild streak, and George the baby of the family and the ever present golden child. He was the much longed for heir and the sun set and rose with him.
Marigold had always been rather jealous of Sybbie's relationship with their Aunt Mary, as they were often together and many people often assumed Sybbie was her daughter due to their matching hair and clothes. As Marigold's fair hair stuck out like a sore weed in a field of grass. Though Aunt Mary to her credit never made it obvious that Sybbie was her favourite, as she would often buy the girls the same thing and treat them both in her Aunt Mary type of way. But it was rather obvious that Sybbie held a special place in Mary's heart.
Even Granny Cora adored Sybbie, and took her with her to luncheons and the hospital where she worked as president. Everyone else simply loved her more, and the truth of it stung Marigold, even though Aunt Edith had told her that they all loved the children all equally. Marigold knew she was only saying that to please her young ward, afterall why would anyone love her as much as they loved George and Sybbie, the true 'Downton children."
Sometimes she felt as though Aunt Edith loved them or her own children more than her, but she supposed she couldn't complain, after all she was one of the lucky ones; she could have been starving everynight in an appalling orphanage or begging in the streets but fate had decided to show her mercy and make her a ward of the Crawley-Pelham family. Thus, she decided to simply continue forwards; oh but how she envied her 'cousins' for the family they had. They would never know how lucky they were to be able to experience that.
But before Marigold could dwell on it much longer, she heard the sound of the motor and turned to see Uncle Tom in the front seat of the car, he was missing his usual chery grin, no doubt worrying about George;as he waited for them to hurry up. Though he was much too polite to say so.Marigold rolled her eyes as she saw her Aunt Mary being helped into a coat by one of the maids and had to grin when Sybbie impatiently grabbed her own coat and buttoned it up without waiting for any assistance.
Marigold too wore her own coat and linked arms with her cousin as they set out on the town. Marigold refrained from rolling her eyes when she saw Uncle Tom jump out of the girl to help Aunt Mary take a seat; he held out his hand with a teasing M'Lady and Aunt Mary's frozen face thawed slightly and the worried look in her eyes faded a bit as she rolled her eyes at Tom; and he gently squeezed her hand in support.
"Honestly Tom," Mary mumbled but Marigold saw how her trembling hands clutched his hands like a lifeline as she let out a shuddering sobbing breath and Uncle Tom pulled her into a tight hug mumbling something to her before she let out a brief nod and stepped into the car.
Uncle Tom had a look of such anguish on his face that for a moment Marigold had the outlandish idea of giving him a hug but before she could act on her inane impulse; he was heading up front to start the car. So Sybbie and Marigold quickly climbed in and sat across from Aunt Mary, who was staring blankly out the window of the car; her fingers twisting the handkerchief clutched tightly in her hands; the knuckles turning white from the pressure.
Marigold snuck a peek at Sybbie and noticed that she looked unfazed by her father and godmother's behaviour. However, the more she looked at Sybbie, the more worried she got; for Sybbie had pensive look on her face, a far away look in her eyes. But Marigold couldn't ask her what was wrong, not in front of everyone, so she decided to ask around dinner. Hopefully it wasn't anything serious, it was the last thing Marigold needed especially since there was a war on.
As the car began to move, Marigold saw Sybbie slowly reach out and gently grab a hold of their Aunt's hand and Marigold felt a twinge of hurt but it didn't last long as much to her surprise, Mary reached out to Marigold and gently took hold of her hand as well. And so the three of them sat in silence holding hands as they made the long trek back to Downton, hoping and praying against hope for some good news.
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*The Battle of Britain ended. Between August 8 and this date the Luftwaffe lost 2,375 planes while the RAF lost 800.
I'm SO SORRY that It took me almost seven months to upload-YIKES!! So sorry its just this chapter was so hard for me to write for some reason plus not getting any reviews is honestly super discouraging especially since I'm putting my heart and soul into writing this> But alas I've updated now so Happy Reading everyone!
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