Steam belched out the funnel into the fresh morning air. In a second class carriage a man sat staring out the window. The lovely English pastures startled him with their green lushness. The undercarriage rattled and the engine screamed. In London the metal machine had formed a bit of the general ugly racket. In the Yorkshire dales, the contrast grated.
A pity the train had to pollute the atmosphere. Nothing could escape the taint of the town nowadays. His father had spoken of the days before locomotives had bolted their iron tracks throughout the virgin countryside. The railway was just the start. Soon new industrial inventions would find a way to destroy another piece of nature. His eyes moved to the telegraph wires, looping above his head from poll to poll. At least their hum was almost imperceptible. But how much more important might be their messages?
Whatever their communications, they would reach their destination ahead of the him, despite the train's speed. The man wore a brown tweed suite. His hair and eyes were also brown. His name was John Bates and he was going to work as valet Robert Crawley, the Earl of Grantham, landowner. The house he was bound was called Downton Abbey. It was a strange name; but perhaps not stranger to some people than a lame valet getting such a sought after working position. Ah well, nobody mattered but the Earl, as long as he could do his duty. The reasons would probably be revealed.
Bates shut his eyes, put both hands on the stick he held in front of him, and tried to doze off again. It had still been dark when he had left London by the earliest dispatch from Paddington Station and this would be his last chance to rest. He would need to get to grips with his new job and he must not fall short. It was going to be a long day. The engine uttered another scream, the funnel spewed out more steam, and the train flew on.
In a village postoffice ahead of the line, the postmaster was sorting through letters. His wife peered nosily over his shoulder. She usually helped him. She counted it her wifely duty. Perhaps she experienced some pleasure in seeing who was receiving what mail from whom. Inside information made her day. While doing the otherwise boring task she would try to guess what the letters contained.
Suddenly the telegraph machine burst to life. These messages could be the most interesting of all, because they had to be interpreted, written down, and sent on personally by the postmaster. But husband and wife had not yet overcome their first fears of this weird apparatus. They stared at each other in mild panic.
"You do it," the postmaster finally said.
His wife scowled at his selfishness, got up and bravely went over its corner. Seated, she shifted up the heavy set of headphones and listened to the strange jitters.
"Oh, merciful heavens," she screamed and set to the transcription, her hands trembling as her pen flew over the telegram form.
The postmaster rose and hurried to her side as she shakily took off the headphones. Shocked how her face had drained of colour, he leaned over to read the note. He also turned pale.
"That's impossible," he murmured. "No. It can't be real. No!" His eyes went from the paper to his wife. "Well, I better take it up there now."
"William can do it when he comes in," his wife protested, not shocked out of all her senses.
"Better take it now," he insisted grimly.
"Don't be stupid." His occasional scraping to the mighty annoyed her. Great people demanded enough from the villagers without their putting themselves out to serve. "None of them will be up for hours and what difference will it make?"
