𝗗𝗔𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗥𝗢𝗨𝗦 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗠𝗦, downton abbey + peaky blinders

03 | christmas sorrows

As it turns out, Marcie did indeed know her way back to the house. Some time passed before she decided to finally return. One of the Spanish flu victims had died – the fiancée of someone upstairs – so she didn't want to get in the way of anything.

Death and funerals were a messy business and something she, like most other people, desperately tried to avoid. Jeanie and the rest of the staff, however, attended the funeral. According to the others, Miss Lavinia Swire was a kind woman to not only the aristocrats of the household, but the staff too.

The situation had somehow reminded her of Small Heath. Well, it wasn't so surprising the more she thought about it. She grew up surrounded by death, in the midst of a war no less, and was all but adopted into a family of illegal bookmakers who ran a gang and every street she had ever been on. In fact, the train platform in York was the first place she had ever been that no Peaky Blinder owned, officially or otherwise.

Life at Downton ran smoothly for the next ten months. Well, except the minor detail of Mr Bates being framed for murder. Prayers and thoughts for the man occupied most minds as Christmas approached.

Usually, Marcie would say Christmas was her favourite holiday without a thought. But, with the recent changes in her life, it remained to be seen if that would continue.
Of course, the people were lovely, and the decorations too, but there was something tripping about in the back of her head. Nothing in sight reminded her of Birmingham. She felt like she was ushering the memories away with the usual ways of the Downton Abbey staff.

She didn't want to forget. In fact, she wanted to go back, even just to visit.

Marcie missed it as much as the day she arrived, but after months of living in Yorkshire she had come to accept her situation - no, her opportunity.

What are you saying? You sound like your mother. You hate Downton. You love Small Heath. You want to go back. It replayed on loop as she sat at the dinner table in the servants' hall, until it was cut off by abrupt silence.

It lasted a moment, but the tension continued its attack. Mr Carson seemed to struggle keeping his composure as he recited his lines. "Mr Bates has most unjustly been accused of murder. That is all."

It wasn't robotic or uncertain, just tired. Mr Carson knew Mr Bates was an innocent man, and it was draining to affirm the opinion of, not just himself, but the family too.
Now she understood what had happened. And, of course, Miss Shore - Lady Rosamund's maid, a guest downstairs - made the remark.

No one from Downton, except Thomas in a foul mood, would say such a thing. But, of course, she kept pushing.

"All? I should think that's quite enough for most people."

"Excuse me?"

Marcella Sullivan wouldn't seem the type to have a bad temper. Many-a-people had found themselves on the receiving end of the eleven-year-old's rage. Miss Shore had joined the masses. She stood, glowering at the woman opposite her, almost daring her to go on.

The glare thrown her way seemed to scold her. Even as Carson and Jean reprimanded the girl. Even as she was sent to the kitchen to help clean up.

Daisy Mason couldn't describe exactly how she felt when the otherwise excitable girl almost stomped into the kitchen. She was acting, dare she say it, like a child. The kitchen maid watched the heaving sigh, the closed eyes and the frightened jump upon noticing her presence.

"Hi, Daisy. Need any help? I was sent out to do it, so let me do something."

"Why? What did you do?"

"I almost yelled at Miss Shore. She was being rude about Mr Bates."

"Oh. Fair enough." She didn't know much about either parties involved, but she knew one thing. Marcella was incredibly mature for her age, and Miss Shore seemed to like stirring the pot. "You can help peel these potatoes."

It seemed the girls had less in common than they realised. Daisy had been working at Downton since she was twelve, and had been partially raised by the staff around her. She went on calm adventures with crazy results, like being a widow to a man she didn't realise she loved until he was dead.

Marcie was born a decade before a baby boom, getting herself stuck as a babysitter for an entire street until she was pulled away. She had manic adventures that made the most subtle changes to her daily life, until one of her more tame escapades landed her in that very town.

But, they had both grown up in a war. A war with very different effects for them both, but the same war. They couldn't exactly laugh and joke about it, though the silent understanding was there, and instead picked more light-hearted topics.

They joked about everything that came to mind. O'brien's face when she was annoyed, Mr Carson's confusion about telephones, anything.

Hours passed and soon Marcie was kicked out of the kitchen with a smile and wave from Mrs Patmore.

She caught Anna leaving for the night, and managed to repeat the process. Times were hard, and she could only pray Anna knew they were there for her aid if need be.
Her next stop, Thomas, managed to feel like she was in the tiniest sliver of Mr Bates' shoes - confused.

He looked her up and down. "What?"
Thomas had never before been so baffled by a little girl. Despite his best efforts to drive her away, they never quite worked. Here she was, sitting with him as he smoked after every horrible thing he said to their- to her friends.
They weren't his friends. They never would be, he swore.

"You're not as horrible as you think you are." Now that stumped him. "Sure, you're moody and rude, but you're not horrible. A friend of mine is moody, and another rude, but they're still like brothers to me."

"Well, apparently, you can be moody and rude too, if lunch was any indicator."

"I just don't like people who think they're better than everyone else, and believe me, I know a lot of them." The look on Marcie's face wasn't a look typically seen worn by an eleven-year-old, and it was strange. Someone so young couldn't possibly-- shouldn't understand certain topics, or speak of things as she does.

Marcella Sullivan was, in Thomas' eyes, a peculiar character for many reasons, most of all for wanting to be his friend. "Goodnight, Thomas."

"Goodnight, Marcie."

For the first time in weeks, Marcie wasn't walking home alone. The house had been so busy lately, Jeanie found herself staying at the house. At least, that's what she told herself in her attempts to convince herself she wasn't avoiding her mother. Her loving mother who meant well, but ruined everything.

Jeanie Sullivan's character, perhaps dampened by the serious life she now led, was only free when she was alone. She wished and wished it could be different, but it was impossible.
She had to work at Downton, she had to make her mother happy and, most of all, she had to keep Marcie safe. Small Heath was home, but home is only where the heart is. It wasn't safe anymore.

She reminded herself of that as they entered the house. Through to their kitchen. To the letters on the table and their awaiting mother staring hatefully at them.
After all, it was the only point keeping her on mother's side during the arguments.

"Marcella, please! Accept that we live here now! It's much better for you, for all of us!"

"So I'm to have no communication whatsoever with my friends?"

"That family are hardly friends of yours. The boy, maybe, but the rest were babysitting the two of you!"

"Jeanie?"

The tears were welling as Marcie turned to her. The woman who used to run off with John every morning and return at midnight. The legend among blinders.

Her idol.

"She's right, Mars. We have to move on."

Her older sister.

------ charlie says --
thank you so much for 1k! i really appreciate it and i hope you're all enjoying so far xx
i'm so sorry for how late this is
if it helps i cried over the ending