At Your Service

ONE

Video

Um, hello? How does this thing work? Bloody hell...

[Jimmy smacks the hand-held unit on the side with his other hand a few times. A view of a drab, beige ceiling shakes accordingly. This technology is completely foreign to him, so please be patient. For those who are familiar with Great Britain, his accent, which is usually covered by a veneer of a more upper-class quality, suggests he is from the North, specifically Yorkshire if you're in the know. His voice is deeper than one might expect, as he looks younger than his years.]

Oh...

[The view changes and the face - well, the partial face - of a young man appears. What can be seen of him is a countenance generally recognized as handsome in many cultures. He is possibly in his early twenties, fair-skinned, blonde hair, blue eyes and pleasing features. The word that best describes his expression is stunned. While he speaks, hints of anger, fear and disbelief flit across his stunned look. He doesn't want to appear scared or vulnerable, but some of that seeps through, at least initially. Based on what can be seen of his upper right arm and the upper right half of his chest, he seems fit as the paper garment is short-sleeved and tight over his biceps.]

Don't know what's goin' on, but this... this is wrong, in'it? Does anyone know what's 'appened?

[He won't say anything else, waiting to see if anyone will respond.]

Video -Text - Audio

TWO

Downton Abbey was a big house, a great house, even, with more rooms and furniture and knick-knacks to rearrange for the upstairs maids to clean and to set up for special functions than the contents of an entire village. Downstairs and Upstairs had distinctive scents to them, too. The servant's hall smelled of cigarette smoke and silver polish, baking the fruit of the season into pies, huge roasts spitting from the crackled skin when pulled from the oven and a vague sort of dampness and age old structures seemed to cultivate, in England, anyway. He had heard that it wasn't that soggy in America, parts of it, anyway. Maybe their great houses didn't have this problem. California certainly looked warm in the magazines and the films most of the time.

Upstairs, it smelled of cigars and leather, decanted wine and starched linens. The ghosts of whatever meals had been served on a particular day would linger in the form of dishes to clear and the aroma of the cooling leftovers. When the maids opened the windows to air out the house, then Upstairs smelled of whatever was blooming in the garden, fresh cut grass, the post-rain scent of the air and the smell of things grown under the hot sun.

These things Jimmy Kent understood. Being in Service wasn't something he wanted to do for the rest of his life. He didn't want to be like Mr. Carson, who had reached the pinnacle position of butler and didn't really have anywhere else to go. Certainly not 'up', anyway. He'd never be a lord or have money to spend on travel or a flat in Paris or the best champagne money could buy. Jimmy didn't have any of these things, either, but he could dream.

He figured Carson mostly dreamed of menus and place settings, ordering wine and other supplies and whether or not he would ever see his feet again whilst standing. The man really needed to cut back on his food intake or exercise or something.

This place, though. He was experiencing a severe learning curve. An incredible city of glass and sunshine up top and quite the squalor and dimness down below. Squalor when compared with the city, anyway. The 'haves' and the 'have-nots'. It didn't really matter when it came right down to it, though. They were all trapped here; as Above, so Below. Then there was the collar he had to wear around his neck and the line that ran from under his chin roughly to his breast bone and what these things apparently indicated when it came to his position in this society.

Literally.

Jimmy wasn't familiar with the terms being used on the device he was given, but he caught the gist of it all. He had a sinking feeling that if he managed to connect with anyone to fulfill these 'quotas' or whatever, he was not going to be leading the dance.

Bonus link to TDM #40 with Thomas Barrow, bless 'im notfoul - ( Read more... )