I like to know where, historically, the story is supposed to be as it progresses.  Sometimes Mr. Fellowes will post the year at the start of an episode, but we opened Sunday with the standard shot of Isis’s . . . tail, which is no help.  We see that Edith’s child is about two and we saw her as an infant in 1922, so we are probably in 1924.  This date is nailed down definitively on our first visit downstairs, where the staff are excited that Ramsay MacDonald has become Prime Minister.  That happened in January 1924.  No doubt the British audience knows this in their bones and don’t need any further indications, but this information is not at the fingertips of most American viewers.  I looked it up.

Britain held a general election in each of the years 1922, 1923, and 1924.  I mentioned the 1922 election in an earlier post.  That election threw Lloyd George (Isobel’s “dear Lloyd George”) out of office and marked the beginning of the end of the Liberal party as a major electoral force.  The Tories won an absolute majority in 1922 but called a general election in late 1923 to seek electoral validation of their policies.  This turned out to be a blunder.  They lost their majority, although they were still the largest party.  The Tories were unable to form a coalition, and in January 1924 the King asked MacDonald to form a government.  He stayed in power until November of that year, when his coalition collapsed and the third election in three years brought the Conservatives back to power.

MacDonald was the first Labor Prime Minister, and most of the staff below stairs are impressed that he was the son of working people.  His father is described online as a crofter, which I understand meant that he was a tenant farmer.  His mother was a maid and was not married[1].  This is not the background from which the Crown had drawn its ministers, so his elevation must have been a dramatic event at the time.  Robert is upset that the head of the government aims to destroy the class to which Robert belongs, while the staff (apart from Carson, who is more royalist than the King) seem cheered that someone is in power who is likely to understand their troubles and their outlook.

So much for the historical context.  Jumping the story ahead by two years must have been a great convenience to the writers.  They avoided an entire round trip to Switzerland for Edith and Aunt Rosalind and the logistical nightmare of moving little Lucy (I may have the name wrong) back to England and to the friendly farm down the road with no one the wiser.  The show’s budget for costumes, props, and location must be out of control.  The additional cost of overtime for the writing crew could have spelled the difference between survival and ruin.  The whole child transfer went off so well that the only problems remaining are tangential – Edith is spending so much time on the farm to be near the child that the Missus is becoming worried that Edith is making a play for Tim, the man of the house.  There’s also the problem that Edith is tied up in knots over the loss of Michael Gregson and the might-have-been domestic life she could be sharing right now with him and their child.  So upset is she that she throws a book with his name on the fly-leaf into the fire, with nearly fatal results.  Let’s come back to those in a moment.

In an earlier note I complained that James (Jimmy to his friends) was inconsistent in his attitude toward travel abroad.  He came to Downton originally because his employer wanted to live in France for a while and he claimed not to like French food.  (This is a view that any sensible person would take who had access to the output of Mrs. Patmore’s kitchen.)  But when Robert took Thomas as his valet on the trip to America, James expressed the wish that he could go.  Turns out it wasn’t the food after all, and I owe Mr. Fellowes an apology.  James was trying to avoid the advances of his employer.  In this episode we located the outer boundary of his resistance.  And the overtime pay that was saved on the writers was available to compensate Jimmy for his work after hours.

And in those overtime efforts, he was ably assisted by Thomas Barrow, who has sublimated his attraction to Jimmy in a very surprising manner.  It isn’t every frustrated lover who is willing to stand guard in the hallway while the object of his attraction is consorting with the competition.  It’s very generous of Thomas to decide that if he can’t have an illicit affair with Jimmy, he will facilitate Jimmy’s illicit affair with someone else.

Barrow’s altruism is part of a very pretty piece of plotting.  While Barrow is standing guard, just down the hall, Edith has thrown Mr. Gregson’s book into the fire.  I didn’t realize it until it was pointed out to me (by someone who had had it pointed out to her) that it was the force of that thrown book that dislodged a burning log that in turn set Edith’s room ablaze.  If Thomas hadn’t been in the gallery standing guard, Edith would have died in the flames.  But, because Thomas was there, he was able to save Edith and to raise the hue and cry that brought Lord Grantham to the front line to fight the fire.  But Lord Grantham not only organized the initial response to the fire.  He also threw open the doors to the rooms of his sleeping family and guests including dear Lady Anstruther, who had her own private fire going when Lord Grantham broke in to announce the one he was interested in.

It was wonderful that the local volunteer fire department was able to control the blaze.  But how many houses in the vicinity have burned to their foundations while these good yeomen put on their uniforms, complete with bronze helmets?  Never one to let a good plot twist go to waste, Mr. Fellowes is able to use a quiet post-fire moment to allow Tim, the local farmer, pig man, and foster parent, who of course leads the volunteer fire brigade in addition to his numerous other local responsibilities, to have a quiet word with Edith about her child.  In stories of this kind farmers are fonts of great wisdom, but only those who have been at it for a long time, such as Mr. Mason (Daisy’s father-in-law) or Edith’s man, can boil their wisdom down to plain spoken Proverb-like morsels.  He tells Edith “We must find a way for you to live the truth without telling the truth.”  That is very nicely put, the English language at its plain and simple best.  The previews tell us that the next episode will reveal how this wisdom is to be put into action.

Note, meanwhile, that before Edith threw the book into the fire, she removed the picture of her child and placed it under her pillow.  Do you think, gentle reader, that the photo was consumed in the flames, or did it somehow survive the fiery furnace that had been Edith’s room on that cold night?

I continue to focus on plot elements that don’t appear to make sense.  For example, Lord Gillingham is back competing for Mary’s hand.  When we last saw him, he was going to marry the heiress of the year.  That was after telling Mary to take her time, and then telling her in the next episode that he needed an answer right away.  The answer was No, he went away, and now he’s back without further explanation.  And Mr. Blake?  Things were going splendidly between him and Mary and now she is prepared to take batting practice with Lord Gillingham without a thought for Mr. B.  Would it be asking too much to just give the audience an explanation?

Or take the Baxter-Barrow-Cora situation.  Baxter confesses her past sin to Cora in order to pre-empt Barrow, whose frustration with the maid’s failure to report gossip does not result in the sublimated altruism that characterizes his relationship with James.  Baxter gets the classic Barrow treatment: browbeating, threats, and revenge.  Baxter’s confession to Cora is incomplete.  She never tells why she stole the bracelets, what she did with them, or why she didn’t return them.  Cora is very kind to consider keeping Baxter on, but is it really believable that someone in Cora’s position, the owner of a considerable amount of valuable jewelry, would consider keeping Baxter on without knowing the entire story?  Why is Cora willing to accept such an incomplete account?  And just because Cora is willing to accept a half-cocked story, why does the audience have to suffer?  How about a little more consideration for the viewers?

As a final incongruity, let’s consider the behavior of one Sarah Bunting.  She receives an invitation to dinner and goes to great pains to make sure that the invitation comes with the blessing of her host.  She is led to believe that it does, when in fact Cora has given her approval without any great enthusiasm and Robert was not consulted.  He would have preferred to have her tied to a stake in the village square.  However, Sarah has demonstrated a concern for proper decorum.  She arrives as a guest and Robert makes the minimal effort required by his code to be civil.  But Miss Bunting, so concerned with the proprieties prior to her arrival, becomes a boor once she is inside.  She insults a guest and then, at dinner, goes out of her way to embarrass her host about the chairmanship of the memorial committee.  Fortunately, Carson is able to save the day, but that doesn’t excuse Miss Bunting’s lack of courtesy.  I think Tom may have to reconsider.  Again, I think the audience deserves an explanation for this hairpin turn in the matter of manners.

There was so much else going on – Violet and her merry war with Isobel; Daisy and her difficulties with math; Mary’s growing confidence managing the estate; the poor Doctor’s inability to obtain tea or cake from Violet’s butler.  And let us acknowledge the continuing absence of Mr. Gregson, sorely missed by Edith, and Mr. Napier, who may yet return to say a few words.

Perhaps these worthy gentlemen will play a part in next week’s episode.

Until then.

[1] And yet the expression “He may be a bastard, but he’s our bastard” originated in America.