Upstairs Downstairs

We'll be a family of three by the first week of December.

I used to do this with my sister.

Winding wool was her favourite game.

Mosley's going to break down barriers of class.

Persie, you've embraced an idiology you do not comprehend.

How do you know I don't comprehend it?

I will send my sister to bed when I'm good and ready.

- Agnes! - I'm relieved to see her taking charge of something.

I have a secret, Mr. Amanjit.

Somebody come to our bedroom!

Lotte will be looked after here...

for as long as necessary.

That way this house can start to make amends.

Hallam,

Agnes tells me you intend to name this baby Hector.

If it is a boy,

I shall be deeply hurt if you don't call it Greville.

What if it's a girl?

I should have thought that was obvious.

What's wrong with my mother's name?

Your mother's name was Ambrosine.

Brenda.

That's my favourite.

I like Biblical names.

I don't think they're at all exclusive.

You see Biblical names above pub doors,

and when they're shortened, they can sound quite common.

What's your Christian name, Mr. Pritchard?

Warwick. After the town where my parents honeymooned.

It makes me glad we keep to formal terms.

Strawberries, raspberries, lemon tart, what is the name of your sweetheart?

Does it begin with A, B, C? D or E or F or G?

Does it begin with H or I...

J, K, L or apple pie?

You're meant to jump in when I say L.

L for Lotte.

Excuse me, madam.

I'm not pointing the finger,

but we're a fondant fancy down again.

Miss Buck has had to be creative with the cakestand.

It was only one.

And they were both for Lotte.

I was hoping she'd say thank you.

Have you learned any new Marlene Dietrich songs?

Herr von Ribbentrop?

I had hoped you might sing me "Just A Gigolo".

But you're not just a gigolo now, Herr von Ribbentrop.

You're the German Ambassador.

And I would have thought that since you've been promoted,

you'd have more to do in the afternoons

than telephone young ladies for a chat.

I can't lift this, it's too heavy.

Mr. Pritchard, you'll have to swap with her.

If I must.

Please note the Georgian cream jug and sugar nips.

It's only a nanny come for an interview.

Well, this one's been with the Greek royal family.

And apparently the Countess of Oranmore is after her!

I'm assuming no news on an upstairs maid.

Lady Agnes won't discuss it till a nanny is engaged.

Well, I didn't come here to be scrubbing my own turnips.

And which doctor will be delivering Baby?

Mr. Gascoigne.

At home, or in the hospital?

Here, of course.

It seems foolish not to, when everything is so well appointed.

Your floral arrangements are certainly a feature.

Oh, these are exceptional.

My sister and I are being photographed tomorrow.

By Cecil Beaton.

My concern is purely with the nurseries.

And the kitchen, which I would like to view.

All uncooked meat must be moved elsewhere.

And I hope the basement floor is properly aired.

Baby's napkins need a ventilated space for drying.

We were planning to use a laundry service.

In which case, every napkin must be monogrammed.

Are there other children apart from Baby?

This is Lotte, who's staying with us for the present.

She likes to keep her shoes here on the bottom stair.

And is Lotte a relative?

I consider her my ward.

She's being looked after downstairs by our staff.

She has impetigo.

A nasty, dirty illness.

Very similar to ringworm.

She will have gone straight round to the Countess of Oranmore.

She didn't even ask what kind of pram I'd ordered.

Hallam had impetigo three times in India.

Twice on his face, and once somewhere he'd prefer me not to mention.

Miss Buck says they can treat it with a dab of gentian violet.

No, it's imperative that Lotte sees a doctor.

And not because of that petty skin affliction.

I strongly suspect that the loss of her mother

has caused her some sort of mental blockage.

I don't doubt it.

The child hasn't spoken since her mother died.

She needs to be with what family she has left.

Mr. Amanjit, have you made any progress?

I have despatched many letters of enquiry.

Sir Hallam furnished me with a list of German prisons,

and I wrote to them all in the hope of finding Lotte's father.

The man was jailed for communist activity.

Which is nothing short of heroic under Hitler.

Or foolhardy, if you are a Jew.

If we can find any relatives for that child at all,

I intend to get them out of Germany.

Do you ever wonder how we dare?

When the walls are almost made of glass?

Nobody ever comes out here.

Not at night, at any rate.

You should creep into the house.

Sneak up to my room.

We'd be much more likely to get caught.

I don't want to get caught.

Don't you think it would be fun

to see my sister's face?

No.

Sir.

Holland.

Did you know the King has set Mrs. Simpson up in a house in Cumberland Terrace?

Yes. As soon as her newest divorce came through.

Thank God for the English papers and their honourable silence.

It won't last. It can't.

It will have to burst soon like a boil.

I want you to look at this.

It's a copy of a letter written to the King by his private secretary.

Who was advised, discreetly, by certain government ministers.

Mr. Baldwin and the Cabinet are to meet to discuss action?

Yes.

Meanwhile, we're collating information about Ribbentrop,

and his rumoured liaison with the Simpson woman.

But there are rumours she turned tricks in a Peking brothel.

Rumours that she's actually a man!

None of those have put the King off.

Rumours won't.

Ribbentrop is under surveillance.

We need proof. And proof takes time.

Once the papers break, we're out of time completely.

Poor child was lying in a heap of papers.

Not even tucked up in an envelope.

Mother doesn't like to talk about Pamela.

She was bringing her to England to stay with relatives.

She died of fever on the voyage home.

Agnes.

You said you didn't like to talk about her.

Well, I'd quite like to talk about her now.

What sort of fever was it?

Mother didn't say.

I suppose I didn't ask, although I do remember crying.

I thought I'd have a sister all my life.

But she was born, she played with wool.

Always white wool.

And we lost her.

It was such a little life.

The world seems full of little lives just now.

I never noticed them before, and all of a sudden they're everywhere I look.

Lotte makes me feel something is circling my house.

Tapping on the window, like a bird's beak, or a branch.

I wish it was a less disturbing feeling.

You said to wear the marabou bolero!

I know I did, and who am I to judge?

Miss Buck's coming down to press the Hartnell crepe de Chine.

There's been a contretemps regarding pastel tones.

I still can't credit we've got Cecil Beaton upstairs!

What does it look like, now it's all set up?

You can't fault the man on detail, Mrs. Thack.

He's brought his own pillar.

One of the assistants has said our make-up

is wrong for a black-and-white photograph.

I'm being sent for liquid powder, and a Tangee lipstick.

There's no need to risk your diamonds.

Ivy, dry your hands!

We're in a hurry. I'd sooner go myself.

You're supposed to ring if you want the car.

Mr. Amanjit's on the telephone talking to Maud's publisher.

Lady Holland's publisher.

Why do you keep telling me the rules?

Because I'm getting sick of breaking them.

Don't move a single muscle.

I spy the shadow of an unruly rose.

Mr. Beaton uses roses quite a lot.

Does he really?

It used to be branches of blossom,

but he seems to have moved on.

You're very familiar with his style.

I've got several of his portraits pinned up round my mirror.

I think it helps me keep my standards up.

Do me a kindness, and stay just where you are.

No.

Sit on the chaise.

People say

Mr. Beaton does a bit afterwards.

That he takes inches off a waist, and a decade off a jawline.

- Do you suppose that's true? I know it's true.

What people don't perceive is how much he does beforehand.

It's like my meringues.

A single moment in the mouth, but

they're all night in the oven with the door pushed to.

Oh. You've rather lovely wrists.