Saturday: March 15, 2007
John looked up at the sharp rap on his office door. He looked back down at his desk as Williams came in.
"What is it, Williams?"
"It's almost eight, Master."
"Go on home," John said, scribbling a note, shuffling through another stack of papers. The older man didn't speak, and John looked up again when he pulled up a chair and sat heavily. He set down a bottle of scotch, two thirds empty, and two coffee mugs.
"I been working for you for nearly ten years, son. I'm going to pour us a drink and you're going to tell me what the hell's the matter with you."
John leaned back in his chair as Williams dumped some of the alcohol into the cups and shoved one towards John.
"Start at the beginning, and don't leave anything out," Williams took a drink and settled himself, waiting.
John looked from the mug and then to Williams. He shrugged and picked the cup up, "Define 'beginning.'"
Williams scratched his cheek, "Margaret Hale."
"It's complicated."
"I expected that."
John took a long swallow and leaned back in his chair.
"Start talking." Williams said.
When John finished, the bottle was almost empty. Williams let out a long low whistle.
"You've got yourself one hell of a mess, son."
John finished his drink and shook his head, "Looks that way."
Williams poured out the rest of the scotch into his own mug and took another drink before he finally said, "John, I've been married three times. I don't know too much about staying with a woman, but that's not how you ask a woman to marry you."
John felt his temper rise, and he glowered over his cup. Williams stood and shook his head.
"No wonder she said no."
John opened his mouth to speak, but Williams kept talking, cutting him off.
"Did you ever think, son, that maybe a fiery thing like Miss Hale might take a little work to win over, considering her history? Add that in with your stunning personality, maybe a little extra work."
John didn't answer.
"You might think about it before you try again."
"Again?" John scoffed.
"We both know you'll give it another go,"
"How do you figure?"
"I know I would," Williams shrugged and took another drink, "and she likes you a hell of a lot more than she likes me."
John looked up, a sneer on his lips, "You're drunk, Williams."
"Maybe and maybe not."
John took his hat off and roughed his hair, glaring at the bemused smile on Williams's face.
"Here's another two cents for you since I'm feeling generous; she's worth it, son."
"Go home, Williams."
"Don't mind if I do. I'll see you Monday."
Wednesday: May 2, 2007
Margaret welcomed the flurry of studying for final examinations. It demanded every free hour she wasn't working. She sat in the Higgins's strangely quiet apartment with Mary, glancing at her mobile every so often, sighing. She'd finally found it jammed in the Higgins's couch, even though she swore she'd looked there twice. Bessie always checked in every day she was gone. It was well past noon, and Margaret told herself not to worry. This was Bessie's fifth long haul.
She was fine.
Tom was still out of work, and Mary and Bessie were determined to have a enough money set aside for a proper Thanksgiving and Christmas for their little cousins, even if it meant working themselves past sanity. They were hard pressed with Nick constantly on edge, ever since Emily Boucher walked out on her children.
Margaret checked her mobile again.
"You want to take a break?" Mary asked, putting down her flashcards.
"No." Margaret smiled, her mouth pulled thin. "The children will be home soon and you can't study when they're here."
"What's bothering you then?" Mary asked, flipping through the cards again, looking busy. Her words carried their usual weight. Mary was a quiet girl, but Margaret found her pointed questions wheedled their way into her guilty conscience. Margaret grasped around for a relevant subject so she wouldn't have to think about what Mary was really asking.
Just like a Higgins to ask all the wrong questions when they already knew the answers.
"It's unfair Bessie and your father were called out at the same time. You have
class. You can't be expected to watch the Bouchers all the time."
"Dad's not out on work. Not today." Mary said, quietly.
"Either way—"
"You're still mad at Bess."
"I'm not mad—"
"This is her life," Mary looked up and made Margaret meet her gaze. "No one forced her to be who she is."
"I could think of a person or two," Margaret said, her voice flat.
"You want to talk about him?"
"Absolutely not."
Nobody knew where Tom Boucher disappeared most days. After the trouble at Marlborough Shipping, he was in and out of the apartments and the bars around Milton. Nick Higgins swore under his breath every time he was forced to collect the useless bastard. The Boucher family was also under investigation by CPS. Bess must have called them after all, the stubborn stupid girl.
The state granted temporary custody to Nick, and the extra mouths to feed, the extra noise, all of it was straining his sanity to the point of breaking. It had been almost ten days since Nick had seen or heard from Tom this time. He didn't like how that sat with him.
"This is shit, you know."
"What's that, boy?" Nick glanced over at his nephew.
Tommy Boucher slouched in the front seat, "He's not worth it."
The boy had too much coming down him, that was certain. Nick shrugged aside the guilt pricking at him, "He's your kin, boy. You remember that."
"He's a loser."
"Maybe."
"No maybe about it. I'm so sick of his shit."
"What's your hurry, Tommy?" Nick kept his eyes on the road.
"Nothing."
"Don't lie to me."
"Margaret promised to help me with my homework."
"You care about homework, do you?"
Tommy blushed and Nick allowed himself a chuckle, "We keep looking till we find him, so you better settle that."
Tommy fell silent and Nick gripped the steering wheel. He still couldn't think about Margaret without a mixture of fury and shame adding to his pit of guilt. All of his hopes for the strike had been crushed, and Margaret was in the middle of it. His carefully laid plans tumbled down around him the moment she went to Marlborough Shipping that day. Nick shifted in his seat.
He'd thought he could use her to force John Thornton into a corner.
He hadn't counted on Margaret being as much in love with the Master as the Master was with her.
Tommy sighed, "Try down by the river. There's a hack shop out there. People go there to get shitfaced all the time."
"I'll forget that you know that."
"Whatever," Tommy crossed his arms, rolling his eyes.
Nick turned the car towards the river. He didn't miss having teenagers. If Tom couldn't get his shit together, he'd have another long round of them. Nick wasn't sure he could keep his own shit together if it came to that.
Whatever Nick felt about Margaret Hale, God would bless her and her father, Mr. Richard. She made certain his girls were taken care of, she did. Nick's own daughters knew all too well what it was to have a drunk for a father.
Tom Boucher's body was bright pink and his eyes stared out into empty nothing. Nick shuddered. The son of a bitch had locked himself in the shop and sat by the exhaust pipe of a car until he suffocated. Nick shoved his heavy worthless form aside, swiping angrily at his tears. This was a coward's way out. Nick grabbed the phone off the wall and called it in.
He spied Tommy hovering outside by the door, and tossed the receiver aside, catching the boy as he stumbled in. His skinny face widened in horror and he scrambled backwards.
"Go to the car, son."
"He's dead? Is he," Tommy tried to scramble past him. "Uncle Nick, why's he pink like that?"
Nick almost carried Tommy back to the car. The boy fought back, lashing out in anger, "I want to go back. Let me go!"
"You'll be alright," Nick hissed under his breath. He wrestled Tommy to the ground and held onto him as he cried. "You're alright, boy."
He was his son now.
Friday: May 4, 2007
Richard Hale hung up the phone feeling a new weight on his shoulders. Maggie was sleeping on the couch. She'd returned home in the tired triumph of finished examinations. Richard wouldn'tt trouble her until he must, but the news drew tight across his chest.
Tom Boucher was dead.
He walked quietly to the kitchen and put on water for tea. He set out biscuits, grimacing when he tasted one—rather stale. Margaret would feel the loss of the surly truck driver deeply. She had a tender heart and she had taken all the Boucher children into it.
Richard brought the tea in and set the tray quietly on the side table, moving the shoe box of Maggie's photographs aside. He poured himself a cup and sat in his chair watching his daughter.
He would let her sleep as long as she would.
Sunday: May 13, 2007
The phone rang, jolting Margaret awake from a dreamless sleep. She rubbed her eyes and picked up her mobile.
"Edith?"
"Margaret Ann, thank goodness."
"Edith, it's five in the morning," Margaret slumped against her pillow. The sky was turning gray pink with the hint of the coming dawn. "What is so bloodyimportant it couldn't wait a few hours?"
"I'm getting married!" Edith squealed, "I'm sorry, I know it's early but James just asked me, and Margaret, I simply had to tell you straightaway, though I know you're not much of a morning person—"
"Eds, breathe."
Her cousin took a gulping breath and continued her squealing.
Margaret's eyes felt like they were covered with sandpaper. She'd fallen asleep crying.
Again.
She couldn't remember the reason why this time, but reasons to cry seemed to fall like rain and she lost track of them all. Now her eyes stung with fresh tears, and Margaret was sick of feeling them take her over.
"Margaret, are you even listening?"
"Yes, Edith, I'm here."
"So will you?"
"I—will I what, exactly?"
"You weren't listening. I want you to be my maid of honor. Do say you will. It would be perfection, darling."
Margaret took in a quiet breath, "Yes, of course," she said.
"Oh good, now everything is settled. I can't wait for June."
"June?" Margaret sat up straighter. "You're getting married in June?"
"Of course, darling. You really weren't listening, were you?"
"This June?"
"Yes," Edith said exasperated, "You don't think I want to wait a whole year do you? How droll."
"June, as in next month?" Margaret said dryly, rubbing her eyes.
"It's all been planned for ages anyways, dear. It was simply a matter of waiting for James to get around to asking me."
"Bloody hell," Margaret breathed. But she wasn't surprised. This was Edith Shaw, and she and her mother had probably begun planning her wedding the day after James Lennox asked her out. "Poor James."
Edith was chattering again and Margaret cleared her throat, interrupting, "Eds, I'm very happy for you, truly. But I want to go back to bed, if you don't mind. I'll call in two hours."
When she hung up, Margaret slipped out of bed, grabbing her mum's quilt. She tread softly downstairs and settled on the couch, staring absently at John's chair as the sun rose, flooding her eyes with blinding rosy gold light.
Friday: May 18, 2007
John sat in his truck a block from Richard Hale's house, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He glanced at his watch. Five more minutes and he'd be late.
He hadn't seen Margaret since that awful day after her accident, and he wasn't sure he wanted to now.
She definitely didn't want to see him. But there was no reason she would even be there. John growled in frustration. He hated shit like this. It turned him around in circles, just like her.
"To hell with this."
He put his truck in gear and pulled away.
Margaret sat heavily on her bed, staring at the three suitcases in front of her on the floor. It was simply ridiculous. No one needed three suitcases for a little trip. She stood and ripped open one, and began removing the contents. When she finally paired down her belongings to only the most necessary, Margaret felt lighter.
She knew her Aunt Shaw would make her stay for a month at least, but Margaret would fight back by wearing the same eight outfits for four weeks straight.
A light knock came at her door, "Are you all packed, Maggie?"
"Come in," When her father pushed open the door, Margaret squared her shoulders and smiled.
"But, where are your bags?" Mr. Hale eyed the one suitcase and the backpack in the middle of the floor.
"I only need the one." Margaret raised her chin and began to carry the large suitcase out the door and down the stairs, her dad following with the bookbag.
"Are you sure you don't want me to take you to the airport, my dear?"
"Yes, quite sure," Margaret said, straining with the effort of dragging her bag, "Mary wanted to take me—"
The front door opened, and Margaret stopped mid sentence, as John Thornton stepped inside.
"Hello, John," Mr. Hale stepped around Margaret and down the stairs. He shook his hand, "I'll just be a moment."
John nodded and raised his eyes to Margaret. His face darkened with a frown. Without a word he stepped forward and took her bag in one hand, lifting it down the stairs and set it outside on the front step.
Margaret swallowed and hurried past into the living room. She still needed to find her passport. She rummaged through the small secretary drawers, not really looking as he came in behind her, sitting in his usual chair.
"Where are you going?"
"Greece," Margaret didn't turn around. Her hands kept moving, shuffling around stacks of envelopes, bills, and bits of scrap paper.
"Do you have everything, my dear?" Mr. Hale entered the room, patting his jacket pockets, pulling out his pipe. Margaret nodded, clutching her passport and camera. He sat in the chair across from John and began loading his pipe, humming like he always did when he was distracted, "I'm afraid you'll be my only company this summer, John." He said.
"Dad, I won't be gone that long," Margaret retired, for the twentieth time.
"We both know the moment your Aunt Shaw gets you on English soil, she'll be hard pressed to part with you."
"It's just a wedding," Margaret's face burned as she felt John's silent gaze, but she couldn't meet his eyes, "My cousin Edith is marrying James Lennox, Henry's brother."
"In Greece?" His tone would've made her smile.
"Apparently Corfu is the place to be married."
Mr. Hale shook his head, "It will certainly be a grand occasion. Do you remember Henry Lennox, John?"
"I remember him."
Margaret's eyes flew to his face and she saw he hadn't looked away. Why was he even here after everything she'd said? She felt a sudden pang of desperation. She had to do something.
"Might I take your picture?" The words fell out of her mouth and hung in the air. Margaret turned to her father, adding "Please, Dad?"
"Whatever for?"
"Just to have—while I'm away—to take with me." Margaret stumbled over the words. "A little piece of home." She glanced back at John, "Please."
"Certainly, you may, my dear. Shall I stand or just sit?"
"No, of the both of you." Margaret added, nodding to include John, "just as you are there."
Mr. Hale smoothed his hair and Margaret smiled, "Dad, just go on talking as you would and I'll take it when I'm ready."
Of course, the two men remained awkwardly silent until Margaret sighed. She posed her father, smoothing his jacket, brushing his forehead with a sudden kiss, whispering, "I'll miss you."
When she turned her attention to John, he looked away. Margaret stepped closer and carefully removed his hat, holding it out until he took it. He tossed it on the floor and ran a hand through his hair, making a bit of it stand up in the back. Margaret wanted to smooth it down, but didn't dare.
She wanted to ask for forgiveness, but instead stepped back to a good distance and snapped the picture. A horn honked twice outside and Margaret fled the room, glancing once more over her shoulder.
John held his hat in his hands, watching her go.
She taped the picture in her passport so she wouldn't to lose it.
Sunday: June 17, 2007
Margaret wrenched the paper butterfly pin from her hair, wincing as she pulled some strands with it. It was ridiculous. She tossed it aside and sat heavily in a corner of the veranda, watching Edith and James dance with the wedding guests. The wine and beer flowed freely, along with the laughter and well wishes, but Margaret felt like she was watching the festivities like someone watches a play. A server offered her a glass of wine which she declined.
"You're allowed to enjoy yourself, Margaret." Henry Lennox sat down, a champagne glass in each hand. Margaret was obliged to accept one, if only to be polite. Her stomach rolled.
"I'm trying."
Henry frowned.
Margaret took a sip of the champagne and tried not to grimace at the sickly sweet taste.
"Are you hiding away, back here?" Henry asked, setting his empty glass aside. His tone was hard but not rude. They hadn't spoken in six months. Margaret didn't blame him for leaving her at Latimers without so much as a goodbye.
"Yes."
"Edith won't be pleased."
"I know. I won't run off, if that's what you're worried about."
Henry had the decency to look embarrassed, "About New Years—"
Margaret stood, handing him her glass, "Thank you, Henry, for reminding me of my duties."
She wandered into the dancing crowd and allowed herself to be caught up by a handsome usher, and danced until she could sleep dreamless and exhausted.
Friday: June 29, 2007
John popped the hood on Richard Hale's Honda Civic, and sighed at the old machine. It was a piece of shit. John took off his hat, and scratched the back of his head. The problem sounded like an a spark plug or an ignition coil—or both. And from the looks of things, it was on the back side of the engine.
"It would be."
John swore, spat, and checked his watch. It would take a couple of hours but he figured he owed Richard at least this much. He hadn't paid the man in weeks, and John ended up doing odd jobs around the house, in exchange. They hadn't talked about it but the arrangement suited both men.
John got his tool bag from the bed of his truck, tossing his shirt on the passenger seat. He grabbed his hand held radio and turned it up loud as he got to work.
Margaret sat in the taxi, head pressed to the cool glass, breathing slow and deliberate, forcing her stomach to calm itself. She just wanted this all to be over. She wanted a cup of tea, a long hot shower, and to crawl into a clean bed. Margaret's eyes held onto the horizon until the cab pulled to a stop.
"You okay back there?"
Margaret nodded, getting out his money, "Keep the change."
He deposited her suitcase and backpack on the sidewalk in front of the small house and drove away. Margaret sat on the curb and was promptly sick in the grass.
Sick with weariness.
Sick from the travel.
Sick from missing home.
Sick with relief.
John took a rag and wiped his hands. The sun was starting to dip down but it was still muggy and hot. He turned his hat around backwards, and slid under the front of the car. His hands were just too big for this job. He jerked back as a sharp piece of metal bit into him.
"Shit."
He rolled out, and walked to the front drive where he'd left his truck. He rummaged in his glove box until he found a band-aid, slapping it on. He'd have to clean it later.
The front door opened and Mr. Hale came out, waving. "Hello, John, any progress?"
Before John could answer, Richard hurried past him, "Good heavens, Maggie, what on earth are you doing here?"
Margaret turned at the sound of her father's voice. When she saw John, her face suddenly drained of color and she turned away, retching violently into the grass.
Her father pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her forehead and her mouth.
"Why didn't you call? Does your Aunt know you're here?"
She laughed bitterly, "No."
"Margaret,"
"I wanted to come home."
"You shouldn't have left like that." Richard looked displease, but still he smiled.
"I don't care, Dad."
"We'll talk about this later. Let's get you inside. Can you stand?" He helped her to her feet.
"Don't be silly, of course I can."
John grabbed Margaret's bags and followed without a word, frowning. He left the suitcase by the stairs and ducked into the kitchen, setting the backpack on the table. Richard was filling the tea kettle with water, shaking his head.
"That girl," He glanced up at John with a chuckle, "There's no living with her, you know."
"Is she alright?"
"Margaret doesn't travel well, but she'll be fine in a day or two," He handed John a glass of water. "How's the car?"
"It'll hang on for awhile."
"Thank goodness for that."
That night John slept soundly for the first time in almost four weeks.
AN : Some people reading have told me they're confused about my stories. Sorry about that. I hope this note clears things up.
"The Rhythm of Life" is my OG fanfic of North and South. It's complete and stands alone. I haven't posted the entire story because there're massive formatting issues with the original file. I have to read each chapter and reformat, checking for line repeats and other random errors. I'm trying to clip along as fast as I can. Thanks for your patience.
"Back to You" is a variation of "The Rhythm of Life," in which, John Thornton spends the night with Margaret on New Years Eve (rather than going home) and she ends up pregnant. It's set 16 years after.
Does that help?
Would anyone like a little one shot of the alternative New Years Eve that leads us into "Back to You" ?
Cheers, mates.