Hey, so here is another short Thornton Tales story for you. I wrote this one quickly, (part 1 and 2), in a few hours today, so it is not quite up to scratch and may have the odd mistake, but hopefully not many, and I am sure I can always go back and polish it up and make it a bit better in the future. I just fancied writing a cosy story on a Sunday full of family fluff, and I hope you enjoy it despite its shortness and plainness.
HOW DO YOU SOLVE A PROBLEM LIKE MARIA?
Part 1 of 2
From The Thornton Tales
John sat down at his mill office desk and sighed, the dissatisfied puff which escaped his nostrils surprisingly loud.
This was not where he wanted to be. This was not what he wanted to be doing, no sir!
But then again, with a disgruntled mope, John soon reproached himself for his bad temper and cursed himself for being so irrationally ungrateful in blighting the blessed predicament he now found himself in the middle of. If truth be told, things were going extremely well for him, for them, and his life had never before known such purpose or peace, so consequently, a glum John had no justifiable reason to grumble about his jammy good luck.
However, staring at the piles of documents lying strewn before him, demanding his attention, John found himself scowling in frustration as he felt that old and familiar itch of irritability bother him yet again, a pining pang which he had never before experienced since…well, not since she had come along.
Yes, deep down, he knew that he ought to quit his whining and be thankful, because if this had been a year ago, John would have given just about anything to be in the fortunate position in which he now found himself, the man never seeming to be able to get away from the congratulations offered to him by fellow masters who were all green with envy over his copious feats of both a personal and professional nature. The reality was that the mill was flourishing, and in the past few months its profits and prestige had grown so much that it was now without a shadow of a doubt the most productive and prosperous cotton factory in the county, what with orders flooding in and new investors and customers near enough knocking down John's door in a bid to get a slice of this lucrative cake.
After Mr Bell's most generous bequest had allowed John to secure the stability of his business, in a state of renewed vigour and resolve, he had laboured harder and more diligently than ever to build the mill back up so that it might once again become the efficient epicentre of manufacturing that it had been before that blasted strike had knocked everything out of kilter. Even so, much to his amazement, far from achieving his previous levels of production, John had now excelled his targets, and it seemed as if the mill and its master were both soaring and reaching new heights of success every day. As a result of this boom, John had been obliged to hire supplementary hands, purchase further machines, and lease additional space, all in order to accommodate this brisk expansion, the acceleration and affluence of his livelihood, the very thing he had surrendered his blood, sweat and tears to over many years, the man often sacrificing his own happiness in order to pander to the needs of his mistress, better known as his prized mill.
Chuckling to himself as he reclined in his office chair, John could never have imagined such a swift and fruitful recovery after nearly losing the mill altogether not twelve months prior, recollections of failure and remorse now a distant memory that were buried in the past, never to be resurrected. Nevertheless, as fate would have it, the aid of Bell's capital had rescued John in terms of his bread and butter, but that was nothing compared to the liberation and salvation he had received when a certain someone had agreed to stand by his side as his bride, his partner, his friend, vowing to tether herself to him throughout their shared life together. For some unknown reason which still made John's head spin and swim with confusion, she had chosen to love him for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, that glorious creature who would forever be his anchor, his angel, his always.
Yes, trade was one thing, and as a Milton man, manufacturing ran through the veins of John Thornton just as assuredly as blood did, but as he had found out after a certain stranger from the south had entered his life and turned it upside down, facts and figures held no sway over the human heart, and despite the recovery of his business, this was nothing compared to the sustenance he had been rewarded with by his family who supported him with unconditional love, a source of encouragement which had emboldened John and provided him with such a conviction of confidence and courage as he had never felt in all his thirty-one years.
Indeed, in an eager effort to demonstrate to his loved ones that he could provide for them and secure the life they deserved, John had once again rolled up his sleeves and worked with more determination than ever before, meaning that now, well, it had all paid off and the resurgence of Marlborough Mills was an undeniable triumph hailed far and wide by all. Furthermore, the Thornton name had gone from rags-to-riches once more, and John now felt like he could once again hold his head high since he had shown everyone, (including himself), that when an old dog is beaten, he can damn well get up again and continue the good fight.
Yes, John should have been sublimely satisfied with his unmatched and unprecedented victory over his trials and tribulations, but still…
Sighing for the umpteenth time that day, John picked up his pen and prepared to force his head down so that he might get to work with that variety of obstinate grit which seemed to ferment in his gut, the ship of his success still needing a captain after all. Nonetheless, as he did this, John found himself hesitating and furrowing his brow as he stared at the stack of paperwork with bleak indifference, these ledgers, contracts, accounts, purchase orders, letters, rotas, payrolls, and invoices, all no longer offering him the same feeling of energy and enthusiasm which they once had. On grasping this unsettling truth, John felt that recurring twinge of discontent niggle away at that peculiar little spot which he felt sure was positioned directly in the centre of his heart, and with a sulky mutter, the man knew all too well what the trouble was.
Dang, dash, and darn it! This would not do, this would not do at all!
It did not help that the wind was wailing like a wild beast outside, the uproar making it darned difficult for him to concentrate. Groaning rowdily, John threw down his pen and slumped back in his chair, his fingers rising to rake through his hair in fidgety annoyance, the ends sticking up in all manner of unruly directions like a legion of miniature black spikes. Good grief, why could he not shake off this state of discontent and disappointment? Why could he not rid himself of this feeling of displeasure and disillusionment? He had never felt like this before, no, because John had always been invested with an unswerving degree of single-mindedness when it came to his work, his ability to focus and relinquish all other matters a renowned ingredient of his personality, a double-edged trait which had earned him the reputation of being a tenacious bulldog, a quip which he could never work out whether it derived from a place of praise or offence.
But no, it seemed as if there were certain events in a man's life which changed him, whether it be for better or worse, who knew, but there was no question that these milestone occasions most certainly altered a fellow's character and cares, sometimes leaving him unrecognisable to his former self. At any rate, it would seem that a recent transformation in John Thornton's life had left him feeling disenchanted with his world of cotton and commerce, the man instead wishing with all his manly might that he could instead be spending his precious time with ─
John suddenly froze, and his eyes sharpened like flints, his face screwing into a look of bewilderment. While he had been lounging in his chair in a state of lazy restlessness, John's head had lolled right back, and after looking out of his window from his topsy-turvy vantage, the master had spied a most odd sight indeed.
Abruptly standing up and causing his chair to scrape across the wooden floor, he strode towards his window and peered out, the master surveying his kingdom which lay before him, the scene lit by nothing more than the weak winter light which shone down from behind a shroud of smoky clouds. As he thrust his hands into his pockets and sucked his gums, John watched the origin of his current bafflement, which was a horde of his workers dashing past his window with the most unpleasant grimaces upon their grubby faces, the ugly sight of which was utterly objectionable to their already grumpy employer.
Hmm, they all seemed to be moving more quickly and tensely than normal, as if they were avoiding something, but then again, it was not so fast or frantic to make John fret that an emergency might be progressing in his factory, such as a fire, (Lord forbid). Then again, it was not only their speed which was puzzling him, but it was also the way in which many of them ducked or hauled down their caps over their ears, almost as if to shield themselves from some sort of horrible onslaught, something which made little sense to John, since it was not raining or hailing upon their heads, and that did not explain why they were relocating away from the factory towards the street.
Again, if it had been a case of repugnant fumes from the chimneys bothering them, then they would have guarded their mouths, but no, they were definitely protecting their ears, and for the life of him, John could not fathom what the problem was. While he thought on this, John folded his arms as his narrowed eyes trailed a particularly tormented looking fellow who was fleeing from the warehouse as hastily as his short legs could convey him. But then, all of a sudden, the master's investigation stopped and he stilled as he spotted a gaggle of women lift their heads and gaze up towards the mill house with an expression which told him everything he needed to know.
On observing this, John's countenance rapidly shifted from one of confusion to concern, and pulling himself together, he hurried towards his office door and flung it open so that he might thrust his head outside and let his senses take in all the sights, smells, and sounds of the mill yard, and on doing so, he exhaled sharply as a wave of realisation washed over him, the source of the fracas now painfully plain to him.
Ah, so apparently it had not been the wind that John had heard wailing earlier after all.