10 | The Dinner Party
—
Spring was turning into summer; and as it turned out it was not your typical English summer at all. For weeks on end the weather remained remarkably warm and steady, especially for this part of the country. It reminded Margaret that she might have gone to Tuscany at this time of year—if her life had remained true to The Plan.
Instead, she spent a lot of her time at The Shelter. She was hanging out with the regulars on the veranda, looking out across the river, whenever a break in her work routine allowed for it. For as long as the weather held, life at The Shelter had a touch of 'Tom Sawyer'. Still, Margaret felt herself getting restless; she was waiting for the autumn term at university to begin and for things in her life to move on. From that time on she would only be sporadically at the aid project, but she was determined to stay in touch.
The Shelter and the Higgins family home were her places of refuge these days, while at home things were brewing up. Margaret's mother had returned from Southampton some weeks before, and an icy atmosphere had settled on the entire family ever since. While arguments between her parents were not nearly as frequent as before Maria Hale's departure, any other form of communication seemed to have ground to a halt, too. There was a prevailing sense of estrangement.
Yet not all was running smoothly for the Higginses, either. Starting with isolated actions at the end of May, the strike was dragging on well into its second month, and finally, as of the previous week, there were lay-offs at both The Northumbrian Post and The Voice printing works, along with several other plants in the region.
Nicholas spent a lot of his time at home now, unless he was organising rallies, or was out picketing. Not used to being without employment, and at a sudden loss for things to do, he was getting surly—which in turn was driving his wife nuts. Eventually Janet sent him outside to do something about the back garden which for many years had served as a wilderness playground for the various children they had taken in.
Both Janet and Margaret stood by the kitchen window, surreptitiously watching Nicholas as he pottered about outside.
"'E's taking things 'ard," Janet said. "'E says the strike's badly managed, and that maybe demands are so unreasonable that they're no basis for negotiations—"
"So, what will happen now?" Margaret asked.
"Nothing much. The course of action is set by the unions—so, we wait and see."
At this time of general anxiety an invitation arrived for a dinner party, hosted by The Northumbrian Post—which caused some snide remarks by Nicholas for its patent untimeliness—, and inviting both Margaret's parents.
Margaret loved that dress. Edith had given it to her as a parting gift; it was a regular fashion show piece. Made from textured blue-gray silk shot with green, it had a muted glow rather than a shine. Cut to figure it was a mid-calf length (alas, slightly too short for the occasion!), sleeveless, and with a high neck. It had a twelve inch tear-shaped cut-out at the back, just below the neckline, as its only feature. A clutch bag, high heels, and dangly earrings went with it; and with her hair pinned up she looked grown-up and sophisticated... Yes, this will do quite well, Margaret thought as she twisted and turned in front of her mother's full-length mirror.
'Black tie requested', the invitation had said; and originally it was her parents only who had been invited, but—after another sudden domestic row two days before—Mrs Hale had flatly refused to attend. As a last resort it fell back on Margaret to accompany her father to the dinner party.
The party was held at the function rooms of an exclusive Milton restaurant, located at the recently renovated former Victorian Cotton Exchange building. It was an annual gathering for The Northumbrian Post business associates and shareholders; and so the Hales, upon entering the room, were pleased to spot Adam Bell amongst the guests at the far end of the room.
Officially Dennis Williams, as the editor-in-chief, hosted the party; and he could be relied on to deliver a spirited opening speech. But other than that Williams preferred to gently fade in the background and, perhaps, have a friendly sparring with a fellow editor in the course of the evening. It fell to John Thornton, as the newspaper's managing editor, to work the crowd. Not that he minded; this was as good a time as any to have his finger on the pulse.
He definitely knows how to showcase this black tie thing, Margaret thought the moment she lay eyes on him. John Thornton looked absolutely striking in a dinner jacket. Yet she was intrigued to see his mother Hannah, rather than a girlfriend, by his side. That he wasn't married was commonly known... But what about a girlfriend? Of course, any recent partner in his life might well be excused for opting out of a business function. But was this the case here? He seemed single. Yet, from any of their previous interactions, she couldn't tell with certainty if there was someone in his life—or not. It suddenly occurred to Margaret that John was a very private person.
Father and daughter stepped forward to be welcomed by the Thorntons, and while Mrs Thornton tried—with indifferent success—to put Mr Hale at his ease, John shook hands with Margaret.
"I'm sorry to hear that your mother was unable to come," he said, his steady gaze arresting her.
Blue, she thought. His eyes are steel-blue. How come I never noticed before?
He kept her hand the fraction of a moment too long for Margaret's peace of mind, and she noticed Hannah's curious sideways glance at her son.
"Mum sends her regards... She was not feeling well—" A white lie, obviously, which made Margaret blush. "Oh, and I hope you don't mind that I've accompanied Father instead," she added nervously. He had let go of her hand, but he still stood very close to her.
"You are very welcome, Margaret. I hope you will enjoy the evening, although this is just a boring business gathering, rather than a proper social affair," he remarked with a touch of apology in his smile.
"I'm sure I will—" She hesitated for the briefest of moments. "John, what are we doing here?" It still felt strange to call him 'John'; but it also gave her a small thrill every time.
"Pardon?" His look turned very strange indeed.
"Me and father. What are we doing here?" Margaret waved a hand around. She also noticed that John seemed to relax again. "This is rather more exclusive than your average working dinner... and father's not even a proper freelancer yet—not that I expect to see any of them here."
"To be quite honest... Adam Bell requested your parents as his 'plus two'."
"Oh." Of course, this made sense. As the main shareholder Uncle Adam wouldn't be denied his say in the guest list. Yet it was vaguely—disappointing? At least John had the grace to look somewhat uncomfortable.
Blithely oblivious of any tension in the air, Mr Bell chose that precise moment to step in. He kissed Margaret on both cheeks, cordially greeted her father, and then whisked his goddaughter away to introduce her to some business associates who happened to be another father-daughter duo. Mr Latimer was a banker, it transpired—but before Margaret could establish any common ground with the daughter, who seemed rather shy and even younger than herself, a heavyset gentleman homed in on them and instantly monopolized the conversation with the Latimers while slowly guiding them away and to another group.
"Who was that?" Margaret, taken aback, inquired with her godfather.
"That's Gerald Hamper. Editor-in-chief of the regional yellow press rag, The Voice. Locally dubbed 'The Noise'; apparently even by Hamper himself... which makes me wonder if the man has a sense of humour, after all. However, I wouldn't bet on it."
"But... isn't he competition? So, why is he here?" she asked, intrigued.
"Competitors only up to a point; The Voice and The Northumbrian Post each appeal to very different groups of readers... and then, I suppose, they are colleagues after a fashion, he and Williams. Mind you, regarding Thornton, it's most likely a case of 'keep your enemies close'. Hamper was trying very hard to become the print unions' blue-eyed boy prior to the current strike, at the expense of The Northumbrian Post. Didn't do him much good in the end, though. He's now just as affected by the strike and the subsequent lay-offs as everyone else."
"Welcome to the wonderful world of printed news," Margaret said dryly. "By the way, where is Dad?" She looked around until she spotted her father in the far corner of the room, in conversation with an elderly man who seemed just as uneasy in his dress suit as Mr Hale, and who had the same air of academic scruffiness about him. Margaret smiled and whispered at Mr Bell, "Look, birds of a feather."
Adam Bell's hearty laugh caused people to turn and stare. Margaret nervously shushed him, yet the man remained perfectly unaffected by the attention.
"They just wonder how an old geezer like me managed to hog the prettiest girl in the room."
"Uncle Adam!" Margaret spluttered, scandalised.
"Blunt but true." He grinned. "Now, let's see who else we might introduce you to—"
After Dennis Williams had officially welcomed the newspaper's guests in a short address, everybody took their seats at table. Someone must have given a bit of thought to seating arrangements. While couples were generally split up, and thus Margaret sat away from her father, she was placed right next to her uncle who knew most of the guests and could easily draw her into any conversation. Apparently for the same reasons Mr Hale was seated close to Mrs Thornton.
Others were not so fortunately seated, however; Margaret wondered if the girl Ann Latimer was quite comfortable, placed between a stout senior editor named Watson and, what appeared to be, one of the newspaper's elderly shareholders. She certainly didn't add much to the conversation.
Margaret's own fly in the ointment happened to be Mr Hamper, seated on the opposite side of the table, yet too close to ignore. Plainly intelligent and adapt at expressing himself, he had the kind of boisterous chumminess Margaret detested. Watching him, she idly wondered if playing on the baser instincts of human nature was responsible for it. It was bad enough having to listen to the man, but unfortunately, after starters Mr Bell decided to play devil's advocate...
"Rather unfortunate how much Milton is becoming the epicentre of the current industrial action in printing, is it not?" he stated in a deceptively innocent voice.
"Ungrateful bloody backstabbing bunch," Hamper muttered gruffly in between bites. "Considering that The Voice was more than sympathetic and gave them plenty of coverage—"
"I must admit, this has always surprised me," Bell remarked. "It couldn't possibly have been in your best interests to further the union's claims on compensation payments."
"The Voice is a working class paper; of course, we reflect the blue-collar point of view," Hamper answered curtly. He shoved in another bite and swallowed audibly; then he expounded, "We're known for driving home our opinions, even at the cost of telling some unpopular truths."
"Truths, Gerald?" Thornton asked mildly from across the table, looking straight at Hamper.
"Of course, truths!" Hamper blustered. "We've never been successfully sued as yet! However, those bloody unionists don't know what's good for them. Luckily, recent developments have put paid to some of the influence of the unions. Though not nearly enough, if you ask me!"
"But unions are part of the regulating powers in economy," Margaret remarked, alienated. "It's the established system... no-one can possibly want to return to the excesses of early capitalism."
"Oh, I don't know," Hamper replied, grinning complaisantly. "I for one wouldn't mind a bit more of that... I guess, with the right kind of persuasion, public opinion may even be with us. After all, our readers expect us to take a definite stance—but what this stance actually entails, is remarkably often quite beside the point."
"Is to be opinionated the same as having an opinion, do you think? I should have thought that a little more impartiality would go down well with all levels of society," Margaret said sharply.
"Yes, yes. And in an ideal world we'd all be reading The Independent," Mr Hamper said in an off-hand fashion, patently regarding her beneath his further notice, because he simply turned away.
"In an ideal world, Mr Hamper," Margaret's voice rang out in a sudden lull of the conversation, "people wouldn't spread filth for profit and call it public opinion." All eyes turned towards her in shocked silence, only interspersed by muted gasps and a single stifled giggle.
John cleared his throat and said, "Spoken with the vigour of youth." He raised his glass in a mock salute at Hamper, with a smile that stopped well before it reached his eyes. "To opinions—To each of us their own." A few laughs, however awkward, eased the atmosphere, and eventually they all resumed their meal.
Despite her lowered gaze Margaret noticed Hamper giving her the evil eye before eventually turning his attention to the main course. She didn't dare look at John, either. To argue with him in private was one thing, to fall out with another guest at his company dinner party was quite another.
"Bravo, Margaret," Mr Bell whispered near her ear. "You're doing me proud."
For a moment Margaret was mortified. Was he being sarcastic? However, a surreptitious glance at her godfather—and his sly wink—told her, that he actually meant it. She giggled nervously. "Not the kind of lasting impression I was aiming at when I dressed for dinner tonight—"
"You've certainly made an impression in one quarter; Thornton can't take his eyes off you—"
—
John Thornton had been unprepared to see Margaret Hale that night—after all, the invitation had been for her parents—and when she entered the room at her father's arm, it felt for a moment as if he was losing the ground under his feet.
He had only ever seen Margaret in jeans and shirts. It was a good look on her, and it served him as a reminder of how young she was. But now, as she stood in the doorway, half a head taller than her father in her dainty heels, she looked like she was born to wear that dress. She was slim yet shapely in all the right places; and the dress, as she walked towards him, clung to her body and rippled like water.
He felt his mouth go dry.
He forced himself not to stare—or, if he did stare, only to stare into her eyes. Which he did... rather too thoroughly, he thought in hindsight. She must have noticed him acting strangely—
They talked. Then Bell took her away.
He watched her leave, watched her walk away with casual ease in those spectacular heels, and it occurred to him that—with a cut-out like that at the back of her dress—she could not possibly be wearing a bra underneath it.
It was then that his mother sidled up to him and poked him in the ribs. "You might not want to be quite so obvious," she hissed.
For the next half hour, whenever Margaret's mermaid dress entered his field of vision, he briskly averted his gaze. He hoped that he at least managed an outward semblance of the genial co-host he was meant to be that night. He certainly had no way of telling if he succeeded, because the evening passed by him in a blur...
... except when she was brought back to his attention.
God! She was feisty! Taking on Hamper like that—although this might not have been her intention... just her fierce sense of justice getting the better of her.
He had been amused and appalled in equal measure by her exclamation—and he hoped that he hadn't hurt her feelings by attributing it to her youth in front of everyone.
He watched her afterwards; she seemed quite subdued for the rest of the evening, although Bell managed to elicit the odd lopsided smile from her. He wished he would have been the recipient of that smile—
That's pathetic! he thought, suddenly irritated with himself. This was a business dinner; so, where was the hard-nosed businessman he prided himself to be? Get a grip, mate!
For the rest of the meal he gave his full attention to the guests in his immediate vicinity, and it paid off; he gleaned a couple of useful contacts for future reference. Once dinner was over, the first few guests were already leaving—with the Hales amongst them. John wasn't really surprised at it; Richard Hale had seemed ill-at-ease all evening, despite—or perhaps because, John thought sardonically—his mother's best efforts to draw him into conversation.
—
Just before she and her father were taking their leave, Margaret came to stand next to John Thornton. "Sorry for that," she murmured without raising her eyes at him.
"Nothing to reproach yourself for, Margaret," he quietly replied. His hand touched her chin to make her look up, then hastily withdrew. If it was rather forward of him, she didn't mind for once. "Mind you, it was rather impolitic... and wouldn't have been half as bad if it wasn't the truth—as Gerald is well aware." The sound of his softly rumbling chuckle made her knees go weak. John wasn't mad at her, thank goodness!
As he turned to Mr Hale in order to say goodbye, Margaret idly thought that—with that voice—it didn't really signify what he was saying; he might just as well read out the phonebook and she would be just as mesmerised. It was probably hardwired into the female system... So, it was nothing personal at all.
Once they sat in the cab on their way back home, Margaret loosened the straps of her high-heeled sandals and wriggled her toes with a heartfelt groan. Edith's drill had paid off that night—Margaret had been her fashion-forward cousin's 'tailor's dummy' since childhood and had been hassled into learning the catwalk walk since she was fifteen—, but it had been a while since Margaret had last worn such heels, and her feet and back were sore.
When Margaret and her father arrived at their home in Crampton, the front door was on latch only, with all of the safety locks left unfastened. They were instantly alerted. Mrs Hale always locked and bolted the front door when she was at home alone at night.
The house was dark and eerily quiet.
"Maria?" Mr Hale called, first rushing into the living room and then to the kitchen door. "Maria! Are you there?" He ran upstairs. Margaret stood in the hall, looking after his retreating back. A few moments later he came out of his wife's bedroom, a stunned expression on his face. "She's gone," he said, bewildered. "All her clothes are gone. So are her suitcases—"
"Papa..."
"—She left, without a word." He heavily sat down on the top step, staring ahead of him, unseeingly. Margaret went up to him and took his hand.
"Maybe she just needs a little more time apart, to come clear."
Her father looked up. "You think so?"
"Well..." Margaret shrugged helplessly. "Don't you?"
He slowly, mechanically, shook his head—and kept shaking it, looking stunned.
Five days later a letter arrived by post from a Southampton law firm, informing Mr Hale that Mrs Maria Hale, née Beresford, had authorised them to engage in legal procedures regarding a divorce suit. All further contact, either by letter or personal, was to be conducted through Mrs Hale's lawyers.
The letter made no mention of Margaret.
—
A/N:
Dear readers, thank you all for the feedback and encouragement you've given this story—and me, of course—so far. It makes all the difference with a work in progress.
—
The Independent, as a centre-left national newspaper, was launched in the UK in October 1986; so at the time of this story it was quite 'the new kid on the block', and was mostly perceived to come with less ideological 'baggage' than those already embroiled in the Wapping dispute since the beginning of the year.
