October, 5th

Margaret:

My phone chimes with an incoming message. "Tinkerbell's golden dust" mutters my father from behind a newspaper. It's 5:00 pm and he's been relaxing by the fire since his last student of the day left two hours ago. The afternoon light is dwindling rapidly and my eyes go longingly to the disappearing rays of sun falling obliquely on the mantelpiece and sigh.

-"This is why this part of England is called Darkshire, my dear" says my father correctly reading my mood.

-"Really?" I turn my face to his newspaper.

-"No, but it fits", replies my father. "Will we have the pleasure of your presence at dinner tonight?" he asks putting his paper down and facing me.

I pull the phone out from my pocket and read the message. It's from Bessy, telling me she'll go to the Black Dog Pub & Restaurant tonight and if I want to meet her she'll be there from 7.30 to 9.00. I read it aloud to my father and wonder if this is an unwilling invitation, but he thinks Bessy might be a little shy and encourages me to go out. I tap back a "Thank you, I'll be there!", and then do a quick visit to the grocer's round the corner and let everything ready for my parents dinner: pasta with pomarola sauce, fresh baked bread and apples for dessert.

The clock on my father's old oak desk strikes 7.15 PM when I close the front door behind me. The evening is typical early Fall, the cool air quiet after most folks got home from work or school, the first stars blinking in the dark skies behind a few clouds. I walk to the pub, only eight blocks from home, enjoying the clap of my riding leather boots against the pavement and the warmth of my purple wool jacket. I pull open the Black Dog's door and I let myself soak in its atmosphere for a moment. There's a rock band belting out covers from some audio system mingling with the animated conversations of patrons, the smell of warm food and human breath, the dim yellowish light from the small lamps on the tables cozy and inviting. It's not smart or sleek, probably hasn't been featured in a Michelin guide, but I like it.

It has a typical pub layout, with a long dark wood counter right in the middle of the room effectively dividing the seating space in three areas which are now at less than half capacity. Bessy springs from her chair on the left of the room and comes to me with a broad smile on her face, and after saying hello she motions me back to her table. There's a middle aged man sitting there, of around fifty years old, and two pints of beer resting on cardboard coasters.

- "This is my father, Nicholas", she says standing right to the man.

- "Hello Mr. Higgins", I say stretching my hand before taking my jacket off or seating. "Pleased to meet you".

Nicholas Higgins face is wrinkled and leathery, and his hand is bony, callused and strong. He has barely risen to shake my hand and sits back looking at his daughter, who in turn waves at the waitress. We order our dinners and I have a soda.

- "Bessy tells me you're from down south," says Nicholas. "Did you know Milton before moving here?"

- "Oh, no", I reply, "This is my first visit to Darkshire. I am from Oxford, but I've lived half my life in London".

He nods sagely and I am suddenly struck by the notion that my hosts might have never been far from Manchester, maybe not even in our capital city. "Milton and Oxford are quite different, I think. Where there are colleges and universities here I see mostly factories and businesses".

I strike the right nerve. My hosts smile proudly and proceed to inform me that Milton was the first industrialized city of the world. The Higgins family has lived in the Manchester area for more than two centuries and members have worked in every industry seen by the Black Country: mining, cotton mills, railroads construction and operation, and more recently, motor repair and electronics. "We're tough nuts to crack, we the Higginses" laughs Nicholas. I don't let the suspicion that they might be counting non-related Higginses matter and I join him, because I'm fascinated by how these people have survived for generations some of the most unhealthy jobs I can think of. Tough nuts they are, indeed!

They don't ask me any questions of my upbringing but later on I realize they are horrified I might see them as gossipers. They listen attentively as I tell them about my brother, who works as an architect in the south of Spain, and ask if I've ever been to the Alhambra - a place that apparently captivates their imagination like no other.

Nicholas leaves shortly later and we girls stay. Bessy, who is on her way to finish her second glass, fishes her phone from her bag and reads a message that brings up a big smile to her face. "This is Philip, my son" she says showing me a picture of a boy of about eight, front teeth missing and a Manchester United jersey.

She asks me if I have a boyfriend and when I say no she says that someone so pretty will have lots to pick from soon in a place like Milton. "My grandpa would have said you're a bonny lass", she says and I find the expression endearing but I don't dwell on the prospect. We talk a lot more, about her son and the former boyfriend who never admitted being the father and of Nicholas as a father figure, of the challenges of being a working single mother who dropped out school and the particular trials of working in a male dominated environment. The conversation turns to the frivolous when she asks me about my skin care routines, saying that my genetics are perfect and everyone in my family must have wonderful skin. I then tell her that I really don't know because I'm adopted and for some mysterious reason that seems to impress her very positively.

I am the one who is more impressed. Everything I read about during my years of college, all the research I did for my dissertation, seems weak and silly next to what this woman has lived, the injustice that has fell upon her shoulders but hasn't been able to break her. I think she is amazing and I later talk to my father about her.

October, 9th.

Maria Hale:

My body is tired. Bertha, whose family has a summer house not far from our new home, picks me up every day to go swimming but I don't swim at all. I simply let the water embrace me, help carry my weight and lull my senses. It will become obvious very soon that this weakening disease is spreading over my body and tainting my soul. The day to tell the others is very near.

October, 10th.

Richard can be stubborn sometimes. He got this idea to invite one of his students for dinner and there is nothing I can say that could change his mind. I am quite uncomfortable with the idea of having a parade of students expecting to be fed but he insists this is a special case. I pray the Lord the evening goes well and with the invaluable help of Margaret, we have everything ready before the appointed time.

I recognize the pupil as the first one Richard had. He arrives at 8.30 sharp and brings an expensive bottle of red wine and a bouquet of lilies and violets for me. Purple is my favorite color and I wonder if Richard shared this piece of information with him or it's simply serendipity. I hand Margaret the flowers to put in a vase and I put out the corkscrew, to let one of the present men uncork the wine.

This man, Mr. Thornton, believes you only need to wish something for it to become true. He says that you have to work hard and you'll have a good life, that the poor are just lazy people. He doesn't know a thing about marriage to a person who promises you the moon and then blames the clouds for not giving it. But I admit he's a remarkable man, and he has a surprising smile that gives a glimpse of a completely different person: young, reckless and able to enjoy the simplest pleasures.

Hard worker as he might be, he is evidently not well educated. He goes as far as to say that life in the academy cannot have sudden upside downs, which is quite insulting for us and enrages Margaret - who tells him clearly that he is wrong.

He takes it gallantly and offers an apology and then it appears to me that he has just noticed her, not as a woman but as a rare specimen to watch under a microscope. Margaret serves the meal and Richard says the prayer. He keeps his eyes down and seems deep in thought for a moment, and the tone of the conversation shifts during the meal.

He asks good questions to everybody, listens to our stories, wants to know our problems and suggests a library committee where I could help should I feel so inclined.

While the most of the evening is pleasant a little incident at the end leaves me a little disconcerted. He is ready to leave and shakes hands with Richard and me, then turns to aMargaret as if waiting for something and after only a second turns away and leaves. I see him through the door's window walking fast towards his car and it seems to me that he's vexed, but I'm not sure exactly what about.

After he leaves we clear the table and Margaret loads the dishwasher. She confirms my suspicions that she doesn't like Mr. Thornton, but she sees why Richard does. She hushes us to bed as a hen would do with her chickens and next morning, when we go down for breakfast, find everything neat and tidy.

Notes: Margaret gets to know Nicholas and Bessie Higgins better in Ch. 8 "Home sickness" and Ch. 11 "First impressions".

In Ch. 9 and 10, "Dressing for tea" and "Wrought in iron and gold" the reader learns more about the Thorntons and John Thornton's personal story. In Ch. 11, "First impressions", Margaret discusses her impression of Mr. Thornton with her father.

The line"This is why this part of England is called Darkshire" was inspired by Jane Brocket (Yarnstom): "North and south".