November, 20th
Margaret:
This morning I took Philip Higgins to the doctor for a tremendous rash on his back, which I suspect is of nervous origin. I am sorry for this child, who looks miserable and lost, but condescension never helped anyone. I made some notes on my notebook to talk to Bessie, to help Phil find good influences and cultivate, so to speak, his inclinations and talents. You never know what hides behind a scrawny little kid and if given the opportunity into what he or she can blossom.
Bessy invited us for a dinner at her home tonight and I go with my father. Fred is in Milton for a few days and stays at home keeping our mother company.
The moment I set foot on their doorstep I understand how much importance they have appointed to this visit, and I congratulate myself on bringing good wine and flowers because Bessy smile receiving those items could light up a room. She lives with Nicholas and Philip in a flat from the mid seventies, probably housing for factory workers. The whole area looks a bit run down but Bessy's place, which has your mandatory overstuffed flowered old couch in front of a huge boxed TV, has been thoroughly cleaned and every metallic piece gleams showing the effort put into receiving us.
We eat in old china dishes (I would guess this is Nicholas' wedding gift or maybe older) and with silverware that couldn't cut water but looks very pretty. I'm flattered and touched by my friend's attentiveness, and this evening feels more special to me that the old ones in expensive restaurants back when I lived with Edith.
My father and Nicholas discuss the economy, and Nicholas enlightens my father (and me too) with a whole new perspective on Milton's history and development. Nicholas thinks that the workers deserve more credit than they receive and quantifies how the unions have improved his quality of life. I see my father sometimes has difficulty understanding Nicholas, who talks very quickly and with plenty of broad Manc interspersed, but he follows with great interest and see a very unlikely friendship budding between they two.
Nicholas has worked for more than four decades and tells us the story of Marlborough Mills. The street where it is located, Queen Victoria Ave. used to be part of an older street named after the Duke of Marlborough where there used to be one of the largest cotton mills of the area, founded around 1850 and closed after the great depression in 1934. The warehouses survived demolition by being used for storage until the early 1980, when some optimistic architects renovated the interiors and attempted to sale them very expensively. It didn't work out that way and stayed empty for almost two decades - everyone thought that developers would torn it down and build offices but Thornton's company occupied the premises and took the name. By the way they talk about Mr. Thornton I don't judge it wise to mention our proximity to him and apparently my father shares the sentiment.
We try to include Phil in the conversation but he is shy, which is so much better than withdrawn. After dinner we adults keep talking and he is excused from the table; when we're putting our coats to leave he rushes back from his room with a paper in his hand, which he thrusts at me. It falls at my feet and he blushes and runs back to his room, slamming the door. I pick up the paper and find a wonderfully descriptive drawing of the doctor's office, with every patient and nurse we saw there and we two hand in hand with big lopsided smiles.
I thank him from his door. We called a cab and ride home in a few minutes, in which I ask my father if he sees Mr. Thornton under a new light now. He replies that he's not silly and he is aware of the lights and shadows of his position.
-"And what about you?", he asks in turn, "are you liking Mr. Thornton a little better now?"
-"Oh, he's my first olive, papa," I reply, "let me make a face while I swallow it".
When we arrive home I go to bed with my laptop and find two new emails to be read. One arrived to my father's email account from Marlborough Mills Repair Shop inviting us three to a end of the year party, on the 8th of next month. The other one is from Sylvia, inviting me to the opening of her new exhibit at a modernist gallery in London the 11th. I don't think we'll go to the first one but I reply to the second with a long message.