March, 6th

Margaret:

Bessy called yesterday and shared the good news, and I agreed we should celebrate even if I'm not really in the mood for showing my face at the Black Dog tonight. Mr. West and my father allied themselves to throw me out of the house, so to speak, on threats of challenging me to play scrabble to death - or to sleep, whichever came first.

As I walk the eight blocks from home to the pub I realize that Mr. West's presence and Bessy's joy have a strange effect on me. While Mr. West's company helps my father cope better with the first stages of widowhood, and I'm really happy for Bessy getting the job and my father not wallowing in his sadness, I admit that I used their distress as an excuse, or as a distraction maybe.

Now they're better I feel they don't need me so much anymore and my grief, my own deep grief, like a full cup I haven't dared to try, sloshes up my chest, brings a lump to my throat and floods my eyes.

My mother died and I feel I am alone in my bereavement. My father has Mr. West and Mr. Thornton, Edith and Frederick have their spouses and their babies, Bessy has her son and her job, Sylvia and Mel have each other. Who do I have?

The vision of a pair of sparkling clear eyes that tilt up at the corners comes to my mind, and I feel even more lonely by knowing what I could have had but turned down only because of misplaced pride. Is it such a crime to invite someone for dinner a little out of the blue? I don't think so. Every offensive memory about that day is about thoughts or assumptions that happened in my head: he only said good things and I willfully took them wrong.

I'm almost at the pub's corner and I slow my pace almost to a stop. I am on the verge on self pity and I hate that. Tonight is about Bessy and it would be vile of me to make it otherwise. I pull open the The Black Dog Pub and Restaurant's door and without a second thought I dive inside.

John:

Ah, The Black Dog Pub and Restaurant... I hadn't been here in years. Probably the seediest place where children can have fish and chips and not fall sick with some mutant bacteria. A delicate balance of flavor and uncleanlinnes my father loved, which has apparently remained unaltered all this time.

I came with two of my managers for a drink. In spite of what many seem to think I do socialize with my people outside business hours, and one of the managers will marry soon so the occasion is festive. The moment we sit down I notice both Higginses at a near table, the daughter talking animatedly, the father nodding in asent.

A while later someone else joins the party and I don't even need to raise my eyes to know who it is. My ears stubbornly delight in the velvety lower tones of her voice like a hand anticipates holding a peach. I cast a quick glance in her direction. Her dark hair is gathered in a ponytail exposing her long and lovely neck, and she's wearing a blue denim dress which looks as if it were a buttoned shirt down to her knees, pink belt marking her small waist, long pink sleeves coming down the dress' short ones, brown leather riding boots and matching purse. Does anything that doesn't fit her perfectly even exist?

It's Saturday and the place is full. Customers get up from their seats and order at the counter instead of calling the waiters, who are so few (another key feature of this fine establishment) that they're all probably in a cigarette break now. I get up and hit the loo and when I'm back, I see Margaret standing by the counter presumably waiting for a drink.

Against my will I get near her, like a moth to a flame knowing I might get hurt. I just can't not.

I stand right by her side and order a beer even if I already have one at the table. The barman hands her her drink, a tall glass with something orange with a straw and a paper umbrella, and she turns to me. The sight of her pink lips around the straw summons all kinds of wild thoughts, which come hand in hand the suspicions I've had for days. She swallows a mouthful of the drink, and smiles up at me and says hello, to which I reply only with a nod. She small talks... how are you's and what not, and it crosses my mind that she was lonely and she's glad to see me. A quick look around indeed confirm that both Higginses are engrossed in conversation with other people and no one was paying attention to her.

I look into her eyes and I feel like I'm running with scissors to the edge of a cliff. A small, minuscule slip may result in irreversible major injury. She looks back smiling and chattier than I've ever seen her, and I experience the familiar feeling of being bewitched by her.

-"Aren't you drinking too liberally?" I interrupt pointing at her glass, now half empty.

-"It's only orange juice", she replies, mischief dancing in her eyes, "but thank you for your concern".

I'm falling under her spell; it used to be a pleasant, almost welcome sensation but now it's tainted. She smiles but looks somewhat vulnerable, and I know that when Margaret Hale is vulnerable (or hurt or sad), it's when she's most dangerous.

-"I heard you gave Bessy Higgins a job. That's..." she starts saying but I simply break eye contact by turning my face as if I hadn't heard her, and leave her midsentence. In the reflection in the window I can see she's staring at me, mouth agape, but she lowers her face and turns back to the counter and her drink. She rummages in her bag for some bills and coins, which she places next to the glass and leaves for her table. There she takes her jacket and gestures to her friends, pointing her head and shrugging. Yes, the old headache excuse, I've heard it myself a handful of times.

She gets to the door and off the pub in record time.

I don't feel any remorse for not wanting to listen to her - apparently I wasn't the only one there who thought there was better company to enjoy, but I'm curious about the drink. The glass is still on the counter and I'm there in a few steps.

I decide I'll try it; if she told the truth and was only juice then I'll make sure she gets home safe, for my teacher's sake.

"Who drinks only orange juice a Saturday night in a pub?", I have to wonder.

I'm following Margaret from a hundred yard distance. I don't want to walk her home because I don't trust myself around her and because I know how harsh she can be with unwelcome company, and honestly, I'm not in the mood.

Her walk is light and easy, her figure tall and graceful. She stops every so often to pull a handkerchief from her pocket and I wonder if she's aware of being observed, if this image of sadness and loneliness is real or just a stunt.

In no time she gets to her home. She pauses a moment after she unlocks the door, and disappears in the light cozy inside from which manly laughter can be heard.

Sad and lonely, my ass.