August, 1st

John:

Monday, crappy Monday. Summer seems to be gone already - the skies are gray and the breeze is a bit too cool for the first day of August. I park my car in my usual spot and get out, the old checklist of movements and clicks of every morning of my life. I head for the main door to Marlborough Mills Repair Shop's offices of when I hear footsteps and a female voice calling me.

-"Mr. Thornton! Excuse me, Mr. Thornton!"

I turn around and see Bessy Higgins coming my way. She looks as if she has caught a cold, her nose and mouth are red and a bit swollen, the eyes puffy and bloodshot.

-"Mrs. Higgins" I say waiting for her to reach me. "I thought I had already hired you".

Bessy:

Wait. Was that a joke? Just in case it wasn't I don't reply.

-"I have a delivery for you, if you wait just a second I can hand it to you right now".

-"Give it to my secretary", he orders and turns to walk.

-"It's from Margaret Hale" I say and he stops completely. "It doesn't have your name on it so I thought you'd rather have it handed straight. But I can put it with the rest of your mail if you wish so".

He looks back at me frowning. Not as in angry frowning but mostly thoughtful frowning. Mr. Thornton frowns a lot and I'm just learning to tell the different moods.

-"I'll wait for you", he says. "Come on, hurry up!"

I rush to my bike for the little parcel wrapped in brown paper Margaret gave me along many things for my father and me. I have no idea what it may contain; it's about the size of a mug and it's heavy. I give it to him and he takes it in his hands, and makes no comment but just a quiet "thank you".

It's all so sad that I feel my tears coming down again. I blow my nose noisily to disguise that obvious fact. Mr. Thornton doesn't notice, fortunately.

John:

Bessy Higgins is lucky to be a woman because she can cry.

Once in my office I tear open the parcel; it's an inkwell, the one that was stuck in Mr. Hale's drawer that faraway day only a few months ago. There's also a handwritten note, and I let my finger slide over the words trying to recreate the touch of the hand that wrote them.

'Dear Sir,

My father planned on giving you this inkwell as a present once you passed your exam. I am now fulfilling his wish in the hope that you'll remember him as the valuable friend he was.

Yours sincerely, MARGARET HALE.'

I wish I could cry too.