North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell

"Let's watch that last part again."

"Frannie! We've watched the ending six times already." I get up and turn the telly off. "Enough is enough."

Rachel sighs and looks crest fallen at her empty wine glass. "It's worth it. The whole film-- the drab colours, the blah greyness of  Milton-- it's all worth it once you get to the end."

"Indeed," I say, picking up Mr. Tumnus, my cat, and scratching behind his ears. "The book ended well too, don't you think? I laughed out loud. I thought the last line was particularly brilliant!"

"Oh, I did too!" Rachel leans forward on her chair. "It was absolutely smart. However, here is one thing that the movie does better than Mrs. Gaskell's book--Henry's dismissal as a contender for Margaret's affection."

"Agreed," I say. "The book really took the coward's way out on getting rid of Henry. But the odd tension that Margaret and John have to endure while they wait for him in the book is well used. Wouldn't you agree, Frannie?"

"Frannie! For shame!" Rachel reaches over and retrieves the DVD case from Frannie's hands. She is cuddling with it.

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"I just love this movie. It's gorgeous, really." Frannie says, with a smile.

"You mean Richard Armitage is gorgeous," I say.

"That too." Frannie nods. "I like him better in this role than in Spooks. That was a real disappointment to me. Season Nine. You think you know a person, and then you realize.... that you never did."

"It's a program, Frannie. Not real life. Don't get so attached," I chide.

"I can't help it. Once you've seen him in North and South, you can't help but root for him in everything he acts in. It's a real downer when he plays a bad guy. You just know he'll die and then where does that leave you? Eating biscuits and crying into your tea. It's a  bloody waste of time at my age."

I ask Rachel if Frannie had any of the wine, she says no.
No matter, back to the task at hand.
"What did you think of the novel when you read it, Frannie?"

"Oh, I didn't read it, love."

I sigh and put Mr. Tumnus back on the floor. "Frannie, you promised."

"Well, I haven't read it but I listened to it. Youtube has an audiobook version of it. And all I have to say is that some of the bits where the cotton mill are described put me to sleep."

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"No," Rachel remarks quickly, "I thought Mrs. Gaskell did an excellent job of describing it all rather simply. It left nothing to the imagination."

"Exactly. Boring," Frannie huffs.

"Not boring." Rachel insists.

"Quite boring," Frannie assures.

I redirect them with a question. "What did you think of the mother?"

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"Mr. Thornton's mum?  Quite a stick in the mud," Frannie offers. "I mean, I suppose every story needs a bad guy. Not that she was quite bad, she was just..."

"Harsh," Rachel supplies.

"I was going to say cold, but I suppose that both  words describe a barren wilderness during winter, so the term suits, doesn't it?" Frannie directs her question to my cat. She picks up Mr. Tumnus and coos, "You aren't harsh, are you Tum-Tums?"

Mr. Tumnus jumps down from Frannie's lap and offers her a view of his backside, tail up. Mr. Tumnus is particularly fond of his real name. He doesn't believe in nicknames.

"Well, that was harsh." Frannie says.

"I was going to say cold, but either word will suffice." Rachel smiles at me, and winks at Frannie. Frannie rolls her eyes and shifts in her chair.

Rachel gets up for another glass of wine. "It is fascinating to see how Mrs. Gaskell managed to show two seperate culture clashes. She really does a great job of showing society and their unwillingness to accept modern times and change, and all that."

"How do you mean?" I ask.

"Well, obviously she means the clash of the Northern way and the Southern way of English life." Frannie touches her nose like she were Father Christmas keeping a secret to himself.

"No, not at all." Rachel gasps. "I meant the rich and the poor. The owner and the worker. She captured the reality of their struggle remarkably well. I actually had compassion for the predicament the mill owners found themselves in."

"Soft spot," Frannie huffs then murmurs Saunders style, "can't read a book to save her life."

"Battle axe with poor clothing choices," Rachel mutters into her glass.

My head is going back and forth watching the two of them fight as though it were a tennis match. I utterly despise tennis. And so, there's only one way to solve a battle like this.

"Who's up for another look at the ending of the film?"

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Both women stare at me for a moment before my words register with them.

"Shall we?" I ask, pointing to the telly.

And, of course, we watch the ending to North and South once more. And the evening ends on a friendly note. Rachel having had the whole bottle of wine, Mr. Tumnus asleep on my lap and Frannie hugging the frozen image of Richard Armitage on the telly screen.