Margaret Baumann - Design for Loving (1970)

by Margaret Baumann

  Neil sprang up. 'You must excuse me. I want to get on the phone to County Hall before the architect makes his report.' He showed Mr. Cragill out, resisting an impulse to grab him by the collar and frogmarch him across the entrance hall. When he was rid of him, he opened the window wide and drew in some gulps of the keen upland air, but it didn't cool his brain.

  Sharon Birch meeting a lover on the sly? It was abso lutely out of character. But the brother, it seemed, combined charm with instability. Why shouldn't the girl, too, have contradictory sides to her nature ? With his own eyes he had seen her with young Kershaw, the two of them standing very close together in the Norman porch, Adam holding both her hands and smiling down into her serious, upturned face. Samuel Cragill had witnessed the scene, too. It was only by the merest chance, some momentary distraction, that he had failed to see him there with Sharon, when Adam Kershaw had gone roaring off on his motorcycle. Nothing particularly secret about the noise of a motorbike! But Cragill had a mind that would distort every circumstance. Neil shuddered. His own reputation had been in peril. No, that was ludicrous. He was totally indifferent to what people thought of him in Roxley. But after he had gone, Samuel Cragill would have his say. And as long as he remained here, the man would be a thorn in the flesh.

  Betty stood in the doorway. Her eyes were round and big.

  'I didn't know what to do for the best, honest I didn't. I mean, you told me never to mention Mr. Cragill's name. But Percy and me, we racked our brains and we didn't come up with any excuse to get rid of him!'

  'I commend you for the mental effort, Betty,' said Neil. 'You won't misunderstand if I keep my office locked, in future?'

  'Oh, no, Mr. Haslam. And while Mr. Cragill is waiting, I'll see that he has the hard chair.'

  'Betty, you're a girl in a thousand.'

  'Oh, sir!' said Betty, transfigured, treasuring up every word to repeat to her friend Jean as they walked home together that night.

  Percy put his lugubrious face round the door. 'I'm afraid it's one of those days, Mr. Principal.'

  "What is it now?'

  'County Hall on the phone for you. The Director of Further Education himself.'

  Good lord. Were they giving him the language laboratory, after all - or was it just the opposite, some drastic new cut in grant that had to be broken to him gently? It couldn't be the cloakrooms. If that confounded architect had got his word in first…

  The Hallsworths lived in what Neil thought of as a typical millowner's house: sturdily set on rising ground with handsome bay windows that faced south. Imposing gates opened on a neat red gravel drive and the interior of the house had a sort of heavy comfort. Victoriana had never gone out of fashion in Roxley; the house seemed to know it and was proud.

  Neil had been invited to a meal that Friday evening in order to meet Ben's chief designer and hear more about the carpet industry in general and the Continental tour in particular. The welcome he received was cordial, even though it was immediately clear to him he had arrived earlier than they expected.

  'What of it?' Maud Hallsworth was grey-haired and plump, and the rich, friendly warmth of her voice exactly fitted the house. 'Surely you're due for a little comfort after so many dreary evenings spent in your office or propping up the bar at the Raven!'

  'All the more time to talk, man,' said Ben, taking him by the arm. 'Now then, what's your drink? Sherry? Whisky? One of these fancy concoctions?'

  Presently they were taking their drinks over to the settee in front of a great leaping fire, while Mrs. Hallsworth and a rather plodding, elderly maid came and went in the dining-room beyond the folding doors. A murmur of talk, the chink of cutlery. Neil, who had meant to ask a hundred brisk questions, found himself instead giving his first impressions of the valley, incidents amusing or maddening, tussles with County Hall, every slightest change he made, a battle; and a damper put already on so many soaring hopes.

  Whether it was the whisky and the great log fire dispelling the chill mists of the October evening, or simply Ben Hallsworth's comfortable presence beside him, the tension of the past weeks seemed miraculously eased. There were companionable pauses in their talk and at last Neil fell silent, his eyes drawn to a large, simply framed picture on the wall opposite. It was a painting of flowers, and he realized with a sense of delighted surprise that they were all wild roses, half a dozen varieties thrown together with careless art. Against the soft green of their own foliage he picked out the creamy burnet with its prickly stem, the delicate blush of the dog-rose, the deep pink of the sweetbriar. Every touch was exquisite, and the more he gazed the more he found in it. This thing had the 'wanton heed and giddy cunning' of the old Dutch flower pieces.

  'It's Sharon's, of course,' said Ben, following his glance. 'And the carpet she designed from it was our best-seller of the year.'

  His wife, coming in at that moment, said proudly: 'Ben made me a present of the first one to come off the loom. I have it in my bedroom.' Her smile was warm with pleasure. 'What a wonderful girl Sharon is - and a sweet person. She'll be here tonight, pumping Frank Roberts for all she's worth.'

  'I'd have liked to ask young Kershaw, too,' Ben said. 'The lad is starved for a bit of pleasure and good company. But Maud thought it was rather too pointed.'

  'He has choir practice on Fridays,' said Maud quickly. 'You've seen our beautiful abbey, Mr. Haslam ?'

  'I have indeed.'

  'And Sharon's new design based on some features of it? She has a powerful imagination and the skill to give it form.'

  Neil said suddenly, turning to Ben: 'You don't think of sending her abroad?'

  'I'd like her to see Vienna. The baroque style might inspire some lovely things. But she's determined not to have any special favours.' He and his wife exchanged a quick glance. 'One of these days I'll find a good excuse.' He clapped Neil on the shoulder. 'Not in term time, I promise you!'

  'If you'd care to see my wild rose carpet, there's just time,' his wife suggested. The men set down their glasses and they all three went upstairs. 'There!' said Maud, switching on the bedroom lights. 'Isn't it quite lovely?'

  But in some extraordinary way Neil's mood had changed. He felt tensed up and awkward and he could see Mrs. Hallsworth was a little hurt when he said the carpet was feminine and charming, but lacked the brilliance of the painting. And, damn it all, that was perfectly true! To make up for his lack of tact he praised the wide view from the bedroom windows. There were the lights spread out in their glory, just as he saw them from his office, only now he was looking from the opposite hillside. And on the way downstairs, he remarked that in the matter of houses he was old-fashioned. A substantial Victorian mansion pleased him far more than some split- level, dead modern eyesore for which you could pay a cool fifteen to twenty thousand pounds.

  Maud's face lit up. 'Ah! You'll be househunting on your own account? Perhaps not a mansion, but something sound, at least! I wish you'd let me help you. One hears of places before they come on the market and there's nothing I'd enjoy more than to be keeping my eyes and ears open for the house of your dreams. We must put our heads together after dinner, Mr. Haslam, when you're sick and tired of carpet talk!'

  Neil felt a qualm of embarrassment, almost of dismay. And with it a savage resentment because the old memories still ached in him. A dream house? God forbid! He turned the conversation by mentioning that his parents hoped to visit him before Christmas and he had many things of interest to show them in the valley. That set Maud making all sorts of plans for their entertainment and he wished he had kept his mouth shut.

  He was here tonight under false pretences. The Halls- worths made it so abundantly clear that in his capacity as head of the Institute and as a personal friend he was to be part of their lives from now on. Narrow-minded? Hostile? His estimate of Roxley people had been wide of the mark. But he was a misfit, just the same, and soon they'd all know it. When he resigned his post, it would be all over the valley like lightning!

  These thoughts made his face dark as he st
epped into the lounge and saw Sharon on the settee beside Frank Roberts, talking animatedly. She wore a simple flowery dress with a low neckline, revealing the pure curve of her throat and a glimpse of white shoulder. Her face was flushed; her smooth dark hair picked up glints from the firelight. Neil could not imagine any creature more glowing and alive. And at the sight of him, all this light and fire was extinguished in an instant.

  'A nice surprise for you, Sharon, dear,' Maud Hallsworth cried gaily. 'Mr. Haslam has come to sit at your feet and learn all about carpets. He has just been admiring your wild roses.'

  Certainly a surprise, though 'nice' was not the word the girl would choose to describe it, thought Neil, studying her face. At dinner she was placed opposite him and next to Frank Roberts, and he couldn't take his eyes off her. So there was something between her and young Kershaw, Cragill hadn't just been passing on idle gossip. The Hallsworths accepted the situation and were careful not to invite Adam Kershaw tonight as it would be 'too pointed'. Well, that was their business, none of his; but he found it hard to take. He'd have sworn she had an integrity that scorned anything shifty and underhand. Damn Samuel Cragill for being at least half right!

  While Frank Roberts held forth, growing more and more Welsh as the subject gripped him, Neil thought about Adam Kershaw. An ordinary enough young fellow, he had thought him; gauche in manner and with nothing much to say for himself. He had sat in the back of the Music Appreciation class and he hadn't been impressed. Perhaps his presence made the chap nervous. Just near the end there had been a few moments when he forgot himself, dragging something rather splendid from the lamentable old piano to illustrate his talk. But his awkwardness had returned when Neil detained him a few moments to discuss how the students could be made to take an active part and become involved, instead of scribbling away for dear life or staring abstractedly into the distance. 'What do they get from this class?' he had asked Adam bluntly. And now he asked himself what Sharon got from their friendship. When Jennifer forsook him he had decided women were a mystery past his comprehending - and by heaven, he had been right!

  This was an evening Sharon had looked forward to keenly. She loved this house and the Hallsworths, the meal was delectable and Frank Roberts passed on his experiences graphically. He was talking about Paris and the chateaux of the Loire and she wanted to treasure every word, every image. But there sat her ogre and all the ease and pleasure of the occasion was lost.

  She thought: He had to give up his post because of a woman and Roxley means exile to him. Who was she? What happened? He's unhappy and tormented and he wears that sarcastic, off-putting manner like armour. She understood now the darkling glance, the bitter twist his mouth sometimes had. She had very decided opinions about people. Samuel Cragill she despised. Amelia Frith and Adam called forth a tender compassion which often surged into anger that life had dealt them such a poor bargain. But her feelings about Neil were complicated, she couldn't analyse them. Perhaps she dared not

  Frank Roberts, being helped to vegetables, described a meal he had found memorable at a country hotel on the Loire: a salade frisee with olives to accompany a chaud-froid of veal, and stuffed tomatoes as a side-dish.

  'I shall go on seeing that table in my dreams, though not as a carpet design! Look you, there never were such tomatoes. They made ours seem like miserable throw- outs.'

  'Ah, they must have a Samuel Cragill in their midst,' said Ben. 'Remember the prizes he took at the Roxley Show last summer? My gardener's nose was fairly put out of joint.'

  'And the allotment holders and the Flower Guild never got a look in,' added Maud. 'As for Mrs. Cragill and her preserves… Oh, between them they swept the board.'

  "You're forgetting the beans,' put in Sharon's amused voice. There was a roar of laughter.

  Still chuckling, their host turned to Neil. 'If you've seen one of these country shows, Haslam, you'll know such produce is exhibited as plates of twelve. Of course, Cragill's beans were giants, but one of the judges happened to notice that he'd miscounted: eleven broad beans and thirteen scarlet runners. So he was disqualified in both classes amid universal rejoicing!'

  Across the table Neil looked into Sharon's eyes and saw the unholy joy there. He grinned broadly in response. Lifting his glass, he murmured for her alone: 'We'll give him beans!' She made a grimace at the poor joke, but her eyes were still dancing. Solemnly they clinked glasses. It was as if their halting acquaintance had gone forward all at once with a skip and a jump. They had a bond: Samuel Cragill!

  In the lounge, the elderly maid poured coffee, then piled logs on the fire and withdrew. Ben served liqueurs. The resinous logs spurted and hissed, sent up showers of sparks. They sat back and talked about carpets, passing Frank Roberts' sketchbook from hand to hand. And every moment Neil was aware of the girl's presence, of her vitality and her mystery.

  A clock striking in the hall brought Frank Roberts to his feet. He must be off home. They had found no one to babysit this evening and his wife was stuck in with the children. After his trip abroad she couldn't bear him out of her sight. Sharon excused herself, too, in sudden haste to be gone. Neil dragged himself out of his deep chair.

  'If I can give anyone a lift?'

  But Roberts lived quite near in a cottage on' the hillside.

  'I'll be cutting through the kitchen garden, look you, and by the field path home.'

  'Sharon will appreciate a lift, I'm sure,' said Mrs. Hallsworth. 'The night is coming in wet and misty. What we have to live through before spring is in the valley again!'

  Neil looked hard at Sharon, defying her to say she preferred walking. But she said nothing, and a moment or two later she stood waiting for him in her big tweed coat while he took leave of the Hallsworths. And then she was beside him and they were driving through a dirty shower of sleet. The car had been standing out in it, the engine spluttered and stalled. Neil muttered something about drying out the electrical points, then turned in his seat to glare at the girl.

  'All right, say it. You could have walked it in half the time!'

  'I'd have got horribly wet,' said Sharon.

  'Thank you.'

  'While I have the opportunity,' said Sharon in a small, clear voice, 'I think I should tell you the egg-cosies are a leftover from the occupational therapy material when the building was a hospital. All the junk was collected up and crammed in that cupboard and then someone conveniently lost the key. You bumped into the doors, hard, and hey presto!'

  'I'd forgotten the egg-cosies.'

  'I hadn't, Mr. Haslam. Now I'll be glad to.' Humour quivered in her voice. 'But I shall never eat another soft- boiled egg!'

  They had arrived. It was a white cottage down a quiet lane. From the windows, Neil reckoned, you wouldn't see the mill or the municipal flats or even the new pylons — subject of bitter correspondence in the Gazette — which took mighty strides from fell to fell; but only the glorious red stone of the abbey set amid its venerable elms and yews, and perhaps the glint of the river.

  Between the simple gate and the house door stretched a garden now overgrown with autumn. Not, thank God, Samuel Cragill's idea of a garden. She grew tiger lilies and shrub roses and great clumps of Michaelmas daisies in every shade from blush pink to deep purple; and edging the path, against the bold orange of marigolds and the sage-green of catmint, rose of Sharon sprawled abundantly. That delighted him - her signature to the house.

  The door was low. Neil saw he would have to stoop to pass under the lintel. But there would be no need, for she certainly didn't mean to ask him in. A constraint had come upon them. They stood awkwardly, each uncertain of the other, sheltering behind walls of reserve. Neil was bare-headed under the downpour of rain. His loneliness and his need held him there like a stubborn fool.

  There was no hallway. He was looking directly into a living-room the width of the house. It had the charm of cream paintwork and soft-toned rugs. The floorboards were mellow with a century of diligent polishing, and there were pieces of embroidery - a wall-pan
el, a heap of cushions - that shone out like jewels. His eye was drawn to a pheasant embroidered in brilliant crimson and gold against a russet silk ground. Beyond that, the place was in confusion. The furniture had been pushed back, books were in tumbling heaps everywhere; an easel on its side, sketches spilling out of a portfolio on the table.

  Neil said with authority: 'Wait, I'll go in first. You've had burglars.'

  'No, just Mr. Smart,' said Sharon. Her eyes were dancing again. 'He's been making me some new bookshelves. I called at his house with the door-key on my way out.'

  'Clues galore.' Neil picked up a wood shaving from the mat. And there lay the key in full view on the' table. 'A fine detective I'd make!'

  'I absolutely must clear up this mess tonight,' said Sharon. 'So if you don't mind '

  But he did mind. The door was beginning to close. 'I wish you'd let me lend a hand. I need to work off some energy. You can be the gaffer: lean back gracefully against that pheasant and direct operations.'

  'I couldn't dream of it. Thanks all the same.'

  Neil was staring past her at a framed photograph which stood on the table and would certainly have pride of place on top of those new bookshelves: a young man wearing shorts and a bush shirt. He stood laughing at the camera with a cheetah cub tucked under each arm. The likeness sprang out startlingly.

  "Your brother.'

  'In the Nairobi National Park. Actually there were five cubs - and the warden knew exactly where to find them. Isn't that marvellous? Tony was snapping like mad all day.'