Margaret Baumann - Design for Loving (1970)

by Margaret Baumann

'Happen you think he does too well?' said Ezra craftily. 'It would suit Adam better if the doctor gave me a little push over the edge.'

  Sharon found courage to meet his eyes. 'That's a monstrous thing to say, Mr. Kershaw, when Adam takes such good care of you always.'

  'Maybe he does and maybe he doesn't. Jolting me near to death over these ruts, running the batteries down with all his stopping and starting - and now idling away precious time talking in the lane.'

  'I'm sorry. He's been preparing something rather special for the music class.'

  'Stuff and rubbish,' snorted Ezra.

  'And I wanted to pass on the news that we have a young Frenchman coming to work at Hallsworth's - an old pupil of Miss Frith's.'

  The old man's lips lifted in a sardonic grin. 'Competition for the lad, is it? And you couldn't wait to let him know.'

  Colour rushed into Sharon's face. 'Oh, nothing like that at all!'

  'Isn't it, now? He doesn't let you out of his sight for long, I've marked that. Meeting on the sly - up at that Institute, down at the abbey, here in the lane which is a mighty roundabout way to Dr. Eastwood's.'

  'The other road is worse after all that heavy rain,' muttered Adam.

  'Ha! I've much to put up with from that housekeeper of mine, but she does let me know what's happening behind my back.' He glared down at Sharon more fiercely than ever. 'If you're courting, why not come straight out with it, girl? I wouldn't be against it. It would tie Adam to the valley and put fancy notions out of his head - like gallivanting off to London on a music scholarship and starving to death there, with a good business running to waste here in Roxley. Aye, he needs a steady girl to steady him up, does that lad. I can't think why any woman would look at him twice, but I reckon you're used to seeing him around.'

  Poor Adam! He stood there ungainly and blushing, his fair hair on end, the inky handkerchief hanging out of his shabby jacket pocket. But he was her friend and she said loyally: 'You're not fair to Adam, Mr. Kershaw.'

  'Ha! Young men are soft these days. Look, when I was a little 'un and my father set me on, I thought nothing of pushing the handcart with a few hundredweight of oily waste from the wire works all the way out to Tim Eliot's rag and bone yard behind the railway sheds.'

  'Adam isn't soft. I know what a long, hard day he works for you. And on top of it there's his evening class or a choir practice, all the Sunday services at the abbey while Mr. Longford's bronchitis keeps him at home. Not to mention weddings and funerals.'

  'Weddings and funerals,' mimicked the old man bitterly. 'His mind isn't on his work, that's what bothers me. He goes round with all this nonsense in his head.' He paused and peered cunningly from one to the other like a thieving magpie. 'Perhaps there's nonsense in your head, too, girl. Expectations. Waiting for me to die, I shouldn't wonder, so that the pair of you can pour my hard-earned money away - like the water running down yon fellside.' He cackled. 'I'll take care that doesn't happen.'

  'No such thought was ever in my mind,' said Sharon, her voice ringing out loud and clear.

  'You'd stand by Adam if he had nothing?' snorted the old man. He sagged in the wheelchair. 'Get moving, boy. Standing there gawping!'

  Adam closed the rear doors, then he clumsily seized Sharon's hand and kissed it.

  'Bless you! You're a wonderful girl.' He gave her a look of burning gratitude. 'I'll never forget how you stood up to the old man this morning.'

  Sharon said impatiently: 'You must stick out for your rights. You're a human being, not a… a cog! He'll respect you all the more.'

  'Fair enough. But if you knew how I loathe every minute of every day down at the wire works…' He dropped her hand, scrambled into the driving seat and started up the old engine with a crank and a splutter.

  Above the din, he shouted: 'Darling Sharon, I'll get my freedom somehow, never fear. And though I don't deserve you, I swear I'll build a future for us both. Just trust me.'

  The ancient van jolted down the lane. Sharon stood in a puddle watching it out of sight. How long would Adam's fine resolution last? There never was such a creature for dramatic ups and downs of hope and despair. Just trust me…

  In a curious, accidental sort of way she had got herself engaged to Adam Kershaw!

  CHAPTER SIX

  Luc Priolly's arrival made quite a stir. It might have gone unnoticed during the summer months when foreign visitors not infrequently strayed from the beaten path of tourism and had the thrill of discovering Roxley Abbey for themselves. But this sombre autumn scene, the fells wreathed in mist and the bare trees sketched in charcoal against a paler grey sky, quite startlingly set off his exotic plumage: an extraordinary taste in shoes, socks, ties and pullovers, a fancy hat no Roxley lad would have been seen dead in, and an even fancier umbrella which he carried everywhere. With all this went a long pale Gallic face, sideburns in the style of his hero, the bullfighter El Cordobes; a mischievous eye and a delightful accent Sharon hoped he would never lose.

  He was an energetic young man and within a week had worn down Amelia Frith and her dull recluse of a sister Gladys to near-collapse. Sharon felt guilty, but hoped and prayed they would soon get their second wind and find the young Frenchman's visit a tonic, as she had predicted. He had an insatiable curiosity to explore odd corners of the old town, peeping in at any open door, following his nose down dark little ginnels and alleys and later asking a thousand questions about what he had seen. It was the same thing at the carpet mill. Luc Priolly turned up in the most unlikely places and no one could be sure if he was frittering away his time or seeing and hearing a great deal more than was right and proper.

  One morning Sharon turned from her sloping desk under the window and found him rapidly flicking through her portfolio of unfinished sketches - but with such naturalness, such admiring murmurs, that it was hard to take offence. But this department was out of bounds to him and she shooed him out.

  He paused in the doorway, taking stock of the copyists in their pretty smocks, bending at their long tables, making lightning blobs of colour on their squared paper.

  'Sensationnel! So much girls -and all blooming!'

  Ruby and Hazel, the pair Sharon had introduced to Adam's music class because they warbled in harmony all day long, went off into a gale of giggles. In an instant Luc was at their table, making his polite little bow.

  'I make the gaffe, yes? I say something I have not ought? You will jump on me, please!'

  Under Bernard's strict eye, the girls scuttled off, still laughing, to fill up their paint pots. As he stepped into the lift, Luc gave Sharon a shrug and grimace of discouragement. But later, in the canteen, she saw him with Hazel Ormerod. Their heads were together, the girl's cheeks were prettily flushed. Evidently it was no hardship to jump on his error!

  Sensationnel would be the operative word, Sharon thought, when Miss Frith showed him off to her evening class. Those tatty old grammar books would fly straight out of the window! But perhaps the Head should have been warned, after all ? She felt guilty again!

  It was all very well urging other folk - Adam, Miss Frith - to stand up to the tyrant. She didn't feel particularly brave herself as she trudged up the steep drive to the Institute between the dripping wet rhododendrons and laurels, braced for the gusty rain-wind that lurked round the corner; braced, too, for an encounter with Neil Haslam. It was like the apprehension - half fear, half excitement - of a child creeping into a forbidden room in the dark. Would she or would she not see him tonight? If they met, it would be stormy, that went without saying.

  He was rude and provoking and something in her leapt to the challenge.

  But if he kept out of her way; if the whole evening passed without a glimpse of him, the ring of his footsteps on the tiles of the entrance hall, the rumble of his voice behind a closed door… Why then, what a flatness came over her. Her class had been dull and without profit, all those hours wasted; the day's fatigue was gathered into a lump of lead between her shoulders and a foolish, unreasoning disappointment went arm-in-arm
with her all the way home.

  Tonight would be like that. Not because Neil had treated himself to an evening off - wasn't his whole life spent between the Institute on the hill and the Raven down in the valley, and how did any man stand the strain ? As she signed the book and picked up her register, Percy told her a special meeting of the governors had been called and Mr. Principal would be closeted with them in the round room all evening.

  Sharon gave him a look of surprise. 'Mr. Hallsworth is away in London on Federation business. I'd have expected them to wait for his return.'

  Percy's long, lugubrious face grew even,longer. 'He isn't the chairman. It was called in a hurry. Betty and I had a job getting the notices out.'

  Betty was poking pencil after pencil into the sharpener and twirling the handle viciously. She blurted: 'Sammy Cragill is awfully thick with old Foxways, the chairman. I bet they put their heads together and picked a moment when your Mr. Hallsworth was away, just because they know he's strictly fair.'

  'Betty!' said Percy, scandalized and glancing nervously over his shoulder.

  'Oh, Percy, don't be stuffy.' Betty abandoned the pencils and peered darkly through her fringe at him. 'The notice wasn't marked top secret or anything. Why shouldn't I tell Miss Birch? It'll all be in the Gazette tomorrow night.'

  'That's precisely where it won't be,' said Percy. 'The Press is excluded. I have orders not to let Topliss through at any price.'

  'You see?' said Betty. 'They're ashamed of what they're doing.'

  'Get those pencils sharpened, girl. You'll have reams of minutes to take down.'

  'You're telling me! First they'll consider Item x, which is Mr. Haslam's scheme for reorganizing the courses and laying on decent amenities for staff and students. They'll go through it, point by point, and show how clever they are by making the simplest details seem complicated. Then they'll take Item 2 - a horrible memo from County Hall asking for "proposals for economies to take effect from 1st January". Can't you see what will happen? Those old meanies will make mincemeat of our lovely scheme. There'll be no new cloakrooms, no library, and the wretched huts will stand there till they rot away.' The white clown's face was woebegone and through the strands of hair Sharon could see tears welling up and blurring the mascara. 'I can't bear it. I just can't. Darling Mr. Haslam must have sat up till midnight week after week gettting out that scheme. It took me ages to type and I did it quite beautifully. I could go on reading it over and over like poetry. But now…'

  'Here they come,' said Percy.

  He nipped smartly under the counter and hurried across the entrance hall where a small group of people had begun to assemble: town councillors, a couple of women among them, prominent local tradesmen and manufacturers. In their midst stood silver-haired Alderman Foxways, looking frail and vague, with Samuel

  Cragill beside him, looking more solid than ever.

  'This way, please,' said Percy.

  Mr. Cragill wafted him aside with a podgy hand. 'Ah, Percy, permit me to do the honours. I'm on my own midden here! We're in the round room, are we? I take it the Principal is ready for us ?'

  The round room. Hurrying through the darkness to start her class, Sharon remembered that in the cottage hospital days the round room had been the operating theatre. And tonight, seated at the table, these fine, well- meaning people who gave up so much of their leisure in the public service would operate upon Neil Haslam's carefully thought out design for the future of Roxley Institute. They would think themselves justified, in the sacred name of economy, to chop out a project here, lop off a detail or two there, gouge out the heart of the thing, cut off the head… And then, pleased with themselves, they'd go off and leave him the sorry job of stitching up the bits.

  Darling Mr. Haslam, that funny little mini-girl had called him, proud to have a share in his work. I could go on reading it over and over like poetry. Pathetic and rather absurd. But the loyalty shone out and suddenly gave you a new aspect of the man who inspired it.

  But this wasn't the arrogant, sarcastic Neil Haslam she knew. It was a total stranger. Did he change like a chameleon when he chose to exert his fatal charm over women ? The very thought set her pride bristling. She would rather be his enemy than his slave! And she could crow now because in his impatience to turn the old Institute upside down he had set the whole board of governors against him. Yet somehow the triumph tasted bitter. Why, oh, why hadn't he let his great schemes simmer until his authority was established and he could claim to know how Roxley people lived and thought?

  It was an unpleasant shock to hear Samuel Cragill say the very same thing.

  'Well, there we are. You've cooked your goose. And all through being too hasty.'

  She had stayed behind when the bell went to help Mrs. Collins, one of her students, in the choice of stitches for an embroidery motif and when she slipped into the office to drop her register in the rack she found she was the last member of staff to sign off. Even the lab assistants, who often stayed late to clear up, had gone home. Betty and Percy were away, too. There was only the old caretaker shuffling round, his wheezy cough heard in the distance as he went from room to room along the corridor closing windows and switching off lights. Sharon was putting on her coat when the door of Neil's private office suddenly opened and he came out with Samuel Cragill. She pressed herself into a corner, hoping to remain unnoticed as they passed by. But they stood there in Neil's doorway and Mr. Cragill repeated in his rich, plummy voice:

  'Cooked your goose. Festina lente — that was my advice and you ignored it.'

  From her hiding place Sharon saw that Neil's face was grey with strain. Holding himself in check, he said with a sort of weary anger: 'My demands were not unreasonable. You must know perfectly well those army huts are tumbling down, the central heating system has packed it in, and for years the textile and engineering courses have inherited old machinery chucked out by the manufacturers. How can the apprentices do up-to-date work and make a good showing in their exams? As for the lab equipment - it's lamentable. And the total lack of social amenities… My God, the place is moribund. I thought they'd appointed a principal, not an undertaker!'

  Mr. Cragill gave his fat chuckle. 'Neat, very neat!… Your scheme isn't unreasonable, my dear chap, but it's damned untimely. Haven't you realized that when there's a squeeze on, it's Further Education that always takes the hardest knock ? Gospel truth, Haslam, I assure you. And you could have brought in any number of changes quietly, without drawing official notice. Impetuous, that's your trouble! A spot of lobbying among the governors wouldn't have done any harm, either. A tactful hint here, a little buttering up there…'

  'No,' said Neil harshly. 'I'll have nothing to do with such humbug. I play it straight.'

  'And look where that's got you,' Mr. Cragill reminded him. 'Back to square one!… Ah well, it's a good thing we had a chance to look round a few classes after the meeting. Quite an eye-opener to the governors. It made the need for streamlining painfully clear. Of course you'll cut out the non-vocational classes and reduce staff accordingly. Smart will have to go, naturally.'

  'I shall use my own judgment,' said Neil, now ferociously aloof.

  'As for Amelia Frith, I wouldn't have missed that for worlds. I can see you using your own judgment there, my goodness, yes!' He shook with mirth. Buttoning up his overcoat, he got in a last sly dig. 'A pity your Accountancy for Farmers was a non-starter. But at least that's a class you don't have to cancel at Christmas! How on earth you expected busy chaps like Farmer Ludlam to waste an evening sitting in the classroom doing sums…'

  'Good night, Mr. Cragill.'

  'Good night, Haslam. I'll be around, don't hesitate to call on me any time. After all, I have the experience…'

  He lumbered off, breathing heavily.

  Sharon had to give him a start before she ventured forth. As she waited, keyed up and in a desperate hurry now to be gone before Raikes, the caretaker, ignominiously caught her lurking there, she thought in hot anger:

  The experienc
e, indeed! All those years he never visited the classes or lifted a finger to improve conditions. I bet he fiddled lots of County Hall data, too. And now he dares, he actually dares…

  Neil Haslam had gone back into his office, moving stiffly like a sleepwalker. He left the door wide open and dropped into the swivel chair at his desk with a movement that expressed utter discouragement and despair. For a long moment Sharon held her breath, for he seemed to be looking straight at her. But he was staring at nothing, at emptiness, at the future.

  'Gone for a burton. The whole scheme.' He said it aloud and passed a shaking hand over his face. Then he was taking out a bunch of keys and fumbling through them till he found the one that fitted the locked drawer of his desk. The key stuck, he gave it a wrench and the drawer opened with a jerk. His hand went into it.

  Agonizing life seemed to burn through Sharon's body. The depth of her feeling shocked her. In a blind rush she was at the door of the private office, then nearer still, gripping the desk. The voice she heard sounded quite unlike her own.

  'No, no! Not that!'

  His hand came out of the drawer holding a long manila envelope. 'My resignation.'

  Relief made Sharon's knees weak. She dropped into the chair opposite him.

  'I've had it ready for a long time. It only needs the date.' He studied her attentively. 'Are you really so surprised?'

  'Mr. Cragill gave you two years here - perhaps much less.'

  'The devil he did!'

  Sharon went on reluctantly: 'He said Roxley Institute could be only a jumping-off point for an ambitious man.'

  At least she had stirred him out of his black despondency. He said in an offended way: 'He's wrong.'

  'But just because they've turned down your new scheme, you'll give them a cheap victory by flourishing that envelope in their faces.'

  'Damn it all, I believe you heard every word we said!'

  'I'm afraid I did,' said Sharon, flushing. 'But very unwillingly. I had no idea the big brass was still around. They didn't come into my class, by the way.'