Margaret Baumann - Design for Loving (1970)

by Margaret Baumann

  'But something triggers you off,' said Mr. Cragill with a knowing smile. 'Perhaps someone else's design?'

  'My goodness, no!' protested Sharon with vigour.

  'Oh, come now, working practically side by side with Frank Roberts, are you never inspired by what he's doing?'

  Sharon looked at him hard, her face flushed. 'We exchange ideas, but we wouldn't dream of copying. And what would be the point ? Everything would have a sameness. Besides, it just wouldn't be ethical.'

  'You sound shocked. But let me assure you, my dear young lady, the best trees and shrubs never grow on their own roots. We graft apples on crab, roses on briar - English briar, of course, not the inferior French briar these nurserymen stock.'

  'Well, I should hate to be either a crab or a briar!'

  Sharon escaped, thankful to cool her hot cheeks in the fresh air. Of all astonishing things, Neil Haslam's car was just drawing up at the gate. He got out and stood waiting. She was mortified to be found there and said hurriedly: 'Mrs. Cragill needed advice about a piece of embroidery.'

  'And I'm here to pick up Cragill and run him to County Hall. Alderman Foxways is taking two of the other governors in his car and Ben Hallsworth will join us if he can cut short some business meeting.' Seeing her bewilderment, he added drily: 'Cragill didn't put you in the picture? No, perhaps not, as I bullied them into it!'

  'A deputation to County Hall?'

  'The Director of Further Education has agreed to meet us. He'll have the planning officer and chief architect there.'

  Sharon's eyes began to shine. A singing pleasure ran through her being. 'You're determined to stand and fight!'

  'Look, I put the hell of a lot of work into that report of mine. They can't just pass it over in that high-handed way.'

  'Oh, I wish you luck,' said Sharon from her heart.

  'It isn't luck that's needed. It's plain common sense. I can hardly believe I was appointed to this post just to officiate at the demise of Roxley Institute. And that's precisely what will happen if my report isn't implemented.'

  Down the path came Mr. Cragill at a brisk waddle, a briefcase under his arm.

  'Have I kept you waiting, my dear chap? This has been a morning full of interruptions. Miss Birch here wanted a little word with my wife. They're up to something!' He wagged his head coyly at Sharon. 'And now off we go to County Hall to settle Haslam's little affair.'

  Well, how about that! thought Sharon indignantly. She watched them drive off and suddenly she was full of unease - for herself, for Neil. Samuel Cragill's tone had been altogether too smug. He wasn't to be trusted an inch. If Neil believed he had won over an ally, he could be in for a shattering disillusionment.

  The sense of unease haunted her all weekend. Christmas preparations were in the air. The Roxley shops were gaily decked out and fairy lights had been hung across the main street and, by tradition, in the branches of a great spruce tree in the abbey grounds, where the west front was to be floodlit from Christmas Eve to Twelfth Night. Up at the Institute the term was nearly over. Sharon's students were finishing off their autumn tapestry and Mr. Smart was making frames from morning till night. He confided to Sharon, when they met in the Institute office, that it looked like being the best Christmas he and Mrs. Smart had known for quite some time.

  'What with these tapestries to frame for your embroidery ladies and a firescreen for the Misses Frith, not to mention a job I'm tackling for Mrs. Hallsworth. She had me up the other day to plan out fitted wardrobes for her bedroom - with interior strip lighting and magnetic door- catches, what do you think of that? What I call a real job, Miss Sharon. And my joinery class will go on till Easter, thanks to Mr. Haslam not pressing me overmuch about the number on the register. I reckon we got a wrong impression of him at the start. He'll build up this place into something the valley can be right proud of, if they give him a free hand, same as Mrs. Ben is giving me with the wardrobes.'

  And there's an if for you, thought Sharon, who burned to know the outcome of that meeting at County Hall.

  She stayed late that evening after her students had gone, hunting through a great jumble of stuff in vain search of a sketch of hers. The week before, she had brought along a portfolio of work to illustrate a talk on the various stages in the creation of a formal design. The missing sketch was, in fact, her original working drawing of the little park; and as the carpet was not yet actually in production the sketch was the property of Hallsworth's and should not have left her studio. She had collected up her things in rather a hurry that night, but was almost certain the sketch had been safely stowed in her portfolio. Now it was not to be found and she was ashamed of her carelessness.

  She had even mentioned it to Mr. Ben when he had her down in the showroom to see some glorious thing of Frank Roberts'. He had laughed and said women were everlastingly mislaying things owing to the fact that they had no method whatever. It would turn up presently in the most unlikely place and she wasn't to lose sleep over it. But the little mystery still nagged at her. There was the horrid thought that her sketch might have been 'tidied up' by Raikes, the caretaker, who was ruthless with any bits and pieces he considered rubbish.

  She went in search of him, but the whole place was echoing and empty. Raikes must be in one of the outlying buildings or down in the basement fussing with the temperamental old boilers. A light showed under the door of the Principal's office. She hurried past, but he had heard her heels clicking on the tiles. The door was flung open and there he stood.

  'One of these nights you'll be locked in.'

  'Then I'll climb out through a window.'

  How grey he was, his face drawn tight as a mask, the eyes sunken with fatigue; on the desk behind him, an Everest of memos and official forms, and the pipe he'd forgotten to light.

  Sharon said: 'I oughtn't to ask you this, but I must. How was it last Saturday?'

  'Grim. We did win a small victory. The central heating plant is to be overhauled in the Christmas holidays and we're to get a pre-fabricated classroom instead of the most decrepit of the army huts. I thought we'd won our case for a new lab, too, until Cragill stuck his oar in.'

  'I knew it!'

  'He pointed out that the numbers are falling. But damn it, that's because of the poor equipment. It applies to all the daytime courses.' He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up all over. 'Somehow or other, Cragill brought up the failure of my Accountancy for Farmers, where it wasn't a question of equipment at all.'

  'He dared!' Sharon's voice shook. 'He actually dared!'

  Neil gave a weary shrug. 'It would have been a small group, and the Director made it quite plain the small classes that don't fit into any examination scheme are doomed.'

  'Poor Mr. Smart!'

  'Is that all you can find to say? Poor Mr. Smart.'

  'No, it isn't,' said Sharon with spirit. 'I jolly well hope you shouted Mr. Cragill down. Some of the courses are going from strength to strength, did you tell them that? Didn't I see in the Gazette that Sutcliffe's are making the Institute a gift of some up-to-date machine tools for the engineering department? Well, if it wasn't in the Gazette Miss Frith must have told me - and she had it( straight from her boss.'

  She stole a glance into his face, saw the tension eased, and plunged recklessly on.

  'Only this evening, as I signed in, Percy was telling me the Car Maintenance is going like a bomb. He says it's a problem squeezing them all into the senile ward, together with the instructor and that old car engine they take to pieces and put together again.'

  'The senile ward,' said Neil. 'Doesn't that tell you everything about this place?'

  'Only the car engine is senile,' said Sharon. He gave a snort of laughter in spite of himself and the irrepressible mischief danced in Sharon's eyes. 'Listen. The instructor was explaining how the magneto works. He had some iron filings on a sheet of paper and ran a magnet underneath, making them form patterns. Two women at the back of the class didn't seem to be paying attention, so he went to them and kindl
y explained it all over again in words of one syllable, then was overcome with blushes to find they taught physics and maths at the high school.' He was still grinning and it gave her courage to go on: 'And you should see the senile ward when Miss Frith's lot have it all trimmed up for the French party on Saturday. There's to be dancing and French films and gorgeous exotic food. I hope you've been invited. They have to hold it this week before Luc Priolly goes home for Christmas.'

  Neil said: 'I'll be off home, too, by the way.'

  It was a sickening blow. What had she been hoping? It was perfectly natural to go home for Christmas, his parents would count on it. But suddenly all the heart seemed to go out of her and the heady excitement which had been building up went as flat as the mill pond: the French party, the fairy lights, the midnight carol service in a floodlit abbey; and perhaps, above all, the wonderful dinner party at Ben Hallsworth's to which she knew Neil had been invited, too.

  She said in a small, dragging voice: 'I suppose it would be very dull for you if you stayed.'

  'You'll have a gay old time. Young Kershaw will see to that.'

  'Yes,' whispered Sharon.

  He said relentlessly: 'You'll not miss me.' And when she quickly averted her face, unable to bring out a word in reply because her lips trembled so, he seized her roughly by the shoulders and made her look at him. They stood so for a long moment, eyes locked with eyes. Then Neil said in a tortured voice: 'Is there a woman on earth who knows her own mind ?' And he let her go.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Luc Priolly was not returning to Roxley. His father had been taken ill and for the time being at least the boy was needed in the family business. This was the news Miss Frith had for Sharon on their little walk one January morning.

  There had been heavy falls of snow at the New Year and now, in pale sunshine, the scene held enchantment. Nothing could be prettier, Sharon thought, than the graceful willows bending to the stream with their white burden, the reeds and bracken glittering with frost. At the water's edge the snow was marked by a myriad footprints. Flocks of birds had been feasting on the hips and haws. Here the rabbits had played follow-my-leader over a mound, there the water vole had dragged his tail and Sharon fancied she could pick out the tracks of a fox. Even the squat black mill astride the river was ennobled by the snow and glowing with yellow lights, while high up in the building there were strips of brilliant blue lighting in the design studios.

  Just walking over the crisp snow beside the river was a delight - but not to Barbiole, who yapped the whole time to be carried. And this was not Amelia Frith's weather, either. Her nose was like a beacon, she had chilblains on every finger and was trussed up in so many layers of cardigans, hug-me-tights and scarves, undressing must be a problem, Sharon thought, just like peeling an onion. Once started, the problem was where to stop!

  The nature of Monsieur Priolly's illness had not been specified in Luc's hasty message.

  'There used to be only two ailments when I was in France,' said Miss Frith. 'You could have a crise de foie or you could have a congestion and the treatment was the same for both: a purge followed by two days on Vichy water. They just don't know how to enjoy an illness and I fear Monsieur Priolly will be having a very uncomfortable time. And poor Luc, all his wonderful plans beaten into the ground! You know, Sharon my dear, Gladys and I miss him very much. Yes, even the noise. He turned our lives upside down and things will never be quite the same again.' She stood still and clasped her poor chilblained hands. 'Such gaiety! Oh, that Christmas party up at the Institute with Luc as M.C. and everything going with so much elan. Really it was one of the highlights of my life. And to think that instead of disapproving, Mr. Haslam honoured us by turning up for half an hour, eating like a starving man and actually dancing with you!'

  If the event had been a highlight to Amelia Frith, for Sharon it had meant happiness beyond expression. She made no demands upon that happiness. It possessed no past, promised no future, but was complete and perfect in itself. With the old senile ward transfigured by colourful French travel posters, festoons and flying dragons and bunches of balloons; with soft lights and the lilt of the Valse Bleue and that great Christmas tree blazing away in one corner, she had been held in Neil's arms, neither of them speaking a word. They had whirled round and round in the waltz and it had been an ecstasy to remember for ever.

  The other Christmas memory was the carol service, the candlelight procession, the pure young voices soaring, the exaltation reaching its height with the solemn chimes of midnight. And then the choir and congregation going out into the wintry dark, where the frozen ground rang like iron under their feet, the groups forming and breaking up, everyone shaking hands, greeting old friends, wishing one another a merry Christmas. All this, set against the unearthly beauty of the snow and the abbey ruins floodlit, formed a fantastic, changing pattern which made Sharon catch her breath in delight. She could see it embroidered in black and white Spanish work. Pavane.

  Canon Wismer, the seven o'clock communion service on his mind, hastened home. The others dispersed more slowly. Hazel Ormerod clutched her friend Ruby Holt by the arm. The solemn beauty of the midnight service had made her a little tearful.

  'Gosh, Miss Sharon, Luc would have gone crazy over all this. He sort of joked about everything, but he liked it a lot here. He said English life was for-mi-dable.' She imitated his accent exactly. 'I can't wait for him to be back.'

  Well, now he wouldn't be back, and Hazel would take it hard.

  Sharon had another memory. Christmas night had suddenly been made hideous by the noise of Adam's motorbike. The spell was shattered and that solemn, uplifted mood couldn't be recaptured. She had never felt anything as cold as the wind rushing past as she rode home on his pillion. At her door, goggles pushed up on his forehead, eyes red-rimmed with fatigue, Adam had struggled to take off a glove and hunt in a pocket for his Christmas gift. It was a ring, a forget-me-not cluster of blue stones set in diamond chippings.

  'Adam, you shouldn't have!'

  Adam said: 'Why not? All those Christmas weddings. And you know January is a brisk time for funerals.' Could anything be less romantic? But wasn't there safety in that? 'Look, I don't expect you to wear it. There's so little hope for us, getting engaged would be just a farce. But keep it and try it on for size now and then.'

  'It's a darling thing and I shall treasure it.'

  For Adam, that sufficed. Hail, smiling morn, in a powerful tenor voice mingled with the noise of the motorbike as he belted off into the night.

  Sharon had a scarey feeling that Neil Haslam, like young Luc, might not turn up again after Christmas. She confessed this to Miss Frith.

  'He had such a difficult first term. Trouble with County Hall and the governors not backing him up.'

  'Mr. Cragill and his crony Alderman Foxways?'

  'This is the thing. If only Mr. Cragill had retired properly! But he pokes round the Institute like a sanitary inspector looking for bad smells. As Head, he was so easy-going. Now he fusses like an old woman! I really believe he's jealous and so he opposes every change Mr. Haslam tries to make.'

  'It's so cruel. We resented changes up there, too, but some of them are for the good. The trouble is, Samuel Cragill can't bear to take second place. Remember the Flower Show? His friends must be sick of receiving the biggest marrows and parsnips in the world!' Behind the spectacles, her eyes were fierce. 'The Hallsworths don't boast. But when they advertised for a gardener he had to be "expert with peaches and vines": Mr.,Cragill must nearly have died of chagrin. And one of these days he will die.' Standing in the snow, a small, bellicose figure, she said: 'He'll come to a bad end. I shouldn't wonder if he drives a spade into his foot and dies of tetanus.'

  It was said with such vindictiveness that once again Sharon was startled by the feelings which lurked under all those cosy woollies. She could very well picture Miss Frith sticking pins into a little clay image of Samuel Cragill. Now, in a gentler tone, she returned to the subject of Luc Priolly.

&n
bsp; 'I hope the Ormerod girl didn't take him too seriously. You remember I was worried at the time.'

  'She's certainly a bit peaked and miserable,' said Sharon.

  'She may have been overeating at Christmas. Or it could be a chill. Girls wear nothing. Chilblains right up their thighs, I shouldn't wonder… But if it's love sickness, that's more serious.' She coughed. 'Does he write to her?'

  'She has had one letter in which he said, "I am all abstract with thinking at you". Isn't that sweet? If you'd help her, she could give him a lovely surprise by replying in French. She did a bit at school, but, as she says, not the sort you can use.'

  This was delicate ground and Miss Frith flushed a little.

  'I'm not sure the friendship should be encouraged,' she said primly. But clearly she was tempted, if it would bring Luc back to them. 'I hope you don't mind, Sharon dear, but I gave him for Christmas a sketch you once did for me. The little waterfall leaping down the fells. What he admired the most, of course, and frequently mentioned, was your sketch of the park.'

  That wretched sketch! It hadn't been found and now Sharon began to be plagued by a horrid suspicion that it had gone to Lyons in Luc Priolly's luggage. And perhaps not merely as a memento of Roxley. Supposing some French firm brought out a replica before the Hallsworth carpet was on the market and protected by copyright? She felt utterly wretched at the thought. Altogether a gloomy start to the New Year.

  Evening classes at the Institute reopened on January the eighth. Percy was in his element, directing new students here and there, stamping forms, issuing registers, bossing Betty around and making sure Mr. Principal was not disturbed in his office.

  How absurd Sharon's panic seemed now. Of course he had come back! They didn't meet, but there was a strange secret pleasure in knowing he was there in the building. And it was for his sake, to justify his faith in the future of the place, that she resolved to put heart and soul into her classwork.