Margaret Baumann - Design for Loving (1970)

by Margaret Baumann

  Neil's pipe was giving trouble and Sharon dared not look at him. She thought angrily: Why should I feel sorry for the man? He brings all these troubles on himself!

  His parents hadn't yet seen the Institute - and what were they expecting, for heaven's sake? He had told them nothing of that disastrous governors' meeting, the rejection of his scheme to strip off the neglect of years and bring the Institute up to date; not a word about his letter of resignation. They were here on a fool's errand and that shocked her. But when she did meet his eyes and saw the misery there, her heart softened. It was against nature to see this proud, obstinate, gifted man so humbled.

  Alice Haslam was smiling in the way that reminded Sharon so heartwrenchingly of her son. 'I'm afraid we saw nothing suitable. Farm cottages or great rambling draughty places! And Matthew was all set to apply his legal mind to leases and contracts! But we shall persevere. Have you any ideas, Miss Birch?… Oh, your coffee is going cold. Do bring it over here and have it with us.'

  'No,' Neil said promptly. 'I'll order fresh and have a cup myself.' He beckoned to the waiter. Chairs were moved, the circle round the fire was enlarged, fresh coffee served. Matthew Haslam asked Adam about an ancient farmstead they had seen, formerly belonging to the monks of Roxley, and this led on to the history of the abbey itself, Adam's hobbyhorse. Delighted to learn that Sharon taught embroidery, Mrs. Haslam drew her out about her training in London and the work of her class. Sharon was too much aware of Neil beside her, listening with what seemed to her a sardonic expression, though it might be just a trick of the firelight. If he dared to trot out the egg-cosy joke…

  But he smoked and said nothing. Just when Sharon was beginning to feel at ease, she noticed a stealthy movement in the background. Luc and Hazel were leaving without a word of goodnight. Adam saw it, too. He caught Sharon's eye and made a hideous grimace. Up to his tricks! Sharon mouthed indignantly: Clot!

  Neil interpreted this little exchange in his own way. He said stiffly: 'I'm afraid we're keeping you.'

  'Oh, must you go?' Mrs. Haslam was genuinely disappointed. 'It's still raining, and harder than ever.'

  'Miss Birch has a passion for walking in the rain,' said Neil. 'The harder the better.'

  'Tonight she won't have to.' Adam got to his feet in a hurry. 'I shall run her home on my pillion.'

  But as they went out into the rain, Sharon pointed out that it would be stupid for him to get wet through going to fetch his motorbike, when she could walk home in five minutes. Adam started to protest, then sneezed violently.

  'You see?' said Sharon. 'The sooner you get home and into a hot bath, the better.'

  'All right, if that's how you want it.'

  'It's for your sake. You simply can't be off with a cold tomorrow. Who would play the organ at matins and evensong?'

  'I'll give them Chopin's Funeral March,' said Adam dourly. Sharon burst out laughing. He peered at her in the gloom. 'It's how I feel and I don't see anything funny about it. A fine celebration we've had, I must say!'

  He loped off, offended, through the puddles. And Sharon turned her back on the friendly, hospitable lights of the Raven and trudged home, feeling that a precious day had come to pieces in her hands.

  Amelia Frith popped in to see her on Sunday afternoon, explaining that Barbiole needed a walk. 'The poor little soul has been cooped up too much.' But when they had dried his paws and placed him on a cushion at the right distance from the fire, it became clear that Miss Frith's visit had another purpose. She wanted to hear how yesterday's outing had gone. Sharon said cautiously that she thought Luc had enjoyed it. 'Oh, I'm sure he enjoyed it very much a sa guise,' said Miss Frith. Then, anxiously: 'I only hope you had no trouble with the boy. He got in very late indeed. I waited up for him - and he was singing at the top of his voice! Don't misunderstand, Sharon, dear. He wasn't drunk.'

  'Just illuminated,' said Sharon. 'He isn't used to drinking whisky and soda. But he was perfectly all right when he left the Raven.'

  'You were all there!' exclaimed Miss Frith in relief.

  The trouble was, where had he been afterwards? Sharon glanced out of the window, as if expecting to see him tethered to the gatepost.

  'This afternoon he has gone to the pictures with that girl Hazel Ormerod,' said Miss Frith. 'He asked ever so politely if we minded - you know what beautiful manners he has - and to tell the truth, Gladys does find all those records and the transistor radio a bit wearing, so we made no objection. But now I can't help wondering… I mean, I am responsible to his parents. He's too young to be thinking seriously of any girl, and it would be distressing if the girl got ideas——-'

  'I'll see that she doesn't,' Sharon promised rashly. 'After all, he only made it a foursome yesterday because…' She stopped, flushing.

  Miss Frith said timidly: 'Sharon dear, it's true that you and Adam…?'

  'If you're not quick you'll be caught in another shower,' said Sharon hurriedly. Perhaps it was unkind. But her own feelings about Adam were in such turmoil, she couldn't bear to discuss the affair even with dear, kind-hearted Miss Frith.

  They coaxed a reluctant Barbiole to leave his cushion by the fire and Sharon went to the gate, waving and smiling as Miss Frith set off, in a burst of sunshine that made the indigo and lemon clouds look all the more threatening.

  She heard a delighted cry: 'Matthew, just look who's here!' Mr. and Mrs. Haslam, walking briskly down the lane aim-in-arm, had stopped at her gate. Alice Haslam's smile held unaffected pleasure at the meeting. She explained that they had left Neil to his paper work. 'He was at it all morning, too, while we attended service in the abbey.'

  'Did Adam give you some Chopin?'

  'Chopin?' exclaimed Mrs. Haslam in surprise. 'We had Bach. Fireworks! What a gifted musician he is. Neil is fortunate to have you both on his staff. He has told us what staunch allies you've been - and we do know these early months have been tough for him. Where would he be without your loyalty?' she asked, and Sharon's conscience gave her a hard jab.

  Matthew Haslam glanced up at the sky and said he would like to explore further before darkness fell; but his wife needed little pressing to come in for a few minutes. While Sharon made tea, she was moving about the oak- beamed living-room of the cottage, studying the titles on the bookshelves, murmuring with pleasure over Sharon's embroideries and a half-finished sketch on the easel, then pausing at the photograph of Tony with the family of cheetahs.

  'My brother. In the Nairobi Game Park,' said Sharon.

  "You must miss him very much.' Mrs. Haslam gave a sharp sigh. 'How they scatter, these days, to the far-flung places!'

  Over their cup of tea by the fire, she began to talk about her son. It was simply no use for Sharon to tell herself Neil Haslam's affairs were not her concern; she burned to know everything about him, everything, even if the knowledge brought pain.

  'There was a girl, you know: a sweet pretty thing of whom we were very fond. They'd known one another at college and met again when she took a teaching post on the science side at Neil's school. Very soon they were engaged. They even got to the stage of house-hunting - and I suppose that's why he finds it hard to show interest in houses now. They were at the point of fixing the wedding day when a wonderful opportunity came along for Jennifer to do a year's exchange teaching in Canada. I remember how she hesitated, but Neil urged her to it. They were so sure of their feelings and had a whole lifetime to share. Neil had a post of special responsibility which involved a lot of out-of-school activities, and he filled the rare leisure moments with house-hunting and writing to her. Jennifer wrote reams, too. She was lonely and unsettled, disappointed with the standard of science work at the school, and wondered how she could stick out a whole year away from home. Then this strange thing happened.' She gave Sharon a searching look. 'Perhaps you know something of this already?'

  'Nothing.' There was a tightness at Sharon's, throat. She said hurriedly: 'Mrs. Haslam, we're not as close as you seem to think, and I'm sure he wouldn't wish…'

&nbs
p; 'It's a mistake to cut oneself off so completely from the past. Malicious things were said and I believe Neil's friends should know his side of the story. Jennifer's letters changed. She had met this Martin Hyde, a business efficiency expert from Toronto. She joked about him: a big, brash fellow who carried too much weight. He had been brought up by an aunt and still lived with her - an over- indulgent woman who had always given him his own way, so that he would never take no for an answer, even in the most trifling details. He laid on a get-to-know- Canada programme which Jennifer found exhausting. When he buzzed the flat and she begged off some trip on the excuse that she was washing her hair or had a headache, he actually sent Aunt Ada up to winkle her out. We had many a laugh over it.'

  Sharon took her cup and she went on soberly: "Neil felt the joke had gone far enough. He told Jennifer if there was one more peep out of her about this Canadian, he would fly over and fetch her home. And do you know, it was already too late. When Jennifer's reply came, it was to say she and Marty Hyde were married. Life really fell apart for Neil then. He'd been living almost entirely in the future, his man's pride had been trampled on, and to make matters worse, Jennifer's people were so unkind. They had never got on well with Neil and they blamed him. An unpleasant story got around. He was supposed to have treated Jennifer very shabbily and she'd gone to Canada to mend a broken heart. Such nonsense, such cruel nonsense! He was too proud to justify himself and he couldn't endure these whispers in the staff-room. He resigned his post. He'd become interested in administration and the Roxley appointment was being advertised.'

  She paused once again, giving Sharon a peculiar look. 'We saw the Institute this morning… No, don't say a word! Matthew was shocked, but at least we know exactly what Neil is up against. Perhaps the challenge is just what he needed. Now we must find him a house and hope he'll settle down and make his mark upon this valley.'

  Sharon said desperately: 'Please don't hope too much. I'm afraid you don't know the half of his difficulties.'

  'We know the County insists on economies and he's having to fight for even the most urgently needed equipment. And it must be a sore trial having this Cragill person on the board of governors.'

  If that were all! If Samuel Cragill confined his activities to the governors' meetings! But he was everlastingly snooping round the Institute which stood there as a monument to his long neglect. The other night, arriving early, Sharon had found him in her room, his head inside the tall cupboard. He said he was 'going into' the central heating. 'Goodness knows what Haslam complains about. The place seems overheated to me. And not a trace of damp!' But it was a specially mild night and he must know the old path lab was always airless and stuffy!

  Mrs. Haslam leaned across and laid a hand on hers. 'Whatever the difficulties, he has a loyal staff. He has told us of your efforts to boost classes that were in danger of closing.' Again Sharon's conscience gave her a jab. It hadn't been loyalty, it had been a united front against the tyrant! 'Why,' said Mrs. Haslam, 'I believe you went to the length of joining the Music class yourself, busy as you are!'

  'But of course I had to support Adam,' said Sharon simply.

  *Yes. Of course.' There could have been a shade of regret in Mrs. Haslam's voice. Her husband was at the door and she got up to leave. 'We're dining,with the Hallsworths tonight. How kind people are! Perhaps they'll have some ideas about a house.'

  Not a hope, Sharon thought. Ben Hallsworth was on the board of governors and he must know exactly how things stood. Yet on Monday afternoon she was called down to his office.

  'Is your work at a point where you can leave it for a couple of hours? Good! I'm taking the Haslams to look at a house and it struck me you might like to come along.' He chuckled. 'Why should Frank Roberts have all the fun ? Good to get out and about and pick up ideas.'

  Mr. Ben on this house-hunting lark, too? thought Sharon. It was true he had missed the fateful governors' meeting. Was it possible that she alone knew how close to despair Neil Haslam had come that night? Knew he believed himself a failure and was ready to leave Roxley?

  Clough Head, the place they went to see, was a small manor in the upper Roxley valley: a low house of darkly weathered stone with deep-set windows and a courtyard off which opened the old stables. There were the characteristic stone balls on the gateposts and a view to take your breath clean away; for the house was built into the hillside with fields and woods sweeping to the valley bottom. The date over the porch was 1634. A typical well- to-do clothier's house, Ben Hallsworth said, with the structure still in good repair.

  'In the south they'd be fighting over a place like this. But up here in the north, where we build our field-walls of similar stone, it will fetch only a fair price. Mind you, the situation is a bit remote. And by the time you've done the place up and put in your heating and plumbing, you'll have spent real money!'

  'Oh, but what an adventure!' cried Mrs. Haslam, who loved the house at sight.

  Sharon agreed with her. Under the tatty wallpaper and several coats of whitewash was glorious wood panelling; the doors and staircase were of oak and rather fine; and if that ugly Victorian fireplace was pulled out, what a beautiful stone hearth would be revealed! She prowled over the house, seeing it as it could be. On the landing, where sunshine fell through a quaint round window on to her kindled face, Mr. Ben chuckled: 'What shall we find of all this in your next design, eh ?'

  But her mind wasn't on carpets. It had come to her quite suddenly that the greatest happiness in life would be to share with Neil Haslam the adventure of restoring

  Clough Head to beauty. She must be out of her mind. As well ask for the moon and stars!

  She burned to know if his decision was taken, but no news filtered through. Occupied with his parents' visit, Neil spent little time in his office that week and there was no chance encounter on the corridor. By the end of the week the suspense was not to be borne. Mr. and Mrs. Haslam had gone without seeing her again. Did this mean Neil had given them the brutal truth? There was one person who must know his intentions. Samuel Cragill, his finger in every pie, his ear at every keyhole, would know exactly how things stood. When she caught him poking about among the bundles of straw and the felt egg-cosies, he had repeated his invitation to 'drop in some time' and see Mrs. Cragill's embroidery. On Saturday morning she was knocking at their door.

  There were sounds of haste and bustle from within; and though the invitation had been pressing she felt she had arrived at just the wrong moment. Mr. Cragill quickly recovered his aplomb.

  'You honour us, my dear young lady.' He gave his wife a significant look. 'There's time for a cup of coffee, I'm sure, before you show Miss Birch your work.'

  But Sharon could see it already. The small sitting-room was crowded like a museum with cushions, petit-point footstools, tablecovers, chairbacks, a framed piece of a lady with a crinoline and watering can. Technically the work was good, even excellent; but Mr. Cragill was dead on the mark when he said design was not his wife's strong point. The effect was so commonplace that Sharon curled up inside with embarrassment. She felt more embarrassed still when Myrtle Cragill - with prominent eyes and bosom and wearing lots of beads - unfolded the white cloth in which lay the work she was doing for the competition.

  'Abstract,' she said in a hushed voice.

  Sharon stared at the muddle of shapes and colours and stitches, racking her brains for something polite to say, while Mr. Cragill assured his wife how fortunate she was to get the opinion of a fellow-craftsman before the work had gone too far.

  'Oh, it isn't finished!' Sharon exclaimed idiotically.

  'There are to be stick-ons,' said Mrs. Cragill.

  'Forgive me, but I think stick-ons would be a mistake,' said Sharon with painful honesty. Mrs. Cragill looked offended, and she faltered: 'When the judges allocate their marks - say the total is fifty - they may give twenty for technical skill, looking specially at the back of the work, as you know, and give ten marks each for design, colour and general effect. But it must be awful
ly hard to judge an abstract design, don't you think?'

  'You don't like it,' accused Mrs. Cragill.

  'Come now, my dear,' put in her husband, 'we know what splendid work Miss Birch does up at the Institute and we must allow her, like a hardened criminal, the courage of her convictions!' He laughed heartily and raised a plump palm. 'After all, this is only one of several ideas you are trying out for the competition.'

  Surely she wasn't expected to believe that, Sharon thought. But it had been a mistake to come here and she felt terrible. If Neil Haslam had offered his resignation, surely Mr. Cragill would have blurted out the news at once? Was she to get merely a negative sort of comfort — and hurt Mrs. Cragill's feelings into the bargain?

  She said desperately: 'With this garden to inspire you, I wonder you don't try your hand at a floral design. Something unusual - climbing things, even vegetables. That would be original and amusing. You know there's nothing so elegant as a border of silver beet, and carrots with their finely divided ferny leaves are beautiful.' But when she looked out of the window, all she could see was a tidy compost heap, a cold frame, and the obscene, rotting stalks where Mr. Cragill had recently harvested his giant brussels sprouts. She plunged on: 'Or the garden itself - neat paths and grass verges and then the colour all massed in the flower-beds.'

  Invention gave out. She ventured to look at Mrs. Cragill, dreading to see tears falling. But Myrtle was staring at her husband and the look that passed between them held - she could have sworn - jubilation.

  'As one craftsman to another,' said Mrs. Cragill with a sort of patronizing archness, 'how do you set about inventing a design?'

  'I've never thought about it,' said Sharon. She thought about it now, watching Mrs. Cragill fold away her abstract in its chaste white shroud. 'It seems to happen by chance. Something I've taken for granted and perhaps seen all my life suddenly becomes a meaningful pattern.' She thought: A chance design - just like life itself.