Margaret Baumann - Design for Loving (1970) Read online

  'I never knew you so touchy!' he commented. 'The chap is keen as mustard, he wants us on our toes, and he can't help that unfortunate manner of his.'

  'He wants to change everything - and I love the valley just as it is!'

  'But changes will come,' Adam said soberly. 'Believe it or not, we've had an offer for the works! A Birmingham firm has been putting out feelers and now they've actually put it into writing.'

  'Good heavens!' Sharon's eyes glinted. 'What was your uncle's reaction?'

  'Just what you'd expect. He was hopping mad. Nearly had a fatal seizure on the spot. I can tell you he sent them a snorter in reply, though our accountant urged him to think the offer over.'

  'Oh, Adam, if only he would! Then you'd be free. Free before it's too late. You could go to London or even to Rome and really make something of your music.'

  'If I ever leave the valley, you must come with me.' He had thought it often but never put it into words before. It sounded so right, so natural, he was suddenly exhilarated. He clasped Sharon's warm hands in his big cold ones. 'You know what I'm asking, don't you? This is how it has to be between us. We must be together always. You feel the same, Sharon, don't you?'

  'Yes… No…' She pulled her hands away. 'Certainly not.'

  'I'm serious.'

  'Please don't be. Oh, you've spoilt everything!' Their friendship had been comfortable, secure, solid, like the earth beneath her feet. Now she felt that earth shake.

  He looked deeply hurt and she relented, smiling up at him, her eyes soft.

  'You know perfectly well that as long as Tony may need me, I must stay here.'

  Adam groaned. "We're fairly tied - between my Uncle Ezra and your good-for-nothing brother!'

  'You can't say that.' Sharon flushed painfully. 'He's been out in Kenya a full year and there's been no trouble.'

  'None that we know of. Distance is a good cover.'

  'Adam, how can you! I hope and believe he's really doing well. Selling costly photographic material should be easy with their tourist industry booming, all those people setting off on safari, snapping lions and zebras like mad, scientists gathering material for books and lectures…' The colour faded from her cheeks. She said in a low voice: 'Mr. Ben - even after what happened before — stood guarantee for Tony when he applied for this job. If he lets us down again, I think I shall die.'

  'And I shall give the young fool hell, I promise you.' Clumsily, he tried to take hold of her hands again. 'Sharon, I want to look after you, to stand between you and the hard knocks of the world.'

  From Adam Kershaw, less fitted than anyone she knew to take the world's hard knocks, that would have been laughable if it were not so touching. 'Some day we shall both be free, never forget that!'

  'And there's nothing to stop us dreaming,' said Sharon.

  'My mind is made up,' said Adam in a resolute voice.

  'And your time is up, too. Or are you hoping your uncle will sack you for stretching out your dinner hour?'

  'No such luck. He'll expect me to work later tonight.'

  'Poor Adam, you just can't win!'

  'Don't be too sure,' said Adam, giving her an intense look. He went off with long, loping strides by a grassy path between the graves and Sharon stood watching him go. She started as a voice spoke behind her.

  'You see I'm as good as my word. I've been strolling round the old cloisters. Very fine. The ruins are more extensive than I thought, and beautifully kept. Of course, the fact that the abbey is also the parish church makes quite a difference to the upkeep. I admire the rose window and this splendid Norman porch.'

  'Don't forget the choir screen,' said Sharon hurriedly, for some reason a little breathless. 'I came because I needed the fine detail for my carpet design.'

  But there were only a few scrolls and one spray of vine- leaves on her sketch pad. The air was suddenly filled with the roar of Adam's motorbike which had been parked in the lane and she knew perfectly well what Neil Haslam must be thinking.

  'A pity I missed young Kershaw,' he said. "We're thrashing out a new scheme.'

  'So I hear,' said Sharon, stiffening.

  'Well, I daresay I can get him on the phone at the wire works.'

  'Certainly,' said Sharon. 'And now if you'll excuse me.

  'I hoped you would show me round. I must see this famous screen.'

  'I have to get back to work, Mr. Haslam.' She had to check an impulse to set off running. 'You'll find Canon Wismer's little book on the table at the back. Only half a crown and it tells you everything.'

  'Look, I could run you there in five minutes. A pleasure.'

  'Thank you, but I enjoy walking,' said Sharon, and was off like a hare. Really, what must the man think of her? But the impulse to flight was irresistible. She simply couldn't endure his company.

  It seemed she was doomed to lateness, after all; for Samuel Cragill, whose house was just across the road from the abbey, was working in his garden. He leaned on his spade - as gardeners did, Sharon had noticed, at the slightest excuse - and waved to her genially.

  'Ah, Miss Birch, this is a nice surprise. And, believe it or not, I was just thinking of you.'

  And why not, indeed? He must have seen her enter the abbey and come out again. Mr. Cragill saw everything. Sharon put her head over the precisely trimmed beech hedge which would keep its leaves all winter: a glory when snow lay on the ground. He came towards her at a trot: a plump man with a domed forehead and a habit of pushing his lips in and out, so that his shining pink face was kneaded into dimples and creases. He showed her three chrysanthemums on long stems. They were tawny gold and the size of soup plates.

  'First prize at last week's show - in the maximum class.' He had a rich, indistinct voice, rather as though he kept pebbles in his mouth like Demosthenes, but with less happy results.

  'They're magnificent,' said Sharon. 'Mr. Cragill, would you know anything about some felt egg-cosies and kettle- holders?'

  Mr. Cragill pushed his lips in and out. 'My memory is excellent and I pride myself I never forget an egg-cosy. Ha, ha!… Wait, I have it. In the path lab cupboard? When they handed over the premises to us, I gathered up all the odds and ends and stowed them safely away. I daresay they're a relic of occupational therapy, like the rolls of felt and the wooden table mats and knitting wool.'

  So there, thought Sharon. Junior school work indeed! How dared Neil Haslam try that sarcastic tone on her?

  'Unfortunately the key to that cupboard got mislaid. I gather someone has found it,' said Mr. Cragill. 'If you can think of any use for the stuff, you're welcome.'

  'But it must be the property of the National Health Service.'

  'My dear young lady, they'll have lost track of it long ago. Don't stir up trouble,' said Mr. Cragill, adding smoothly: 'How do you get on with my successor?'

  'He's conscientious,' said Sharon warily.

  'Oh, he's a great deal more than that. He's an extremely able young man and an ambitious one. Of course, he has no intention of taking root here. Hasn't he made that perfectly clear by taking a hotel room on a monthly basis instead of looking round for a house during the summer vacation? He decided to make the change from teaching to administration and Roxley is his jumping-off point. I give him two years with us, perhaps less, before they make him principal of one of these fancy new colleges of technology.'

  An electric shock seemed to go through Sharon. To come here wrecking, unsettling everybody, making sweeping changes - and just by way of an exercise in administration! It was monstrous. The injustice of it left her speechless. But without waiting for her comment, Mr. Cragill leaned confidentially nearer and remarked: 'I may be wrong. There are hints in certain quarters that he resigned his previous post in a great hurry. Some trouble they've hushed up. An entirely personal matter. But we mustn't be uncharitable,' said Mr. Cragill. 'We must let bygones be bygones and hope Haslam will put no foot wrong here in Roxley.'

  Under the circumstances, that was wildly funny, yet Sharon felt no inclination to sm
ile. She was watching a sweet innocent robin, its breast a rich orange - never, never the pillar box red of the Christmas cards - perch on Mr. Cragill's abandoned spade and wait bright-eyed for him to turn up some more juicy morsels. As a turner- up of juicy morsels from under turfs and stones Mr. Cragill would certainly gain first prize in the maximum class, thought Sharon. She was fascinated and repelled. She had thought darkly of Neil Haslam; but it was dreadful to hear her suspicions confirmed by someone she suddenly found odious.

  'I hear he's closing down the joinery class,' said Mr. Cragill. 'A pity. We shall find poor old Smart with his head in the gas oven, one of these days.'

  'Oh, no, no! It isn't true,' cried Sharon vehemently. 'Mr. Haslam told me himself the class is to be enlarged. There are several keen students who have enrolled late.'

  'That's the best of news. And your own class is going well, I'm sure. You have so much to give, my dear girl. Young Kershaw, too.' He was gazing over Sharon's shoulder at the abbey. 'He has been playing for you in his lunch hour?'

  'He has to fit in his organ practice when he can.' But Mr. Cragill wouldn't believe, any more than Neil Haslam would, that she herself had turned up with her sketchpad just by chance!

  'A talented boy. You do right to encourage him. "And with a well-tuned heart, Sing thou the songs of love",' quoted Mr. Cragill mellifluently. Then, dramatically lowering his voice: 'This trouble of Haslam's, had to do with a woman.'

  So it had to do with a woman. Sharon felt pain and shock and a passionate resentment. He had made a mess of his own life and now he came here upsetting theirs. Where was the sense in that? Where was the pattern? Something in her insisted you must have a pattern. Perhaps the bit you saw of another person's life was a repeat too small to give you the whole design, known only to God.

  Mr. Cragill was thrusting his three giant chrysanthemums into her hands.

  'I'd like you to have these. Who knows, they may inspire some noble work of art!'

  Sharon said mechanically that he was too kind.

  'By the way,' said Mr. Cragill in an extremely offhand tone, 'my wife has set her heart on becoming a prizewinner, too.'

  'With flowers?'

  'You might say so. But she's no gardener. One in a family is quite enough!' He laughed heartily. 'No, this is a piece of embroidery.'

  'I'd no idea she was interested.' Sharon's surprise was genuine. She had never seen Mrs. Cragill at the Institute.

  'Oh, indeed yes. Lovely work. The house is full of it. Perhaps you'll drop in for a cup of tea some afternoon and see it for yourself. Mrs. Cragill is engaged at the moment on something she means to enter for this national contest.'

  Sharon's surprise grew. 'Then she must be very good indeed.' The big contest sponsored by a national newspaper, with a top prize of five hundred pounds, was a topic of excited talk whenever her class met.

  Mr. Cragill coughed. Unfortunately design is not my wife's strong point. I mentioned just now that you had been in my thoughts. It had occurred to me that if you two clever girls put your heads together…'

  'But that would be cheating!' It was out before she could stop herself.

  Mr. Cragill gave her a look of unspeakable hurt. 'What I had in mind was just a little word of advice. A touch here and a touch there.'

  'I'm afraid I mustn't touch it at all,' said Sharon, now painfully flushed. 'You see, according to the rules of the contest, the design and execution must be original and professionals are strictly excluded. The idea is to encourage the gifted amateur.'

  A moment of prickly discomfort. Then Mr. Cragill broke into smiles again, the pink dumpling face kneading in and out.

  'Think no more of it, my dear young lady. I hope you'll take tea with us one day soon, just the same… Dear me,

  I fear you're going to be late for work. I hope the timekeeper at Hallsworth's turns a blind eye to your comings and goings?'

  Does he really imagine I clock on? raged Sharon, as she sped away. When she ventured to glance over her shoulder, Samuel Cragill was still following her with those prominent eyes and the face above the beech hedge was baleful.

  But there was such a turmoil in her heart that the enmity of Mr. Cragill seemed of no consequence whatever.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  'I've some news for you, my dear fellow,' said Mr. Cragill, walking unannounced into Neil's office a few days later. 'They've co-opted me on to the board of governors.'

  Neil, to whom the news was a complete surprise and an unwelcome one, made suitable noises.

  'Well, there you are,' burbled Mr. Cragill. 'I suppose it was too much to hope one had earned the leisure to potter around one's cabbage patch and one's bit of a greenhouse. It seems I can't be spared. Certainly I've spent my life in the valley, I know the problems. And at least I'll be here to haul you out when you flounder!'

  Neil felt a cold, helpless rage. It was bitter to realize that Samuel Cragill had the right to be here in his office, leaning confidentially across the desk. The time has been, that, when the brains were out, the man would die. And there an end.

  'The great thing is,' said Mr. Cragill earnestly, 'to project the image. Since my retirement I've discovered there are people, far too many people, who scarcely know the Institute exists!'

  Making a valiant effort to keep his temper, Neil replied: 'I'm aware of that, too. I thought Topliss of the Gazette might jump at the idea of doing a feature on the history and aims, with photographs of the work going on in various departments.'

  Mr. Cragill's cheeks puffed in and out. 'It rather smacks of sensationalism, don't you think?'

  'Sensationalism? The Gazette?'

  'Oh, by all means put it to the next meeting of the governors, though I'm afraid you'll find them a very limited lot. Canon Wismer, our three town councillors and these chaps who manufacture machine tools or cattle food; they can run their own affairs after a fashion, but they're groping in the dark when they come up the hill! The thing is to seek their decision on trivial matters - such as this article in the Gazette or a later bus service for the benefit of the students - and quietly run the place your own way.' He looked round for a chair. 'We can go over a few points now if you have the odd half-hour.'

  'Well, I haven't,' said Neil, aware of his rudeness and unrepentant. 'I've spent the afternoon going into the question of new cloakrooms with the County Hall architect.'

  'So Betty told me when I looked in earlier.' Mr. Cragill's eyes were drawn in a fascinated way to the pile of desk papers. 'New cloakrooms! Ah, one is so full of enthusiasm at the start. One expects miracles.' He moved his head from side to side in distress. 'But in these days of freeze and squeeze they'll cut your requisitions by thirty per cent if they don't strike them out altogether for the current year, whether it's new cloakrooms or equipment for the language classes or simply more cleaning staff.'

  Neil perceived Mr. Cragill had gone pretty thoroughly through his papers at that earlier visit. But he had not, he thought grimly, seen inside the locked drawer where his resignation lay ready to be posted at Christmas.

  'No use giving yourself unnecessary trouble,' urged Mr. Cragill. 'There's a way round most problems. The approach is everything. A stranger is bound to tread on corns, however delicately he steps!'

  'Walking on the birds and beasts,' muttered Neil.

  'What's that?'

  'A problem of carpet design.'

  Mr. Cragill absentmindedly took a chair.

  'Sharon Birch has been talking over her difficulties with you? A charming girl, and so talented. And of course she has personal problems added to the professional ones. This unfortunate business of the brother.'

  Neil opened a file and looked busy. Burnt up with curiosity he might be, but he was damned if he'd give old Cragill the satisfaction of knowing it.

  However, Mr. Cragill needed no urging. He placed his podgy fingers together and said with the air of a judge: 'It was unlucky for young Tony that his father died so early. The mother doted on him. Spoilt him to death. Sharon was away at the time,
studying art in London; and perhaps Tony should have left home, too, though he showed no special bent. He came here for a course in office management and accountancy and Ben Hallsworth took him on as assistant cashier. It worked out badly. Small pilferings that were covered up - oh, he has all the family charm! - and then a mad gambling spree which left a glaring discrepancy in his office accounts. Yes, a reckless, unstable boy… Hallsworth didn't prosecute. I believe he made up the discrepancy out of his own pocket and helped the lad to make a fresh start in Kenya. The sordid business certainly hastened the mother's death - she had heart trouble. Sharon had come home to look after her and she stayed on. She was determined to pay off Tony's debt out of her savings, and though I daresay she could do better for herself, she has stayed with Hallsworth's out of loyalty.'

  Neil doodled on the file. He felt profoundly moved. He remembered what Sharon had told him about Miss Frith and poor little Smart; now he had learnt of her own struggles. These small, unspectacular heroisms seared his conscience.

  Mr. Cragill coughed. 'But I mustn't deceive you, my dear chap. We're talking now as man to man, so I venture to suggest Sharon Birch has not stayed in the valley entirely out of loyalty to Hallsworth's. Or shall I put it that she has found compensations. ? Do you know young Adam Kershaw? But of course you do! He's still talking about music on Wednesday evenings and hammering out his arguments on the old Brinsmead! By the way, a new piano might be more welcome in certain quarters than new cloakrooms. Both, I fear, equally out of our reach.'

  Neil gave him a straight look. 'You were telling me about Adam Kershaw and Miss Birch.'

  'Ah, yes. It has been going on for a long time and the outlook is bleak.' His eyes held a peculiar malevolence as he said softly: 'They're waiting for Uncle Ezra to die.'

  Neil recoiled. Mr. Cragill sat back more comfortably in his chair. His voice discreetly lowered, he said: 'Adam is dependent on his uncle - a sour-faced old devil, as mean as they come. I can guarantee he will never send us a single apprentice. Day release, paying the lad's wages as if he were actually busy on the shop floor, would strike him as an affront to intelligence. I hear he has been more difficult than ever since he was confined to a wheelchair after a severe stroke. Meanwhile, our young couple are forced into the humiliating situation of having to meet secretly. In odd corners of the Institute, I shouldn't wonder, when their classes coincide. Also - and 1 confess this seems to me distasteful - in the abbey. Why, I happened to be working in my garden the other day after lunch and…'