Page 27 of Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms
He scowled, but slowed his lines on the page.
‘It will hit that cupboard if they are open at the same time.But if you move this one further down, you will have enough clearance.’
He nodded,once, twice, thriceas always, thinking slow but thoroughly, before settling on his plan.‘Thank you,’ he muttered, took out his eraser, and rubbed it over the page.
From desperately trying to keep them apart, Mama now seemed determined to push Florence into Johannes’s path at every chance.She scanned the day for opportunities like a soldier on watch.And no matter how much Florence objected, her mother remained determinedly oblivious that, while winter thawed outside, it had settled itself into the lower rooms.She contrived small deliveries of tea and notes, sent Florence to ask questions, and made a point of stopping into the office on their departure or return if they went calling.
‘Stop it, Mama!’she protested one morning.‘He is not interested in me.’
‘Tut.He was interested before.’
‘Before is not now.’
One morning, over breakfast, Father coughed and snuffled so much that Mother insisted he return to bed.She almost skipped into the office when she came to tell Johannes.
‘Florence knows the work as well as anyone,’ her mother chirped into the weak spring light while Johannes leafed through a stack of papers.‘I am sure if you need help with anything, she will be happy to oblige.I know Mr Holt would not want you to stop work on his account.’And her mother swept from the room and back upstairs, taking all her missives on propriety with her.
Johannes carried the papers back to his desk.He sat tall, self-aware and full of purpose as he sorted through them.He laid a few to one side, then placed the remainder at the top of his desk.The pen scratched into the brittleness.Florence balanced against the bookshelf and pushed herself up to try to see what he was working on.Had they started on the housing, or were they focused on the offices first?
Johannes scowled, then tucked his papers in closer.
Florence lowered herself to her heels again with a steadiness that defied the creaking annoyance inside.‘If you think ignoring me is some kind of punishment, you are wrong,’ she snapped.‘If I go back upstairs, I will have to listen to my mother prattling.I would much rather sit here and enjoy the silence.This is better than fresh lemonade.’And she tipped out a book from the library, plonked herself in her father’s seat, and flipped the cover open.
She turned the pages without seeing them, pretending to be captivated.At length, a shadow draped an angle along the edge of the desk.The scents of citrus, city, and clean linen filled the air.He smelt so damn good.Florence kept her focus on the print.He tapped the desk with his index finger, and she tilted her head just enough to look up at him.
‘I need that book,’ he said.
‘You are not getting rid of me.’
‘I am trying to understand the nature of the soil so that I can draw the footings.I apologise if you are finding that section on concrete work inSpecifications for Practical Architectureenthralling, but I genuinely need it.’
Florence looked down at the open book.Not only was she on a page about concrete, but half of it was also in French.She closed the book and scanned the cover.Damn him.And damn herself for picking the one reference book on the entire shelf he was most likely to need.She slid it across the desk.He scooped it up and crossed the room, hurrying out of reach like she was an adder that might strike if he lingered.
At his desk, he searched through the pages.He set his finger against a line, glanced over at his papers, then wrote across his notes.
‘What’s it like?’she asked.‘The site?Is it already built upon?’
She sounded pathetic.So desperate to be included, but she lacked the stamina to try to climb his walls and could only beg for admittance.
He looked up.His eyes focused on a point far beyond her, settling somewhere distant.‘It’s a vacant lot, but it’s far from ideal.Your father thinks the submission needs to be bold.He wants it to be heavily ornamented so that it makes a statement.He also says a building for a water company should be close to the water, but the soil near the banks is very different from that closer to the road.The marble and sandstone he’s wanting will be heavy, and if we can’t get the footings right, the entire thing will crack in a few years.It might even collapse into the Thames.And when he said close to the water, I don’t think he meant that close.’
It wasn’t much of a joke, but they both smiled into it.And while it smarted, she had to concede that her father had chosen well in hiring Johannes to assist him.Steady and slow, he thought about everything in a way that countered her father’s lofty ambitions and headstrong determination.
‘Would you like me to calculate the load?’she asked.
‘Would you like to see the site?’he asked.
A jolt shot through her.‘Nothing good will come of it.’
‘I cannot think like him… I lack the experience, and the daring.But you see bigger things… You know him better.’And then he flicked a glance across the room at her.It lasted less than a swallow’s breath, yet she came alive beneath his look.Never had she felt a part of something, a half, the reflection in a mirror instead of an addendum or a person who knew the right colour to add to a plan.‘You understand his approach.I need to establish the footings today so that tomorrow we can push forward with the layout of the offices, but I am struggling on my own.When you talk, I see what you see, and then a new vision explodes in my mind, and I can build on that.This sounds ridiculous, but I don’t think my logic works well alone.I can do so much, but I need the help of others to make it real.’
‘In truth?’It was pointless to suppress the smile that shot to her lips.‘I often feel the same way.I will stare and stare at a page and feel nothing, but then a word or a suggestion from you or Father sets my thoughts off in a million different directions.I’ve always felt weaker from feeling like I needed the help of others in those moments.’
‘For people who are so different, sometimes we are frighteningly the same.’His low rumble of a laugh filled the room, an accompaniment to the crackling in the furnace.‘Would you like to take a cab or walk?’
She rolled her shoulder, and the muscle grabbed at the bone with a sting.‘A cab.If you don’t mind?’
Johannes hailed a covered cab with proper windows that shut out the cold.He took the side that faced backwards and hunched under the low roof to peer out of the window.He rested his chin on his fist, and as they clattered through the streets, his eyes followed the combination of people, windows, arches, doorways.He drank in the city like she did, always reading and trying to comprehend that messy interface between people and structure.How they leant against posts, how they gathered, how families collected around doors and sought out the light, forever looking for ways to make the exchange better.
