Page 5 of Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms
‘I like to draw,’ Mrs Murray said, just loud enough to cover the crunch of ice, yet low enough that her mother likely wouldn’t hear.‘Although I am not so good with portraits.Or flowers and still life.Or the sorts of things that most ladies like drawing, but I do like to sketch and sometimes paint.If you know of any groups or societies where a woman such as myself could…drawand talk about these things, I would be most obliged.’
‘I will think on it.’Johannes nodded and adjusted the parcel in his arms.‘There are so many societies across London.I am certain I can find something.’
She flicked him a glance and a conspiratorial smile, then spun away to follow her mother across the courtyard and down the narrow walkway.
Johannes pushed the door open.He placed the papers onto the table in the entrance hall to remove his coat, scarf, and hat.After he had hung them on the rack, he picked the parcel up again.
There were societies and groups for architects at different stages of study, for those wanting to learn and those willing to teach.There were groups for those who wished to discuss buildings and archaeology and drawing.He had attended a great many of them and regularly sat in on the Friday night lectures at the Architectural Association as a supplement to his own education.But did any of those groups allow women?Some lectures allowed women to attend, but only on select introductory topics: how to read a house plan or an introduction to classicism.Mrs Murray had adjusted the rule pen and set about her work with focus and skill, not as an eager amateur.As Johannes stepped into the office, he could still see her poised over his desk, lost in her work, the lines of her body as fluid as a flourish, her eyes fixed and shining.Completely lost to the moment of creation, she had looked how he felt when he sketched out an idea or measured a room and painted it onto a page.
She didn’t want to draw just anything.She wanted to drawbuildings.
Mr Holt barely nodded as Johannes slid the papers into their place on the shelf.Hunched over a copy ofThe Builder,he plucked the pencil from behind his ear and made a note on the page.
‘Here is one,’ Mr Holt said, not looking up.‘A water fountain.Prize of one guinea.’He grumbled with the same frustrated tone he always carried when searchingThe Builder.‘I missed many things about London, but I did not miss the system.’He closed the magazine and held it out to Johannes.‘I’ve made a note against the competitions that might be worth entering.Compile a list, and we can begin work.’
Johannes took the book.At his desk, he pulled out a loose leaf of note paper and began to list all the competitions his employer had placed an asterisk against.He’d undertaken this same ritual while he’d been articled to Mr Goodman, who had taught him the practicalities of the profession.Like everyone, they called the processthe system, as if architects submitting drawings in the hopes of winning a contract was a normal thing, even though no other occupation in London forced its professionals to fight one another for work in the same way.He hated it, Mr Holt clearly hated it, and every other student and member of the Architectural Association hated it.Yet, every week, they all scannedThe Builderor poured over newspaper columns, hunting for architectural competitions to enter.They applied their skills to some design or vision, then sent their best ideas off for assessment by committees who, from what he could tell, simply picked the drawing that looked the prettiest.They only received payment if they won.
The free, competitive market at its most extreme.
As Johannes took up his pencil, he couldn’t help but smile a little when he spotted the rule pen that Mrs Murray had adjusted to her preferred width.While he made note of competitions, he raked his memory, trying to think of some society or group where she might fit in.
Chapter Three
‘Pink.’
‘Be serious, Mama.Pink will look ridiculous with my hair.’
Florence’s mother let out one of her exasperated sighs, honed through years of frustrated patience from being married to a man who lost himself in his work.She pulled at the bolt of fabric and shook out a little of the gingham.
‘Pink is the perfect complement to spring.’Her tone was as light and airy as a breeze.‘Once the weather warms, there will be so many gatherings we can attend, garden parties, concerts, and shows.If you are to catch a man’s eye, you will need to look like you can blend into society.’
‘If I wear that shade, I will look like an underripe radish.’Florence tugged at a curl to remind her mother that she was not a demure blonde or brunette, but a woman with flaming auburn hair.‘No man will want to make conversation with me, let alone court my hand.But as I have no interest in marrying again, perhaps Ishouldhave a pink dress.I want rose and candy and sherbert pink.Lots of pink.Only pink in my wardrobe!’
Mother flicked the fabric down so forcefully the rest of the bolt tumbled to the side, and the seamstress had to lunge forwards to catch it.
‘Blue often suits the ladies with copper hair.’The woman juggled the roll back to its shelf.‘And the right shade looks lovely during the warmer days.’
‘I like blue.’Florence scanned the walls of the little shop.Rectangular lengths of assorted fabrics sat snug on top of one another in narrow shelves: lace, satin, flannel, velvet, and silk, all sorted by shade.‘Do you have anything in a slightly darker hue, like a teal?Even cyan?’
‘No blue.’Mother shot the words with such force the seamstress flinched.The poor woman couldn’t have been much older than twenty-five—not so different in age to Florence herself—and now she found herself dragged into this ridiculous feud that Florence and her mother had played out almost every day since they’d stepped onto the boat in Sydney.
‘I’ll see what I have out the back.I just received some new fabrics and haven’t sorted them for the shop yet.I might have something.And you two can discuss what style you might…’ She bit her lip, then disappeared between the swinging doors behind the counter.
Florence drifted over to a rack of trimming lace.So many choices, so many patterns and weaves.Across every tailor and seamstress in Sydney, she’d never seen as much variety as this woman’s shop displayed on one wall.Not that it had mattered what she wore before.As an architect’s daughter and a builder’s wife, looking neat and respectable was enough.Too much ostentation was frowned upon—heaven forbid anyone accuse her of having tickets on herself.She stroked a scalloped edge of lace.Her wedding gown had been trimmed with lace.Just a little, around the hems.It was the only flourish allowed.If only she’d unpicked and snipped a piece of it before her dress had been sold.It had been such a pretty pattern.
‘It is obscene for me to be out of half-mourning.I was barely out of full black crêpe when we left.Now you want me wearing pink?’
Mother waved her hand in dismissal.‘No one here knows the details of George’s passing.If you are to find another husband, you do not have time for half-mourning.’
‘The doctor’s advice is working.Since I stopped taking the mercury pills, I’ve been sleeping better—’
‘But not well.And what about dressing yourself or tending to a house?How will you pay a nurse or a maid without us?Good heavens, Florence, I am almost seventy, and your father is older than me.I am not talking aboutyourtime, although you do not have an eternity of youth either.’
‘You are not almost seventy.You are just sixty-five.’Florence shot a quick glance at Mother.Her mother’s smile, stretched and rueful, betrayed the worry in her eyes.All her smiles were strained these days.The bright woman who had laughed and chased her around the orange tree in their small backyard, the one who had taken her to search for shells along the beach… She had somehow aged away and been replaced with an old woman so gradually that Florence had barely seen her leave.
Mother shuffled across the room, her cane thumping softly against the wood.‘It isn’t my choice, my girl.It’s just how time moves.I didn’t plan to be a mother so old.After I reached thirty and there was no baby, I didn’t think I would be a mother at all.You were my miracle.The doctors said I was too old, and they were certain you would kill me, but I knew better.’Mother tugged on a small length of lace.‘I’ve had more years than I deserve, and I’d go to the next life happier if I knew you were cared for.A nice steady husband with a calm temperament and a promising position.Someone who can afford the help to look after you when you cannot look after yourself.’
‘I might be able to make my own money.If father would make me his apprentice and let me submit for competitions under his name, I might make my own way.’
