Page 8 of Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms
Sheonlycameinto be close to the blueprints.Johannes knew it.It had nothing to do with whatever excuse she gave her father—dropping him a letter or passing on a message from her mother or bringing him fresh tea.It was so she could be close to the drawings and to the transformation of idea to lines on a page.She asked questions while her eyes searched papers on a desk, and she traced her fingers over the wooden table tops where plans were stacked the highest.Sometimes, she tapped them over her father’s shoulder, or she inspected them where he had placed them to dry.Occasionally, she flicked Johannes a contemptuous glance during these short invasions into the office.No, Florence most certainly did not visit on account of him.
It didn’t stop him from wishing she did, though.
If she came in at all—and it wasn’t every day that she did—it was usually mid-morning, when the parish clock chimed eleven.Whenever it thumped out its heavy gongs, his heart and breath smashed in his chest.He sipped his cold tea.Swallowed.Adjusted his pen.Tried to focus.But for those fifteen minutes, while he waited for the sound of her step or the brush of her skirts on the wood, or better yet, her lilting greeting as she entered the room… For those fifteen minutes, Johannes chastised himself for his romanticism, rejoiced in her arrival, felt his heart disintegrate to ashes when she did not appear, or sighed into his longing when she did and never cast him a look.
His watch, tucked into his coat, flicked against his chest.Yes, no, may, be.Yes, no, may, be.Yes, no, may, be.Yes…
She stepped into the office.
Today she’d brought the mail—a small stack of two, maybe three letters, which she placed on the corner of her father’s desk.Her father, levelling a rule, did not look up as he drew a sharp line across the page.Florence wore olive green flannel, and the sunlight from the window threw strips of shadow over her where the sun hit the casement window frames.She appeared surreal, layered in darkness and light.Inspired, he pawed at the air above his folder where he kept his sketches and paper, then withdrew just as quickly and took up his pencil.As transient as she looked, he could not sketch her here, in the office.He adjusted his pen nib and set back to work, shooting a lingering look in her direction.Oh, but if hecouldsketch her… it would be exactly as she stood now, with beams of light casting a thin glow around her edges.Her manner was both warm and aloof, her body close and agonisingly out of reach.The auburn of her hair shimmered like copper, and her eyes, deep, deep blue, direct and…
Johannes straightened.Oh, terror.She was watching him.Watching him watching her.Watching him watching her watching him.
‘Johannes!’Mr Holt snapped.
‘I was doing nothing of the sort, sir.’Johannes fidgeted in his seat and rolled his pen between his fingers.‘That is, I mean, I have calculated the bill of quantities for this entry.It’s ready when you have time to review it.’
Mr Holt levelled his stare over the top of his spectacles.A flame of panic at the thought of being caught ogling his employer’s daughter stopped Johannes’s breath in his chest.Not ogling.Appreciating.He was ever so appreciative of her wit and her form and her confidence and everything about her, even though she wanted nothing to do with—
He must be imagining it.The slightest of smiles, followed by a minute turn of her lips as she bowed her head, flicked him a glance, then returned her attention to the drawings on the table.For the first time since she’d discovered him in the office, she wasn’t angry with him.She was positivelycoy.
‘Johannes, are you listening?’Mr Holt rapped on the desk with his ruler.‘Young people.Completely lacking in focus.’He waved one of the letters in the air.‘I said your fountain has been victorious.’
‘Victorious… the design competition?I won?’
‘The Chelsea Community Wellbeing Society has looked favourably on you.The people of Chelsea will be drinking fresh water from your design.’
As Johannes leant back in his chair, he twisted his pencil through his fingers and tapped the lead.Its point anchored him, visceral and sharp, and the realisation shot through him.‘Something I drew is going to be built?It will be real?’
‘That is the purpose of architecture,’ Mr Holt said, his praise banished, his exasperation flaring anew.‘You will need to meet the committee, then prepare measured drawings.Beforehand, revise your estimates and your calculations.Don’t let them catch you out.And you must supervise construction.Never trust a builder with your vision, Johannes, no matter how small.But don’t let them know you are watching them, because they take offence.It is a fine line…’
Johannes tried to focus on Mr Holt’s advice while rifling through the stack of papers on his desk to find the design they had submitted.As he pulled it out, he had to claw his attention back from slipping into dreams of a future of grand commissions, bigger buildings, of people seeking him by name.He’d drawn something, had won a competition, and now the idea in his mind was going to become a real thing.On hot days, children would climb the steps and cup their hands beneath the spout and maybe throw small handfuls of water at one another.
‘This is your design?’
Johannes placed a protective hand over the page.When he looked over his shoulder, Florence was peering past him to the plan.He scrunched his fingers, then relaxed them.Sending his design off to the assessor’s panel had felt so routine.He’d done it so many times before with no acknowledgement.But now, the elation of his victory faded.The intimacy of her assessment exposed him as if he were standing naked before all of London.Before the world.What would she make of it?Of him?
‘This bowl?’she asked.
‘Is for dogs.There is a horse trough nearby, but dogs would have to climb up to reach it.This catches the overflow, so that water doesn’t splash on ladies’ dresses.And it also catches a little for man’s best friend.’
‘It’s not Gothic.Or classical.’
‘No.That is, you’re correct, Mrs Murray.I’m not one for style and decoration.It’s basic, but I’ve used different-coloured bricks to give it a bit of beauty and life.It should see many a generation through summer.’
Throughout his studies and the many applications he had made to secure employment, Johannes had wondered how his self-regard and stamina would fare if anything he designed was built and then written about in the press.Buildings were constructed with bricks and mortar, but they were demolished in articles and assessments.Once a structure took form, people on the street passed comment, and everyone had an opinion.He held his breath, waiting and waiting for some word from Mrs Murray as the pair of them studied the plan he had designed.The silent anticipation elongated until it snapped.
‘I like it,’ she finally said.
His neck cricked as he looked up at her.‘You do?’
She nodded, just once.‘The builders will try to use bricks in just the one colour.Don’t let them.’
After this day, the world could call him a failure, and Johannes wouldn’t care.It was about more than his interest in her, although that interest throbbed in his wrists even as she took her leave to return to her mother.This was about competency.About respect.Ifanyonewas to criticise his designs, it would be her.
But she hadn’t.
‘One competition won.’Mr Holt spoke to himself as he stared out the window.He slapped his knee, and his laughter echoed across the room.‘I believe we have officially made a start.’
