round by the road.’
‘How old are you?’ he asked.
‘Twenty-one in the autumn - or “come Michaelmas” as we say in Farthing Green.’
They walked down to where the house was already taking shape amid a morass of churned up mud.
‘Careful, it’s slippery.’ Simon reached for her hand.
Then large drops of rain began to fall and there was a threatening rumble of thunder.
‘I think we’re in for a downpour. Come and shelter in our house till it’s over,’ Jenny offered.
They reached the shelter of the Rectory porch a few seconds before the deluge. Simon had stopped to grab a pair of shoes from his car. When he had taken off his boots and put the shoes on, she led him through to the kitchen.
‘Who would have thought, a few weeks ago, that we should be sitting here so amicably,’ Simon said, some time later.
The rain was still streaming down the panes, and Jenny had made coffee. Simon was sitting in the basket chair, his long legs crossed, a cigarette in one hand.
‘Who indeed?’ she echoed inwardly.
Aloud she said, ‘Tell me about being an architect. How did you start? Do you specialize in houses, or do you do other things too?’
‘Unfortunately private houses are not a very paying proposition for the amount of work involved in them,’ he said. ‘I get the most satisfaction out of houses, but I make more money from shops and factories and garages. Houses are the gilt on the gingerbread.’
He talked for nearly an hour, and Jenny was fascinated -
and often amused by his descriptions of the people who had commissioned his services. It was only later she realized that, while she had learned a great deal about the complexities of architecture, he had revealed almost nothing about himself.
Then her grandmother came downstairs and a few minutes afterwards Simon glanced at his watch and said he must leave.
‘I thought you didn’t like Mr. Gilchrist, dear?’ Mrs.
Shannon remarked, when Jenny returned from seeing him out.
‘Well, Grandpa was right. First impressions aren’t always correct,’ Jenny said, colouring slightly.
Later, alone in her room, she stood at her window and stared at the shell of Simon’s house. What had come over her? She had started out loathing the man, yet this afternoon she had deliberately sought his company, had even put on her best sweater and fresh lipstick. It had been only fair to revise her first opinion of him after the Bert Bagley incident; but this was going to the other extreme.
During the following week, Mrs. Langdon went into a private nursing home in the city for a complete rest and some clinical tests. Naturally James went to visit her every evening, and Jenny only saw him for a few minutes one morning when she was waiting for the bus to work. He looked tired and worried. Fortunately his mother had an excellent daily help, Mrs. Barrett, who would bully him into eating proper lunches and leave something ready for his suppers.
On Friday, after school, Jenny went to the Public Library to change her books for the weekend. She was walking back to the bus station, and had stopped to look at a display of summer sandals in a shoe shop, when someone slipped a hand under her elbow.
‘Simon!’ It was the first time she had used his Christian name to his face.
‘Hello. Where are you going?’ he asked, smiling down at her.
She indicated her basket. ‘Home to read an improving book.’
‘Come and have tea with me first.’ His left hand still holding her elbow, he took the basket from her.
‘Oh, I can’t, I’m afraid. Granny would wonder what had happened to me.’
‘We’ll ring her up and explain. Unless you don’t want to have tea with me?’
‘Of course not ... I mean yes, I’d like to,’ she answered in some confusion.
He took her to a rather grand hotel where all the smartest wedding receptions and twenty-first parties were held. There were only a few other people in the large thickly-carpeted lounge with its deep comfortable sofas and
‘How old are you?’ he asked.
‘Twenty-one in the autumn - or “come Michaelmas” as we say in Farthing Green.’
They walked down to where the house was already taking shape amid a morass of churned up mud.
‘Careful, it’s slippery.’ Simon reached for her hand.
Then large drops of rain began to fall and there was a threatening rumble of thunder.
‘I think we’re in for a downpour. Come and shelter in our house till it’s over,’ Jenny offered.
They reached the shelter of the Rectory porch a few seconds before the deluge. Simon had stopped to grab a pair of shoes from his car. When he had taken off his boots and put the shoes on, she led him through to the kitchen.
‘Who would have thought, a few weeks ago, that we should be sitting here so amicably,’ Simon said, some time later.
The rain was still streaming down the panes, and Jenny had made coffee. Simon was sitting in the basket chair, his long legs crossed, a cigarette in one hand.
‘Who indeed?’ she echoed inwardly.
Aloud she said, ‘Tell me about being an architect. How did you start? Do you specialize in houses, or do you do other things too?’
‘Unfortunately private houses are not a very paying proposition for the amount of work involved in them,’ he said. ‘I get the most satisfaction out of houses, but I make more money from shops and factories and garages. Houses are the gilt on the gingerbread.’
He talked for nearly an hour, and Jenny was fascinated -
and often amused by his descriptions of the people who had commissioned his services. It was only later she realized that, while she had learned a great deal about the complexities of architecture, he had revealed almost nothing about himself.
Then her grandmother came downstairs and a few minutes afterwards Simon glanced at his watch and said he must leave.
‘I thought you didn’t like Mr. Gilchrist, dear?’ Mrs.
Shannon remarked, when Jenny returned from seeing him out.
‘Well, Grandpa was right. First impressions aren’t always correct,’ Jenny said, colouring slightly.
Later, alone in her room, she stood at her window and stared at the shell of Simon’s house. What had come over her? She had started out loathing the man, yet this afternoon she had deliberately sought his company, had even put on her best sweater and fresh lipstick. It had been only fair to revise her first opinion of him after the Bert Bagley incident; but this was going to the other extreme.
During the following week, Mrs. Langdon went into a private nursing home in the city for a complete rest and some clinical tests. Naturally James went to visit her every evening, and Jenny only saw him for a few minutes one morning when she was waiting for the bus to work. He looked tired and worried. Fortunately his mother had an excellent daily help, Mrs. Barrett, who would bully him into eating proper lunches and leave something ready for his suppers.
On Friday, after school, Jenny went to the Public Library to change her books for the weekend. She was walking back to the bus station, and had stopped to look at a display of summer sandals in a shoe shop, when someone slipped a hand under her elbow.
‘Simon!’ It was the first time she had used his Christian name to his face.
‘Hello. Where are you going?’ he asked, smiling down at her.
She indicated her basket. ‘Home to read an improving book.’
‘Come and have tea with me first.’ His left hand still holding her elbow, he took the basket from her.
‘Oh, I can’t, I’m afraid. Granny would wonder what had happened to me.’
‘We’ll ring her up and explain. Unless you don’t want to have tea with me?’
‘Of course not ... I mean yes, I’d like to,’ she answered in some confusion.
He took her to a rather grand hotel where all the smartest wedding receptions and twenty-first parties were held. There were only a few other people in the large thickly-carpeted lounge with its deep comfortable sofas and
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