Читать книгу Clayhanger - Arnold Bennett - Страница 91

They went down the Sytch Bank to the new chapel of which Mr. Orgreave, though a churchman, was the architect, in that vague quarter of the world between Bursley and Turnhill. The roof was not on; the scaffolding was extraordinarily interesting and confusing; they bent their heads to pass under low portals; Edwin had the delicious smell of new mortar; they stumbled through sand, mud, cinders and little pools; they climbed a ladder and stepped over a large block of dressed stone, and Mr. Orgreave said—

“This is the gallery we’re in, here. You see the scheme of the place now … That hole—only a flue. Now you see what that arch carries—they didn’t like it in the plans because they thought it might be mistaken for a church—”

Edwin was receptive.

“Of course it’s a very small affair, but it’ll cost less per sitting than any other chapel in your circuit, and I fancy it’ll look less like a box of bricks.” Mr. Orgreave subtly smiled, and Edwin tried to equal his subtlety. “I must show you the elevation some other time—a bit later. What I’ve been after in it, is to keep it in character with the street … Hi! Dan, there!” Now, Mr. Orgreave was calling across the hollow of the chapel to a fat man in corduroys. “Have you remembered about those blue bricks?”

Perhaps the most captivating phenomenon of all was a little lean-to shed with a real door evidently taken from somewhere else, and a little stove, and a table and a chair. Here Mr. Orgreave had a confabulation with the corduroyed man, who was the builder, and they pored over immense sheets of coloured plans that lay on the table, and Mr. Orgreave made marks and even sketches on the plans, and the fat man objected to his instructions, and Mr. Orgreave insisted, “Yes, yes!” And it seemed to Edwin as though the building of the chapel stood still while Mr. Orgreave cogitated and explained; it seemed to Edwin that he was in the creating-chamber. The atmosphere of the shed was inexpressibly romantic to him. After the fat man had gone Mr. Orgreave took a clothes-brush off a plank that had been roughly nailed on two brackets to the wall, and brushed Edwin’s clothes, and Edwin brushed Mr. Orgreave, and then Mr. Orgreave, having run his hand through the brush, lightly brushed his hair with it. All this was part of Edwin’s joy.

“Yes,” he said, “I think the idea of that arch is splendid.”

“You do?” said Mr. Orgreave quite simply and ingenuously pleased and interested. “You see—with the lie of the ground as it is—”

That was another point that Edwin ought to have thought of by himself—the lie of the ground—but he had not thought of it. Mr. Orgreave went on talking. In the shop he had conveyed the idea that he was tremendously pressed for time; now he had apparently forgotten time.

“I’m afraid I shall have to be off,” said Edwin timidly. And he made a preliminary movement as if to depart.

“And what about those specifications, young man?” asked Mr. Orgreave, drily twinkling. He unlocked a drawer in the rickety table. Edwin had forgotten the specifications as successfully as Mr. Orgreave had forgotten time. Throughout the remainder of the day he smelt imaginary mortar.