Patrick Parker's Progress (13 page)

'He seems to take for granted that he will win the thing,' said another tutor. 'As if he expects his brilliance to be treated accordingly
...'

The Head of Department agreed. But there was nothing to be done. If he continued with such startling originality and high technical standards in everything, his the gold medal would be. His transportable green Perspex-cladded hunting lodge was still the talk of The Academy and it was rumoured that he had already received a private commission out of it. Patrick's shrug of the shoulders and his public statement that 'You had to start somewhere' when the end-of-year commendations were given out was nowhere near humility and somewhere near the truth. It really was only a beginning. Somehow the Head of Department and the Course Tutor and the rest of them did not find this cheering.

'He will be our star pupil,' said one sadly.

‘I
know,' said the other mournfully.
‘I
know.'

The Course Tutor, wincing as he remembered this, reached for another very stiff whisky, a very stiff whisky indeed. The trouble with Patrick was that - if he
was
absolutely brilliant - he was also -somehow lacking in - he searched for the word - compassion. He was heartless, cold to anything that might threaten his ambition. That was it - not threaten his designs, but his
ambition.
So then - Patrick had chosen wisely for his hero.
Brunel
was a horse-whipper, too. And if the horse fell down, there was always another one waiting behind. Patrick Parker wanted to be like him, did he? Well, thought the Course Tutor as he sipped his drink and slowly closed his door on Patrick's retreating, hubris-ridden back, it would end in tears. One day. If not Patrick's - then everybody else's . . .

7

Embracing the Modern, In Every Sense

A clapper bridge is a simple dry stone construction dating from the Middle Ages and is thought to be the oldest form of human made bridge. The name 'clapper' is believed to come from the Saxon world
cleaca,
an ancient word for stepping stones, and the clapper bridge was perhaps the most natural progression from fallen trees or stepping stones.

Lucy Blakstad
,
Bridge: The Architecture of Connection

Patrick wrote regularly to his mother, letters full of what he had done, what had been said, and urged her to keep the correspondence for posterity. Florence was delighted. She wrote that she was very proud, though she missed him badly and the house was empty without him. She had forgiven him for going. She believed he would be back. She spared nothing in the telling about his father's many irritations. He was getting worse, driving her mad - sitting with him and the clock and nothing else for the evening was giving her palpitations. Patrick wrote back that he was sorry she felt like that and that she should encourage his father to get out of the house, give him a job to do, stir him up. It was easy to dictate from afar and have it translate as being caring.

'Patrick says you should get going on something,' Florence said, looking up from her letter. 'Let not slip the hour -' she paused to check the writing - 'is what he says.' She put the letter down and stared at him over her spectacles.
‘
I
suggest you let not slip the hour and clear the shed out.'

It was the one place George dreaded visiting. 'Maybe,' he said. 'Better ask him about that bike before I start.' He added, pleased to have some respite. 'Can't move stuff past it, now can I?'

Florence wrote. What did Patrick think? Should they get rid of his old bicycle? She was mortified by his reply.

'No
’
he wrote, 'keep it. I have met up with Little Audrey again and she might come up for a day or two in the Christmas vac. If the weather is any good we could go for a cycle ride.'

It is a wise parent who can keep his or her mouth shut. George did it of necessity. Florence had never learned. 'Be careful
’
she wrote back. 'You need all your energy for your studies. Leave Audrey well alone for the time being, I would.'

Patrick laughed as he read it. More about dilution. Well - dilution be damned. He was a year and a half down the line, he was doing brilliantly, it was time for a little dilution in that department. Which is why, of course, he had sent that postcard to Audrey in the first place.

If he had hoped to meet a girl on the Design Course, he was disappointed. Of the twenty-seven students in his year, two were girls, and one of those was only approximate. She wore brogues, fisherman's sweaters, cropped hair and smoked small cigars. The most intimate moments spent with her were when she punched him in the chest by way of greeting. The other girl, called Sylvia, was very pretty, very clever, and engaged, by the end of the first term, to Lord Galton's son, also on the course (though he did not turn up very often). And that was that. He was disappointed but not surprised. A career designing buildings and bridges and railways and roads was not woman's work. Besides, mixed classes could do exactly what Florence warned and lay waste to young men's brains. Patrick had found his concentration wandering towards Sylvia's blouse once or twice during lectures and he was very aware of the Pitfall that was Girl.

What he was not aware of was the effect he had on the few girls he did make contact with, from other parts of the college - the fabric designers, the garden and interior designers - girls who hung around the entrance to the main building and eyed him as he strode past. If he desired a love life he had no way of communicating it - and no instinct for discovering who might reciprocate. So unversed was Patrick in the methods of the screen romance and its like, that when Millicent Carter - driven to distraction - plucked up courage and virtually fell at his feet in a welter of petticoats and laddered stockings, he stepped over her - apologising as he went on his way. Not quite daring to look. And when, in his second term, he received two Valentine's cards at his digs, he thought they must have been sent as a joke. So for Patrick there was no easy way to meet girls, which became - in the moments when his head was free of his college work, when he had set aside the lines and planes and conurbations and cantilevers - quite an urgent desire. He wanted a diversion. He was ready for a diversion. And he would have one.

His field trip that term was to Balmoral. He was amazed at the audacity of it when he saw
Brunel
's design for the young Queen Victoria. 'It's a splendid little bridge,' he wrote to his mother. 'Very modern. Genius in embryo. But it is only a very little one. No wonder
Brunel
thought he had better design something revolutionary to compensate for the scale of the thing. Otherwise, why bother? As for Queen Vic saying she hated the thing - well - what do you expect from someone who chose
Landseer?’

To Audrey he wrote,
‘I
am staying at the YMCA up here, checking up on Isambard at Balmoral. More anon. And it made me think of you and our trips to Bristol and the Tamar. Will you come for a walk when I get back? This is my address. You can drop me a card.' He signed it 'Yours with best wishes, Patrick.' And added two Xs. Might as well get right stuck in, he thought. And put in a third.

On his return, and finding her card, he downed two glasses of cider in about as many minutes, asked his landlady if he could use her telephone, and then he rang Audrey. He told her that he would like to meet up and she told him that she had missed him. There was a pause. He wanted to say that he had missed her, but it was not the truth. So instead he told her that he was really looking forward to seeing her again, which he was. All of her.

'You sound just the same,' he said.

'You don't
’
she giggled; he had forgotten that she could giggle so irritatingly. 'You sound like you've swallowed a silver teaspoon.' 'It's London
’
he said. 'It just happened.'

That was not the truth either. But he'd be damned if he was going to tell Audrey how hard he had worked at it. How closely he had observed Henry Galton, listened to his intonations, the terminology.

‘I
like it
’
she said. 'I'll be at the college gates on Friday.' And then she was gone.

He sat down afterwards and took some deep breaths. He was pleased, and he was nervous. He reverted to calling her Little Audrey in his mind by way of keeping her in her place. Big College, Little Audrey, he thought. But when she finally arrived, long dark hair blowing about her face, little fur collar pulled up against the sharp autumn air, and that bright, happy smile, he saw that she was hardly that. If anything she was taller than him, though he was more than medium height, and she was as rounded and buxom and dark as he was slender, elegant and fair. He stared at her. Big College went out of the window. He could think of nothing else but the rosy prospect ahead. They stood facing each other on the college steps, and Patrick held out his hand. Audrey shook it. Two girls looked on enviously. Audrey, aware of them as one who is in love will be aware of rivals, decided to act. She leaned forward and brushed her lips against Patrick's cheek. The skin so cared for by his mother rewarded her efforts - it glowed in its freshness and was soft to the touch. He barely shaved. Audrey, as her cheek brushed his, said 'Oh.' 'Oh, what?' he asked, stepping back.

'Oh nothing -' she laughed. 'It's just that my last boyfriend had a beard.' She made that up but what the hell. It didn't do to tell him that the kiss made her stomach turn over with desire. Or to let him think he was the only fish in the sea. Which, in reality - because as soon as she saw him again, she knew - he was.

Patrick felt a little spike somewhere around his ribs. As usual his face was open to be read. Audrey was quietly contented. He was jealous. 'But I don't see him any more,' she added firmly.

'Good,' said Patrick. What he was thinking, with anxiety, was that she had probably
done it
- with this bearded loon - and he hadn't
done it
with anyone. Supposing he wasn't any good? He had been reading Lawrence lately (everyone at college was) - the first full text of
Lady Chatterley
- and he drew no comfort from it, none at all; somehow every time he imagined himself with a compliant Constance, his mother barged in. He looked at Audrey. You just could not tell. Lawrence also said that if a woman did not have a touch of the harlot in her she was a dry old stick - and you couldn't tell by looking at Audrey if
that
was true, either.

'Shall we go then?' she asked, happily.

And off they set, walking close together but not yet daring to link arms or hold hands.

In his pocket was a bag of honey and oat biscuits - his favourites -baked by his mother. The bag crackled. There was a little horseplay as Audrey tried to investigate what made the noise. It was exciting and silly and intimate to have a girl putting her hand in your pocket. In the end she brought out the bag and peered into it.

'Mum's biscuits,' he said, feeling slightly ashamed. The last thing he wanted to mention at this point was his mother.

'Like your oats, then?' said Audrey mischievously (truth was she had no idea exactly why oats were rude, only that they were). Patrick felt himself going hot. This was more like it.

'Are you still seeing that lad who worked on the trains? William?' he asked. He was dying to ask straight out - if they had Done It.

'Oh no,' she said. 'He gave up being a steward and went into the Army. I think he liked uniforms.'

She wasn't going to say that she got bored with the kissing and that they never got past the hand-in-the-side-placket stage.

'Miss him?'

She shrugged. 'Plenty more fish in the sea.' She smiled at him, quite invitingly. Beneath her coat she wore something bright yellow and full-skirted and her legs made shushing noises from their nylons.

'And you?' she said.

'No time for girls.'

'Oh.'

'Much.'

He offered her the greaseproof bag. 'Have one?' She took one and nibbled it and said,
‘I
expect they'd be nice with a cup of tea.'

'Well - let's do that next time,' he said, taking a deep breath and thinking Now or Never. 'Next time we'll have tea at my digs. I'll square it with the landlady and let you know when.'

It was then that Audrey decided the rekindling of their friendship was serious. Thank you, God, she said to herself,
thank you.
Patrick was perfect - and Audrey, though she had told no one, was extremely bored with being stuck at the virginal stage. She wanted to
know.
Not at first, of course. She did not want to appear easy. But eventually she would, as they said in films, Give Herself To Him. She loved him. She knew it. None of her boyfriends had made her happy. She knew more than they did. Only Patrick walked like a god and could tell her things. In the week between his telephoning her and their meeting up, whenever she heard Doris Day singing 'Secret Love' she always burst into tears. Proof.