as being so finely superior! Less than a year ago Charlie Orgreave had been ‘the Sunday,’ had been ‘old Perish-inthe-attempt,’ and now he was a student in Besancon University, unapproachable, extraordinarily romantic; and he, Edwin, remained in his father’s shop! He had been aware that Charlie had gone to Besancon University, but he had not realised it effectively till this moment. The realisation blew discontent into a flame, which fed on the further perception that evidently the Orgreave family were a gay, jolly crowd of cronies together, not in the least like parents and children; their home life must be something fundamentally different from his.
Four.
When they had crossed the windy space of Saint Luke’s Square and reached the top of the Sytch Bank, Mr Orgreave stopped an instant in front of the Sytch Pottery, and pointed to a large window at the south end that was in process of being boarded up.
“At last!” he murmured with disgust. Then he said: “That’s the most beautiful window in Bursley, and perhaps in the Five Towns; and you see what’s happening to it.”
Edwin had never heard the word ‘beautiful’ uttered in quite that tone, except by women, such as Auntie Hamps, about a baby or a valentine or a sermon. But Mr Orgreave was not a woman; he was a man of the world, he was almost the man of the world; and the subject of his adjective was a window!
“Why are they boarding it up, Mr Orgreave?” Edwin asked.
“Oh! Ancient lights! Ancient lights!”
Edwin began to snigger. He thought for an instant that Mr Orgreave was being jocular over his head, for he could only connect the phrase ‘ancient lights’ with the meaner organs of a dead animal, exposed, for example, in tripe shops. However, he saw his ineptitude almost simultaneously with the commission of it, and smothered the snigger in becoming gravity. It was clear that he had something to learn in the phraseology employed by architects.
“I should think,” said Mr Orgreave, “I should think they’ve been at law about that window for thirty years, if not more. Well, it’s over now, seemingly.” He gazed at the disappearing window. “What a shame!”
“It is,” said Edwin politely.
Mr Orgreave crossed the road and then stood still to gaze at the facade of the Sytch Pottery. It was a long two-storey building, purest Georgian, of red brick with very elaborate stone facings which contrasted admirably with the austere simplicity of the walls. The porch was lofty, with a majestic flight of steps narrowing to the doors. The ironwork of the basement railings was unusually rich and impressive.
“Ever seen another pot-works like that?” demanded Mr Orgreave, enthusiastically musing.
“No,” said Edwin. Now that the question was put to him, he never had seen another pot-works like that.
“There are one or two pretty fine works in the Five Towns,” said Mr Orgreave. “But there’s nothing elsewhere to touch this. I nearly always stop and look at it if I’m passing. Just look at the pointing! The pointing alone—”
Edwin had to readjust his ideas. It had never occurred to him to search for anything fine in Bursley. The fact was, he had never opened his eyes at Bursley. Dozens of times he must have passed the Sytch Pottery, and yet not noticed, not suspected, that it differed from any other pot-works: he who dreamed of being an architect!
“You don’t think much of it?” said Mr Orgreave, moving on. “People don’t.”
“Oh yes! I do!” Edwin protested, and with such an air of eager sincerity that Mr Orgreave turned to glance at him. And in truth he did think that the Sytch Pottery was beautiful. He never would have thought so but for the accident of the walk with Mr Orgreave; he might have spent his whole life in the town, and never troubled himself a moment about the Sytch Pottery. Nevertheless he now, by an act of sheer faith, suddenly, miraculously and genuinely regarded it as an exquisitely beautiful edifice, on a plane with the edifices of the capitals of Europe, and as a feast for discerning eyes. “I like architecture very much,” he added. And this too was said with such feverish conviction that Mr Orgreave was quite moved.
“I must show you my new Sytch Chapel,” said Mr Orgreave gaily.
“Oh! I should like you to show it me,” said Edwin.
But he was exceedingly perturbed by misgivings. Here was he wanting to be an architect, and he had never observed the Sytch Pottery! Surely that was an absolute proof that he had no vocation for architecture! And yet now he did most passionately admire the Sytch Pottery. And he was proud to be sharing the admiration of the fine, joyous, superior, luxurious, companionable man, Mr Orgreave.
Five.
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
