Lucy E.M. Black is the author of The Marzipan Fruit Basket, Eleanor Courtown, and Stella’s Carpet. The Brickworks will be released on October 14, 2023. Her award-winning short stories have been published in Britain, Ireland, USA and Canada in literary journals and magazines including Cyphers Magazine, the Hawai’i Review, The Antigonish Review, the Queen’s Quarterly and others. She is a dynamic workshop presenter, experienced interviewer and freelance writer. She lives with her partner in the small lakeside town of Port Perry, Ontario, the traditional territory of the Mississaugas of Scugog Island, First Nations.
Chapter Two: The Art Gallery
Buffalo, New York May 1, 1909
Alistair Lamont had anticipated this day with secret pleasure. It was the first Saturday in May and he was treating himself to a half day’s holiday. He would soon be leaving on another bridge assembly and would be on site for at least four months, so it may be some long time before he again had the luxury of such an outing.
He approached the new building eagerly, skirting the little lake and striding directly to the white marble columns at its front entrance. Then his eye detected something distractingly amiss with their placement. He paced out the distance between them. Even accounting for an inconsistency in his steps, he could tell that the columns were unevenly positioned. What’s more, there was a lean to some of them, as if they were buckling under the weight they supported. He placed his hand discreetly along one of the columns, pushing his shoulder into the bulk of it, testing it for movement. Satisfied that it was yet stable, he straightened himself and walked purposefully through the heavy entrance doors and into the impressive marble foyer.
Now he navigated his way to the central sculpture gallery. He did not stop to admire the marble forms but rather kept his gaze ceilingward as he took in the light-filled rooms, the transepts, the workmanship in the entablatures. He moved quickly through antechambers and elegant doorways, noting the carved details in the crown moulding, the exquisite finishing of joints, the fine polish of surfaces. It was the gallery’s construction that had drawn him, after all, and not the paintings that hung on its walls. Clusters of visitors were grouped politely around the artwork. This suited him; he was easily able to slip past and continue his private survey of the rooms.
In his tweed suit, woollen tie, and thick-soled brogues, Alistair looked every part the Scot. Black hair, cut in short waves, framed his face. His eyes were bright blue and merry and his complexion ruddy, demonstrating much time spent out of doors. He was a man accustomed to hard work but also a man with some small degree of refinement. He strode confidently through the spaces, intently focused on his studies. He did not notice those in the gallery who glanced at him curiously, taking his measure: a handsome man in good clothes and a tweed cap, strong, roughened hands held easily at his side.
A pair of wrought-iron screens having drawn his attention, Alistair moved towards the set of doors leading to an outside porch. As he approached he observed a young woman on a little stool close by the doors, absorbed in replicating a painting. She was bent over her palette and studiously mixing a pale shade of pink. Embarrassed to have trespassed so closely, he tipped his cap in her direction. Pardon the intrusion, he said.
The girl looked up at him and smiled. No matter, I was making of a mess of it.
And then she laughed, a light, musical sound. Alistair was struck by the delicacy of her, the earnestness with which she worked, the light-hearted manner in which she had excused him. He took in her fine features and long, paint-smeared fingers.
Excuse me, he said again, bowing and taking a step away, feeling flushed and not a little clumsy.
There’s no need to leave. She stood and extended her dainty hand. I’m Violet Lewis.
Alistair moved forward and bowed, touching her hand lightly. Alistair Lamont. At your service.
I’m so glad, she laughed. Perhaps you can help me with this. What do you think it needs?
Needs? Alistair looked at her canvas. She was painting an exact copy of the piece on the wall. It looks the same to me, I’m afraid. Very good, I’m sure.
She laughed again. You are too kind. It’s nothing near as good. Mine is clumsy and badly coloured. Look how softly he has mixed the skin tones. She stepped closer to the painting on the wall and pointed to the faces of the little girls playing on a grassy slope.
It looks well to me, Alistair suggested hopefully, but I do nae profess to know anything about art.
Why of course not. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To learn more. That’s why we all come here.
Well, no, Alistair countered. I was here to look at the building. I’m interested in its construction.
Really? How perfectly lovely. I think it’s simply beautiful. I come here often to paint and to study the collection. I feel as though I’m in a Greek temple!
He hesitated, unsure how to respond politely. Good manners would surely dictate he excuse himself, but he was thoroughly charmed and wished to delay, as much as possible, his withdrawal. Alistair was struck by her open yet intimate tone. She was dressed in a long navy skirt of some heavy fabric, her white shirtwaist high collared and trimmed with lace. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbow; a straw hat lay abandoned beside her on the floor. Dark brown hair was casually pinned up in a loose arrangement, with many tendrils having escaped the attempt at order.
Are you from Buffalo? she continued.
Nae. I came for the Exposition and decided to stay. I work as an agent for a steel mill but am a brickmaker. I learned my craft in Scotland and thought there might be need of my skills in a growing country.
Alistair, conscious of her scrutiny, was immediately mortified by his personal disclosures. He saw her looking at his brogues, his suit, his sharply knotted tie. She glanced at his hands. They were not gentleman’s hands, but neither were they uncared for. An effort had been made to apply ointment and trim and clean the nails. He felt tempted to hold them out for inspection, as he had often done as a child for his grandmother. He flushed further at the thought, aware of her steady assessment.
Brickmaking sounds perfectly fascinating. It must be tremendously interesting.
It can be. There’s science to it, and some luck involved. You need all the right ingredients to make them come out well. And patience. It can be a keen disappointment when the kiln does no heat right and after six weeks’ labour the bricks are ruined and all you have left is clinkers.
A clinker?
Alistair smiled to hear her ask. She made the word sound lyrical.
Och aye, a clinker is a ruined brick. It’s good for naught but garden walls or paths.
Oh, I see. It sounds entirely delightful. And then she laughed again pleasantly, a light tinkling burst of melody.
Alistair was captivated. He could not bring himself to leave the gallery. He stood awkwardly, hands in his pockets and staring at the floor, hoping she would further engage him in conversation.He waited a long moment. I should leave you to your work. Excuse me.
Violet reached out to shake his hand once more. It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Lamont. I do hope you enjoy your visit.
Alistair bowed, turned, and left the room, the wrought-iron screens forgotten. He was aware that his neck and face were deeply reddened. He dried the palms of his hands on the sides of his jacket and hurried self-consciously through to another gallery. The architectural details suddenly seemed far less absorbing. More of the same opulence and expensive finishing, he thought. Utterly unaffordable for most buildings. Brooding, he prowled its circumference, eyeing the artwork with skepticism.
- Publisher : Now Or Never Publishing Co (Oct. 15 2023)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 301 pages
- ISBN-10 : 198968954X
- ISBN-13 : 978-1989689547
