stance, hands on hips, chin raised, shoulders stiff.
Something must have distracted Auguste — perhaps the light reflecting on Brodie’s face or the faintest of rustles as the fabric of her dress brushed against the wall. He turned and left so quickly, melting into the shadows of the passageway back to the door, that, had she not seen the look on Colette’s face, she might have supposed he had been a figment of her imagination and not a real person at all.
Brodie disliked Colette profoundly, but to tell tales was a contemptible thing to do, something she had never stooped to since one dismal episode in her youth which she preferred not to think of now. She contented herself with looking at Colette meaningfully — to Colette’s discomfort — and then, with a decided swing in her own step, she continued on her way.
The following afternoon Brodie, with Pamela’s good wishes, dressed in her best afternoon skirt and jacket, a green which became her very well, and set out to walk briskly into the town. It was only a matter of some two miles or so, and she expected to accomplish it in half an hour. It was an extremely agreeable day, mild and bright with a steady breeze carrying the heady scents of hawthorn blossom. There were still primroses, pale on the dark banks of the ditches. Birds sang, and far away over the fields a dog barked. Other than that there was no sound but the wind in the trees and her own brisk footsteps on the road.
The exhibition was very well signposted and she found it immediately. There were few people attending, which was fortunate. It would give her time to look for the General’s device without being hurried on.
The first machine which caught her attention was a travelling electric stairlamp, made by M. Armand Marat, obviously a Frenchman with a name like that. In fact about everything she saw in the first room appeared to be invented, designed or made by a Frenchman.
She passed to the second room, but, before she could examine the machines in it, she saw the back of a very upright man of robust physique, his clothes immaculate, his hair greying and perfectly barbered, a completely unnecessary furled umbrella in his hand. What was Stockwell doing here? She considered retreating, then was furious with herself. Why on earth should she allow Stockwell’s presence to dictate what she should do? She would not be driven out!
“Good afternoon, Mr Stockwell,” she said decisively.
He turned around very slowly, his face almost comical with surprise. “Miss Brodie! What on earth are you doing here? Has something happened?” Now he looked alarmed.
“Yes, something has happened!” she said disgustedly. “It appears that the French have stolen a march on us. All the inventions in this miserable place are French! There is barely a single exhibit that is English that I have seen! It is most disconcerting.”
“I agree,” he said unhappily. “It is most regrettable. However, I can think of nothing whatever to do about it, except take defeat like gentlemen … and ladies. To concede defeat with grace at least has dignity, and that we must never lose, Miss Brodie. Stiff upper lip in times of hardship.”
Brodie disliked conceding defeat at all, even if she were rigid to her eyebrows.
“Is there nothing British here at all?” she asked.
“Only the General’s boot polishing machine,” Stockwell said grimly. “I fear it is hardly a great cultural step forward for mankind, nor will it be of particular benefit to anyone at all. As you quite reasonably pointed out to young William, it is merely a toy for gentlemen, until they tire of it and find a new one. Probably the best that can be said of it is that it is not dangerous. No one will cut off their fingers, or set fire to the house with it.”
Brodie sighed. “I suppose we had better have a look at it, since we are here anyway.” She gazed around her. “Where is it?”
“It is in the next room, where the curator is. Although what harm he imagines could come to any of these, I don’t know. I suppose someone might try to use one of them?”
Brodie gave him a withering look.
He shrugged.
Side by side, but not touching, they made their way to the third room and its exhibits. The curator was standing in the centre. On the wall by the door as one would leave was a poster declaring proudly that the event would be opened officially by the French Ambassador to the Court of St James, on April 12th, which would be … the day after tomorrow.
“Well, which is it?” Brodie whispered, staring around her at the extraordinary array of machines and contraptions of every size and shape that were established against the wall. Not one of them looked obviously useful. Some resembled clothes mangles, others tin boxes with wires, yet others elaborate typewriters. One looked rather like a bicycle stood upside down on its saddle, with two rather small wheels. Stockwell pointed to it.
“That is it,” he said very quietly, so the curator would not hear him.
Brodie’s heart sank. It really did look extraordinarily cumbersome — more fun than a brush and cloth and a good jar of polish, but a great deal less convenient. She was now quite convinced that William’s job was in no jeopardy.
“Oh dear,” she murmured sadly.
They walked over with affected casualness and stared at the contraption. Viewed from only a yard away, it was even more like a bicycle. It was possible to see quite easily which were the moving parts, where the brushes were, and where one was intended to place one’s foot in order to have one’s boots very highly polished. There was a metal foot with many joints, and a ratchet to alter its size according to the boot in question, but it would still be an awkward and rather time-consuming task to place the boot accurately. It was so much easier simply to put one’s hand into a boot or shoe, and polish with a brush in the other hand. Brodie refrained from comment.
“Ah …” Stockwell said thoughtfully. “I believe I see the principle upon which it works. Simple, yet clever. It would obtain a most excellent shine.”
“Yes,” Brodie agreed loyally. After all, it was a British invention and the General was one of the household. “It certainly would. Unparalleled.” She continued to look at it in the hope she could see something she could admire more genuinely. The longer she looked at it, the less hope did she feel.
Stockwell must now have been feeling the same, judging by the despair in his face.
Brodie went over the mechanism in her mind once more, envisioning precisely how it would work, when switched on. There seemed to be a part whose function she could not see; in fact the more she considered it, the more convinced she was that it was not only redundant, but it would actually get in the way when the thing was set in motion. There were two parts of it, metal parts, which were bound to touch when they moved in the only way they could. She pointed it out to Stockwell.
“You must be mistaken, Miss Brodie,” he said quite kindly. After all, how could she be expected to understand how a machine would work.
“No I’m not, Mr Stockwell,” she replied. She was very good at judging the length of a thing with her eye. Good heavens, she had sewed from exact measurements for enough years. She knew the length of a skirt, the size of a waist or the width of a hem to an exactness. “It will strike that piece there!”
“Really!” he said with diminishing patience. “Do you imagine Mr Dagliesh and the General have not tried it out?”
Actually, Brodie thought that was very likely, since she was more than ever convinced that the rising bar would catch against the angled cross bar — not violently, but sufficient to graze it — and since they were both apparently metal, to strike a spark. It also looked long enough to touch the bar immediately above, but perhaps that did not matter. That might be where it was meant to rest. However, with the best will in the world, which she had, she could not admire it with any enthusiasm.
Stockwell was still regarding her crossly, waiting for an answer.
“I suppose they must have,” she conceded reluctantly, and then with a parting shot. “I don’t understand what that piece is for?” She pointed to the metal bar against which the moving part must rest when it had completed its cycle.
Stockwell’s face took on a look of indulgent superiority.
“It is part of the structure, Miss Brodie, necessary for the strength of the machine when it is in motion.”
“I don’t see how.” His tone troubled her. “Surely that piece above it is sufficient for that purpose? It is not going to bear either weight or stress.” Her mouth compressed into a thinner line.
“It must do, or it would not be there!”
“What stress? Surely the piece above it serves that purpose?”
