"That could be, my dear girl, because Victoria and Albert were the Hausfrau and her Herr. He saw through them.'
It was the 'dear girl' that did it. She'd have those trousers off him or die in the attempt. She smiled and shifted a little further down the length of the sofa so that she was more lying back than sitting up. She put one arm behind her head, Maya-style - and an elbow popped out. Patrick, she saw, was now very confused about the sexual nature of elbows.
'I think this is what happened,' she said. Then she paused and ran her fingers up and down her funny bone, which had an interesting effect on her own erectile tissue and, from the look of him, on Patrick's too. They both - clearly - were Up For It.
She said, suddenly snappish, making Patrick jump. 'Now. Pay attention.'
Patrick said, quite crossly,
‘I
am.' He was, providing he stopped watching those little sliding fingers.
‘I
think,' she said, 'the Queen and Prince Albert drove out of the Balmoral Estate on to the bridge. First, she did not like the heavy, masculine look of it, given the light and decorative quality of the Gothic Revival, and, second, when they drove across it - it wobbled. That is recorded in the State papers. So there are two things wrong. First she does not like the look of it, and second she does not feel safe travelling on it. So they go back into the Castle and up to the boudoir and she bursts into tears. She's probably pregnant because she always was. And she asks Albert how he could possibly have misread her desires so
...
As for that scruffy, self-opinionated little man,
Brunel
, We (the royal We) will never use him again. Understood? And Albert, a little shaken at his usually docile wife's reaction, agrees quickly enough. So Isambard Kingdom, and perhaps the nation, loses out just because he will not compromise for a queen - and, of course, a woman. That's him out in the cold.'
'That is the job of genius,' said Patrick. 'Confrontation. One stands up for one's beliefs and one will not budge. It moves things forward.'
'It also causes wars
’
she said crisply. 'A little compromise now and again is no bad thing.'
He was not going to let her get away with that.
Brunel
's honour was at stake. She was now pressing her knee into the side of his knee with - interesting results. But - temporarily -
Brunel
won.
'What about the Great Exhibition of 1851?' he said smugly. 'He was at the very heart of the committee that set it up.' Patrick folded his arms and jutted his chin in a gesture reminiscent of his mother.
Madame Koi - reverting to Audrey Wapshott for a moment - very nearly forgot herself and said so. But Madame Koi swiftly stepped in and disaster was averted. 'That was self-aggrandisement
’
she said. 'He designed a most awful brick and domed building which no one liked and when Paxton came along with his creation of glass and metal, the wonderful Crystal Palace,
Brunel
acknowledged it was better than his idea, that it was more beautiful, but he still tried to get his ugly old thing built. He even put it in writing that he was going to.'
Patrick's jaw was still bowsprit. She reached out and with the very tip of her finger pushed it back into place. Then she leaned into the cushions behind her and folded her arms and said sternly, 'Remove your tie.'
'Now wait a minute
’
he said. 'I've just proved that
Brunel
went on to do something major for the Crown after all.'
'Oh, no, you haven't. That was
before
the Balmoral Bridge, silly. And it never got built. There was nothing afterwards, nothing at all.' She smiled. 'Tie off, please, and you can remove your belt as well -for arguing.'
'But-'
'Careful
’
she said in that peculiarly husky voice, 'or I'll have your trousers, too.'
‘I
think
’
he said, enjoying it all despite himself, 'that it's time I took an item or two off you. And what you must understand, my little Koi-Koi
’
(his little Koi-Koi went a fetching shade of peony) 'is that
Brunel
was a ground-breaker. Bridges that he built to last for twenty or thirty years stood for a hundred. He cocked a snook -'
'Pardon?' she said quickly, leaning forward, pressing his thigh for a moment with her fingertips. 'Cocked?' she pouted.
No, thought Patrick. No. No. No. I
will
defend him. 'You just have to hand it to Isambard, and therefore to me, that his bridges were splendid creations and finely built. Now. Off, off, off.'
'Very well
’
she said. 'I will.'
And without further ado she leaned forward and unhooked the back of her mock
obi.
Its heavy silk slithered to the floor. Followed, one after the other, by her little dragon shoes. And there were her toes, too, only with perfect crimson nails, and a clear desire to make up to his own, less spectacular set. 'I give you those for free, also
’
she said softly.
Patrick took a deep breath. He tried to calm himself with pictures of
Brunel
's achievements but it was like being told not to think of hippopotamuses - you couldn't think of anything else. He pictured the Boxford Tunnel. Oh dear God, no, that was long and dark and to be entered. Chepstow Bridge then? But that was all about trusses - King Truss, Queen Truss: Truss, Truss, Truss
...
The SS
Great Eastern?
Good God, no - not that - for it was built with screw and paddle-wheel. As for the bridge at Maidenhead with its wide and sensual curving egress - he must not think about it, he must not, he must not, he must not
...
A vague, creeping sense that something very ridiculous was happening inched its way around him, but he was here in his professional capacity, and professional he would be
...
For now.
‘I
see myself in a long line of bridge builders that Isambard set free. We make structures on a par with the Colossus. Grand markers in history which exist because of the very nature of the architecture and engineering that produced the structure. In short
Brunel
showed that his bridges, in particular, were of themselves. Just as Jackson Pollock and Franz Kline said that the paint and the canvas are the reality and not a vehicle for a narrative visual conjuring trick - and just as Gabo sculpted truth to materials and form -'
Madame Koi seemed to stifle a yawn at this point. 'What made you want to be a builder yourself?' she asked. And closed her eyes.
He told her all about being born into a firebombed city. How it made a deep impression on him. That it was as if some Muse guided him.
She yawned again. And wrote a note or two on her pad. As she wrote she said, 'Your mother was a great support, I think.'
'She was
’
said Patrick. He tried very hard not to picture his mother at this moment, for obvious reasons. 'She encouraged me to be myself.' He thought she muttered, 'You can say that again' into her notebook. 'I'm sorry?' he said.
She ignored the question. 'And your father?'
'Absolutely not. Just a ticket collector at the railway. Nothing.'
Audrey, who re-emerged, nearly threw the pad at him. Madame Koi was more polite. 'Sometimes we don't know where we get our influences from until we ask ourselves.'
'Not my dad,' said Patrick. 'Definitely'
She yawned again.
It really was very off-putting. 'You should go to bed earlier,' he said waspishly.
'I did,' she said. 'That's why I'm tired. It was a - very - active night. And you?'
Patrick blushed. Patrick had also had a very active night, but not of that variety. Patrick had sat up in his hotel bed with Peggy by his side and she had been wondering - nearly all night it seemed to him -what she should wear the next day and whether Audrey Wapshott would be there. What was left of the night he then spent calming her down after he said, innocently enough, that he hoped she would be there, that he would like to see her again, see what she was getting up to - that he had a very soft spot for her. He only realised Peggy was upset when the bed started shaking.
Which meant that Peggy arrived here tonight looking windswept and acting like a hunted animal. How odd it all was since Audrey was so very long ago.
'You cannot deny,' he said, desperately, 'that
Brunel
brought modernism into industrial design.'
'You mean, away with the painting of cathedrals so that we may see the shape of the stones
'Without him there could have been no Aare Bridge at Aarburg, for example -'
'Ah yes,' said Madame Koi. Her eyes were shining now, and she rubbed her foot hard against his. "The Aare. Maillart and his transverse frames set into the - mmm - haunch - of the arch. So sexy, these terms, are they not?' She leaned forward. 'And if I am not mistaken,' she said in a low and rather wonderful voice, 'that was how he
stiffened
the platform, was it not?' She put her fingers to her mouth again and sucked the very ends of them delicately. 'I am,' she said, 'very warm. I would like to remove my robe. Have you nothing more to say on his behalf? Shall we talk, for example, about structure?'
He took her notebook from her and dropped it on the floor. 'Well, I think women's bodies are wonders,' he said, gallantly. 'Perhaps the finest structures in the world.'
Oh please,
she thought. But she smiled encouragingly. 'Isn't it true to say that bridges reflect your sexuality? All that outward and upward thrust - yes? I mean,' she said, 'in the matter of your bridges. 'You build them Big, Mr Parker. You like them monumental.'
'Call me Patrick,' he said. He stroked her arm. Goosebumps rose. He went on doing so. 'And you are right. There is so much sky to thrust up to, there is so much water to span, so many banks to abut
...
Brunel
certainly knew that.'
She retrieved her notebook and wrote something down. He wanted to know what it was. She laughed and said it was confidential. What she had actually written down was 'Bugger
Brunel
', which relieved her feelings. She smiled again, this time as if she was seeking his confidence. 'Mr Parker - Patrick - women have not traditionally built bridges. I wonder if you have a theory as to why this might be?'
Oh, he had been caught by this sort of thing before. Strident women. Those short-haired androgynous types. He sorted through his brain to find a useful suggestion. One that would not offend. Then, thankfully, he noticed her cute little beaded shoes. The perfect example.
'You will find,' he said, picking one up and tapping a beaded dragon playfully, 'that women are more dexterous than muscular. They have an eye for detail. Bridges are large, awkward, brawny -often disturbing things - and use hard, masculine materials. Women understandably shy away from them for the gentler forms of design. And of course, there is a place for that too -'
'Of course,' she said, and wrote again. This time he did not ask, which was just as well as she had written, 'Patrick Parker you do talk shit.' She really wanted those trousers.
'You know that he bankrupted several companies he used in the building of his designs?' she said.
'Who?'
‘I
have a list of them here -' He waved the notepad away. 'And he did it for no good reason except that old pig-headedness again. Money due to one of the engineers on the GWR, for example, was never paid to them. It was allocated and all
Brunel
had to do was write the cheque - and he never did. He kept nit-picking. They pleaded. He remained immutable. Out of business they went, and at least one man died broken-hearted.'
'Hah!' said Patrick.
She got the trousers.
She got the shirt with her defence, quite correct, of the valueless-ness of the seven-foot gauge over the four-foot gauge for the railway.
Brunel
said it would make a smoother ride, and it did not. It also cost vast and unnecessary sums of investors' money to convert.
Which only left him his - somewhat sketchy - underpants.
He, however, fought back.
'And his Great Bridge of Clifton,' she began confidently, 'with its vast span - how long was it now? So very, very big
...'
'Nine hundred and sixteen feet,' said Patrick firmly. 'In metres?' she said. 'He worked in feet and inches.'
'Ah yes. He won the commission by saying that he would make a bridge that spanned nine hundred or so feet - much longer than his rival Telford's. But when it came to be built the span was modified and made smaller anyway. He brought it down to six hundred after all.'