No Ordinary Affair Read Free Page B

That’s why I enjoy working here.. ."  My voice trailed off. I was starting to sound silly, but he seemed not to notice.
    “I thought the paddle would look grand on the wall. The cane was the preferred implement of choice, the paddle was more popular among schoolmasters in America. But a few used them here…”
    I blushed. “You seem to know a great deal about…”
    “…corporal punishment? Yes. I’m quite a fan.”
    The color crept back into my cheeks and I moved past him quickly so he’d not see and walked towards the box where he’d originally found the paddle.
    “There are other things in here you know,” I said. “Inkwells and slates and even an old primer or two. Perhaps you’d like to take a look.”
    “No thank you,” he said. “There was a good deal of that sort of thing left behind. Even an old school bell. Solid brass. Almost everything one would need to run a classroom, except for this.”   He held up the paddle.   “And of course, the cane,” he added and then paused, studying me. “Would you like to take a look?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “At the schoolhouse. It’s really quite remarkable. It’s nearly lunch time and I take it you are allowed a modest break.”
    “I—why, yes. I am,” I said as I tried to think of a half-hearted excuse not to go. “I’m married” sprang to mind, but I batted it away. It was hardly an unfaithful act to indulge my love of historical things. The old Drumlin place with its stately – albeit rundown - manor house and farmlands had once been the epicenter of what was a small village. Conley Drumlin, who’d built the house, had generously donated land and built the small school for the growing population of tenant farmers and tradesmen. Then an epidemic of fever wiped out nearly everyone and the remaining residents migrated away. I’d read a few papers on the place and had always wanted to see it.
    “Oh, why not,” I said, smiling as I reached for the shop keys. “I’ll be educational, and a nice departure from my regular trip to the sandwich shop.”
    “Excellent,” he said, and walked with me to the door. A paper clock hung on the front and I moved the hands on the “Back At” side to one o’clock before flipping it around.
    The weather was dreary as we walked to his car and I wondered how Miss Parsham was faring. I imagined her racing around in the garden of some large house that had seen better days, eagerly attempting to save oil paintings and books and linens from the cold rain. I hoped she would; I hated it when she returned from a sale in a bad temper since she almost always took it out on me. The last time a sale had gone badly she’d made me rearrange all the bookshelves in alphabetical order, which was far less effective than my system of arranging books by category. I’d sneezed for two days from the dust alone, and it’d taken me a fortnight to surreptitiously rearrange them back the way I wanted.
    Even in the rain the drive to the Drumlin place was pleasant. The roads to the place were narrow and lined with ancient stone walls. Farms on the way to the estate hearkened back to a time when larger beasts roamed the fields – cattle and huge draft horses. Now only a few sheep could be seen dotting the landscape and I wagered half of the were kept mainly for aesthetic reasons.
    “Are you planning to li ve there?” I asked, “At Drumlin's, I mean?”
    “Eventually,” he said. “There are workmen there now getting it prepared for habitation. The pipes are worthless and there’s a problem with mold in some of the rooms. And the roof is a waste.”
    “Sounds expensive,” I said.
    “It is,” he admitted. “But anything worth having is worth investing in, whether that investment is money or time. I have a passion for bringing out the natural beauty in things, of watching them unfold and blossom under my influence. I suppose I’m quite paternalistic in that way.”
    I thought about that. And then I thought about Mark and how