“No. And bricklaying and carpentry. All I can. And then I am going to start building houses.”
“Architect?”
“As little as possible,” said Joan. “No. No beastly Architecture for Art’s sake for me! Do you remember how people used to knock their heads about at The Ingle-Nook? I’ve got some money. Why shouldn’t I be able to build houses as well as the fat builder-men with big, flat thumbs who used to build houses before the war?”
“Jerry-building?”
“High-class jerry-building, if you like. Cottages with sensible insides, real insides, and not so much waste space and scamping to make up for it. They’re half a million houses short in this country already. There’s something in building appeals to my sort of imagination. And I’m going to make money, Petah.”
“I love the way you carry your tail,” said Peter. “Always.”
“Well, doing running repairs hardens a woman’s soul.”
“You’ll make more money than I shall, perhaps. But now I begin to understand all these extraordinary books you’ve been studying.... I might have guessed.... Why not?”
He limped along, considering it. “Why shouldn’t you?” he said. “A service flat will leave your hands free.... I’ve always wondered secretly why women didn’t plunge into that sort of business more.”
“It’s been just diffidence,” said Joan.