Holy, holy, holy
Lord God of Hosts
Heaven and earth are full of Your glory.
The Angel Prayer from the Communion Service
‘Are angels girls or boys?’ I asked the vicar when he came into the shop early Monday morning. ‘It’s been plaguing me.’
‘Ah,’ he said, frowning. ‘Religious texts usually say “he” but it’s traditionally supposed that they’re without gender. It is further confused by the fact that many artistic representations look feminine. I fear I’m not being very helpful. It’s our angel, in fact, that I’ve come to see you about. Bad news, I’m afraid. We had our PCC meeting last night, as you know, and…well, I’ve been outvoted.’
‘Meaning?’
‘They don’t see the point of restoring the window.’
‘Oh no!’
‘Quite. I suppose they have a case. There is the War Memorial window in its place now. The Mothers Union ladies would be most offended if that was taken out. But the main thing is money. We’ve got an ongoing appeal to expand our homeless projects, and in addition it’s been brought to my attention that the organ needs restoring. It’s difficult under these circumstances to argue that mending the angel window is really a necessity. Though we have to honour our maintenance obligations, beautifying the church building at the expense of helping people in need is not a popular option these days. There was a clear majority against it, I regret to say.’
He stared at the floor, glum.
‘So I suppose I must ask for him–or her or it…’ he laughed suddenly ‘…back from you. We’re unable to pay you for the work, you see, except for what you’ve done so far, and for the repair work on the other windows.’
‘That’s a shame,’ I said. As this news sank in I was dismayed to find how downcast I felt about giving up the quest. ‘An awful shame. I don’t know what to say.’
‘So I’ll bring the car over to fetch the box sometime, unless Zac is likely to be passing in his van?’
‘Right,’ I said vaguely. I was thinking furiously, trying to find some solution.
The vicar was staring unhappily at Dad’s angel hanging in the window. I thought about Laura’s journal. I felt I was on a sort of journey myself, finding out the history of the angel, becoming caught up in the search for what it looked like, learning about
Minster Glass
. I’d an idea of continuing Dad’s book for him.
And I would have enjoyed reassembling the window. Zac would, too. The money would have been useful, but since I’d discovered that Dad’s bank balance was healthy, that didn’t really matter.
‘Jeremy?’
‘Hmm?’
‘We can still do something, you know. I’d like to. Restore the window, I mean. We wouldn’t need payment. It’s just the whole thing intrigues me. I feel involved in its story somehow, especially reading Laura’s journal.’
‘I understand, but I couldn’t ask you to do it,’ he said. ‘It would be such a lot of work, and there’s the cost of materials.’
It would take up time, I couldn’t disagree with that. There would be the research into the design of the window, never mind into the methods we would need to use, the sourcing of the right glass and lead. And that’s before we actually assembled it. But suppose we achieved all that?
‘It would be a labour of love,’ I said. ‘The sort of thing Dad would have done gladly, the sort of job he’d have enjoyed, if he were well. He’d be pleased if we did it, I know he would.’
‘I think he would. Fran, it’s a lovely suggestion. I’m rather overwhelmed. As you know, it’s become rather a pet project of mine, too. If I can’t persuade the PCC to spend parish money on it, well, maybe Sarah and I could contribute something privately.’
‘That’s something we can talk about, but I’d just be glad if you would agree to us doing it. I’d need to ask Zac, of course.’ I laughed. ‘After all, he’d be doing most of the work.’
‘And I’d need to ask the churchwardens, the window being church property. But I can’t see that anyone would disagree, really, can you?’
‘There is one thing,’ I said. ‘If we do this, I’d like to think that there would be somewhere for the angel to go. I can understand if you don’t want to dismantle the War Memorial window, but I would feel immensely disappointed if the angel had no home at all, just lay unseen in some museum basement somewhere.’
‘I see your point. Mmm. I can immediately think of one or two possibilities, but I’d need to study them to see if they’d work. There’s actually another window next to the Mothers’ Union one that’s currently hidden by a cupboard. It might be the right size, I’d have to check–and think about where we could put the cupboard instead. Then we’d have to ask permission, of course. But, well, my dear, I’m very pleased at your reaction. A generous offer. I feel very cheered.’
When he’d gone, setting off across the garden at a brisk pace, I smiled to see him suddenly skip to one side with the vigour of a man thirty years younger, to kick a stray ball back to a toddler.
I switched on the lights in the workshop and, energised by my offer to Jeremy, resolved to carry out straight away my promise of last night. I went into the office to find the phone number of the Museum of Stained Glass. When the phone was answered, I asked to speak to a member of staff. I told her the whole story and she asked me to spell various names and clarify dates. ‘I’ll call you back as soon as I can,’ she said, and I put the phone down thinking that perhaps, now, I would make some progress.
‘Of course we must do it,’ was Zac’s immediate response to the news that we wouldn’t get paid for reconstructing the angel.
‘We’d have to do it on top of all the regular commissions,’ I said. ‘You’re already fairly overloaded.’
‘There are some jobs that are worth doing,’ he said with finality. ‘I’ll enjoy it.’
Good old Zac. Not that I’d really expected him to say anything else.
It was choir that night, and Ben was in full fighting mode.
‘Can we take it from the
tutti
on page forty-one. “Go, In the name of Angels and Archangels”.’ And it’s
fortissimo
. We’re sending this soul from the world with a great fanfare of sound. I want to be blown away. Ready…three, four.’
‘Go…’ we all wobbled, having trouble pitching the note.
‘No, no, no. I said blown away. You need to sound as though you mean it. Graham, play that A, please. Once again now–three, four.’
‘GO!’ we all shrieked. Ben rolled his eyes but let us stagger on.
‘Watch your timing, tenors!’
The rehearsal had been going reasonably well. Many people looked surprised at the idea of singing exercises, but had valiantly joined in. But after ten minutes a group of altos I’d once heard Michael refer to unkindly as the ‘knitting circle’ started talking at the back and I noticed one of the basses looking pointedly at his watch. Sensing unrest, Ben turned swiftly to the
Gerontius
score.
‘That’s really not too bad,’ he said, once we’d despatched old Gerontius to his death. ‘Some of you have more obviously prepared than others, however.’ I saw the front line of first sopranos sit up straighter. They were the keen ones, their ringleader being Val, who organised the orchestra. Jo and I felt more comfortable at the back, out of the firing line.
I was faintly surprised that Jo wasn’t here, given that she hadn’t rung to tell me. Perhaps I was unreasonable to have expected her to, it’s only that it was the sort of thing she did. You always knew where you were with Jo.
Later, I walked to the pub with Dominic.
‘A shame Jo couldn’t make it,’ he said, so sadly that I wondered once again whether she was special to him.
‘Perhaps something came up at work,’ I hazarded.
‘Unusual for her to miss a rehearsal though,’ he said. Then, ‘I can’t stay long tonight myself. I promised my sister I’d take over before eleven.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Take over what?’
‘Babysitting my mother,’ he said, making a rueful face. ‘She’s very disabled now, I’m afraid. It’s a real worry. After the carer goes home my sister and I share responsibility. Monday night’s usually my night off, but tonight my sister can’t stay as they’re going on holiday tomorrow so I must get back at a reasonable hour.’
‘I’m sorry to hear about all that,’ I said gently, rather moved by his story. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Quite honestly, Fran, I don’t like to complain, but we’re getting to breaking point. My sister and her husband are expecting their first, so what we’re going to do when the baby’s born I don’t know. We’ve got to start thinking of a home for Mum, though it’ll be distressing for all of us. I’ve applied for some time off work to try to sort everything out. The trouble is, the timing is really not great. I’d been hoping for a promotion to come through. But what can you do? You have to take what life deals you. She’s been a wonderful mother to us, and we won’t abandon her in her hour of need.’
I glanced up at him, walking beside me, expecting him to be cast in gloom, but instead he smiled at me wickedly.
‘Perhaps I should bring her to work in a wheelchair. That would be fun on the Tube,’ he said. ‘And she’d probably sort them all out at work, too. Never stood much nonsense, did Mum! She’s still got a lot of spirit.’
She’d clearly brought her children up with a strong sense of duty, too. I couldn’t think of many men who would give up a chance of promotion to look after an ailing parent.
‘I don’t have much time for anything else though.’ And so he sighed. ‘Monday is my one night out. It is a shame not to see Jo.’
At that point we reached the pub. Since Ben hadn’t yet arrived, we were immediately drawn into a conversation about the rehearsal. Of the dozen or so choir members thronged around the table, about half thought the singing exercises a great idea. ‘Ben’s right, we need to be more professional,’ said Crispin, our earnest Gerontius, who was so grateful to have been given the solo part in rehearsals that he would never hear a word against Ben. But some of the ‘knitting circle’ thought it was a shame. ‘It’s too much like hard work, the whole thing.’ Dominic, a tactful man, didn’t say much, merely listened to the others.
When Ben hurried in shortly afterwards, agitated and short of breath, I saw two or three of the complainers go up and engage him in animated conversation. At one point he raised both hands in a calming gesture.
While this was going on, I noticed Michael was standing on his own, so I went over to say hello.
‘I wouldn’t say the choir are completely happy,’ he said, nodding towards the group gathered around Ben. ‘Well, I did warn him.’
‘I expect it’s a storm in a teacup,’ I said, feeling defensive of Ben. I still couldn’t understand the relationship between these two. On one level they seemed as inextricably linked as brothers, yet here was Michael almost taking pleasure in Ben’s difficulties. It made me wary.
‘I enjoyed the other evening,’ I said, to change the subject. ‘I hope you got your train home in the morning all right.’
‘I didn’t go in the end,’ he said, offhand.
‘Oh.’
‘Nina asked me to spend the day with her.’
‘I see,’ I said, not understanding at all.
‘It must seem confusing to you,’ he went on, finally looking at me, unhappiness in his eyes. ‘It is to me, too.’
‘Are you a couple, you and Nina?’
He shrugged. ‘Yes. Or rather, we were,’ he said. ‘Until she met Ben. It was silly of me introducing her to him.’
‘She’s…going out with Ben, then?’ I was alarmed to feel a flood of dismay.
‘I don’t think Ben thinks of her that way,’ said Michael. ‘She’s besotted, I can tell, but she won’t admit it. I suppose I shouldn’t hang around, but I…care for her, you see.’ Michael’s expression was suddenly so hurt, so vulnerable, that for the first time I warmed to him.
We stood in silence, a stew of emotions simmering inside me. Ben wasn’t with Nina. But Nina wanted him to be. And poor old Michael was miserable. It was like a Shakespearian comedy and not at all funny. And here was I, for the moment on the outside looking in. For how long? I could feel myself being sucked in.
I went and talked to Dominic until he had to go, and then I myself left soon after. When I called, ‘Goodbye,’ to Ben and Michael, now in deep conversation together, Ben followed me to the door.
‘Sorry I haven’t had a chance to talk to you this evening,’ he said. ‘Are you free to come round for supper later in the week–Thursday, or Friday after church choir practice, perhaps? It would be fantastic to see you.’
‘Thursday would be less rushed for you, wouldn’t it?’ I said, so we agreed to Thursday.
I was already looking forward to it. In my good mood I even managed to smile at the catcalls from a group of workmen who were gathered round a throbbing generator at the edge of the Square.
I let myself in through the shop door, then turned on the lights and went over to look at our angel. Zac had moved her table to a corner of the studio out of the way, and I could see he’d polished some of the larger pieces. Golds and greens glowed in the overhead light. From the box nearby, the piece of old newspaper peeped up. I pulled it out to study the faded picture of the bombsite.
I wondered who might have lived at
Minster Glass
in September 1940. My father would have been a boy of around ten. My grandfather would be the one the church contacted, though I knew nothing much about him. Where would the family have been on the night of the raid? We had no garden for an Anderson shelter and were some way from a Tube station. Perhaps the family had gone to one of the trench shelters or merely huddled under a table in the workshop until the all-clear sounded.
That night, I fell asleep and the distant hum of the workmen’s generator must have got into my head because my dreams were filled with the whir of plane engines, but then there were wailing sirens, explosions and smashing glass and then a woman screaming. I woke in darkness, bathed in sweat and shouting for my mother, sure I’d dreamed of some dreadful calamity.
Outside, even the generator had stopped and there was only the distant growl of night traffic.
I lay in the darkness, which in a city is never proper darkness, listening to the quiet that is never complete silence, trying to remember my dream. Shreds came back. Something to do with bombs and the angel window breaking.
I imagined someone, maybe the vicar, picking their way through the damage next day, tenderly gathering up the clumps of glass and twisted lead. Had the window got boarded up as it was or had the remaining glass been knocked out first? Would they even have bothered to seek professional advice?