Jeremy’s voice ceased. We both sat for a long while without speaking.
My father had caused the death of Angela, his beautiful angel. I remembered the angel in the shop window, now a mess of smashed glass and twisted lead. It had been made in memory of her, my mother. I suddenly knew this for sure.
Each man kills the thing he loves.
That was Oscar Wilde, wasn’t it? My thoughts were rambling now.
‘Did you know everything he’d written, Jeremy?’ I asked.
‘He told me most of it, yes,’ Jeremy replied.
‘Do you believe his version of events? That he was guilty?’
‘The important thing is that
he
still considered himself guilty, years after the event. Of course, the coroner would have looked at the matter more objectively. A woman walked into the road without looking and was knocked down by a car, driven by a drunk, which was undoubtedly going too fast. Put like that, your father deserves no blame. The driver of the car apparently spent a year of his three-year sentence in prison. Your father spent a lifetime in hell. It destroyed his relationship with your mother’s family. He couldn’t bear to see their suffering, so in the end it was easiest not to see them at all.’
I’d lost them, too. I remembered my argument with Dad over my grandmother’s legacy–that when she died he hadn’t even told me. I had no memory of my mother’s parents at all.
I ran my fingers along the faded chintz of the chair’s arm and pulled at a loose thread.
‘What did you say to him?’ I asked. I didn’t know what to feel. Was I angry with my father, or sorry for him? The course of my life was decided by the events of that night so long ago, and yet I felt emotionally detached from the whole business. My father had taken the blame. He’d done his time. Now he was an old man lying in a coma. Ready for release.
‘I asked him many questions about his version of events,’ Jeremy continued. ‘It was important that he work it all out for himself–I always feel that with people. He seemed relieved that he had told someone. It’s an old cliché, isn’t it, to “get something off one’s chest”? But that’s what it can feel like, that something heavy has been weighing down on one, like the dead albatross around the Ancient Mariner’s neck, and then–one hack of the knife, so to speak, and it’s gone, you’re free.
‘He gradually came to see that the situation was more complex than he had allowed it to be; that your mother had to share something of the guilt. It didn’t help that soon after her death he had a letter from Angela’s lover, a man who grieved but who clearly wished to shift any blame onto your father. He explained how the end of their relationship had come about: that he had requested she leave her husband and child and come to him and she had refused. This man implied that Angela had been too frightened of your father to leave him. In his letter he twisted everything, making Edward appear a kind of ogre. And Edward, I’m afraid, allowed himself to be swayed by this impression, believing that by taking all these accusations upon himself he was enduring the punishment he deserved.’
‘But he wasn’t an ogre, was he? From what you say it doesn’t sound as if he deserved any of this.’
‘Look into your heart, Fran,’ Jeremy said quietly. ‘What kind of man do you believe your father to be?’
It didn’t take long to decide my answer. ‘Like most of the rest of us. Basically a good person.’ Dad was never an easy man. Sometimes he was moody. He was someone who found it hard to forgive and who feared he could not be forgiven in return. I remembered his gentleness with me; yet he could on occasions be irritable, strict–even fierce. But an ogre? I was never frightened of him. He was never violent.
‘That’s what I think, too,’ said Jeremy. ‘I’m sure of it, in fact. And I’m certain that he was coming to realise it. But he was only at the beginning of a long spiritual journey when he was struck down. Now we must trust that God in His great mercy will help him complete that journey.’
I longed to be where I might weep for that two-year-old girl who, long ago, lost her beautiful mother, and whose father was cast into a prison of his own making.
But there was one question to which I had as yet no answer. I told Jeremy about my dream on the night of the fire; the woman’s lovely singing and the urgent voice that woke me.
‘Do you believe it could have been more than a dream?’
‘There are many instances in the Bible where angels spoke to people in dreams. Why shouldn’t this still happen today?’
I experienced a rush of relief that Jeremy believed me.
‘I’d like to think of that as the explanation,’ I told him. ‘Nothing else makes sense.’
If some people really see angels where others see only empty space, let them paint the angels: only let not anybody else think they can paint an angel, too.
John Ruskin
L
AURA’S
S
TORY
It was September and the windows had been finished two months before, but in the general atmosphere of unrest, Mr Bond was uncertain about whether to continue with their installation. Mrs Brownlow was beside herself with distress. The benefactress’s nephew was pragmatic. Mr Brownlow was pulled all ways.
‘It’s not as though the windows won’t be installed at some point.’ Pulling on her hat and gloves in the hall, Laura heard her father’s voice drift from the morning room. ‘Bond suggests we delay, given the effect they might have on certain members of the parish.’
‘But I thought you said we shouldn’t give in to these people.’ She had to strain to hear her mother’s gentle tones.
‘Not give in, dearest, no. But remember what the Bishop advised: we should continue to assist the police to find the culprits, but not go out of our way to provoke further discontent.’
‘But James, we’ve paid for the angel window ourselves and the other is decreed by a Will. It’s not as though these people can argue that we’ve used church money to take bread out of others’ mouths. All can use the church and have the benefit of these beautiful windows.’
‘I agree with you heartily, Dora. However, these persons don’t see the matter in such terms. There is a risk that they might seek to destroy the stained glass, and what then? All our efforts will have been wasted. I am the last person to want to hide our light under a bushel, but I’m bound to listen to the Bishop’s advice–which is also Mr Bond’s.’
Laura had to move aside hastily as her father emerged from the drawing room. He muttered an apology to her and retreated to his study. That, she knew, would be the last they saw of him until luncheon. She peeped around the door of the morning room to see her mother bent over her writing desk.
‘Mama, do you need Polly this morning?’
Her mother looked up. ‘Ah, Laura, I thought you’d gone for your walk. I’m glad you’re still here, dear, there’s a message come from…’ she consulted a sheet of thin, yellow paper ‘…a Mr Murray–a neighbour of our Miss Badcoe. It seems Miss Badcoe has taken to her bed “with her chest”, the man says, and is asking for me. Since I’ve a meeting with the Missionary Committee this morning I wondered if you’d go. By all means, take Polly. Ask Cook to pack you a basket.’
Laura had meant to walk across Vauxhall Bridge Road to Pimlico, to Mr Russell’s address in Lupus Street; she was most put out by her mother’s request. But she could hardly refuse, not least because she’d have to reveal the true nature of her outing.
She cheered up on reading the address that her mother passed her, realising that it wasn’t too far out of her way. Very well, she would call on the elderly lady first, then continue on to Philip’s. His invitation said there was someone he wanted her to meet. She hoped she wouldn’t miss whoever it was.
Goose Lane was a mews running off Greycoat Street on the other side of the church, in the direction of Westminster Abbey. Laura had often noticed its name, painted in wobbly capitals on the wall of the corner building, but she’d never been down it before. It was muddy, gloomy and silent, the tall terraced houses blocking out sunlight.
Laura and Polly had to rap on the knocker of number 4 several times before they heard slow footsteps on the stairs and a stooped old man peeped around the door.
‘Mr Murray?’ enquired Laura. Relief crossed the man’s creased face as she introduced herself.
‘Mind the ’ole,’ he said in a reedy voice as he beckoned them upstairs, and they swung their skirts around a confused area of the hall floor where the boards had split and someone had made a cack-handed job of fixing it. They trudged up seemingly endless wooden stairs, Mr Murray stopping several times to take his breath. Then they stopped at a door on the second landing. Mr Murray rapped twice and on hearing a groan from within, turned the handle. He showed the ladies into the room and withdrew, shutting the door behind him.
Inside was more bare wooden floor. The smell of damp clothes and naphthalene could not quite disguise that of unwashed human body. On a single bedstead to one side of the room near the fireplace, a frail figure huddled under a heap of blankets and coats, coughing horribly in between rasping breaths.
‘Miss Badcoe, it’s Laura Brownlow. Mama sent me…I’m so sorry you’re ill…’ Laura faltered as she met Miss Badcoe’s desperate expression. The Miss Badcoe she knew from church was straight-backed, formal, neatly turned out, if forty years behind the fashion. Her boots were always polished, her gloves clean, her bonnet standing to attention along with the rest of her.
If Laura had ever given the woman a second thought–which, she had to confess, she probably hadn’t–she would have imagined her living anywhere but here, in this bare room. It wasn’t quite a hovel, but…Laura looked round the room while Polly helped the old lady sit up and began to rearrange the bedclothes for her, trying to plump up the thin, lumpy pillows.
The grate was full of cold ashes, the coal scuttle empty. There was at least a basin with a cold water tap, Laura noted. It stood by the only window, the curtains of which sagged half-open to reveal, through sooty glass, the grim back view of an edifice identical to this one.
‘Shall I go to buy coal, miss?’ Polly was asking her.
Laura gave her some money for coal, milk and soap, then asked Miss Badcoe which room Mr Murray inhabited, intending to see if he had hot water. He proved to be next door and promised to boil some right away. ‘I give her tea this morning,’ he whined, ‘but I can’t hardly manage myself now. I ain’t no damned use to a lady by any method, begging yer pardon, miss.’ His eyes glittered with wicked humour. Laura, nervous of him, retreated. When, several minutes later, he hobbled in with a steaming kettle, she told him to place it by the fire and dropped a couple of coins into his hand.
Her mind whirled as she set about her tasks, brewing a pot of tea from the scrapings in a caddy, taking out the food Mrs Jorkins had given her. She poured a bowl of warm water, found a worn towel and a tiny sliver of soap by the basin, then gently washed the sick woman’s face and neck, brushed her straggly ash-coloured hair. Polly returned and soon a fire crackled in the grate, though the smoke made Miss Badcoe cough. The chimney badly needed sweeping.
All the time, running through Laura’s mind, were thoughts of Miss Badcoe, present at every Sunday-morning service; Miss Badcoe polishing brass, arranging flowers; Miss Badcoe, eschewing the hassocks, always kneeling direct on the stone floor to pray; Miss Badcoe, who was Mrs Fotherington’s cousin–‘on her father’s side’, as Miss Badcoe liked to add with a sniff. Laura didn’t recall the ladies ever even sitting together. She thought of Mrs Fotherington–lively, loud-voiced, with her strong views about everything and her fine house in Vincent Square. Mrs Fotherington, who had left all her money to the church and to her dear nephew (on her mother’s side) Stuart Jefferies; but nothing, it seemed, to this impoverished cousin. Of course, one didn’t know the background–who might have quarrelled with whom, or whether Mrs Fotherington had ever known the true circumstances of her father’s sister’s daughter, but even so, there was injustice here, Laura couldn’t help thinking.
She reached for one of the line of grimy storage tins, in search of sugar for the tea.
Salt, Sago, Sugar
the labels read in careful spindly letters, the capital Ss as ornate as little harps. There was something about those ornate Ss that bothered her. She’d seen them before…in a letter! A letter that she’d picked up from her father’s desk. S for Scarlet.
Scarlet woman
.
Suddenly, revelation dawned. Miss Badcoe was the secret letter-writer. Her mother’s worn face flashed into her mind, she saw dull defeat in her father’s eyes. For one wild second, she was so angry she felt like tipping the tea into Miss Badcoe’s lap. Then her vision cleared and she forced herself to focus with pity once more on this ailing bag of bones. Here was an elderly woman who had no one who loved her, no one
to
love; she would die unnoticed and unmourned unless she, Laura Brownlow, did something about it.
She knelt down by the bed and helped Miss Badcoe sip her tea. Behind her, Polly waited for the fire to establish itself and hung a can of broth to warm. Laura sent her out to return the kettle to Mr Murray. When the door closed she said, ‘Miss Badcoe, it’s you, isn’t it, who writes those letters to my father.’
The sick woman became as still as an old gnarled tree; her mouth set rigid like a knothole in the bark. She said nothing, only stared into the distance. Laura took the cup from her unresisting hands.
‘Miss Badcoe, I know it’s you, and I’m going to tell my father. He’ll tell Mr Bond and soon everybody will know.’
She waited, watching Miss Badcoe consider all this. Finally the woman crumpled and wept.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ asked Polly, coming back into the room. Seeing Laura’s stern look she made to withdraw again, but Laura called out to her to go and fetch a doctor.
‘Miss Badcoe, why did you do it?’ Laura hissed. ‘Do you know what misery you’ve caused?’
In between tears and coughing fits, the old lady confessed.
For years and years, Ivy Badcoe had done her duty in life. She’d nursed her parents as they aged, sickened and died, losing all chance of marriage and having a family of her own. Her father had mismanaged his money and Ivy was left with practically nothing except her pride. Sunday after Sunday she had attended divine service, kept up appearances, placed her mite in the collection, done her duty in various ways. Yet, somehow, she was never noticed, never cared for; her stiff pride, her formal manners, kept everyone at a distance. She was one of those for whom society seemed to have no role but to assist others; she herself was not deemed to have a right to anything–not love, companionship or attention. She had watched the parish poor receive charity–indeed, she had contributed herself where she could, never thinking that she should ask for help in return. Oh no, her parents would have turned in their grave.
She must have watched with some puzzlement as the Reverend Brownlow bestowed riches upon the church: beautiful new altar linen, with different sets for all the church seasons; the gold candlesticks; a jewel-encrusted processional cross. Her eyes were dazzled by all this beauty, she told Laura, but as the years passed and her limbs ached more and her breath grew shorter, she became frightened and her resentment grew. When Sarah Fotherington died and left part of her wealth to make a window, leaving nothing for her impoverished Cousin Ivy, something broke in Miss Badcoe’s heart.
When Laura questioned her, she insisted that she had nothing to do with the violence to church property–nay, she abhorred it–but the vandalism inspired a way in which she could safely express her feelings. In anonymous letters she could pour out her hatred and frustration without anyone knowing who it was. But now everyone would know, she finished sadly, and she might as well be dead.
‘Oh really, it’s not that bad,’ said Laura softly, thinking that this woman had clearly suffered enough. ‘When Polly returns, I shall have to go, but please do not worry. I must tell my parents, but I will urge them to keep your secret. I know they will offer you nothing but pity. However, you must swear to write one more letter and one only: a letter of apology to my father. In it, I want you to ask for one thing.’
She studied the fearful rheumy eyes fixed on her.
‘You must ask them for a place in one of the almshouses. We cannot allow you to live here any longer.’
Miss Badcoe lay still for a moment thinking. Then she said quietly, ‘I will do what you suggest.’
Polly returned with only the promise of the doctor, but agreed to wait with Miss Badcoe until he came. Laura pressed the sick woman’s hand in hers and left, taking care down the steep staircase despite her haste. She hardly noticed her surroundings in her anxiety to get to her assignation in good time. She was certain that her charitable solution to the problem of Miss Badcoe would appeal to her parents. They would be glad that the writer of poisonous letters was found out; would be horrified at the thought that a vulnerable and otherwise respectable old lady be humiliated. Whether she could secure the poor woman a much-coveted place in one of the almshouses was another matter, but she would ask her father to influence the commissioners.
She had been expected at Russell’s house in Lupus Street at ten. Instead it was gone eleven-thirty when she arrived, out of breath and dizzy with hunger. She wished she hadn’t told Polly that her parents shouldn’t delay luncheon.
A skinny girl in a nurse’s uniform admitted her at the street door and led her into a large, airy drawing room. Laura realised that the girl was nursemaid to Philip’s son, and that the mysterious guest was the young boy himself. He knelt on the floor, his dark head close to Philip’s red-gold one, both absorbed in sketching lions and tigers on a large pad of paper. The nursemaid said something about preparing the boy’s luncheon and withdrew.
‘Laura,’ said Philip, rising stiffly and coming to take her hands.
‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t send a message.’ She explained about Miss Badcoe’s sickness.
‘You’re here, that’s what’s important. Laura, this is my son, John.’
‘Hello,’ said Laura, studying the boy’s smooth olive skin, his large black eyes and perfectly moulded lips. So, she thought with a jolt, he favours his mother rather than his father.
He met her gaze solemnly, telling her, ‘My papa’s going to draw a nellyphant. Aren’t you, Papa?’ His voice was low, the words carefully pronounced, and yet there was a suppressed anxiety in his manner that made her say reassuringly, ‘Of course he will. Philip, we’d both like you to draw an elephant.’
When a comic-looking pachyderm with raging tusks and bulging eyes had been duly made to gallop across the page, the nurse fetched the boy to the kitchen to eat bread and butter. After that he was to rest before their proposed outing.