Now and then when the room was otherwise lightless
A misty gray figure would appear to be seated on this bench in the alcove
It was the tender and melancholy figure of an angel.
Tennessee Williams,
One Arm and Other Stories
In the confused days after Dad’s death, Zac and I saw each other frequently. There was an enormous amount of paperwork to get through, which he helped me do, and if a day went past without us meeting he would ring to see if I was all right.
Then one day near the end of November, he didn’t ring and I missed him. I remembered that when we’d met up the day before to go through some financial matters, he’d seemed pale and distant, so now I picked up the phone and dialled his number. It rang for a long time, then there came the sound of the handset being dropped and a muffled curse, before a hoarse voice stammered, ‘H-hello?’
‘Zac? Zac, it’s me.’
‘Wait a moment. Ouch.’ There was a shuffling.
‘Have I rung at a bad time?’
‘I was asleep. Sorry, couldn’t get out of bed. Flu or something.’
I rang him again in the early afternoon after my orchestral rehearsal, and he sounded worse.
‘I’m coming round,’ I said, and ignoring his protests, made him give me his address. How funny that I’d never visited his home before, I thought, as I whizzed round the express supermarket for some emergency supplies.
The name Burberry Mansions evokes an image of gracious Edwardian apartments like Jo’s parents’ place, but Zac’s home turned out to be in a shabby block on a Lambeth estate. I took the creaking lift to the seventh floor, knocked on the door of Flat 72 and waited for what seemed like minutes on the draughty concrete landing.
Eventually Zac opened the door. He looked terrible, with hair like a bird’s nest, his pale face blotchy, his eyes unnaturally bright. The place smelled stale and felt overheated. I followed him into a living room.
It took me a while to register what I was seeing. We were bathed in a veritable rainbow of light. Coloured glass hung against most of the windows. There was a panel of stunning roundels, blues and greens, all linked in a continuous pattern. In another, etched water nymphs swam across a dreamy river of brown and amber, where blue fish flashed; out of a leaded round pane hung from the ceiling, turning slowly, the silver outline of a stag appearing to step out of misty blue. I moved over to study a huge mirror above the mantelshelf bordered by a swirling abstract of ruby, gold and white glass, like desert sand, where little gold lizards and snakes played.
‘
Dreamtime
, that one’s called,’ Zac said, coughing horribly.
‘It’s…incredible. Zac–you’re shivering. Get back to bed at once.’ He stumbled slightly, so I helped him into the bedroom, which was dark, for the curtains were drawn across the windows.
‘Oh, don’t look at anything,’ he said, almost falling into the bed. ‘It’s a pit.’ Then he groaned as I ignored him and pulled a curtain back slightly, so I could see the room.
He was right about it being a pit. Discarded clothes lay everywhere, the bed linen needed changing, and dirty crockery was piled on the bedside table and the floor.
‘Right,’ I said, a little uncertainly. The role of nurse was not coming naturally to me. Zac helped by being surprisingly biddable. I led him to the shower, hoping he wouldn’t collapse in there whilst I changed the bedclothes, found him a clean pair of pyjamas and located some paracetamol. Some kind of flu seemed the mostly likely diagnosis, so I gave him some tablets with a glass of water and tucked him up in bed before turning my attention to the kitchen.
After washing up, I tried without much success to get him to eat mushroom soup with some bread and butter. Then, while he slept, I aired the rooms and tidied up, and ran a load of laundry through the washer-drier. He was still asleep when I left, so I propped up a note by his bedside promising to ring him in the morning.
I visited every day until he was over the worst. On the second day I rang Zac’s doctor who said it definitely sounded like a serious bout of flu and offered nursing advice. For the first few days Zac mostly slept. When awake, he was dopey and rambling in his speech, but he let me help him change his pyjamas and comb his hair. He told me where to find his spare door key so I could let myself in.
On the third day I met a North African woman with several small children on the landing outside the flat, who asked after him anxiously and offered to call in during the evening. The following morning I found she’d left a delicious-looking stew in the fridge and I tried some of that on him, but he couldn’t keep much down, so I ate it. It was miserable seeing him like this; to see the man on whom I’d leaned so much these last few weeks, who was normally so dignified, so self-reliant, forced to put himself completely into the hands of another person.
I was relieved to realise that he wasn’t isolated. Apart from Etha next door there were phone calls from friends. Amber came with me once and on another occasion, when I appeared in the early evening and slotted my key in Zac’s door, a youngish man with thinning blond hair opened it and introduced himself as David.
‘You’re from the other stained-glass studio, aren’t you?’ I said, remembering the name. ‘I’m glad to meet you at last.’
We sat on the living-room sofa and talked in whispers for fear of waking Zac; gazing all the while at the wonderful vista of the London sky, stretched out before us, between the bits of stained glass. We could see all the way to the tower of Big Ben, peeping above the high-rise blocks, and, beyond it, the gothic pinnacles of the Houses of Parliament.
David told me how he’d got to know Zac; that Zac had come one day asking for some help with a commission for which my father didn’t have the right equipment. They’d become firm friends and Zac often spent time with David and his wife and children. Janie, David’s wife, was a flautist with the Philharmonic.
‘Zac’s a really talented guy,’ whispered David, as we looked around the room at all the beautiful glass.
‘I know,’ I said. I started to tell him about Raphael, then remembered that he knew it already because Zac had gone to him for materials.
I wondered if David knew Zac’s background–about his daughter–but didn’t like to ask in case he didn’t.
Best of all, he volunteered to come and help us with the new designs for
Minster Glass
and I leaped at his offer.
‘And you must come to lunch one Sunday when Zac is better,’ he said. ‘Janie would love to meet you.’
It wasn’t until the sixth day that Zac’s temperature returned to normal, and another couple of days until he was strong enough to sit up in bed in his dressing-gown. He was sad and lifeless, his head full of cold, which he said made him half-deaf and stupid. He was still too weak to do anything much, not even to read. As time passed he grew stronger, but a sadness settled over him that didn’t seem to lift.
‘It’s the flu, Zac. It takes it out of you.’
‘S’pose so,’ he said, sighing, but I wondered whether it was more than that.
By the end of the week it had become a ritual, travelling down on the bus to see him every day. I had been recruited to an orchestra, one of whose regular brass players had broken his arm, so there were rehearsals most days and I would come down to see Zac in the late afternoon as it began to get dark.
Once, when I arrived, he had been trying to draw in a sketchbook but when I showed interest, he chucked book and pencil down on the coffee-table beside a pot of early hyacinths Janie had brought him.
‘I can’t concentrate on anything,’ he complained, yawning and stretching, but then he smiled and I realised with an odd pang that he was getting better. Soon I wouldn’t need to come. I felt suddenly bereft.
To hide my mood I moved into the kitchen and started putting away the food I’d brought. Through the window I watched a seagull floating, motionless, as though faith alone held it suspended midair. I was reminded of myself. There had been so much change I lacked any sense of direction.
‘How’s the shop going?’ Zac asked when I brought him tea. He moved so I could sit on the sofa beside him. It was natural now to lean against him as I had leaned against Ben on the night the window got broken. Friends, at ease with one another; though Zac had never indicated more.
‘The work’s starting after Christmas,’ I told him.
I liked being with him. His early awkwardness, when we were still acquaintances, I knew now to be shyness, with a good dose of concern for my father thrown in.
‘You were right about me and Dad,’ I said, a little sadly. ‘I wasn’t around for him enough, was I? You must have thought I didn’t care.’
‘He did know you loved him though,’ Zac said, squeezing my arm. ‘And it was difficult for you. He wouldn’t let anyone get close, would he?’ He sneezed suddenly and grabbed at some tissues. ‘I still feel dreadful,’ he sighed.
He looked awful, it was true. His nose was swollen, his skin as grey as dishwater, his hair greasy and dull.
‘But you’ll feel a lot better soon, I’m sure,’ I promised him. ‘Right–I’ve got to go, I’m afraid. A big rehearsal this evening. The concert’s tomorrow night, so I won’t be able to come.’
‘I’ll miss you,’ said Zac, ‘but I’ve decided–I’ve been here ten days now and I’m getting out of this flat tomorrow if I have to crawl. And Fran,’ he hauled himself up and came to see me out, ‘as soon as I’m up to it, I’m taking you out to dinner. Will you come?’
‘Of course,’ I said. I would have hugged him, but just at that moment he sneezed again.
The lift, for once, came right away and before I could get out at the bottom a fearsome-looking bunch of teenagers crowded in, so I had to shove my way through. Instinctively checking my handbag after this experience, I realised I’d still got Zac’s key. Damn. Well, I wasn’t going back up now. And I rather liked the idea of keeping it.
Oh speak again, bright angel, for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o’er my head
As is a winged messenger of heaven.
William Shakespeare,
Romeo and Juliet
‘The faculty’s come for our window,’ cried Jeremy on the last Saturday of November, as he hung up his coat and came to join Sarah and me at the kitchen table. He’d been down to the parish office to sort out a few things and had opened a letter from the Bishop’s office.
Several officials had visited the church on different occasions to inspect Raphael, now propped up in the chapel, and the light against which it was proposed he be hung. Finally Jeremy had been given approval to dismantle the Victorian cupboard and move it, and to install Raphael.
‘We’ll just keep the existing plain glass,’ Jeremy said, stirring saccharine into his coffee. ‘So, Fran my dear, I’ll contact the carpenter about the cupboard, then perhaps you and Zac would like to organise the ironwork for the window.’
Zac, now restored to health, and David and some men from the ironworks hung Raphael one morning towards the end of November, with the vicar, his churchwarden and me watching and making ourselves useful where we could. There was a hair-raising moment when we thought one of the measurements was wrong, but eventually all was made perfect. The bronze frame was welded to the wall in such a way that Raphael’s panel could be easily removed if need be. A final polish and we all stood back to look.
The effect was breathtaking. In the cold light of our northern winter, the window glowed gently. The angel floated above us, blessing us with a raised hand as he looked down on us all.
‘I’m so glad we’ve got him in good time for Christmas,’ said the vicar, beaming.
‘And for the
Gerontius
next week,’ I remembered. Our concert would be on the following Sunday evening.
‘People will have to come into the Lady Chapel especially to see, of course.’
‘We’ll know he’s here. And you can keep the chapel door open,’ I added.
There was a dedication service for the window scheduled for the evening of 13 December. ‘St Lucy’s Day,’ the vicar said. ‘A festival of light. Most appropriate.’
Life being so busy, I hadn’t read Laura’s diary for some time. But that evening, my mind full of Raphael, I extracted it from the pile of books I’d brought with me. There were only a few pages left to read. Raphael was finished and my journey with Laura nearly over. I’d miss them both.
It was a surprise to see that our date for the blessing of the window was exactly the same as the original dedication, albeit more than a century later.
Lead me to the land of angels
Carmina Gadelica
L
AURA’S
S
TORY
On a Wednesday at the beginning of December 1880, Philip Russell brought some men from
Minster Glass
to install the two windows. Laura, who had not heard from Philip since her rebuffing reply to his letter in October, deliberately avoided visiting the church that day. But she knew she could not refuse to attend the dedication service on the following Sunday, St Lucy’s Day. After all, one of the windows was in memory of Caroline, and many of the Brownlows’ friends and family would be there.
The day after the men had been, however, she slipped into the church to see the windows by herself before morning prayer. How much more beautiful and alive they were, she thought, now they were in place than when propped up in the workshop. They seemed to float above her in the gloomy chapel. It was as though they had spirits; she could almost feel their presence. But she dismissed the idea. Even her father, with his love of the mystical, wouldn’t approve of such nonsense.
It was the faces, above all, that fascinated her. She had been studying Mary’s joyous gaze, her adoration reflected in the little boy’s expression, for some minutes before it dawned on her how familiar they were. She hadn’t noticed it before. Mary was Laura’s mother. She’d seen that look on her face as she dandled Arthur on her lap, and although the Holy Child looked a little older than Arthur, and Arthur’s features had certainly changed over the last few months, there was something about the tilt of his nose, the shape of his head that made her think Arthur had been in Philip’s mind when he imagined the Christ Child.
And the angel. Only the eyes might have been Caroline’s, she thought–large, heavy-lashed, languid–but this angel was more solid, squarer-faced than Caroline had ever been. Nor was the angel like Marie–she had been a dark exotic beauty. Well, Philip must have plenty of other model faces to choose from; half the women visiting the Grosvenor Gallery probably.
As she sat there looking and thinking about Caroline, a sense of peace crept over her. The angel seemed to glow brighter, warming her. Surely she wasn’t imagining it? It gave her an odd feeling. Like being blessed by a very holy and awe-inspiring person.
On the afternoon of St Lucy’s Day, Laura went to the church full of trepidation, knowing that she would see Philip.
Her first impression on entering the building with her mother and Mr Bond was that, far from the bright-coloured clothes such an occasion surely demanded, the back rows of pews were full of elderly men dressed in black: friends and associates of the late Mr and Mrs Fotherington, she supposed. One way or another, the church was full. Candles flickered on every window-ledge for the church interior was cast in wintry gloom.
For the actual moment of dedication all were asked to move to the Lady Chapel, as Laura’s father invoked words of blessing. From every part of the crowd came little gasps of admiration as people took in the lovely serene faces of Mary and the Christ Child above the altar, the grave authority of Raphael, hand lifted in blessing, glowing in the weak and misty light.
As the congregation crowded in and around the chapel, straining to see the windows, Laura waited politely at the back. It was there she caught sight of Philip, standing at a distance, leaning against the wall of the chapel. Catching her looking at him, he smiled very sweetly.
The candlelight reflected in his eyes, highlighting his red-gold hair, warming his pale skin, giving him the aura of an angel. An angel in a frockcoat and white wing collar. Then his face dissolved in the fog of her tears and she had to look away.
Afterwards there were so many people she had to speak to–cousins who had known Caroline, friends of her parents, old schoolfriends of the Brownlow sisters. Eventually Mr Bond came to say goodbye, having need to return to his office. Laura was speaking to Mrs Fotherington’s nephew, Mr Jefferies, a man of strong opinions, forcefully expressed, and his quietly spoken daughter, Prudence. She was glad to have Anthony Bond’s assistance with Mr Jefferies so that she could encourage Prudence to talk.
‘A most excellent man, your father, Miss Brownlow,’ Mr Jefferies pronounced. ‘My late aunt always spoke well of him. And our business with the window has been conducted quite satisfactorily. You will find we worship here more frequently.’
‘We should be delighted to see you both,’ Anthony assured him.
‘We usually attend St Mary’s,’ gentle Prudence whispered to Laura, ‘but I’m afraid Papa has taken exception to the new vicar.’
‘Ruins a man’s appetite for his dinner with his damn liberal views,’ Jefferies grumbled. ‘I won’t be lectured on how to spend my hard-earned income.’
‘Oh Papa,’ Prudence breathed. She patted his arm. ‘You do your Christian duty. Don’t listen to him,’ she appealed to her audience. ‘My father’s the kindest, most generous of men.’
‘I am sure you are right, Miss Jefferies,’ Anthony said gravely, but with a twinkle in his eye.
‘What should I do without her?’ Jefferies said, his expression tender. ‘Since my wife died, three years past, she has been my comfort and my strength.’
Prudence blushed becomingly. ‘It is an easy duty.’
‘Womanly virtues indeed,’ said Anthony. And he smiled so warmly upon Miss Jefferies that for one tiny moment Laura felt a stab of jealousy.
Later, she watched him take his leave, stopping to bow stiffly to a gaggle of giggling girls by the door. He was over-serious to the point of dullness, but her affection for him was building. Day by day his good qualities presented themselves to her. She knew how loyal he’d been to her father during his darkest moments; how hard he worked; how solicitous he was of her needs and interests.
Sesame and Lilies
was only the first of John Ruskin’s works that he gave her. She still hadn’t felt confident of showing him her writing, fearing her wayward women and the challenges they presented to his masculine view of the world might disturb him. Neither had she dared send one to the publisher of the magazine Philip suggested. Her family needed less public interest at the moment, not more.
What she didn’t like to admit was that, now Anthony had gone she felt, well, less constrained. The Jefferies moved on to speak to George and Harriet, and for a short while she was alone. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Philip, surrounded by admirers, the men shaking his hand enthusiastically, the women confiding.
‘Miss Brownlow. I’m glad to have found you.’ Her thoughts were interrupted by Miss Badcoe, now recovered from her illness and as severe as ever. With no word of thanks for Laura’s interventions on her behalf, the woman was breathtakingly unbending. Once or twice, as she endured Miss Badcoe’s rambling complaints about a neighbour at the almshouse who had offended her finer sensibilities with clumsy overtures of friendship, Laura glanced right at Philip and their eyes met. The second time he looked at her, he seemed to have worked his way closer, and she forced herself to hold his gaze and smile a little.
‘Miss Brownlow?’ Her attention was riveted again on Miss Badcoe. ‘You’re looking peaky, girl. Maybe that colour is wrong for you.’ The woman took her breath away.
‘Miss Badcoe, I assure you that I am quite well. Many people compliment me that this gold suits me exactly. Not all of us can look comely in black.’
‘Well, really, Miss Brownlow. I meant no offence.’
‘And yet you frequently do offend. Miss Badcoe, I hope you will be happy in your new lodgings and learn to like your neighbour. Good afternoon.’ And before Miss Badcoe could draw breath, Laura swept away.
Philip worked his way nearer and nearer to Laura until, as the crowd began to thin, they found themselves standing together. Now she saw the signs of grief etched in his face; the tired pouches under his eyes; the angles in his face that were sharper now, and she was moved. He took her hand and held it in both of his.
‘Miss Brownlow,’ he said. ‘Laura. At last. How are you?’ His eyes raked her face, studying her, she felt, more searchingly than ever before. It was as though he were trying to commit her features to heart.
‘Mr Russell, it’s been a splendid occasion,’ Laura’s mother broke in, appearing suddenly at her side. Philip released Laura’s hand. The spell was broken. ‘We are entirely happy with our window. It means so much to us.’ As she spoke, Laura’s mama grasped her daughter’s arm proprietorially.
‘Indeed,’ Laura murmured. She knew her mother meant only to protect her. How silly she had been, to yearn still to speak with Philip. Now they wouldn’t ever be alone together again. He’d go on his way and their paths would never again need to cross. Maybe she’d glimpse him on the other side of the Square, visiting
Minster Glass
. But that would be all.
Her mother was enquiring after his father’s health. She looked a little happier these days, Laura thought. The troubled atmosphere in the church had lifted, too. People still spoke about the disturbances. Many now confessed shame at the divisions the matter had caused in the congregation, with neighbour suspecting neighbour, the poor resenting the rich, the rich condemning the poor out of hand. A few weeks before, the Bishop had visited to rededicate the church and its altars and to pray for unity and the mission of the parish. Slowly, life was returning to normal.
Her father’s spirits, too, had improved notably after word arrived from her brother Tom. He had found work as a schoolteacher in New York. It was in one of the poorer areas of the city and he wasn’t earning much, but he was strong in his belief that he was contributing to the well-being of his fellow men. He had recently become engaged, he wrote, to the daughter of one of his teaching colleagues. He asked for his parents’ blessing. Laura’s father immediately arranged for money to be sent towards their expenses and expressed regret that they wouldn’t be able to attend the wedding.
‘Yes, we have much to thank God for,’ her mother was telling Philip. ‘My son Tom is doing well in America, settled and happy now. Our little grandson Arthur is a lusty child and we have hopes of another happy event at Christmas. Don’t we, Laura?’ she said, her calm eyes fixed steadily on her daughter’s. ‘I think you know Anthony Bond, my husband’s churchwarden?’
‘Mama.’ Laura breathed in sharply. The matter of her impending engagement was not public knowledge.
Philip, looking from Mrs Brownlow’s triumphant expression to Laura’s embarrassed one, needed no further explanation. He said, ‘I will look forward to hearing more of that.’ There was a short frozen silence during which Laura wished the ground would swallow her. But her mother was pulling her away.
‘Now Laura, we must speak to Cousin Clarice. She hardly knows anyone and she’s so deaf now, poor soul, it must be very lonely. Goodbye, Mr Russell.’
‘Goodbye,’ Laura whispered to him. Philip’s expression was strange–as though he’d realised he’d forgotten something desperately important.
The following day she received a letter from him.
Dear Laura
, it said.
It’s no good, I’ve lain unvisited by sleep. I must speak with you alone on an urgent matter. Where can I meet you? Name a place, anywhere, anytime. Laura, do this for my sake. Yours, Philip
.
Her first thought was that she should refuse his request. Her second was that she would see him alone one last time. Her third was a question: where could they meet that was private yet seemly?
Dear Philip
, she wrote back.
I will meet you in the church porch at three
.
She slipped out of the house while her mother was resting, her feet sure of their way through the hushed semi-darkness.
As the pillars of the church porch reared up through the foggy gloom she suddenly regretted coming without Polly. Would he be there? Who else might be lurking? But there was only the tall shadowy figure of Philip. He reached out his hand and pulled her into the porch. ‘The door’s locked,’ he said, his voice warm in her ear.
‘We always keep it so now.’ She pressed a large key into his hand. As the door swung open and the pungent smell of incense floated around them, she was reminded of that very first afternoon, so many months ago, when he’d first surprised her by materialising like a stone saint stepping down from his niche.
The door clicked shut behind them and they moved together through the echoey stillness. In the Lady Chapel, two fat candles burned. The vandalised wooden statue of Mary had been relegated to a side table now, the mend clear on her poor broken neck. The figures in the windows were eerie glowing presences today. Philip studied them for a moment, seemingly in a reverie.
‘Forgive me, I haven’t seen them in this light before. It’s strange to think they came into being under my hand. They appear to have achieved a life of their own quite apart from anything I’ve done. It’s as though God has breathed life into the glass, if that’s not a blasphemy.’
‘I think I see your meaning. Remember what you said about the ancient belief that God’s glory cascades through translucent objects in the form of light?’
They were silent. Laura waited quietly for him to speak his purpose.
Eventually he turned to face her, took both of her hands in his.
‘Are you to marry Mr Bond?’
He spoke so passionately, she was struck. She snatched her hands away.
‘That is a private matter. But as Mama intimated, I am to give him my answer at Christmas.’
‘Laura. Don’t. Please. I can’t bear…He’s not right…’
‘It isn’t your business whom I marry, Mr Russell.’
‘Do you love him?’
‘Now you do overstep all boundaries. I am very fond of him.’
‘Fond? What basis is that for a marriage?’
Anger flared in her. ‘It’s a more solid one than passionate adoration, I would say, from your experience.’
‘Yes, I suppose I deserved that,’ Philip muttered, pushing a hand roughly through his hair. ‘I’m going about this wrongly. I…I’m confused.’
‘Confused?’