As he put away his magnifying glass and took some notes, I perused the second window.
My first impressions had been correct. Artistically speaking, it was mediocre, a Second World War memorial in browns and yellows, with a matronly Britannia dangling a sombre regimental flag.
To the brave men of the parish who lost their lives fighting for their country, 1939–45
ran the gothic lettering at the base. I suppose it would have satisfied the grieving families to see it there. But possibly not moved them.
‘It was about this window that I wanted to speak to your father,’ the vicar said, coming to stand beside me.
‘Oh.’ I was disappointed. Was this what all the excitement was about? This dull old war memorial?
‘Or rather,’ he went on, ‘the stained glass that was here before.’
‘There was another window?’ I asked, my spirits instantly rising.
‘Your father thought so,’ he said. ‘And I think I’ve proved him right. Look.’ He crouched in front of the altar, lifted the white cloth and dragged out a large, sagging cardboard box, grey with grime. I grabbed one end to help, wondering what on earth could be in it.
‘Whilst he was working on the report,’ Jeremy puffed, ‘our surveyor asked us to take everything out from under the stage in the hall next door so he could access a damp patch he’d detected in the outer wall. It was quite a job–there was so much rubbish. But during the process, we found this.’
The cardboard flaps, limp with age, peeled back easily. The vicar lifted a sheet of old newspaper and we all stared inside the box.
‘What is it?’ I asked, disappointed. Surely this was just some of the rubbish he’d mentioned–a heap of twisted metal and broken glass. Then the vicar reached in with both hands and picked up a section. He held it up and suddenly I saw why he was excited. Light glinted off a line of green studded with white flowers, and what looked like sandalled toes. I was amazed. What the box contained was a shattered stained-glass window.
‘I reckon it was destroyed in the Blitz,’ said the vicar, lowering the glass back into the box. ‘There’s a date on the newspaper somewhere. Take a look.’
Zac reached for the paper, smoothed it out and read, ‘Fourteenth September, 1940. Yes,’ he said, frowning with concentration, ‘maybe that was the date it happened and someone rescued the pieces.’
I studied the paper over Zac’s shoulder. It was the front page, and I could just make out that the yellowed photograph was of firemen picking through the ruins of a bombed-out building.
‘I’ve been looking through some files,’ Jeremy rushed on, ‘but I can’t find anything useful except the paperwork concerning this
Britannia
that replaced it. The Mothers Union got up the subscription for it after the war.’
‘Wonder if any of your parishioners remember this old one,’ said Zac, crouching down and picking out odd pieces from the box, turning them this way and that.
‘There might be one or two, indeed,’ the vicar muttered. ‘I’ll have to ask around.’
‘I wonder if Dad knew all about it,’ I put in. ‘I don’t mean at the time–he’d only have been a little kid then–but since. He knew so much about the firm.’
‘That’s why I thought he’d be particularly interested, Fran. While researching his book he’d read that there was another stained-glass window here before this one. He said he’d try to find out what it was–but that was the last time I saw him.’
We looked at one another sadly. I remembered what I’d read amongst his papers. ‘I think this
Virgin and Child
must have been one of the windows a previous Rector commissioned in the 1880s,’ I told him.
‘Indeed. But your father thought another might have been made at the same time.’
‘And this broken one could have been it?’ Zac said. He was holding up a shard of ruby glass, which flashed gorgeously in the late-afternoon light.
‘Precisely.’
‘You’re right,’ I whispered. ‘Dad would have been fascinated to see this.’
‘How is he, poor chap?’ the vicar asked, and again I was stirred by the deep sympathy in his gaze. ‘I’d like to visit. Would that be appropriate? I’m very fond of your father. He’s an interesting man, very interesting, and a brave one.’
Brave? What did he mean by that? I said hesitantly, ‘I confess I hadn’t known you two were so friendly.’
‘Oh, we got to know one another a little recently.’
‘He’s…not an easy man to know,’ I said, wondering how much my father had told him, and the vicar caught the depth of my feeling.
‘Or to live with, I imagine,’ he agreed. ‘He’s very reserved, isn’t he? And I respected that, of course. Do you think he’s up to a visit?’
‘I’m sure he’d appreciate seeing you, but he can’t hold any kind of conversation. I’m so worried about him.’
Zac tactfully moved away, saying something about looking at the windows from the outside. He took the ladder and soon we heard him banging about, unscrewing the protective metal grilles. I talked to Jeremy about Dad’s condition for a while, then we both went out to help.
When Zac had finished and put the ladder away again, we all found ourselves back in the Lady Chapel.
The vicar said, ‘You know, I’ve been pondering an idea. There’s been a recent bequest we might be able to use for work on the broken window. Stained glass is important. The windows are such an aid to worship, I find. In medieval times, coloured glass was said to inspire visions of ecstasy.’
I glanced again at the
Virgin and Child
, thinking of the agony of the
Crucifixion
window, how each scene represented a different side of perfect love, and saw his point. No one, surely, could contemplate these pieces and remain unmoved.
‘If you would take the box,’ Jeremy asked us, ‘and see what you make of its contents, that would be marvellous. Find out what it is, for a start. Of course, if you thought it possible to restore, we’d need to consult the Parochial Church Council and the diocese. The red tape’s such a bother when you’re dealing with church property…’ He trailed to a halt, gazing down at the box. I guessed we were all thinking the same thing. Was this game worth the candle? Could we really transform this mess of glass and lead into something whole and beautiful?
‘Well, we can at least give you an idea of what it is,’ I said, ‘and go from there.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said the vicar feelingly.
‘You don’t have anything that would help us, do you? Pictures, for instance–old guidebooks to the church?’
‘I’ll hunt about. But I haven’t ever seen anything.’
I imagined what might be lying somewhere amidst the files in Dad’s paper-filled attic. The thought of tackling them didn’t fill me with joy.
Zac looked at his watch and cleared his throat pointedly. ‘Do you think we’ve seen enough for today?’
I nodded. He bent down to close up the box, then tried to lift it. ‘Oh, don’t do that, for goodness sake,’ said the vicar. ‘It took two of us to carry it in from the hall.’
‘What worries me is the box collapsing,’ said Zac. ‘Tell you what, I’ll come by with the van tomorrow.’ The two men agreed a time, then they eased the box back under the altar and the vicar straightened the cloth.
‘I’ll say goodbye here,’ Jeremy said. ‘I’ve some things to sort out in the vestry.’
It was after six, and for a while we had become aware of activity out in the lobby. People were beginning to arrive in some number, passing into the hall opposite.
Zac and I were leaving when he said, ‘You go ahead. I’ve left my notebook,’ and returned to the chapel.
Deciding to wait, I drifted to the door of the church to see what was going on. Someone was playing flourishes of chords on a piano in the hall. The lobby was full of people. No one took any notice of me standing inside the door.
‘We pay our subscription to Dominic. He’s the secretary,’ one florid-faced City type was instructing another. ‘He lends us the music. Some people already have their own, of course.
The Dream
is such a popular piece.’
‘I’ll borrow it this term, since I’m new to all this,’ said the second man.
It must be the Choral Society the vicar had mentioned. So they were rehearsing
The Dream of Gerontius
, one of Elgar’s most famous works and, as with his Cello Concerto, a favourite of mine. I moved into the doorway in order to see better.
Somebody said, ‘Franny, is that you?’
A young woman with messy fair hair, in baggy cargo pants and a smock top, had entered the lobby. I couldn’t see her face clearly against the light for a moment, but I’d know that voice anywhere. And no one else had ever called me Franny.
Beside each man who’s born on earth, a guardian angel takes his stand, to guide him through life’s mysteries.
Menander of Athens
‘
Jo!
What are you doing here?’ I cried.
I saw her familiar smile, the one that enlivened her whole face, and it was as though I’d last met her yesterday.
People were pushing past us, muttering about the crush, so we moved outside onto the path. For a second or two we stared at one another nervously, but then she opened her arms and I leaned forward to hug her tightly. Considering my reluctance to ring her last night, I was surprised by how good it felt to see her again.
‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ I said, looking her up and down. People say that lightly, but this time it was almost true. The same rounded figure, the same frizzy strawberry-blonde hair, resistant to brush or conditioner, the same freckled complexion, untouched by make-up–in short, the same Jo.
‘Nor have you,’ she said, slightly less convincingly, and we both knew that when we had last met, a dozen years ago, I had been very different, a shy, awkward creature with bitten nails, interested only in music and art, hardly able to open my mouth to strangers. And now…well, let’s just say that twelve years had taught me more about presenting myself than how to tie a scarf artfully. I still bit my nails though.
‘What have you been doing with yourself?’ she asked. ‘The last I heard, you were at music college. Your dad said you were doing ever so well.’
I recalled with guilt that she had written me several letters and postcards from university and I’d not replied to any of them. Which one had she gone to? Sussex? I couldn’t remember, except that she’d long hoped to become a social worker. Always wanting to bind up wounds, was our Jo, always genuine in her desire to do good.
‘I called at the shop once or twice over the years, you see,’ she said, her innocent blue eyes focused on my face, ‘but he always said you were away.’
‘I’ve been working freelance, playing with any orchestra that needs me,’ I explained. ‘I must have taken that tuba round the world several times.’
‘That explains it then,’ she said, shrugging. ‘Well, you always wanted to travel.’
Just then, Zac shoved his way out through the crowd. He glanced at Jo and, realising we were talking, mumbled, ‘See you tomorrow.’ Then he strode off, toolbag slung over his shoulder, in the direction of Vauxhall Bridge Road.
‘Who’s that?’ Jo asked, staring after him.
‘Just Zac,’ I said. ‘Dad’s assistant. The vicar asked us to look at the windows in the church. So what are you doing with yourself these days?’
‘Oh, I work at St Martin’s Hostel.’ This was the place for young homeless women the vicar had mentioned, back down the road, past the church. ‘I’m one of the wardens.’
‘Do you live in?’
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘That would be a bit much. I’m still at Mum and Dad’s flat actually. They’ve got a place in Kent now but wanted to keep on Rochester Mansions as Dad still comes up to London a fair bit. I feel a bit old to be living at home still but, well, it makes sense with what I’m paid.’
‘I’m at home again, too,’ I said to reassure her, and told her about Dad’s illness.
‘Gosh, that’s awful,’ she said. The strength of feeling in her voice caught me unawares. ‘If I can help at all…’
‘Of course,’ I said hoarsely. ‘Thanks.’
Someone behind us called out, ‘Isn’t that the new bloke coming up the road now?’ We all craned our necks, but I didn’t know who we were looking at, for the street was so busy.
‘I’m sorry, Fran,’ said Jo. ‘The conductor’s here. I’d better queue up, get my music.’
‘What’s the choir?’ I asked.
‘St Martin’s Choral Society. It’s only the second year I’ve been, but I love it. We have two concerts a year in the church. The next one’s in December. Ben’s the new conductor–the old one had to retire. Listen, why don’t you join? We’re doing
The Dream
, and I know we need another soprano. You’re a soprano, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, but I’m not sure I can commit to something like that at the moment.’ It was tempting though. Although I’m an instrumentalist I’ve always loved singing. ‘Can I think about it? How long’s the rehearsal, anyway?’
‘Two hours. Starts at six-thirty and some of us go to the pub after. Why don’t you give it a try today? Everyone’s really friendly.’
‘Hi, Ben,’ someone called out. ‘Good summer?’
A man had turned in at the gate and I looked at him with interest. He was youngish, with very fair skin, a mane of wheat-coloured hair and finely moulded features. His was a face I’d seen somewhere before–in Italian Renaissance paintings. Yes, he would be a perfect Botticelli angel. There was an air about him that drew people’s attention.
‘Ben, hello,’ Jo called out as he went by. He stopped, turned, looked enquiringly at her. She said a little breathlessly, ‘I’m Jo, you won’t know me. I’ve got another soprano for you here. This is Fran, an old schoolfriend of mine.’
Ben studied her solemnly. ‘Jo,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘Of course I remember you.’ She reddened and I smiled to myself at his studied charm.
Close up, I saw Ben was slightly older than I’d initially thought, more my own age, thirty. His skin had lost the glow of extreme youth and there were faint shadows under his eyes. But, if anything, that gave him a down-to-earth look that made him even more attractive.
‘Fran,’ he said, looking deep into my eyes for a second, and now it was my turn to be disconcerted.
‘I haven’t quite decided…’ I started to say, but he hurried on.
‘Great to see you.
Do
sing with us tonight. Speak afterwards maybe. The audition’s not at all scary, promise.’ And he swept on by. As though submitting to a higher presence, the throng parted to let him through. I felt disturbed and fascinated in equal part.
‘Well…’ I said to Jo, the decision apparently made for me.
‘So you’ll come?’ she said, her face eager. ‘There’ll be the audition, of course, but I can’t see you having any problems there, Fran. After all, I got through and Miss Logan once told me my voice was like bricks in a mincing machine.’
I laughed, remembering the elderly aristocratic music teacher who ran our Junior Choir.
Did I want to join a choir? It was quite a commitment. I thought of the alternative. Going home, another evening on my own. OK, why not? After all, I needn’t come back if I didn’t like it.
I followed Jo back into the lobby.
‘Dominic, hi, how are you? This is a friend of mine from school–Fran,’ Jo said to a big, smiley, round-faced man with fair baby curls and a tailored suit, who was sitting behind a trestle table on which music scores were stacked. ‘I’ve just bumped into her after twelve years. Isn’t that amazing?’
‘Delighted to meet you, Fran,’ Dominic said, standing up politely to shake my hand, his blue-eyed gaze as direct and guileless as Jo’s. He wrote down my name and phone number, and handed me a copy of
The Dream
with a little flourish. Then he said to Jo with deliberate casualness, ‘Are you up for a drink afterwards?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘of course.’
‘And you as well, Fran?’ he added politely. I smiled and nodded non-committally.
The small hall was three-quarters full of chairs. The rest of the space in front of the tiny curtained stage was occupied by a grand piano and a podium for the conductor. I guessed there were as many as sixty or seventy people in the room, divesting themselves of jackets and cardigans, stowing bottles of water under chairs, looking through their music or chatting to friends they hadn’t seen since the previous term. Jo and I found some free seats in the back row of the second soprano section and we talked about her work and news of old schoolfriends, until a woman in front turned round and attracted her attention. After Jo introduced me, I sat quietly as they swapped news, pretending to find my way around the familiar music, but all the time keeping an eye on the fascinating Ben, who had now climbed his podium and was adjusting his music stand.
Ben seemed oblivious to the roomful of people as he flicked the pages of his score impatiently, tapping out different time beats to himself and scribbling little pencil marks here and there. He had removed his jacket and tie and, with his shirt open to the second button and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he appeared boyish once more. His wavy hair curling over the turned-up collar glinted golden against the white of the shirt.
A quick exchange of words with the pianist, a slight, grey-haired man Jo referred to as Graham, then suddenly Ben was ready. He stood calmly, frowning at a couple of latecomers who were sneaking in stagily at the back. Then he began to speak, and I only half-listened to his words as the soft musical timbre of his voice, the precise rendition of consonants, charmed me. He was so poised, so elegant to watch.
‘Right,
The Dream of Gerontius
,’ he said, and everyone immediately quietened. ‘We’ve only what, twelve rehearsals, and a lot of material to get through. So if you’re tempted to miss a rehearsal for any reason, then the message is
don’t
. It’s a big concert for us and I can’t afford anything less than total commitment.’ He looked round the room, but instead of seeming offended at this forthright approach, many people were nodding in earnest agreement.
‘How many of you have sung this before?’ He surveyed the sprinkling of raised hands. ‘About a quarter. OK. For those who don’t know, it’s Elgar’s most famous choral piece. Indeed, together with the
Messiah
and
Elijah
, it’s one of
the
most popular pieces for choirs. However, that only means the audience will know it and will have high expectations of our performance.
‘Just to give you a bit of background,
Gerontius
was first performed in 1900. Elgar put his absolute all into the composition, and indeed famously wrote that it represented the best of him. Unfortunately, for several reasons, the first performance was a complete disaster, something I certainly don’t plan to repeat.’ I admired Ben’s timing. He didn’t wait for the laughter to die down but went on. ‘The
Dream
is a musical setting of Cardinal Newman’s famous poem about man’s passing through the unknown that lies beyond death, the greatest of heroic journeys.
‘We’ll start on page eleven with the “Kyrie”. Semi-chorus, put up your hands so I can see you, please. Good. Crispin here,’ he indicated a tall thin tenor with a long neck, ‘has kindly agreed to be Gerontius for us during rehearsals. I am delighted to say that, having severely twisted the arm of my friend Julian Wright, I have got him to agree to take the role at the concert for a fraction of his usual fee.’ There was a muttering of appreciation at this, as there should have been, for landing Julian, a fine tenor voice, was a real coup.
‘There are a number of
leitmotifs
Elgar introduces in the orchestral Prelude. It’ll be important to be aware of them, and I’ll ask Graham to play the Prelude through for you now…’
Judgement, Fear, Prayer, Sleep and Despair. As Graham played through the themes, I remembered all the stages Gerontius experienced on his deathbed while we, the chorus, sang out to God to grant him mercy. Crispin led in the semi-chorus, uncertainly, with his first line, but quickly gained in confidence, and the beauty and power of the music rolled over me, caught me up. The two hours passed in a flash.
During the break, Ben asked that any newcomers requiring an audition should stay afterwards. I and the other candidate, a middle-aged Jamaican woman, waited by the piano until Ben was ready to put us through our places. She sang first, with a rich contralto voice.
‘That’s lovely, Elizabeth,’ Ben told her. ‘You’re a natural.’
She nodded delightedly, whispered, ‘Good luck,’ to me and left to catch her train.
‘See you both in the Bishop?’ Dominic called out as he went out with Jo, lugging a box of music scores, and she waved at me and said, ‘You will come, won’t you, Fran?’
All of a sudden, Ben and I were alone. He played a fanfare of chords on the piano and I warbled my way through a series of arpeggios.
‘Sorry, bit of a frog in my throat,’ I mumbled. ‘But I suppose everyone says that.’ Ben only smiled vaguely as he flicked through the book of sight-reading exercises.
‘Try this one,’ he said, passing over the book, and without waiting for him to give me a note on the piano I sang the tune he indicated without a mistake.
‘You’re a musician?’ he asked, looking intently up at me.
‘Brass player. Tuba’s my main instrument.’
‘Mmm, that’s an unusual choice.’ I was grateful that he stopped short of saying
for a woman
. I was all too used to people saying that, often adding, ‘Especially one as small as you,’ as though five feet two was freakish.
‘I started with the French horn,’ I told him. Then at college someone lent me their tuba to try and I found it much easier to play. The wider mouthpiece suits me better.’
His eyes rested briefly on my mouth. I went on quickly, ‘I like its role in the orchestra too.’
‘The sound underpins everything, doesn’t it?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Who d’you play for?’
I came up with a few orchestras I had performed with.
‘Who will you use for the concert?’ I asked, and he named a rather good orchestra that specialised in accompanying amateur choral societies.
‘And you’ve a lovely voice. It would be great to have you here, no problem,’ Ben said, stowing his books into an ancient briefcase. His eyes met mine again and I had the weird sense that he was looking deep into my soul. ‘Coming for a drink? I’ve got to finish up here first, if you don’t mind waiting.’
I hung about while he locked up.
‘I’m the new organist at St Martin’s,’ he said, in answer to my question about what else he did, as we walked the darkening streets towards the Bishop pub in Rochester Row. ‘Conducting the choir’s part of the job. Otherwise, I’m a pianist and take private pupils at a local school.’
Stepping out of his conductor role he had a disarming way of speaking, quite different from the maestro act on the podium. There was still something there, an edge, a slight arrogance, and I was definitely wary of that searching way he had of looking at me, but I found myself warming to him more.