The Glass Painter's Daughter (9 page)

Poor Papa. She watched him sleep on, lines of his own sorrow and pain etched in his face. Beneath their brave faces to the world they seemed so…diminished…her parents, since the loss of Caroline. Of course, they had their other children, but Tom had left home, would take holy orders and tread his own ‘narrow way’. Harriet was married, expecting her first child, fussed over by her voluble mother-in-law. Only she, Laura, was left–‘my unplucked rose’ as her father teased her sometimes. Perhaps she was meant to stay with them, never to marry. Did she mind? She did a little. She was still only twenty-two. It would be nice to know what it felt like, to be wanted by a man.

At luncheon, she and Mama sat disengaging the flesh of their cod from its gritty black skin, as Mr Bond and Papa discussed Mr Gladstone’s proposals to allow married women further rights in law and property. Mr Bond had his reservations, it seemed, but was a pragmatist. Papa was concerned that giving women greater independence would chip away further at holy matrimony, which made man and woman one flesh.

Mama picked at her food, the two lines deepening on her forehead. Was she getting one of her headaches, Laura wondered anxiously. These, when they came, usually condemned Theodora Brownlow to several days in bed, the curtains drawn. But Mama was at least eating a few mouthfuls of fish, which was a good sign. It must be just weariness.

‘How then would a man guide a young and wilful wife?’ Papa was enquiring of no one in particular.

‘Why should not an educated woman stand mistress over her own wealth, Papa?’ Laura said quietly. Her father swallowed a mouthful and frowned.

‘You are still very unformed for such a suggestion, dear Laura,’ he said. ‘Perhaps were you to be married to a man you trust with all your heart and soul, as your Mama does me, you would recognise the good sense of the current principle.’

He exchanged glances with Mr Bond, who gave an irritating little laugh. What had she said that was funny, Laura wondered.

‘An educated and dutiful woman is well able to advise her husband, Miss Brownlow,’ Mr Bond said gently. ‘And he may then decide for the both of them.’ He took his last mouthful of fish, placed his knife and fork together on the plate and dabbed his mouth with his napkin. ‘In the majority of cases,’ he went on, ‘marital harmony will prevail. However, the new Parliament might be swayed by the need to right wrongs that result in those few monstrous exemplars when the man neglects or, ah, abuses his responsibilities.’

Laura gave up on the mess of bones and scales on her plate and, as they waited politely for Mrs Brownlow to finish, her mind drifted to a story she might write about a woman abandoned by her husband. Perhaps she would start it tonight now that the Eastertide altar linen, the embroidery of which had occupied many long evenings, was complete.

When she tuned into the conversation again, Mr Bond was discussing a recent legacy to the church. ‘Mrs Fotherington’s nephew has shown me her will. Coloured glass for the Lady Chapel, his aunt specified, “to represent a suitable theme”.’

Laura missed Sarah Fotherington, who had dropped down dead during a ladies’ missionary meeting less than two weeks ago. Not because she had liked her particularly, but because she had shared the burden of Mama’s work in the parish and helped run the Sunday school, tasks that Laura seemed now to be expected to perform instead. No one had asked her; it was just assumed that she would.

Mama finally laid down her knife and fork, most of her meal uneaten, and Polly stepped forward to clear away the plates. Mama said in a dreamy voice, ‘A mother and child. That would be right for the Lady Chapel–the
Virgin and Child
.’

Laura and Papa looked at one another in alarm, both sensitive to Mrs Brownlow’s lapses from strong capability into melancholy. But Mama’s brown-eyed gaze was firm and serious, with no sign of tears.

‘A most apposite suggestion, my dear,’ Papa soothed.

Mrs Jorkins bustled in with bowls of semolina, then ceremoniously laid a large pot of her best damson jam on the table.

Mr Bond glanced anxiously between husband and wife. He said, ‘I can discuss Mrs Brownlow’s proposal with Mrs Fotherington’s nephew, Mr Stuart Jefferies, if you so wish, Rector.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr Brownlow, passing the jam to Mr Bond. Laura watched him take a polite amount. He looked as though he really wanted more. ‘Jefferies seems a reasonable enough fellow.’

‘And, James, are there not several windows in the Lady Chapel?’ Mrs Brownlow said quietly, taking the minutest spoonful of jam.

‘Yes, indeed, my dear, but one is half-obscured by a cupboard. The
Virgin and Child
might fill the light above the chapel altar, do you not think?’

‘Oh, yes, and the child…James, might we choose an artist with care, find one with facility at portraying babies?’

‘There are such ugly babies,’ Laura said, ladling a generous helping of the purple plum over her hated semolina. ‘It’s as though the great artists were more interested in their female model than in evoking the Christ Child.’

‘Oh Laura,’ said her father, smiling. ‘But, of course, the child’s appearance is important. We’ll seek advice, Theodora.’

‘Thank you, James. One more thing. The money my own father left: would there be enough there for a second window?’

Papa waved away the jam Laura offered him and frowned. ‘We haven’t discussed how we should use that money yet,’ he said. ‘There is the–ah–vexing question of Tom’s rising expenses.’

‘I know, but I’d like a window for Caroline, to remember her,’ Mama went on, a slight break in her voice.

‘Oh, Papa,’ cried Laura, ‘that’s a splendid idea of Mama’s! Do let’s have another window.’

Mr Brownlow conferred upon his wife a look of such compassion that Mr Bond, who sat patiently waiting for the signal to start eating, stared down at his semolina, his face reddening.

‘It is an excellent idea that perhaps we should discuss later in private, Dora,’ Mr Brownlow said firmly, and at last picked up his spoon.

‘An angel, James,’ whispered Mrs Brownlow, a beatific smile transforming her tired features. ‘Think about it. It will be Caroline’s angel.’

‘It will be to the glory of God, Dora,’ James Brownlow corrected her gently, and grimaced at his first mouthful of plain, lumpy milk pudding.

It was after eleven o’clock when Laura’s voice faded in my mind. I must have read for over an hour, but hadn’t noticed the time pass, so absorbed had I been. Reading her story was like entering another world.

I wanted to know more, but I was so tired. I replaced the final folder in the filing cabinet, shut the drawer and went downstairs, leaving the journal on the desk. I’d read more tomorrow, I promised myself. I remembered the entries about the proposed church windows; they intrigued me. Perhaps I’d find something in the journal to help us with our restoration work. I must let Zac and Jeremy know about my discovery.

I sit on the seventh step a long time

And I am sure the angel is there.

I can tell him all the things you can’t tell your mother and father.

Frank McCourt,
Angela’s Ashes

The following morning, I rang Jeremy. I’d been going to tell him about our progress with the broken window and about Laura’s journal, but he cut in first.

‘I went to see your father yesterday,’ he said.

‘Oh, did you? Thank you, I really appreciate it. Was he awake? How…did you think he was?’

‘He was awake, yes. I’m fairly sure he recognised me. He tried to speak, but it distressed him, so I urged him not to. I sat with him for a while, poor chap. Fran, he seemed very comfortable. They’re looking after him well. And many people make good recoveries. We must have hope.’

‘Yes,’ I echoed dully. ‘We must hope.’

‘It’s very hard for you–I’m sorry. If Sarah and I can do anything at all to help, you know we’re here for you.’

‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’

We were both quiet for a moment, thinking our own thoughts, then I remembered why I’d rung him.

‘Zac and I have been trying to piece the window together. There are angel wings and golden hair…’

‘So it’s definitely an angel, is it? I thought it might be, and I should imagine it’s Gabriel.’

‘Because it was Gabriel who visited Mary to tell her she was to give birth to Jesus?’

‘Indeed. See if he carries a lily, that’s Gabriel’s symbol. Yes, an angel would fit well with the window of the
Virgin and Child
. I’ll have a look around here for old church guides, but, failing that, I might have to ask someone at the diocesan archives to dig out what they can find. Undoubtedly that will take them time.’

‘There’s something else. I’ve found a journal. It seems to have belonged to the Reverend Brownlow’s daughter, Laura.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘It mentions plans to commission the window. Nothing really useful yet, but I’ll read on.’

‘Sounds fascinating. Keep me informed.’

I sat heavy-limbed after I put the phone down, thinking about Dad hovering on the border of the Land of Shadow. The vicar was right, of course. Many people did make good recoveries from strokes, but I hadn’t been given that reassurance by the hospital in Dad’s case. We just had to hope. And wait.

In the end I forgot to mention the journal to Zac. I hardly saw him that day, in fact. He was off in his van on various missions again. Visiting a house in Clapham to give an estimate, he said, then collecting some special materials from his friend’s stained-glass workshop in North London.

I spent the day in the shop, getting through some of the repair jobs in between customers. I opened the post and wondered what to do with the bills and the payments coming in. Zac looked through them briefly when he got back, then took the day’s takings and a few cheques to post in the bank deposit box.

Later, he locked up for me while I went to the hospital to sit with Dad. He woke briefly, this time, and we contemplated one another whilst I described my day. I waited until he slept before leaving, glad that I was going to spend the evening with Jo.

At half past seven I changed out of my jeans into smarter trousers and a jacket and set off through Greycoat Square garden towards a tapas bar where Jo had suggested we meet.

Passing the black railings of St Martin’s Church, I saw the church door open and a man emerge, to pull it shut behind him. I registered his mop of blond hair and called out, ‘Ben?’

‘Hello,’ Ben said, turning and looking confused for a moment. ‘It’s…Fran, isn’t it? Blast it!’ He was trying to pull a large bunch of keys from his pocket, and several sheets of the music he was carrying suddenly fluttered out across the ground. I hurried over to help him pick it all up.

‘Is this for Sunday?’ I asked, spotting the titles of anthems.

‘Yes. I like to play the pieces through at home before church choir practice on Friday,’ he explained. ‘Where are you off to, all dressed up? I’m on my way home, round the corner here.’

‘Up near Victoria Street to meet my friend Jo. I didn’t know you were in Greycoat Square, too. Which side?’

‘Here, let me show you.’ We stopped at the corner of the Square. Ben said, ‘Number sixty-one, just on the left there. It’s hardly a chore to slip along and use the church organ when I need to practise, but it’s even easier on my own piano.’

‘Of course,’ I said, wondering which of the long row of Victorian terraced houses it could be.

‘Don’t laugh,’ he went on, ‘but sometimes I can’t sleep in the mornings after about five o’clock and there’s something very comforting about playing church music.’

‘I think I understand,’ I said. I imagined the subtle chord changes slipping through his long fingers in the silvery light of dawn and felt a delicious shiver. ‘But does that mean the neighbours don’t sleep either?’

‘Fortunately the walls on one side are thick. And the elderly lady on the other is very deaf. So which place is yours?’

‘Can you see the black and silver shop right over in the opposite corner, next to the orange café sign? That’s
Minster Glass
. I live in the flat above. When I’m staying with my father, that is.’

He followed the line of my finger and frowned. ‘Ah yes, of course, that’s you.
Minster Glass
,’ he said. ‘Jeremy’s told me about that window he’s found. What do you make of it?’

‘Not a great deal yet, though we do know it’s an angel. We really need a picture of some sort to guide us.’

‘I can imagine the difficulty,’ he said. ‘It’s a wild-goose chase, if you ask me.’

‘Oh really?’ I was puzzled by the bitterness in his voice.

‘It’s forty years since the organ had its last overhaul,’ he said, ‘but they–Jeremy and the Parish Church Council, I mean–keep putting it off. And now he’s talking about repairing old windows. How do they expect me to produce wonderful music when the organ creaks and groans like a stuck pig?’

‘I can understand that it must be frustrating. It’s an either/or, is it? The window or the organ?’

‘I wouldn’t put it as starkly as that. It’s certainly a nuisance that a pile of old glass that we never knew existed seems suddenly to have leaped onto the agenda. Jeremy loves music but he loves his stained glass more.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, dismayed. ‘I guess I’m in the stained-glass camp, but as a fellow musician, I know how you must feel.’

He gave a broad smile, pushed his hand through his thick hair and studied me once more with that searching look of his. ‘Look,’ he said warmly, ‘I must sound rude, as though I’m criticising your work, and I don’t mean to. I appreciate pretty glass with the best of ’em. Since we’re such close neighbours, you must come round to supper some time.’

‘Thank you, I’d love to,’ I told him, pleased.

‘Good, we’ll fix it then, Fran. Are you a Frances or a Francesca?’

‘Frances, but no one calls me that. Not if they want to live.’

‘I’m the same about my name. Benedict. God.’ He made a face. ‘Fran, then…’

At that moment he glanced down Greycoat Square, then waved energetically. ‘Ah, there’s Nina come for our session. Better go. See you Monday–for choir, I mean?’

‘Yes, absolutely,’ I said. I followed his gaze. Outside what I supposed was number 61, a demure-looking young woman was waiting. She was carrying a violin case. Just a pupil probably, I imagined. But as he drew close she put her free hand to her cheek in a self-conscious gesture and her face lit up with joy. I knew even then that Ben was special to her.

I watched him kiss her cheeks. Then he turned and waved at me. I waved back, feeling left out, then continued down Vincent Street as before and yet not as before. Where a moment ago I’d felt light-hearted, now everything seemed bleak. The shiny black railings reared up oppressively, the blank front doors frowned. What was the matter with me? I was glad to reach the road Jo had named, which led into busy Victoria Street. The tapas bar was on the corner and I went in. There was no sign of Jo.

I was shown to a table by the window and sipped Rioja Arjone while I waited, trying to collect my thoughts. I was just upset about Dad, I concluded, vulnerable and uncertain about everything. I really should get a grip on myself.

‘I’m
so
sorry,’ Jo sighed, flopping into the chair opposite, twenty minutes later. ‘Yes, please,’ she said when I offered her wine. ‘Shall we order food? You must be simply starving. I am.’

‘Something come up at work?’ I asked, pushing the bread basket towards her.

‘A meeting running on.’

She signalled to the waiter. Food came quickly and we helped ourselves hungrily to stuffed olives, mountain ham and calamares, chattering all the while, trying to make up for twelve lost years. Jo had kept in touch with a number of girls from our school and as she talked about these continuing friendships I regretted that I had cut my ties.

‘You must come along when we next meet up,’ she said kindly. ‘They’d love to see you.’ But I wondered if it would be that easy after such a long gap.

We moved on to talk about her work. ‘I’ve been a warden at St Martin’s for two years,’ she told me. ‘I worked with AIDS patients before, then this job came up and it seemed a marvellous opportunity.’ Her eyes were shining. ‘What I love most is listening to people’s stories and trying to help. You won’t believe what some of those girls have suffered. And they respond so well to having someone to talk to.’

‘I think you’re a perfect angel.’

‘Oh nonsense,’ she said, tossing her head, but she looked pleased all the same.

‘Talking about angels, I met a girl from your hostel yesterday,’ I said, remembering suddenly. ‘Does the name Amber ring a bell?’

‘Gosh, yes,’ said Jo. ‘Amber Hardwick.’

‘She wandered into the shop yesterday. Seemed very fascinated by everything, especially the angel in the window display.’

‘That sounds like Amber–always on about angels. She’s having a difficult time. A couple of the hard cases keep picking on her–you know, stealing her things, calling her names.’ She sighed. ‘It’s really unkind. The worst you can say of Amber is that she acts young for nineteen. Lisa–she’s the ringleader–can’t resist taking advantage. We had an awful incident a few days ago when some special piece of Amber’s jewellery disappeared, a pendant. She got quite hysterical. We eventually found it in a waste-bin. Everyone knows it was Lisa, but we can’t prove it.’

‘She’s an awfully sweet girl, but you’re right, she’s young for her age. How on earth did she end up at the hostel?’

Jo poured us both more wine.

‘I shouldn’t be telling you this confidential stuff but, heck, who are you going to pass it on to? She’s one of those kids who’s fallen through every net. Her mother was disabled in some way, in a wheelchair, anyway, and Amber kept missing school to look after her. But instead of seeking support for them both, the mother would lie to the truant officer, say Amber was sick. They eventually fell below the social workers’ radar. The mum died when Amber was fourteen and the girl ended up living with her grandmother, who went into a home last year. The council took back the house. Amber was eighteen and wasn’t eligible for such a large place by herself. She missed so much schooling that she’s found it difficult to find a job.’

‘What sort of thing has she tried doing?’

‘Oh, supermarket work, catering. She should be suited to either of those. She’s very practical, but doesn’t cope well under pressure. She’s artistic, too, likes making jewellery from beads and wire. Maybe she should try something like that next. I must suggest it to her caseworker.’

‘She did seem interested in the stained glass,’ I said.

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I was explaining a bit about leadwork and she engaged with it very well.’

‘That’s something to consider.’ I saw a light go on in Jo’s eyes and realised I’d laid myself a trap and fallen right into it.

‘Oh no, sorry, I’m not in a position to train anyone to do anything.’ The last thing I needed at the moment was the responsibility of an apprentice.

‘She could mind the shop for you and Zac, and watch what you do. You wouldn’t have to pay her much and she’s very sweet and willing. She’d be great with the customers.’

‘Jo, look,’ I said, laughing. ‘You’re going too fast.’ I remembered how at school she was the one who wrung your pocket money out of you for the Battersea Dogs’ Home, made you sign the petition against fox-hunting, talked you into doing the charity swim.

‘Think about it, Fran. Just think about it.’

‘Don’t, you’re making me feel guilty. I’ve got enough on my plate at the moment.’

‘Of course. I’m sorry. I was quite wrong to have mentioned it.’

Jo looked so crestfallen that I sighed. ‘OK, I’ll think about it. Is that enough? I’m not promising anything.’

Her face broke into a happy smile. ‘It’s a good idea, I know it is.’

I firmly changed the subject. ‘How are the parents?’

‘Oh, OK. Just the same really. They’re doing up this huge place in the country now, near Tunbridge Wells. Quite mixing in society down there. I’m a bit of a disappointment to them, I sometimes think, working with the underprivileged.’

‘Surely they’re proud of you?’

‘They’re still raving Tories. Dad thinks that because he had to pull himself up by his bootstraps–you remember how he talks about his council estate origins?–why should other people be “mollycoddled” as he puts it?’

I smiled, picturing Jo’s father, a charming, friendly man. He and his wife had always been very welcoming to me. But I suppose being a high-flying company lawyer doesn’t bring out your caring side, and Kevin Pryde had a giant chip on his shoulder, always determined to prove he was ‘as good as the other chap’, as I once heard him put it.

‘And Mum’s worried that I’m not moving in the right circles, where I’ll attract the kind of man who earns enough to “look after” me. But I love my job. I know I’m lucky–living in the flat, I mean–and that my parents will bale me out if I run into serious debt. I really wouldn’t mind if I had to make my own way. I’m not bothered about money, you know.’

I sighed, refraining from answering. Jo must have seen enough desperate cases at the hostel to know what destitution really meant.

‘Oh, will you listen to me rattle on,’ she said now, picking up the bottle and pouring us generous glasses of wine. ‘That silver spoon gets in the way all the time.’