The Glass Painter's Daughter (20 page)

Let’s suppose they did. Suddenly I had a strong sense of where to search next.

I was haunted by my strange dream all the following day, but I was so busy at work that there was no opportunity to follow up my revelation about the window.

Part of the explanation for my troubled night presented itself when I went next door to the café. Anita repeated to me something her tenant upstairs had told her.

‘He saw a fight last night in the Square. Police cars an’ all. Mr What’s-his-name from the bookshop come in earlier an’ said there was blood on the pavement. Probably something to do with that homeless place.’

‘But that’s for women! Surely that’s not likely?’

‘There’s another place for blokes round the corner, isn’t there?’

‘Could as easily have been drunken City types, Anita. Though, granted, a Monday night would be unusual.’

‘All I know is that decent folks are not safe in their beds. Now tell me how your dad is, the poor man.’

I always liked chatting to the gossipy Anita, but felt uncomfortable about these cut and dried remarks. It was too easy to blame Jo’s flock for any problems, especially given that Anita knew nothing about the incident. I, it seemed, had slept through it, though perhaps the commotion, like the workmen’s generator, had contributed to my dreams.

Later, as I watched a large lorry pull up outside
Minster Glass
, the shop phone rang. It was Jo.

‘Jo! I can’t talk for long. Our wholesale order’s just arriving. Missed you last night at choir.’

‘That’s what I rang about. Something came up,’ she said mysteriously. ‘How did it go?’

‘It was a tough rehearsal, but we got through,’ I said.

‘Shall we meet later in the week? Have you an evening free?’

‘Where are we–Tuesday. How about tomorrow?’

‘Possibly. I’m not sure. Shall I ring you?’

‘Of course,’ I replied, feeling a bit puzzled and hurt by her uncertainty. ‘Oh, Jo…?’ I’d suddenly thought to ask her if the disturbance in the Square had been anything to do with the hostel. But she’d already hung up.

It wasn’t until the evening, after I’d visited Dad, that I got the chance to do what I’d been wanting to all day. I climbed up to the attic and carefully packed away most of the Victorian documents in their cabinets, to make room for what I had to do next.

Dad had been awake when I’d seen him earlier, and I’d told him all about my dream. I was certain that he understood. His mouth opened slightly and he made a sound, a sort of ‘Ah.’ Had he been trying to tell me something he knew? We stared at each other and I had whispered, ‘Do you think I’m on the right track, Dad?’ But he didn’t try to say anything more.

I opened a drawer labelled 1940, flipped through the files until I came to
September
, and laid the folder open on the desk. My idea was simple: if
Minster Glass
had been contacted by St Martin’s after the bombing, they might have found the paperwork and refiled it as a new commission.

Near the front of the folder was a thick manila envelope with
Re. broken light at St Martin’s
scribbled on it. I pulled out the wadge of paper inside and flicked through the pile with increasing excitement. The yellowed letter on the top bore the date June 1880. I took in lists of figures relating to materials. Finally, when I unfolded a large, thick piece of cartridge paper and saw the illustration inside, I knew I’d found exactly what I’d been searching for.

Laura’s angel
.

Later, I sat by the living-room window. It had been raining and the Square sparkled wet in the darkness. Somewhere along the row of lights on the far side was Laura’s old home. The past seemed all about me as I picked up her journal and began to read once more.

Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breath of heavens betwixt you…

Oh, never call it loving!

Elizabeth Barrett Browning,
A Woman’s Shortcomings

L
AURA’S
S
TORY

June, 1880

‘Oh, the darling!’ Baby Arthur was definitely smiling at his Aunt Laura from his nest of white lace in her arms, first uncertainly, then wider and wider.

‘He knows me, I’m sure he does.’

‘Of course he does, silly, he’s seen you ever so many times now. Say Happy Birthday to your aunt, Arthur.’ Harriet, having installed herself in the largest armchair, signalled imperiously to Arthur’s new nursemaid, little Ida Cooper, to sit out of the way on the footstool beneath the window.

Laura gazed down in wonder at her six-week-old nephew. His eyes, navy at birth, were changing to a translucent sea-blue. When she stroked his flawless skin–well, flawless if you discounted the tiny milk spots across his nose–it felt even smoother than Mr Russell’s gift for her twenty-third birthday, a silk-covered writing case, which he had sent round earlier. He had decorated the accompanying note with an ink-drawn border of birds and plants.

I trust this will encourage you to write to me often, dear Laura. Your friendship is precious to me
, the letter said. In the privacy of her room she had penned a few careful words to thank him, then hidden the gift in a drawer and taken the note down to the post herself.

‘Let his grandmother have a turn with him now, Laura,’ said Harriet, and Ida hurried over to transfer Arthur in his bundle of white lace to Theodora’s outstretched arms.

Laura felt her throat contract with emotion as she watched her mother’s expression of naked adoration for the baby. Theodora’s tired face glowed with pleasure as she returned his smiles and chuckled back. Perhaps with regular doses of Arthur, Mama’s spirits would improve.

‘Open your present, Laura, do,’ commanded Harriet. How was it that Harriet suddenly seemed older than Laura? Marriage and motherhood gave her new status. Next to her, Laura felt faded, diminished.

Even her gifts were now extravagant, compared with the modest penwipes and needlecases the maiden Harriet used to sew. Laura picked up the huge box Harriet had placed near her, unknotted the ribbon and opened the lid. She peeled back the tissue paper and shook out a beautiful golden tea dress.

‘Oh, Harriet!’ Laura cried. ‘How wonderful!’

‘Go and put it on, Laura,’ ordered her sister. ‘We must see how it looks. Mama gave me your old work dress so I would know the fit.’

The dress was perfect. Laura stood before the long cheval mirror in her father’s dressing room, fastening the front buttons, admiring the ruched sides and the pleated layers that fell flatteringly from the hips to finish, daringly, a few inches off the ground. The gold colour exactly complemented her complexion, she was pleased to notice, and reflected the chestnut lights in her hair. She’d never had such a costume.

‘Well, I never,’ said her mother, frowning with amazement as Laura slipped shyly back into the room several minutes later.

Her father said, ‘Laura, my goodness, child.’

Two gentlemen had entered the room. One knelt to admire Arthur, the other sat stiffly with his back to her. Both turned to look at her. She gazed in horror from Mr Russell, now rising from the floor, to Mr Bond, and almost fled. Mr Bond’s eyes swept over her, his mouth a round O of surprise; Mr Russell studied her, smiling slightly. Her face flamed and for a moment she couldn’t move her limbs. No one had ever made her the centre of attention before.

‘Darling, you look simply beautiful.’ Harriet rose and came to take her hand. ‘Come and sit here, near Mama. Ida, take Arthur now. Mr Russell is going to show us his drawings, Laura.’

Mr Russell cleared his throat and foraged in a leather portfolio. Laura perched upright on the sofa, her mind working furiously. Why was that man Bond here? On her birthday, too. How could her father be so insensitive?

‘This is so fine. Harriet, look.’ Theodora held out the drawing for her younger daughter to see.

‘Oh!’ cried Harriet.

Forgetting her embarrassment, Laura leaned forwards to see over Mama’s shoulder.

It was the design for the light over the altar; a more detailed draft executed in ink and a colour wash. Mary sat gently cradling the infant standing in her lap. The two gazed into one another’s eyes in mutual adoration. Hovering above Mary’s head, two sublime-looking angels held her crown.

‘The morning light will strike the window thus,’ Mr Russell explained. ‘Her cope will be pale gold–less yellow than this; the tracery antique gold and white; her gown the richest of blues. The lead will outline the Christ Child here and Mary’s halo here, framing the faces thus.’

There were murmurs of appreciation.

‘And Jefferies has seen this version?’ asked Bond.

‘Yes,’ Russell replied shortly.

‘He wrote to me yesterday giving his approval,’ the Rector told Bond. ‘Now, may we see the angel?’

Russell unrolled the second sketch and held it up. There was a little silence. Laura stared. It was different to how she had expected it, but she couldn’t say why. The figure was lovely. With its wings folded above its head it filled the tall thin shape of the window perfectly. The face did not look particularly like Caroline’s and she was surprised to feel a quiet relief at this. She would not, after all, have to see her dead sister’s face in church every week. This angel was a solid, powerful-looking, reassuring figure, with one hand raised as though in blessing. She liked it, it made her feel calm and safe; as though she were filled with light, but it was unexpected and she didn’t know how she was supposed to react.

It was her father who broke the silence, and as he spoke she understood that his expectations had been different from hers again. ‘But this is not Gabriel the messenger to Mary, is it? This angel is dressed like a traveller, bears not a lily but a pilgrim’s staff.’

Russell inclined his head. ‘I remember no specific request for Gabriel, sir.’

‘No, I suppose I made none. But in my mind’s eye, it being the Lady Chapel, it was natural to imagine Gabriel, the angel who came to Mary to tell her she was to give birth to the Emmanuel.’

‘Sir, I briefly wrestled with the idea of Gabriel. It was especially difficult, since there is no room for Mary in the window. I discarded several early versions before inspiration came. If I might be so bold with my opinion, I believe that Raphael is appropriate for the Lady Chapel. Raphael is the guardian angel, the special protector of the young, of travellers. It was Raphael in the Old Testament who was the companion of the young Tobias. And, sir, see this banner at the angel’s feet. It’s not easy to read in this sketch but the meaning of Raphael’s name seems so suitable in a memorial to a beloved daughter.’

Laura’s father took the paper and squinted at the scroll by the angel’s feet.

‘Raphael’s name means “God heals”,’ he told the assembled family, his voice unusually reedy. He cleared his throat, passed a hand through his thinning hair. ‘What do you think, my dear?’ He handed the sketch to his wife.

A long minute passed as she studied the sketch, her face a blank mask as though her mind were a long distance away. Then suddenly she smiled and looked up at her husband. Laura was struck to see that her eyes sparkled with happiness.

‘Raphael the guardian angel. I like it, James,’ her mother said. ‘It is right. We are all pilgrims and our angels watch over us. I especially approve of the patterning on the wings, Mr Russell. You have taken such trouble with the detail and I thank you.’

‘It has been no trouble, madam.’ His voice was soft.

Laura glanced at Mr Russell to see his golden eyes upon her. He was waiting. ‘And you, Miss Brownlow? Your good opinion is important to me.’

‘I like your Raphael,’ she said after a moment. ‘Very much.’

Everyone seemed to have forgotten that the angel had been supposed to look like Caroline. Or perhaps they, like Laura, had been relieved that it didn’t.

‘Why did you do it, Papa? Why did you invite him?’ Laura cried, following her father into the study after everybody had gone.

She looked down at the brown paper package she held. As their visitors left the house, Mr Bond had pushed it into her hand ‘…a small token for your anniversary,’ he had said gruffly.

‘You know how uncomfortable he makes me feel. And it must be a torment for him.’

‘Laura, whilst I am sorry, you must see the difficulty for me. He is my churchwarden, after all, my mainstay in these difficult times. He must share in decisions about the fabric of St Martin’s. It is his right to see those drawings. And as for personal torment, he could have offered some excuse not to come.’

‘But to invite him on my birthday? To a family gathering?’

Her father sat down heavily in his chair. ‘Perhaps it was insensitive of me,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, there is too much on my mind. However, whilst we are touching upon one delicate subject, I must raise another. Mr Bond came to me recently with a concern.’

‘A concern?’

‘About you, my dear.’

‘Me? What right has that man to express concerns about me?’

‘He has our family’s best interests at heart. And he still cares for you, Laura. What he had to say alarmed your mother and me.’

‘What he…? What do you mean?’

‘That you keep such open company with Mr Russell. No,’ he raised his hand to stop further interruption, ‘I know you are an innocent in this matter, my dear. However, you must consider your position as a young lady with, ah, hopes and expectations.’

‘Mr Russell is a married man, Papa. There is no possibility of anything else. We are friends only.’

‘Yes, indeed. I know this. But worldly opinion twists that which is pure, preferring to believe the worst. And being a daughter of a Church of England clergyman you must be, like Caesar’s wife, above suspicion. Bond tells me what I did not know previously. The man is the subject of a public scandal. His wife has left him, though I gather he is the wronged party. I feel it my Christian duty to receive him in the house, but it still does not do for you to be seen with him. Laura, I’ve never been able to forbid you to do anything, you know that. And though you are a young woman of forceful opinions, you have never before given us cause for concern.’

‘Papa, I do not now.’

‘Perhaps not. But I counsel you to be careful. He will make our windows and be gone from our lives. And, Laura, I accept your feelings with regard to Mr Bond’s suit, but I must ask you to respect my position. He is a stalwart supporter in the parish and I can’t prevent the two of you meeting from time to time.’

‘I didn’t mean that he should be banished from the church, Papa. Merely that I should not have to simper sweetly at him across our drawing room on my birthday.’

At this her father laughed and squeezed her hand. ‘Ah, my dear, again I’m sorry. And a secret part of me is pleased that you will be with us for a while yet–despite Mr Bond being a most excellent man. Now I must wrestle with Sunday morning’s sermon. A particularly difficult exposition on The Four Last Things.’ And patting her shoulder, he guided her out of the room.

Laura stood in the hall, trying to collect her feelings. From the drawing room came the plaintive tones of Chopin’s Raindrop Prelude played with all the passion her mother could muster.

Why did that man Bond have to interfere, to tarnish something good? She was still holding the package he’d given her. Tearing off the paper, she saw it was a copy of
Sesame and Lilies
by John Ruskin, a present she’d have welcomed if it had come from anyone else.

‘Oh, confound the man!’ she cried, and slapped the book down on a console table where it caught a metal statue of
St Christopher Carrying the Christ Child
. The ornament slid to the floor with a crash.

The Chopin foundered. There came a long silence, then the crashing opening chords of Beethoven’s Sonata Pathétique.

Laura listened for a while, allowing the music to fill her. Then she rescued the statue, relieved to see it was not damaged, and climbed the stairs.

As she gazed once more at her reflection in her father’s mirror, her thoughts swirled. The girl who looked back at her could not be called beautiful, but she had strength and spirit. The set of her chin might, however, label her stubborn. Now Laura knew what to do.

As twilight fell, she sat at the table in her room writing a letter to Mr Russell, assuring him of the family’s delight in his drawings. She hesitated for a moment then wrote,
It would interest me greatly to view the construction of the window, if you would permit it
.