The Glass Painter's Daughter (3 page)

I stuffed the letter back in its envelope and left it on the counter, resolving to ring the vicar myself when I had a moment and break the news about Dad’s illness.

That evening, partly to take my mind off my troubles, I gave the flat a thorough clean, throwing old food out of the larder, mopping the faded lino, scrubbing the chipped old bath and vacuuming the living room as best I could with Dad’s whining, worn-out machine. Afterwards, exhausted by emotion, by the day’s early start and the unaccustomed physical labour, I collapsed into the armchair by the living-room window and picked at a pre-packed chicken salad.

The gardens turned golden in the sunset, then silver, as darkness fell. One by one, lights came on in the windows of houses all around and the pavements glimmered in the soft yellow sulphur streetlamps. I’d forgotten how beautiful and peaceful the Square could be. It was difficult to believe it was in the heart of a huge city.

Half a dozen doors down, next to an antiquarian bookshop, was a new wine bar, where people spilled out into the warm, still evening. Above the murmur of voices I became aware of the distant soaring notes of Elgar’s Cello Concerto. I got up to listen, as its heartrending phrases wafted from somewhere across the Square. And suddenly I longed to speak to Nick again so desperately, the pain was almost physical.

I’d met him in Belgrade three weeks before, when I’d joined the Royal London Orchestra on its tour of Eastern Europe. Nick Parton was a couple of years younger than me, a liberally talented cellist and very ambitious. His energy was one of the things I found most attractive about him: that, his soft teasing voice, and–for I had the opportunity to gaze at him night after night from my place at the back of the orchestra–his smooth olive skin and perfect profile.

‘I can’t believe you’re strong enough to play that monster,’ were his first, careless words to me, eyeing the tuba cradled in my arms.

‘Just watch me,’ I sparked back. I pursed my lips and delivered such an ear-shattering blast on the instrument that the crusty leader of the orchestra knocked over his music stand and swore. Nick merely threw back his head and laughed.

I was aware of his eyes on me all the time after that. He sought me out with exaggerated solicitousness, teasingly offering to carry my instrument case for me because I was ‘too delicate’, then, when I irritably refused, holding open the door with a gallant bow to allow me through first, despite his own considerable burden. After a few days of this I allowed myself to melt slightly. We got together properly one night when, both a little the worse for wear after a late meal in a restaurant, we shared a taxi back to the hotel and a nightcap in the bar.

There was only one evening left after that in Belgrade, but then the orchestra moved on to Prague, Zagreb and Budapest–one glorious setting after another, so that our romance never had the opportunity to grow routine. There was one little problem, however, which I didn’t identify until our last night in Athens, and that was the existence of a fiancée, Fiona, back home in Birmingham. It turned out that Nick saw our little duet as his final ‘fling’ before they married in October. And so the last night of the tour was our finale too, ending in tears and recriminations–mine–and sulks–his.

As I lay on my rickety bed in that Greek hostel, going over and over everything Nick had said and done during the previous few weeks, I realised that he had dropped various hints but that I had blanked out their meaning. For though I was angry and upset when he told me about Fiona, part of me hadn’t been surprised, and now a lot of things began to make sense. His refusal to stay on with me in Athens, for instance, the frequent phone messages he took, his avoidance of any discussion about what would happen after the tour.

I tried to make myself feel better by concentrating on how horrible it must be for poor duped Fiona, imagining how I would feel if our positions were reversed and I found that my fiancé had been playing away. Surely, I told myself, she must suspect. Was it worse that she didn’t, or that she did and would marry him anyway? I couldn’t decide. At least I knew the truth and had discovered it before I was in too deep. Though it wasn’t the first time I had got myself in a mess like this. You could say I had a gift for it.

I didn’t mean to fall in love with unobtainable men, it just happened that way. Perhaps I was hard-wired to respond to some strange pheromone that they exuded, these men who were married or who never intended to stay the course.

I listened to the soaring song of the cello and mulled over my love of movies in which lovers came together on sinking ships or as cities fell to the enemy or an asteroid was about to hit the earth…situations in which love was desperate, snatched, a long way from humdrum reality.

I was mature enough to recognise this painful cycle I put myself through over and over again, and I knew it was about time I broke it. Sitting alone in this scruffy old flat, which I still called home despite everything, for I had nowhere else, I fought the urge to look up Nick’s number and ring him. What finally stopped me was the thought of poor Fiona answering. I wanted Nick badly. But not a Nick who would up and leave. I knew now that I wanted someone who was wholly and eternally mine.

And the angel said: ‘I have learned that every man lives not through care of himself, but by love.’

Leo Tolstoy,
What Men Live By

I slept that night as though I’d been drugged and woke up miserable and starving hungry. It was while I was still in my pyjamas, scraping half an inch of fat from Dad’s grill pan, somehow missed in my whirlwind purge of yesterday evening, that the telephone rang. It was the hospital. Dad had woken briefly during the night, the nurse at the other end said. The relief was overwhelming. He would recover. Everything would be all right!

I swallowed some toast, pulled on my jeans and a jacket, and set off at a fast walk down Horseferry Road, passing early-morning joggers and a team of dustmen feeding their van. A plump Indian lady was sweeping the pavement outside a flower shop with long slow movements, and on impulse I asked her to wrap me some freesias. Maybe the fragrance would please Dad, even if he couldn’t focus on the colours.

On Lambeth Bridge, a bracing wind whipped off the river, chilling all optimism and inducing a mood of anxiety.

When I walked in, I saw the curtains were closed around Dad’s bed and my anxiety turned to panic that he’d had a relapse. Then a nurse emerged, carrying a bowl of soapy water, a towel over her arm. She smiled as she moved past me, and my panic ebbed, but too soon. I saw immediately that everything was not all right.

Dad seemed exactly like the day before, eyes closed, his mouth open, snoring slightly. I pulled the chair up, and sat looking for signs of change. Did he have more colour in his face? Possibly. Suddenly his eyes half-opened. He blinked, dazed by the light.

‘Dad,’ I whispered, leaning into his line of vision, and I was sure he looked directly at me. He seemed puzzled; a muscle twitched by his mouth as though he was trying to speak.

‘Don’t,’ I said, forlorn. His left hand, the one nearer me, trembled slightly, and I placed mine over it. We contemplated one another, he with the guileless gaze of a very young child. I turned away first, to hide my brimming eyes.

There was one good thing, though. He recognised me, I knew he did. He was, despite all my fears, himself. Yet I had the strange feeling that he was pleading with me, like a trapped animal.

‘Dad, it’s all right, I’m here.’ What could I tell him that was reassuring? ‘I’ll look after everything, don’t worry. I’m sure Zac’ll help, too.’ Though I’d still heard no word from Zac since my return.

I stayed until Dad was asleep once more. My walk back from the hospital took twice as long because I dawdled on Lambeth Bridge watching the gunmetal-grey water swell beneath, glad of the biting wind that dulled my anguish. Some tide was rising within me, too, carrying me–where? I had no idea. My life was hopelessly adrift.

Zac was in the workshop when I walked back in, cutting shapes from a piece of glowing red glass. He looked up as I entered, his glass-cutter poised, his long lean body bent, ready to score the glass. I hovered in the safety of the dividing doorway. The old awkwardness swirled between us, as thick and mysterious as fog.

‘Hello, stranger,’ he muttered finally, managing a smile. ‘How are things?’

‘I’ve just been to see Dad,’ I said, trying to hold my voice steady. Zac laid down his cutter and studied me, absent-mindedly rubbing at a callus on his forefinger.

‘How is he?’ he asked, his voice gruff as though he hadn’t spoken since yesterday. That would be quite believable. I had never found out much about Dad’s assistant. He’d come to work for Dad shortly after I left home twelve years ago, a thin, dark-eyed, pale-skinned man, then in his early twenties, with a Glasgow accent, a mop of thick black hair and that Celtic brooding air of mystery. He’d kept himself to himself. Now, a dozen years on, he had filled out a bit and the accent was less pronounced, but otherwise, like
Minster Glass
, he was exactly as always.

Zac had never seemed bothered by the odd hours Dad asked him to work, was apparently happy to take afternoons off when business was slow, and ready to toil a seven-day week in the event of a tight deadline. At other times he came and went as it pleased him, which seemed to suit them both, though if I’d been his boss I’d have found it disconcerting. In Dad’s absence, I supposed I was his boss. The thought bothered me. What could I possibly teach Zac? Apart from a bit of charm, that is. He could at least try to look pleased to see me.

‘You were right about the stroke, Zac,’ I said. ‘It’s serious.’

I explained how Dad had come round, but that the doctor I’d spoken to today–not the nice Mr Bashir but a young woman with spiky hair–said the tests were inconclusive about how bad the stroke damage was. She refused to guess when I asked how quickly Dad might recover, though agreed that his waking was a positive sign.

Zac thrust his hands in the pockets of his shabby moleskins and stared at the floor. After a moment he said, ‘That’s terrible. I’m sorry, Fran.’ After another moment he added anxiously, ‘I did what I could, you know. Checked his breathing, called the ambulance right away. They were here in a few minutes. Perhaps if I’d done something different…’ His face showed naked distress.

‘I’m sure you did everything right,’ I said. ‘And you were here with him, that’s the important thing. God knows what would have happened if he’d been alone.’

‘Aye, you’re right there,’ he said gloomily. We stood for a moment, each lost in our own thoughts, then he spoke again. ‘What are your plans?’

‘Plans?’ I echoed.

‘I mean, how long are you back for? You know I’ll do what I can, but…’ He spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

‘I hadn’t thought about it. I suppose I’ll stay here for the time being. We don’t know how long Dad will take to get better.’ There was another short silence during which I was aware of his eyes on me, sympathetic, but searching. I tried to consider the concept that it might be a long, long time–if ever–before Dad could work again, and pushed it away.

‘There’s plenty of work around to keep the business going,’ said Zac softly. ‘And I could do with assistance in the shop.’

Thoughts started rushing in with dizzying force. Was this what Dad’s illness would mean? Being here, giving up music for the duration?

‘What sort of work are we talking about?’ I asked, to buy time.

‘There’s this.’ He lifted up the sheet of red glass so I could see the template drawing underneath. ‘A window for one of those penthouse flats by the river. The lady wants a sunrise. Not happy with her view of the real one, obviously. Look.’ He took a smaller roll of paper from another table and showed me the design he’d made–a colour sketch of the sun rising over a country scene.

‘That’s lovely,’ I said. ‘What else?’

He described a few other similar commissions awaiting his attention. I then inspected the repair jobs lined up on the shelves. There were broken lampshades, dusty mirrors and picture frames with chipped decoration. An ugly folding screen with a caved-in middle section leaned against one wall. Despite myself, the years rolled away and I found myself assessing the work involved. All these I probably still had the skills to fix–if I wanted.

‘And there’s a whole list of domestic window repairs,’ Zac was saying.

‘What about this one?’ I moved over to Dad’s Celtic design, still lying beneath the window. Suddenly I wanted to do something useful. ‘Shall I finish it off?’

‘If you want,’ said Zac, looking surprised. ‘But don’t rush yourself. You’ve only just—’

‘I’d like to, when I’ve got a moment. It’s something I can do…for Dad.’

‘Fine.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll look up the paperwork now, if you like.’

‘Thanks. Oh.’ My eye fell on the brooch I’d left by the unfinished panel. ‘By the way, do you know anything about this? Perhaps Dad dropped it.’

Zac took the brooch, studied it for a moment then returned it to me with a shake of his head. I turned the brooch over, still puzzled about its significance, then slipped it safely in my pocket.

He wandered over to the office and started flicking through Dad’s big Day Book on the desk.

‘Looks like that panel’s the last part of an order for a new church in South London,’ he said after a minute.

A church. I suddenly recalled the vicar’s letter.

‘That reminds me.’ I went off to fetch the Reverend Quentin’s missive from the shop counter. It wasn’t there, nor on the floor either.

‘Have you seen a white envelope?’ I asked, going back into the workshop.

‘This what you’re looking for?’ Zac fished the letter out of his overall pocket. ‘You don’t need to worry, I’ve already rung him.’

‘You have?’ I knew my annoyance was unreasonable, especially given my previous panic about getting involved, but Zac’s dismissive tone got under my skin. ‘What did he have to say?’

‘He didn’t mention anything about the “exciting discovery”. Just asked how your father was. Anita from the café had told him he was ill. I said I’d visit the church myself and report on the state of the windows. I’m going round there Monday at five.’

‘Will the light still be good enough to see properly then?’ I said sharply. It might sound ridiculous–but I felt excluded. It was I, after all, who had opened the letter, my father who was a friend of the writer, and if I’d rung the vicar I’m sure I would have got out of him what the mysterious discovery was.

‘I expect it’ll be all right.’ We were suddenly circling like a pair of prize-fighters. It was silly. I knew Zac was merely doing his job, but some small stubborn part of me wanted the upper hand.

‘I’ll go with you,’ I said, to settle the argument, and walked away into the shop before Zac could object.

Silence followed, then after a moment came the teeth-jarring sound of tungsten scoring glass. I had been rude and I felt ashamed of myself. But, looking back now, I see that I was too unhappy and worried about Dad to act rationally.

I tried to make amends by being helpful, opening up the shop and turning on the main lights. There were several new boxes of glass left by our wholesaler, stacked on the floor. I cut open the top one. Today at least, I told myself, it would be business as usual for
Minster Glass
. I would take my father’s place at the counter.

From time to time, as I slotted the coloured squares sideways into their compartments on the shelves, so they could be easily flicked through, like old vinyl records, Zac came through to fetch something he needed, and he seemed pleased to see me there.

I unwrapped a batch of small decorated mirrors and hung them on the back wall, thinking of my tuba upstairs. I had not taken it out of its case for several days now. Nor had I rung Jessica at the diary service that organised my bookings, to tell her what had happened and where I could be contacted. I thought of Dad, lying in his hospital bed, and again that dark tide rose up inside, choking me. I was terrified for Dad, but also for myself. My life was on hold–but for the moment, what could I do about it? Nothing, except wait and occupy myself unpacking glass.

Zac left at lunchtime, muttering something about calling in on Dad on the way to a business appointment. I watched him walk quickly across the Greycoat Square gardens and was glad to be alone.

It was a quiet afternoon in the shop. When I’d checked the supplies of the tools we sold, making notes for re-orders, I parked myself at a table just inside the workshop, from where I could see anyone who came in, plugged in a solder iron and tried to mend a lampshade. I hadn’t soldered lead for so long that it took me several practice runs on some pieces of foiled scrap glass before I dared attempt a fine line across the joins on the shade. Contemplating my work, I decided that the result wasn’t too bad. I put the shade to one side, then picked up a mirror with a broken border and started on that. It was absorbing, soothing work.

There weren’t many customers. A small boy with his father bought one of the little mirrors for his mother’s birthday. A middle-aged woman with faded ginger hair and hoop earrings wanted some glass for an evening-class project. She pulled out every piece in the shop before selecting a perfectly ordinary square of streaky cathedral blue. A young woman in track pants, with straggly black hair and dark eyes, hung about outside, staring at the window display and chewing her nails. When I stepped out to get a cappuccino from the café next door, she returned my smile fearfully before scurrying off. She kept to the shadows, looking behind her from time to time. Like a stray cat, I thought with a rush of pity. Used to being driven away.

That evening, visited by loneliness, I extracted my address book from my handbag and tried the number of a friend from music college I’d not spoken to for years, only to be told she had moved away, whereabouts unknown. Next I called a fellow brass player in South London, then a woman from the concert promoters I was friendly with, but it was Saturday night and no one, it seemed, was in except me.

As I leafed through the dog-eared pages, I was struck by the realisation that I had too easily let old friendships lapse. I had hardly anyone left at all.

I reached ‘P’ and saw my old schoolfriend Jo Pryde’s name. Eleven Rochester Mansions, her parents’ flat, was still the only address given. But then I hadn’t seen Jo in years, so she probably wouldn’t have bothered telling me if she had moved. I thought about ringing the number, but imagined a stilted conversation with one of her parents. Perhaps too much time had passed. I hadn’t contacted her since I left school, dropped her along with everyone else since I began my peripatetic working life. I felt bad about it now, but it had seemed necessary to get away then, to cut my ties and launch out on my own.

I gave up trying to track down friends and instead went upstairs to pack a bag of Dad’s things to take with me when I visited the hospital tomorrow.

His bedroom had a sad, abandoned air. I’d placed the gold angel brooch on his bedside table, next to the photograph of me, aged twelve, sitting on a Welsh pony, taken on a rare holiday near Aberystwyth. This photo was the only truly personal item on display. There was one picture on the wall–a framed print of an Alma Tadema painting–unnaturally pale women bathing in a Classical setting, the waters of the pool a storybook blue. Perfectly executed, but I always thought Alma Tadema’s work chilly, devoid of emotion. Perhaps that was why Dad liked it, for he, too, betrayed little of his feelings. And yet I knew that he wasn’t a cold man. It was rather that he had locked his feelings away.