The Glass Painter's Daughter (30 page)

And the great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the Devil…and his angels were thrown down with him.

Revelation xii. 9.

I’d have missed the story altogether if Jo hadn’t rung on 28 October, gabbling hysterically about a newspaper article. After I’d put down the phone, promising to ring back, I dashed out to buy a copy. The piece appeared on page 8–I spread the paper out on the counter to read it. There was an unflattering picture of Jo, emerging from the hostel, and a posed photograph of a stylish couple wearing huge rosettes and waving amidst a shower of ticker tape.
Homelessness MP finds naughty love nest
ran the headline.

‘Oh hell,’ I whispered. It got worse. ‘Why would he risk everything for such a Plain Jane?’ a friend of Mrs Sutherland was reported as saying. ‘A colleague describes Miss Pryde as “earnest and wholesome. A real do-gooder. The last person you’d expect…”’

When, heavy-hearted, I rang Jo back, her answermachine clicked on with its usual friendly message, so I started to say, ‘Jo, it’s me, Fran,’ and a man’s voice interrupted, a voice I recognised. ‘Fran. Kevin Pryde here. Good to speak to you. How are you? I take it you’ve seen the papers. We’re under siege here. Journalists, photographers, the whole bloody crew, if you’ll excuse my French. I’m trying to get rid of the bastards. Jo’s with Claire. Want a word?’

It was a relief that Jo’s parents were with her. Kevin Pryde, in his lawyer’s hat, had long experience of dealing with the media. Jo was too upset to come to the phone again, but I agreed with Kevin to visit later in the day. By then the feeding frenzy had abated somewhat, though I had to dodge a haggard-looking man outside who was speaking quickly into a microphone.

I sat on the sofa holding Jo’s limp hand. She wore a fixed look of horror, as though the sight of a ghost had sent her into a trance.

‘I’ve seen what they’ve written about me,’ she whispered. ‘Plain and worthless. A marriage-wrecker.’

‘They’re not interested in portraying you as you really are,’ I said fiercely. ‘They just want to sell papers.’

‘Hear hear,’ said Kevin, absently, from his watch at the window. ‘Sharks and vermin, the lot of ’em.’

‘I still think if we talk to that
Mail
journalist, Kevin, then at least she’ll present Jo’s version of events.’ Jo’s mother, who sat on the sofa close to Jo, was exactly as I remembered her, expecting everyone to be as civilised as herself.

‘Claire, don’t be naïve. They’ll mangle anything we say.’

Poor Jo. I remembered our conversation several Sundays ago, walking back from the Tate, when she had wished so fervently that she was beautiful. That must have been about the time when things started to go wrong with Johnny. Always so cheerful and positive, it turned out that Jo had a faultline running through her like the rest of us. She’d believed she would be happier if she was someone different.

‘I was happy before I met Johnny,’ she said brokenly now. ‘I wish none of it had happened.’

Jo went down to her parents’ house in Kent, and I started to think the whole thing was blowing over. But then, four days later, at Hallowe’en, the vicar called at the shop. He was carrying a copy of the
Guardian
and wore a sober expression.

‘Do you know how to contact Jo?’ he asked. ‘We can’t track her down. It’s rather important.’

‘Didn’t she tell the hostel? She’s at her parents’ house,’ I said. ‘I’ll find the number for you. Come through.’

I went to get my handbag from the office and he followed me into the workshop. As I riffled for my address book he stood looking at the angel. He touched the glass gently and rubbed his fingers, an absorbed expression on his face.

‘I hope he won’t be taking up valuable space here for much longer. I rang the Archdeacon yesterday to ask how the permissions procedure is going…ah, thank you.’ Jeremy took the scrap of paper I passed him with the Kent number on it. ‘I suppose you’ve seen this, have you?’ He laid his newspaper in the only clear space on the worktop and pointed to an article headed
Homeless hostel. Allegations of MP’s corruption
.

I scanned it quickly.

Following the disclosure of backbencher MP Johnny Sutherland’s affair with a hostel worker, a grants committee was yesterday trying to answer accusations that Sutherland had given preference to a quarter-million-pound grant to St Martin’s Hostel in Westminster, where his lover, Jo Pryde, is a careworker. ‘We’re not saying that St Martin’s doesn’t merit the grant,’ said Mary Coltrane, a spokesperson from the Home Office, ‘merely that the circumstances in which it is being awarded must be called into question. Any grants to St Martin’s are, for the time being, suspended pending further investigation
.’

‘It is a bit grim, isn’t it?’ Jeremy said. I’d never seen him so low, not even when he delivered the news that the church wouldn’t pay to restore the angel. ‘There was a lot hanging on this grant. You can see why we’ve got to find Jo.’

‘They’ll need to question her.’

‘Exactly.’

Shortly afterwards, he thanked me and left. There was something dejected about the set of his shoulders as he walked back across the Square.

It was an odd day. Zac didn’t come in at all–his Noah’s Ark design had been chosen and he was meeting people from the church who were commissioning it. And Amber didn’t turn up as expected, which troubled me, as she’d always proved reliable.

At one point a skinny woman with a camera snapped a picture of the shop, but when I went out to challenge her, she merely smiled nonchalantly and marched away. A young Asian man in an overcoat climbed out of a taxi and poked his head round the door, saying that he wished to ask me a few questions about Jo, but I packed him off without even bothering to find out who he worked for or how he’d tracked me down.

In the late morning, I tried ringing Jo’s parents but their phone was constantly engaged. Then Dominic rang.

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘I got your number from the choir register. I saw the paper today, and I’m extremely worried about Jo. Do you know how she is? I don’t like to ring her myself in case I’d be intruding.’

‘I haven’t heard from her, but I’m sure she’d love it if you rang.’ I gave him the Kent number. ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do, Dominic, being at the Home Office yourself?’

‘Nothing,’ he said shortly. ‘It would only make things worse if I started making enquiries.’

Imaginary tabloid headlines about corruption in the Home Office danced before my eyes. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘You’re absolutely right.’

‘I expect it will all come out in the wash,’ he said, sighing. ‘I only want to send Jo my warmest wishes. I’ll be in touch.’

‘How are things going with you, by the way?’ I asked before he could hang up.

‘We’re making progress, thanks for asking. We’ve found a residential home for Mum quite near my sister’s and a bed is likely to come up in the next week. So we’re deep in the awful business of getting ready. Then, when she moves we’ll have to clear out the house. No hurry there though.’

‘It must be a weight off your minds.’

‘Yes, and I think Mum is reconciled to going. The waiting’s awful though. She’s very unsettled.’

Unsettled, I thought, as I put down the phone. That’s exactly how I felt too.

Amber appeared in the early afternoon, agitated and out of breath. As she came into the shop, she looked behind her in a furtive fashion.

‘It’s Lisa’s mates,’ she said, closing the door. ‘I thought they were after me, but they’ve gone. There’s all these people outside the hostel. Blokes with cameras, and that snotty woman from the TV news. Effie went out and shouted at them, which didn’t help. Lisa’s so stupid. She’s, like, since I’m friendly with Jo, the whole thing’s my fault. That hasn’t stopped her tarting herself up and trying to get on telly though.’ Here she did a not very convincing impression of Lisa, thrusting out her chest and preening her hair.

I laughed, then said gently, ‘I’m glad you’ve made it finally.’

Amber looked instantly crestfallen. ‘Yeah, I’m sorry I couldn’t get here earlier. It was really difficult.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I thought as much. Can you give me a hand with stocktaking?’

In this troubling atmosphere it was good to have something routine to do. As the light began to fade it felt less settled still, as scattered groups of children dressed as witches and ghosts and vampires began to appear, hurrying from door to door, collecting treats, their laughter ringing out across the Square.

At a quarter to six there was a cracking noise, then an angry shout, and two young lads in flapping black robes skittered past our window. Mr Broadbent from the bookshop stumbled onto the street shaking his fist, a mess of flour and egg sliding down the front of his shop window. I went out to help him clear up.

‘It gets worse every year,’ he complained. ‘And I’m damned if I’ll give them a thing. We never had this trick or treat nonsense when I was a boy. Nasty American habit.’

Tonight, just to prove I was over Ben, I’d steeled myself to go to choir practice. Afterwards, I came straight back home. It was unbearable now to go to the pub with the others and endlessly discuss the wretched questionnaire, to see Ben and pretend that nothing had happened between us. It was bad enough watching him conduct.

It was half-past eight, a night with no moon. Now the robed figures I passed in the Square on their way to Hallowe’en parties were older, more sinister-looking.

‘Want some, love?’ called out one of a trio of men who were sharing a bottle of whisky, and the others cackled suggestively.

I shook my head, never so glad to reach the sanctuary of the shop.

As I drew the curtains for bed, fireworks started exploding somewhere a couple of streets away. I watched the showers of sparks splatter the sky for some minutes before shutting them out. I could still hear distant pops and bangs as I drifted off to sleep.

I dreamed that I was walking down a tunnel of swirling psychedelic coloured light. It was warm and there was a lovely fragrance, something tantalisingly familiar, hovering just beyond recognition. A woman was singing in a rich strong voice, far away. As I walked through that swirling tunnel, the singing faded. Instead, someone gently called my name: ‘Frances, Frances.’ The tunnel widened into a great valley, aflame with sunset, but all I could hear was that voice, ‘Frances, Frances, wake up now,’ and I was swimming upwards through the sky, breaking into consciousness. ‘
Frances
.’ I was awake. But there was no one there.

I sat bolt upright, sensing straight away that something was wrong. The air smelled acrid and felt too warm. There was a distant rushing noise, then crackling and a sudden crash. I knew what it was even before I placed my feet on the floor. Quickly, I pulled them up again. The floorboards were hot. Fire. The shop was on fire. Then came a terrible sound of shattering glass below.

It was too dark to see much. I felt around for shoes, finding some trainers under the bed. I briefly considered pulling on clothes, but immediately rejected the idea. Some mad part of my brain started listing things I ought to save; I mollified it by catching up my bag from a chair. I touched the closed door cautiously. It was cool, so I opened it. The rushing noise intensified. Moonlight shone through Dad’s bedroom to the landing, silhouetting smoke coiling up from under the flat door. I rushed into the living room, threw up the sash window. A brief glance down and I recoiled from the heat, but not before I glimpsed the flames feathering the wall below, saw chunks of glass from the new window scattered on the pavement. I considered my options. There was only one and I hadn’t much time. I grabbed first one sofa cushion and shoved it out of the window, then the other. Scatter cushions followed.

Thankful to be wearing pyjamas rather than a nightdress, I squeezed onto the window ledge, peered out briefly to get my bearings, then closed my eyes and jumped.

I missed the cushions altogether. The pain was awful. Everything went dark. I lay there, unable to breathe. My feet hurt, my legs hurt, my lungs were sore and my eyes burned. At last I gulped air, hot, smoky air, and sat up coughing to see the shop a wall of smoke and fire. Close by me a cushion burst into flames. I gasped and wriggled away. Amazingly, though one shoe had gone, I was still clutching my bag. Something lay on the pavement amidst the smashed glass. With a sharp little pain I realised it was Dad’s lovely angel, melted into great tears of glass and lead.

Angels. Raphael. Fire brigade. There was a phone box round the corner. My brain lurched suddenly into motion. Then someone behind me said, ‘Are you all right, miss?’ It was a soft male voice with an Irish accent. ‘Don’t worry, a fire engine’s already on its way.’

I shuffled round and looked up. He was a pale young man with short hair that glinted gold in the firelight. He crouched beside me and grasped my hand. ‘Did you jump? You’ll have had a lucky escape there. Any broken bones, do you think?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’ I studied my hands, which hurt, and realised I was shaking, not with the cold but with shock. The man took off his coat and fitted it around my shoulders.

‘Thank you. But I’ve got to…’ I said. I couldn’t get the words out. I struggled up, waving him away, and shuffled my shoe back on. My legs ached, they had no strength, but nothing seemed broken. ‘Look,’ I told him, ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

‘Don’t–it’s dangerous!’ he called, as I half-ran, half-hopped around to the back of the shop. Thank goodness I had the keys in my bag. Scrabbling with the locks took a moment, but I got the workshop door open. Thick black smoke poured out and I reeled back, choking, my eyes streaming.

The man appeared at my side as if from nowhere and slammed the door shut. ‘You mustn’t go in there,’ he said, with quiet authority. ‘Breathe now. That’s right.’ Coughing and crying, I fell against the wall. He waited until I recovered.

‘You can’t be going in there. But it’s all right. See? There are no flames. Only the smoke.’ Together we peered through the window into the pitch blackness. He was right. The fire hadn’t yet reached the workshop through the thick Victorian dividing wall and the modern fire door. We both heard the distant wail of a siren. I felt his hand on my arm. ‘Come on, it’ll be all right.’ And, with me half-leaning on him, we made our way back to the street where a fire engine with softly flashing lights was negotiating its way past the parked cars.