The Glass Painter's Daughter (37 page)

‘You once told me I should forget my wife,’ he said.

The clatter of hooves sounded in her head, that eerie scream of pain going on for ever and ever. Laura closed her eyes to shut out the picture of Marie falling.

‘It was a callous thing to say,’ she murmured. ‘I didn’t know what would come to pass.’

‘I will learn to do it,’ he said calmly. ‘I know I must, in order to get on with my life. I
must
forget her.’

‘But what of John?’

‘John lives mostly with his grandparents now. It’s easier that way. I see him often. His grandmother’s teaching him Italian, you know. There’s a
palazzo
he’ll inherit one day, near Verona. He’s growing away from me, I fear.’

‘But he’s still your son–a little boy missing his mother. He must need you.’

‘Yes, he does miss her, but there’s nothing I can do to stop that. Nothing. Yet, though it’s a dreadful thing to say, her death has freed me. I can see light in the darkness sometimes now. It’s a long way ahead, that light. But at least I know it’s there.’

‘I’m glad,’ she said softly.

‘And there lies the heart of the matter, Laura. I need you with me. I didn’t know it until yesterday when I saw you again. You can’t marry Anthony Bond. Please don’t.’

‘Philip, too much has changed. He loves me. He’s a good man and it pleases my parents I marry him.’

‘But you, you’re only fond of him. You don’t speak of love.’

‘There are many kinds of love.’

‘Could you not find a kind with which to…love me?’

‘Philip…’ Every word he said now was a blow, smashing up the carapace she’d built around herself since Marie’s death. And yet he had not told her the most important thing of all. He had not said that he loved her.

‘What would I be to you,’ she said, ‘after Marie? What could I possibly be? A companion. A mere shadow of a love.’

‘No, no,’ he said, alarm spreading across his face. At that moment, the fog outside must have momentarily cleared because the light from the angel window grew brighter; it poured in a golden pool on the tiles.

And now she felt strong, brave and merciless. ‘I want no competitor where I choose to love. There must be only me.’

She stepped into the pool of golden light, so it cascaded down over her body like a gentle fire sent straight from God and felt Raphael’s healing warmth stream through her.

He stared at this transformation. Laura was bathed in light, transfigured by it, and at last the scales fell from his eyes. He breathed, ‘Laura. My darling.’

And as she stood there, strong and golden and beautiful, she knew that the power to decide was hers.

And now I came to the final page of Laura’s journal.

There was no more. Just several blank pages.

So Laura married her Philip. And now I understood why I’d found the journal amongst the archives of
Minster Glass
. Philip had taken over the business from Reuben Ashe and Laura had married him. Which meant…what did it mean? How had the firm passed down our family through the years? Maybe Philip was a several times great-grandfather and Laura a grandmother? Not if Philip and Marie’s son John inherited the business. How could I find out?

I was glad for Laura, though sorry for poor Anthony. He had been faithful, and dogged and dutiful but that, in the end, had not won the day. I wondered what had happened to him. Perhaps he courted the gentle Prudence Jefferies, found a wife well suited to his needs? I hoped so.

Every man contemplates an angel in his future self.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Quite how we all crammed ourselves into the front of the church on the Sunday of the concert and still left enough room for the orchestra, I don’t know, but Dominic and Michael somehow organised it.

Choral dress rehearsals are always dire, not least because they take place in a new venue with strange acoustics and no one sits in the same order as previous practices. The strongest singers, who always sit at the front week by week, for some reason now disappear to the back, and people like me and Jo, who enjoy skulking at the back, find themselves marooned in the front row, exposed and disorientated, with the violinists’ elbows almost in their faces.

Ben looked harassed, as well he might. The previous Monday’s practice had been ragged. Most people now knew their parts, but not well enough to lift their heads from their music.

Today, with the orchestra and the soloists present, he had at least to control his temper. He and Val had done well. Not only did we have Julian Wright as a marvellously tortured Gerontius, but a delightful mezzo soprano played his Guardian Angel and a rich bass-baritone was the Angel of the Agony. The programme notes revealed stunning CVs for both. How Ben and Val had won their services for this amateur concert, I couldn’t guess.

At the end of the afternoon Val reminded us about our dress for the performance–black and white–as well as to bring food for the cast party in the hall afterwards. Wine would be provided. We packed ourselves up, chattering, and I said goodbye to Jo, noticing with a stab of satisfaction that she left with Dominic. But my attention was really on Ben. He was grimmer than I’d ever seen him. I waited outside the door and caught his arm as he came through.

‘Oh hi,’ he said, a smile flickering across his lips. ‘How are you?’ He took my hand and gave me one of his soul-searching looks.

‘I’m fine,’ I told him, gently disengaging my hand, ‘but you don’t look happy. Were we truly awful?’

‘No. Well, I get nervous. I’m sure we’ll be all right on the night, as they say.’

‘That’s only two hours’ time,’ I reminded him. ‘Anyway, I must go. And you–you should rest.’

‘I’ll be better after I’ve had something to eat. Fran–you will be at the party afterwards, won’t you?’

‘Of course,’ I said, and cursed my voice for wobbling.

‘I’ll see you later, then,’ he said, and I felt that familiar tug inside. Was it beginning all over again?

It might have been only an amateur choral society performance, but it was the most wonderful concert I’d ever taken part in.

Being the penitential season of Advent there were no flowers to brighten the church. But rows of candles glowed on every windowsill, and on the huge Christmas tree at the back, and the kindest of electric ceiling lights softened the white of our shirts, investing the scene with all the nostalgia of a Victorian Christmas. Our audience seemed mesmerised, too; hushed, looking around them as they squeezed into every remaining space and sat waiting for us to begin. Near the front sat Jeremy and his wife, behind them, with a friend from the hostel, was Amber and, finally–was that him? Yes. There, right at the last moment, I was relieved to see Zac slip in and make his way along a pew full of people to what must be the last empty square inch in the church.

Then the orchestra entered to applause, followed by the leader of the orchestra–Nina, in another of her medieval dresses, this one low-cut–then by the soloists, the mezzo gorgeous in glittering midnight blue, the men crisp in tails. But they were all shadows next to Ben. Even I was amazed as he hurried into his place, centre stage, and bowed theatrically, his blond hair a glorious cascade over his high white collar; a cummerbund, the same colour as the mezzo’s dress, hugging his slim hips.

The strings came in first. The brave notes of the cellos soared warm and beautiful into the vast space above our heads.

As we sang I knew we were but a small part of a great drama unfolding; the most important drama of all, the story of life and death, the journey of a soul. For, though we belong to one another, sing and laugh and cry and fight together, in the end we have to make that final journey into the dark alone. Gerontius showed us the way, leaving his grieving friends, but then his angel bore him, supported him, led him safely among the devils by the judgement court, sponsoring his journey on through repentance to salvation and the promise of eternal joy.

I thought of my father throughout–how could I not? I had privately dedicated my singing to his memory, willing him, too, to find freedom from guilt and happiness; maybe to find my mother again, as they had first known and loved each other. I remembered, too, the dream I’d had the night of the fire. I wondered if it really had been her singing I’d heard; whether she was the angel who had called my name.

During the interval I looked for Zac, but he must have been swept up in the crowd who were pressing their way into the hall for drinks. So I took my bottle of water and went to visit our angel window. Tonight Raphael was blank and lifeless in the darkness. But I knew he was there, and would leap to life again with the dawn.

I became aware of someone behind me and turned. It was Michael, watching me from the doorway, a shining glass of red wine in one hand.

‘I don’t know about you, but I’d say it’s going fantastically well,’ he said, eyes gleaming in the light of the candles on the altar. ‘That Wright fellow is simply marvellous.’

‘I think so, too. Ben should be pleased. Have you spoken to him?’

‘No,’ was all he said to that, then, ‘Wonderful job you did with him,’ nodding towards the angel. ‘I had a good look this afternoon before the rehearsal. It entirely complements the other lights in here. I congratulate you.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘It’s very special to me, this window.’

‘Yes, of course, your father,’ he acknowledged. I could detect sympathy beneath the formal tone.

‘My father, yes, but so much else that’s happened in these last few months. It’s proved to be quite a turning point for me in a number of ways.’

‘How are matters proceeding with the shop?’

‘Fine, thanks. The builders are coming in straight after Christmas. I think they’ll be finished sometime in February. Then we can have a grand reopening.’

‘Michael, there you are. It’s about to start again, so I’ll see you afterwards.’ It was Nina, slipping her hand under his arm, dropping a light kiss on his cheek. He leaned into her for a moment, his stern features softened. She smiled up at me as she left and I thought she seemed sad.

‘As you can see, she and I are making another go of it,’ Michael said. ‘It shook Ben up when you left. I made him realise that he’d hurt Nina as well by his behaviour. He had the decency to apologise to her.’

‘Are they still playing together?’

‘Only until their next performance, which is after Christmas. It’s not easy for any of us though.’

‘I can imagine,’ I said soberly, thinking that their best bet would be to see less of Ben altogether. ‘I hope everything works out for you, Michael.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, but he sounded unsure. We went to take our seats once more.

Ben seemed much more relaxed during the second half, even smiling during our ‘Praise to the Holiest in the Height’, which dovetailed more or less perfectly with the orchestra’s efforts. As we distant voices on earth begged, ‘Be merciful, be gracious, spare him, Lord,’ I thought of the angel holding my father in his ‘most loving arms’, dipping him into the Lake of Penitence, sending him on to the next part of his journey.

The final Amens faded away into silence. Ben stood quietly, head bowed, and the applause began. It rose in a huge wave of sound. People stood in the pews and clapped and cheered. We clapped the soloists and Ben until our hands were sore; the orchestra and the choir were made to rise and sit, rise and sit, until finally we were allowed to go.

As people began to pack up and leave, I watched Jeremy go up and clasp Ben’s hand. ‘Well done!’ I heard him say. ‘Superb. The best concert we’ve had here.’ Ben’s friends and colleagues began to cluster round.

I turned to Jo. ‘It was wonderful, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘I so enjoyed it. I didn’t expect to, you know, I felt I’d missed so many rehearsals. Here, give me your score. I’ll give it to Dom for you, shall I? Gina,’ she said, addressing the woman behind, ‘I’ll take yours if you like.’ And she was off collecting up the music–happy, chattering, as she used to be. I hoped everything would be all right. Jeremy had told me last night that the grant application for the hostel would have to go through the whole process again. He’d been assured that it was likely to be successful, but that everything had to be seen to be above board this time. Still, it meant the developments were delayed for another year and they might even have to reapply for planning permission.

‘I wish she hadn’t resigned,’ Jeremy had said the week before. ‘I’m a great believer in seeing things through. Jo’s an excellent social worker–just the kind of person we want in the job.’

‘She’s got a couple of interviews lined up,’ I was able to tell him. ‘She’ll be all right.’

Now, I watched her weave her way through the music stands to the front pew, where she started to help Dominic pack the scores into boxes. His long scarf trailed in the way so she stopped to coil it round his neck. Maybe they were still just friends–that’s what she’d told me, anyway–but the manner in which he crouched, looking up at her as she tucked the fringe in neatly, that fond look on her face, suggested their friendship was developing into something new. Good old Dominic. I was certain Mrs Pryde would approve.

I passed my chair to one of Michael’s team of helpers and was shaking out my coat when someone said, ‘Fran.’

‘Hello?’ I swung round. ‘Zac.’ After the briefest of hesitations we hugged.

‘Fan-blooming-tastic, you were,’ he said. ‘Never heard the piece before but it sure blows you away.’

‘Thanks.’ I laughed, suddenly very happy.

‘So,’ he said, and now he seemed hesitant again, ‘I was wondering if you…’

‘Fran, there you are.’ Ben was rushing up to me, elated, throwing his arm round me, muttering a quick, ‘Sorry to interrupt, old man,’ to Zac before sweeping me away. I glanced behind me, trying to telegraph mock-alarm to Zac. He looked furious, but Ben had me firmly and was guiding me towards the door.

‘Now you’re coming to the party, aren’t you?’ he insisted. ‘There are some people I want you to meet. A guy who’s currently directing the Philharmonic, and his wife, she’s something high up at the Opera House.’ It was as though none of the bad stuff had happened. He was winding me up in that charm of his, that irresistible glamour. I was aware of his warm, strong hand, squeezing my arm through the silk of my blouse; I breathed in his delicious incensy smell. We moved towards the door. I glimpsed the lights of the hall and choir members peeling plastic film off plates of food.

Ben rattled on. ‘This man you’re going to meet. He’s invited me to play the organ in…’

At the threshold of the church I hovered, experiencing a bolt of déjà vu. It had only been three months ago that I’d stood here waiting for Zac to finish in the chapel, watching the choir gather, saw Jo again, a moment later met Ben for the first time. I’d been waiting for Zac…

Despite Ben’s restraining arm I turned, looked back into the church. Zac was standing there, arms crossed over his greatcoat, his normally shaggy hair tamed tonight, watching us with a furrowed expression, an air of magnificent loneliness about him.

‘Come on, Fran,’ Ben said, forging ahead, dragging me on. But it was all wrong. I knew that now. He held no enchantment for me any more.

‘Ben,’ I said, pulling away. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not coming to the party. Not yet, anyway.’

‘What?’ he said, then he too noticed Zac. ‘Oh,’ he said, surprised. Then, ‘I’ll see you in a moment.’ And he swaggered on into the hall on a sea of adulation.

I walked slowly back into the church. ‘Sorry about that,’ I told Zac, feeling suddenly shy. ‘Ben doesn’t easily take no for an answer.’ Zac’s stony look melted into a smile. He unfolded his arms in a gesture of release.

‘It’s taken you this long to see that?’ he said.

I laughed, my confidence sweeping back. ‘So where shall we go?’

‘Thought you’d never ask,’ he said. ‘I promised you dinner. Ten o’clock’s a bit late, but I need to talk to you about something.’

‘Oh, OK.’ How mysterious. ‘I know a good tapas bar,’ I said, remembering the place Jo had taken me. ‘Then we needn’t order a full meal.’

‘Sounds great. Shall we go?’ he said, helping me on with my coat.

‘Should I have changed out of this outfit?’ I asked, looking down at my long black skirt.

‘Nah, you look great as you are.’ And he meant it.

He waited while I checked my purse was still in my coat pocket then we hurried without a glance at the party, out into the frosty night.