The Glass Painter's Daughter (40 page)
I’m not sure how I got down those stairs and out of the shop. Perhaps, like the angels in heaven, I flew. All I know is that I was on the pavement and it was Zac and he stopped and we stared at each other from opposite sides of the road, and then he shrugged off his backpack and held out his arms and I was nipping between the hooting cars and into his arms.
‘So when did your plane land and why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’ I asked, breaking away from our embrace to look at him. He’d changed, there was no doubt about it. It wasn’t just the hair and the beard and the fact that his pale skin was burned by the sun, there was something different about his expression. His face was more open. He looked free and happy.
‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘Give me a moment to breathe. I’m trying to take all this in.’ We were back in the shop now and I was amused when he started looking around at everything, literally open-mouthed.
‘Why didn’t you say you were coming?’ I couldn’t help asking. ‘I’d have gone to meet you.’
‘I wanted to surprise you,’ he called over his shoulder.
‘You certainly did that.’
Why didn’t you write for so long?
I wanted to say.
Or phone?
But something made me hold back. The old nervousness and fear.
‘Sorry. He-ey, look at this! Wow!’ He’d pushed open the door to the workshop now and I followed in after him. He went straight across to the sparkling new kiln and started opening all the little doors, pulling out the trays, then turned the new ceiling lights on and off. ‘This is amazing.’
‘There’s an etching tool arriving, too,’ I gabbled, ‘and you should say if there’s anything else you need. That is—’ I stopped, remembering that I didn’t even know what his plans were. He might not want to come back and work here at all.
‘What were you saying?’ he prompted, coming over and taking me in his arms once more. It was a while before I could answer.
‘Zac,’ I said, pushing him gently away. Then giving him my sternest look, I said, ‘The best thing to do right now is surely to go up and open a bottle.’
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t in touch much after Melbourne,’ he said, taking a gulp of his wine. We were sitting amidst the mess in the living room now, both of us on the sofa, not quite touching. ‘I had a sort of crisis, I suppose. It was great seeing Olivia, really great, and I got on quite well with Shona, considering everything. You know, she’s thinking about bringing Olivia over, maybe next year if she can get the time off work. So I’ll see her then, show her around London. Maybe I could take her up to Glasgow to meet Dad.’
‘That’s good.’
‘After a week or two in Melbourne I got quite depressed. OK, there was a weight lifted off my shoulders. I’d done what I’d come to do–and then I didn’t know what to do next. It was the Quentins’ friends who helped me. They suggested I go off and see the country, and that turned out to be the best idea. But it was weird too, being on my own. I was so busy looking after myself, talking to people I met and seeing everything, I didn’t think much about here. Well, that sounds bad. I did think of you, a lot, but in a peaceful way. I had to sort myself out.’
‘And did you?’ I needed to know.
‘I think I did, yes.’
I studied his dear face, noticed again that he seemed happier, more relaxed, and said, ‘You know, I think you have too.’ I leaned forward and took his glass from him and we kissed, this time passionately.
We had so much to discuss but, just for the moment, nothing else in the world mattered except that we were together.
4 June 2003
When I finally lay down my pen I see it’s dark outside. I sit alone in the pool of light from Dad’s old desk lamp. Even the ghosts have left me now, their whispers dying away to silence. My story is finished.
Downstairs, Zac will be sorting through paperwork for tomorrow’s tasks and listening out for little Teddy, asleep in the front bedroom. He’s five now, Teddy, our light and our joy, a mischievous little angel with his father’s dark curls.
Sometimes I like to sit quietly and watch him sleep.
And sometimes I wonder what happened to another little boy–a boy with no mother–who grew to manhood more than a hundred years ago.
April 1881
‘He still won’t speak.’
‘Poor mite. Shall I go and say goodnight?’
‘You can try. You’ll get nothing out of him.’
‘He’s still so small, Philip.’ Only five, only a year older than Ned had been.
‘He’s old enough to speak when he’s spoken to.’
‘He’s endured so much.’
‘You try then.’ Philip settled in a seat by the fire and started to read his book. Laura closed the drawing-room door quietly behind her, hesitating, her fingers still on the handle, listening. Upstairs there was silence. In the hall the great clock tocked away the seconds. The sunset crawled across the floor.
‘
Help me
,’ she breathed.
She climbed the stairs, pushed open the door to John’s room.
Lying in the half-darkness he lifted his head. But when he saw her he turned onto his front and wriggled down under the bedclothes until just the crown of his dark head was visible.
‘John,’ she whispered. He didn’t move. She crossed the room and sat herself on the edge of his bed. ‘John, dear.’ He shifted slightly. What should she do now?
It was the first night that he’d stayed with them; the third night since their return from honeymoon, an ecstatically happy three-week tour of Italy. She’d wandered through churches and galleries, looking and looking at everything while Philip sketched and painted. And now they were home and real married life had begun. But already they’d struck a rock, and that rock was her stepson’s unhappiness.
She’d not seen much of John alone before the wedding. He’d always been in the company of his rather formidable grandparents, usually in the drawing room of their house in Eaton Square. John would be ushered in by his nanny in his best clothes; expected to shake hands with his father and bow to Laura. A pall of grief hung over proceedings. The boy was cowed.
But now, although his principal residence was for the moment to remain Eaton Square, he was expected to come and stay in Lupus Street often, or rather in the new house they would be seeking soon.
‘John,’ she tried again now. ‘Your father is vexed that you won’t speak to us. Tell me what’s wrong, please. I want to help you.’
Still nothing. Was that a little sigh, or was he weeping? She reached out her hand and gently stroked his hair, finding it soft, hot and damp. He jerked his head away.
‘John,’ she said, slightly sterner now. Then, more gently, ‘What’s the matter?’
A sob. He was crying then.
‘Oh darling,’ she whispered, helpless, ‘don’t cry, don’t cry, everything’s all right.’ Again she stroked his hair and this time he didn’t pull away, so she bent across him, tried to cuddle his small huddled form. ‘What’s the matter?’ she whispered again.
He muttered something.
‘What did you say, dear?’
‘I want my mama. I want her.’
His trembling tones pierced her heart. ‘Oh John, I’m so sorry.’
‘I want my mama. Mama.’ And now he was crying in earnest into the mattress and what could she do but peel back the blankets and scoop him up into her arms. ‘My mama, my mama, my mama. I want my mama.’ He burrowed into her and she held him tightly, rocking him, soothing him with words that came instinctively, words of comfort and love.
‘I’ll be your mama, little one,’ she told him. ‘I’ll be your mama.’
‘You can’t be my mama,’ he sobbed. ‘My mama’s with the angels and they won’t let her go. I hate them, I hate the angels.’
‘The angels are looking after her, darling,’ she said. What on earth had his grandparents told him? ‘And she’s having a lovely time. She’s watching you, you know, looking out for her little boy, wanting him to be good. And…’ Laura was feeling desperate now ‘…she wants me to help look after you, I know she does.’
The boy sobbed once or twice more then lay trembling and hot in her arms, like a small wounded animal. She stroked his hair and rocked him for what felt like hours. Then, as his eyelids began to close, she laid him in the bed and pulled the clothes up around him. His eyes fluttered open for a moment, bright in the gloom. He yawned suddenly and said sleepily, ‘Are you an angel, too?’
For a second she didn’t understand what he meant. Then she grasped it. She would look after him like the angels looked after his mother. Yes, she liked that idea. She would guard him as long as he needed her.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll be your angel.’
His long-fringed eyes closed now and he sighed. She kissed him gently and sat by his side until the room sank into darkness.