The Glass Painter's Daughter Read online

  ‘It will be to the glory of God, Dora,’ James Brownlow corrected her gently, and grimaced at his first mouthful of plain, lumpy milk pudding.

  It was after eleven o’clock when Laura’s voice faded in my mind. I must have read for over an hour, but hadn’t noticed the time pass, so absorbed had I been. Reading her story was like entering another world.

  I wanted to know more, but I was so tired. I replaced the final folder in the filing cabinet, shut the drawer and went downstairs, leaving the journal on the desk. I’d read more tomorrow, I promised myself. I remembered the entries about the proposed church windows; they intrigued me. Perhaps I’d find something in the journal to help us with our restoration work. I must let Zac and Jeremy know about my discovery.

  Chapter 8

  I sit on the seventh step a long time

  And I am sure the angel is there.

  I can tell him all the things you can’t tell your mother and father.

  Frank McCourt, Angela’s Ashes

  The following morning, I rang Jeremy. I’d been going to tell him about our progress with the broken window and about Laura’s journal, but he cut in first.

  ‘I went to see your father yesterday,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, did you? Thank you, I really appreciate it. Was he awake? How…did you think he was?’

  ‘He was awake, yes. I’m fairly sure he recognised me. He tried to speak, but it distressed him, so I urged him not to. I sat with him for a while, poor chap. Fran, he seemed very comfortable. They’re looking after him well. And many people make good recoveries. We must have hope.’

  ‘Yes,’ I echoed dully. ‘We must hope.’

  ‘It’s very hard for you–I’m sorry. If Sarah and I can do anything at all to help, you know we’re here for you.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’

  We were both quiet for a moment, thinking our own thoughts, then I remembered why I’d rung him.

  ‘Zac and I have been trying to piece the window together. There are angel wings and golden hair…’

  ‘So it’s definitely an angel, is it? I thought it might be, and I should imagine it’s Gabriel.’

  ‘Because it was Gabriel who visited Mary to tell her she was to give birth to Jesus?’

  ‘Indeed. See if he carries a lily, that’s Gabriel’s symbol. Yes, an angel would fit well with the window of the Virgin and Child. I’ll have a look around here for old church guides, but, failing that, I might have to ask someone at the diocesan archives to dig out what they can find. Undoubtedly that will take them time.’

  ‘There’s something else. I’ve found a journal. It seems to have belonged to the Reverend Brownlow’s daughter, Laura.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘It mentions plans to commission the window. Nothing really useful yet, but I’ll read on.’

  ‘Sounds fascinating. Keep me informed.’

  I sat heavy-limbed after I put the phone down, thinking about Dad hovering on the border of the Land of Shadow. The vicar was right, of course. Many people did make good recoveries from strokes, but I hadn’t been given that reassurance by the hospital in Dad’s case. We just had to hope. And wait.

  In the end I forgot to mention the journal to Zac. I hardly saw him that day, in fact. He was off in his van on various missions again. Visiting a house in Clapham to give an estimate, he said, then collecting some special materials from his friend’s stained-glass workshop in North London.

  I spent the day in the shop, getting through some of the repair jobs in between customers. I opened the post and wondered what to do with the bills and the payments coming in. Zac looked through them briefly when he got back, then took the day’s takings and a few cheques to post in the bank deposit box.

  Later, he locked up for me while I went to the hospital to sit with Dad. He woke briefly, this time, and we contemplated one another whilst I described my day. I waited until he slept before leaving, glad that I was going to spend the evening with Jo.

  At half past seven I changed out of my jeans into smarter trousers and a jacket and set off through Greycoat Square garden towards a tapas bar where Jo had suggested we meet.

  Passing the black railings of St Martin’s Church, I saw the church door open and a man emerge, to pull it shut behind him. I registered his mop of blond hair and called out, ‘Ben?’

  ‘Hello,’ Ben said, turning and looking confused for a moment. ‘It’s…Fran, isn’t it? Blast it!’ He was trying to pull a large bunch of keys from his pocket, and several sheets of the music he was carrying suddenly fluttered out across the ground. I hurried over to help him pick it all up.

  ‘Is this for Sunday?’ I asked, spotting the titles of anthems.

  ‘Yes. I like to play the pieces through at home before church choir practice on Friday,’ he explained. ‘Where are you off to, all dressed up? I’m on my way home, round the corner here.’

  ‘Up near Victoria Street to meet my friend Jo. I didn’t know you were in Greycoat Square, too. Which side?’

  ‘Here, let me show you.’ We stopped at the corner of the Square. Ben said, ‘Number sixty-one, just on the left there. It’s hardly a chore to slip along and use the church organ when I need to practise, but it’s even easier on my own piano.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, wondering which of the long row of Victorian terraced houses it could be.

  ‘Don’t laugh,’ he went on, ‘but sometimes I can’t sleep in the mornings after about five o’clock and there’s something very comforting about playing church music.’

  ‘I think I understand,’ I said. I imagined the subtle chord changes slipping through his long fingers in the silvery light of dawn and felt a delicious shiver. ‘But does that mean the neighbours don’t sleep either?’

  ‘Fortunately the walls on one side are thick. And the elderly lady on the other is very deaf. So which place is yours?’

  ‘Can you see the black and silver shop right over in the opposite corner, next to the orange café sign? That’s Minster Glass. I live in the flat above. When I’m staying with my father, that is.’

  He followed the line of my finger and frowned. ‘Ah yes, of course, that’s you. Minster Glass,’ he said. ‘Jeremy’s told me about that window he’s found. What do you make of it?’

  ‘Not a great deal yet, though we do know it’s an angel. We really need a picture of some sort to guide us.’

  ‘I can imagine the difficulty,’ he said. ‘It’s a wild-goose chase, if you ask me.’

  ‘Oh really?’ I was puzzled by the bitterness in his voice.

  ‘It’s forty years since the organ had its last overhaul,’ he said, ‘but they–Jeremy and the Parish Church Council, I mean–keep putting it off. And now he’s talking about repairing old windows. How do they expect me to produce wonderful music when the organ creaks and groans like a stuck pig?’

  ‘I can understand that it must be frustrating. It’s an either/or, is it? The window or the organ?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it as starkly as that. It’s certainly a nuisance that a pile of old glass that we never knew existed seems suddenly to have leaped onto the agenda. Jeremy loves music but he loves his stained glass more.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, dismayed. ‘I guess I’m in the stained-glass camp, but as a fellow musician, I know how you must feel.’

  He gave a broad smile, pushed his hand through his thick hair and studied me once more with that searching look of his. ‘Look,’ he said warmly, ‘I must sound rude, as though I’m criticising your work, and I don’t mean to. I appreciate pretty glass with the best of ’em. Since we’re such close neighbours, you must come round to supper some time.’

  ‘Thank you, I’d love to,’ I told him, pleased.

  ‘Good, we’ll fix it then, Fran. Are you a Frances or a Francesca?’

  ‘Frances, but no one calls me that. Not if they want to live.’

  ‘I’m the same about my name. Benedict. God.’ He made a face. ‘Fran, then…’

  At that moment he glan
ced down Greycoat Square, then waved energetically. ‘Ah, there’s Nina come for our session. Better go. See you Monday–for choir, I mean?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ I said. I followed his gaze. Outside what I supposed was number 61, a demure-looking young woman was waiting. She was carrying a violin case. Just a pupil probably, I imagined. But as he drew close she put her free hand to her cheek in a self-conscious gesture and her face lit up with joy. I knew even then that Ben was special to her.

  I watched him kiss her cheeks. Then he turned and waved at me. I waved back, feeling left out, then continued down Vincent Street as before and yet not as before. Where a moment ago I’d felt light-hearted, now everything seemed bleak. The shiny black railings reared up oppressively, the blank front doors frowned. What was the matter with me? I was glad to reach the road Jo had named, which led into busy Victoria Street. The tapas bar was on the corner and I went in. There was no sign of Jo.

  I was shown to a table by the window and sipped Rioja Arjone while I waited, trying to collect my thoughts. I was just upset about Dad, I concluded, vulnerable and uncertain about everything. I really should get a grip on myself.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Jo sighed, flopping into the chair opposite, twenty minutes later. ‘Yes, please,’ she said when I offered her wine. ‘Shall we order food? You must be simply starving. I am.’

  ‘Something come up at work?’ I asked, pushing the bread basket towards her.

  ‘A meeting running on.’

  She signalled to the waiter. Food came quickly and we helped ourselves hungrily to stuffed olives, mountain ham and calamares, chattering all the while, trying to make up for twelve lost years. Jo had kept in touch with a number of girls from our school and as she talked about these continuing friendships I regretted that I had cut my ties.

  ‘You must come along when we next meet up,’ she said kindly. ‘They’d love to see you.’ But I wondered if it would be that easy after such a long gap.

  We moved on to talk about her work. ‘I’ve been a warden at St Martin’s for two years,’ she told me. ‘I worked with AIDS patients before, then this job came up and it seemed a marvellous opportunity.’ Her eyes were shining. ‘What I love most is listening to people’s stories and trying to help. You won’t believe what some of those girls have suffered. And they respond so well to having someone to talk to.’

  ‘I think you’re a perfect angel.’

  ‘Oh nonsense,’ she said, tossing her head, but she looked pleased all the same.

  ‘Talking about angels, I met a girl from your hostel yesterday,’ I said, remembering suddenly. ‘Does the name Amber ring a bell?’

  ‘Gosh, yes,’ said Jo. ‘Amber Hardwick.’

  ‘She wandered into the shop yesterday. Seemed very fascinated by everything, especially the angel in the window display.’

  ‘That sounds like Amber–always on about angels. She’s having a difficult time. A couple of the hard cases keep picking on her–you know, stealing her things, calling her names.’ She sighed. ‘It’s really unkind. The worst you can say of Amber is that she acts young for nineteen. Lisa–she’s the ringleader–can’t resist taking advantage. We had an awful incident a few days ago when some special piece of Amber’s jewellery disappeared, a pendant. She got quite hysterical. We eventually found it in a waste-bin. Everyone knows it was Lisa, but we can’t prove it.’

  ‘She’s an awfully sweet girl, but you’re right, she’s young for her age. How on earth did she end up at the hostel?’

  Jo poured us both more wine.

  ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this confidential stuff but, heck, who are you going to pass it on to? She’s one of those kids who’s fallen through every net. Her mother was disabled in some way, in a wheelchair, anyway, and Amber kept missing school to look after her. But instead of seeking support for them both, the mother would lie to the truant officer, say Amber was sick. They eventually fell below the social workers’ radar. The mum died when Amber was fourteen and the girl ended up living with her grandmother, who went into a home last year. The council took back the house. Amber was eighteen and wasn’t eligible for such a large place by herself. She missed so much schooling that she’s found it difficult to find a job.’

  ‘What sort of thing has she tried doing?’

  ‘Oh, supermarket work, catering. She should be suited to either of those. She’s very practical, but doesn’t cope well under pressure. She’s artistic, too, likes making jewellery from beads and wire. Maybe she should try something like that next. I must suggest it to her caseworker.’

  ‘She did seem interested in the stained glass,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. I was explaining a bit about leadwork and she engaged with it very well.’

  ‘That’s something to consider.’ I saw a light go on in Jo’s eyes and realised I’d laid myself a trap and fallen right into it.

  ‘Oh no, sorry, I’m not in a position to train anyone to do anything.’ The last thing I needed at the moment was the responsibility of an apprentice.

  ‘She could mind the shop for you and Zac, and watch what you do. You wouldn’t have to pay her much and she’s very sweet and willing. She’d be great with the customers.’

  ‘Jo, look,’ I said, laughing. ‘You’re going too fast.’ I remembered how at school she was the one who wrung your pocket money out of you for the Battersea Dogs’ Home, made you sign the petition against fox-hunting, talked you into doing the charity swim.

  ‘Think about it, Fran. Just think about it.’

  ‘Don’t, you’re making me feel guilty. I’ve got enough on my plate at the moment.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry. I was quite wrong to have mentioned it.’

  Jo looked so crestfallen that I sighed. ‘OK, I’ll think about it. Is that enough? I’m not promising anything.’

  Her face broke into a happy smile. ‘It’s a good idea, I know it is.’

  I firmly changed the subject. ‘How are the parents?’

  ‘Oh, OK. Just the same really. They’re doing up this huge place in the country now, near Tunbridge Wells. Quite mixing in society down there. I’m a bit of a disappointment to them, I sometimes think, working with the underprivileged.’

  ‘Surely they’re proud of you?’

  ‘They’re still raving Tories. Dad thinks that because he had to pull himself up by his bootstraps–you remember how he talks about his council estate origins?–why should other people be “mollycoddled” as he puts it?’

  I smiled, picturing Jo’s father, a charming, friendly man. He and his wife had always been very welcoming to me. But I suppose being a high-flying company lawyer doesn’t bring out your caring side, and Kevin Pryde had a giant chip on his shoulder, always determined to prove he was ‘as good as the other chap’, as I once heard him put it.

  ‘And Mum’s worried that I’m not moving in the right circles, where I’ll attract the kind of man who earns enough to “look after” me. But I love my job. I know I’m lucky–living in the flat, I mean–and that my parents will bale me out if I run into serious debt. I really wouldn’t mind if I had to make my own way. I’m not bothered about money, you know.’

  I sighed, refraining from answering. Jo must have seen enough desperate cases at the hostel to know what destitution really meant.

  ‘Oh, will you listen to me rattle on,’ she said now, picking up the bottle and pouring us generous glasses of wine. ‘That silver spoon gets in the way all the time.’

  We both laughed and she reached across to touch my arm in that natural, friendly way I had always envied. ‘Oh, it’s so nice to see you again.’

  And suddenly it was possible to forget that I had neglected our friendship along with everything else. Twelve years had separated us but we were now our own individual selves with our own paths in life. Perhaps we were ready to start again.

  ‘Tell me about these unsuitable men,’ I teased her.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ she answered with a little laugh that didn’t ring tr
ue. ‘It’s just that Mum’s got a bit of a wait for that big white wedding.’ I was surprised to see sadness in her eyes.

  ‘Perhaps you’ll meet someone at work or choir,’ I said, thinking about the way Dominic had looked at her, and I must have touched some tender spot, because she blushed.

  ‘It’s all women at the hostel,’ she said, ‘except for Ra, and he’s engaged to a nice girl his family found for him.’

  ‘I thought Dominic at choir seemed lovely,’ I said encouragingly.

  ‘Oh, he is. Really nice.’

  ‘But you don’t go for him?’

  ‘We’re just friends. I don’t think he likes me that way. Ben’s rather gorgeous though, don’t you reckon?’

  ‘Gorgeous is certainly the word,’ I said, wondering if she was interested in him. ‘Too gorgeous really, for us mortals.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ she said, and sighed. ‘Is there anyone special for you at the moment?’

  I rolled my eyes theatrically but it had become too natural for me to be secretive. ‘It’s been a disaster area. You don’t want to know. Anyway,’ I changed the subject, ‘there’s too much else on my mind at the moment.’

  She nodded, cupped her chin in her hand and gazed at me sympathetically. ‘How are things with your dad?’

  I picked at some blobs of wax on the tablecloth. ‘If, and if is the operative word, there is going to be improvement, it will be slow. He is conscious sometimes, but I…I don’t really know if he understands when I talk to him.’

  ‘Oh Fran, I’m sorry.’ Her voice rose in a sympathetic squeak. ‘But it can’t hurt to talk to him, can it? They say it helps.’

  ‘I know. I try. It’s just it’s difficult…well, you probably remember we haven’t always been close.’

  Jo nodded. Although I’d never talked much about my relationship with my father or my sadness about my mother, she had often witnessed his bearishness when she came to the flat, and had often comforted me when he had made me upset.

  ‘I haven’t seen much of him since I left home, Jo.’ I picked furiously at the most stubborn piece of wax.