She drifted from the shop into the video lounge, trying to find somewhere with less intrusive lights, so she could rest her eyes and mind. Two men with loaded guns were bawling at each other on the screen, one already scarred, the skin taut and puckered down his cheek, as if the wound had been cobbled up too tight by some bungling novice-surgeon. She flopped down in a seat, felt she’d travelled a million miles from Chartres. There, man soared up to God; here, he stuffed and tippled, made love to one-armed bandits, socked his fellows in the face, tried to blow their brains out.
The boat was juddering and rocking, its motion out of time with the car chase on the screen, but both churning through her stomach. The police car took the corner on two wheels. She longed to turn the film off, commandeer this dim-lit lounge as a place of quiet and meditation. There was so little you could switch off – not storms, or strikes, or people’s moods, not colds or sex or wives.
Scarface had been nabbed, at last, though not by the police. A new gloating baddie dived down from a balcony and punched him in the kidneys. She caught the blow in the middle of her own gut, clapped her hand across her mouth, made a sudden desperate dash towards the exit.
She emerged from the lavatory, her coat stained with flecks of vomit. She had sicked up a thin mucus, yellowish and slimy, watched it slither down the plug-hole, while she retched and spat, retched and spat, hating the indignity, the offensive shaming stench. She took a few uncertain steps, testing out her legs, appeared to have lost her balance as well as half her stomach. She had also lost the daylight, a black void through the windows now, a sense of time running down, weak from its exertions. The boat seemed still more packed; bodies cluttering the corridors like overflowing dustbin-bags disgorging empty cans. A low descant of complaint rumbled from the tired and crumpled passengers, which matched the fractious throbbing of the ferry. The lingering reek of frying-oil cut across the smells of beer, stale feet.
She ploughed her way upstairs and out on to the deck, needed some fresh air, though she was unprepared for the lake-sized pools of water sloshing round her feet, and the vicious wind slamming into her face. She found it hard to walk straight, with the boat rolling underneath her; was forced to weave and zigzag, experienced the same sensation as she had done in the hurricane – blown off course and buffeted by some sadistic force of nature which saw her as fair game. Had she grown no deeper roots since then? She’d felt so strong in Chartres – a tall majestic tree which could never be uprooted – but now her leaves and branches were being stripped and wrenched away. She couldn’t bear to see herself go crashing down again, lose that new elation. Her mother would dismiss her state as mere adolescent moodiness, blame it on her age. ‘Jane’s up one minute, down the next,’ she was always telling friends, but that was far too pat – the sort of thing all mothers said when their daughters couldn’t settle down and accept the boring blandness on offer as ‘maturity’. Okay, so she had moods, but then so did Christopher, and anyway, the confidence she’d felt in Chartres was much more than a fleeting high – more to do with healing and real insight. Perhaps its magic only worked when you were close to the cathedral, spellbound by its glass; or perhaps she needed longer to ground herself, and grow.
She clutched a metal seat-back, peered out at the sea. It looked black beyond redemption, vastly dark and treacherous, as if it had engulfed the moon and stars, drowned all other craft. She battled on to the stern, leaned against the rail, gazing at the foaming wake, which seemed to be pointing back to France. She longed to be washed up there, like a log or bottle bobbing into Calais, so she could escape the problems of returning home – not just the endless journey, but Christopher and Hadley. Easy enough to decide to give up sex, live life on her own terms, allow herself a breathing space until she’d found a man who was right for her, but another thing entirely to make Christopher accept it. He’d override her, force her to submit. And, in one way, she desired that; kept remembering his mouth, its wildness, its sheer skills. They had parted from each other in a blaze and stab of passion, and planning a weekend away – a whole weekend in bed. He’d never fathom why she’d changed her mind, and she could hardly mention what Isobel had told her about his messy married life, his women on the side.
She pushed back her tangled hair, tried to anchor it inside her coat, stop it streaming like a pennant in the wind. She might even lose her job if she refused to sleep with him. He could engineer it easily, tell her he was so hard-pressed with two big new commissions, that he was forced to employ a fully-trained assistant – a female one, of course. She glanced behind her, could hear boozy shouts and catcalls, a group of boys staggering towards her, their cigarettes glowing red. She tried to slink away, but the tallest of them pounced, grasped her round the middle, and pretended to throw her overboard. The others yelped with laughter, clustering around her, tugging at her hair, wolf-whistling and crowing.
‘Get off!’ she yelled, lashing out, wrestling with the ringleader until she had worked her body free, surprised by her own fury and her strength.
‘Can’t you take a joke?’ he jeered.
‘No!’ she shouted back.
‘Cunt!’ he muttered, stomping off, then turning round to spit at her. The whole group slouched away, at last, taunting one another now, lobbing empty beer-cans across the deck. She remained huddled at the rail, not daring to make any move, in case they returned to the attack. She was still shaken by the incident, by that gob of dirty spittle aimed right at her face, by the crudeness of the swear-word. And the fight itself had brought back shaming memories of her savage brawl with Trish. There was so much violence running wild, not just in these drunken yobs, but in friends and lovers, even in herself.
She stared down at the breakers, their constant kick and thresh bullying the ship, retching up white spume. She could climb up on the rail and simply fall – let herself be blown into the sea like the fag-end that tall lout had dropped, her tiny fire extinguished in its depths. Wouldn’t it be easier than fighting on so many fronts, torn between two mothers, not knowing who she was? She unzipped her coat, feeling suddenly too heavy, weighed down by her thoughts, by her bulky winter clothes. If she slipped them off, she would fall like a white streak, unencumbered, naked …
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Langley speaking. I am pleased to inform you that we have just received clearance to enter the port of Dover, and will be berthing in approximately twenty minutes.’
She swung back from the rail, plunged across the deck, tripping on the spray-drenched wood, but hauling herself up again, struggling to the front of the ship. She must try to beat the crowds, get off as soon as possible, grab any coach still waiting. She was surprised to see the harbour lights far closer than she’d thought; the famous white cliffs looming from the darkness like pale but solid shoulders. A revolving beacon was flashing on and off, as if in reassurance, lighting the ship home. This was her home, the country she belonged to, and she longed to disembark, plant her feet on solid land, lay claim to it as hers. She’d been born here, spoke the language, knew the customs and traditions; felt a sudden sweet relief that she was back, and safe – alive.
Other passengers began venturing from the lounges, crowding all the decks, some pressing, pushing close to her, jabbing with their bags; all trying to see the harbour. Everyone seemed miraculously revived, impatience and exhaustion discarded like old clothes. A few boys began to cheer and stamp, linking arms and singing, no longer raucous lager-louts but a halleluiah choir. A bearded man with a knapsack on his back unwound his long home-knitted scarf, absurd in green and yellow stripes, and waved it like a flag. Jane gripped the rail, refused to give her place up at the front, despite the burly man behind her who was trying to muscle in. She stood watching the bright strings of lights hung along the shore; longed to simply jump from deck to dock, instead of waiting for the dogged ship to edge in slowly, cautiously.
Everything seemed quieter and becalmed. The wind had dropped, the waves nudged gently at the hull, rather than pummelling it,
and thwacking. She checked her watch, surprised to see it wasn’t late at all, still only early evening. Of course she’d catch the last coach, would be back in the studio by eleven at the latest, and up for work next morning on the dot of eight o’clock. She was a professional now, committed, and if any fully trained replacement tried to wrest her job away from her, she would fight them all the way. She was involved in both the artist’s new commissions; had already served as model for the Muses, and now she’d seen the labyrinth, soaked up all its mystery, she could help him with the Lyons windows, right from the design stage. He would be starting on the sketch soon, since the Resurrection window was almost off his hands, probably in the glazing-shop, being leaded-up, cemented. She’d insist the artist took her there, so she could watch the final stages; had to see the Angel in all its finished glory.
Flocks of gulls were flying up, flushed out by the ship’s approach, wheeling to the right with a mournful keening cry. If she stayed and worked with Christopher, she could fly high on his wings, make sure he pulled her up with him. The harbour was so close now, she could see blurred and shadowy figures standing on the pier, one man waving boisterously, as if he’d been stationed there to welcome them. Suddenly more lights snapped on, floodlighting the boat. ‘May Christ, by His light, dispel from heart and mind the sombre night.’ The words flashed through her head – the inscription of a window which Christopher had made – another Easter window with a theme of light restored. She had seen the sketch in the studio, must have banked the words unconsciously, like treasure in her mind. She kept her eyes on the winking circling beacon; a gigantic paschal candle beckoning them in. It was only thirty days till Easter – light returning, spring returning, the Resurrection window triumphantly in place. She would be kneeling in the Sussex church where she’d first encountered Christopher, and where he’d saved her from the darkness, celebrating not just Resurrection, but her own deliverance, rebirth.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘The Day of Resurrection!
Earth, tell it out abroad;
The Passover of gladness,
The Passover of God!
From death to life eternal,
From earth unto the sky,
Our God hath brought us over
With hymns of victory.’
Jane tried to make her voice heard above Isobel’s rich contralto. She was eager to sing out, to swell the burst of happy sound surging through the nave. The throb of hymn and organ seemed to make the stone walls hum, as if the church itself was an instrument twanging and resounding. She was right up in the front, a spear of sunlight falling on her dress – blue to match the Angel; blue flowers in her hat. She had never worn a hat before, not even at a wedding, but it made her feel both festive and exotic. She had been nudging brims with Isobel, when both of them knelt down. Isobel’s dramatic straw was banded with red ribbons, which kept fluttering and tossing as she swung round to smile at some new guest, or check on her young nephew who was sitting just behind her.
The church was packed, an overflow of people even standing at the back. The normal congregation was always large on Easter Sunday morning, but Isobel’s friends and relatives had more than doubled it. Tom’s colleagues, fellow surgeons, were dapper in dark suits, and contrasted with her arty friends in their cloaks and coloured boots. Rowan had brought her own contingent, who were in the pew behind, a fidget of small children on their laps.
‘Our hearts be pure from evil,
That we may see aright
The Lord in rays eternal
Of Resurrection-light …’
Jane couldn’t see Christopher, but she could hear his steady tenor bulking out the weedier voices further down the row. He was wearing a velvet jacket the colour of black grapes, and an expensive purply tie. She had arrived in church before him, watched him striding in impatiently with Anne latched to his arm, an Anne who looked a mess – no hat, no special hair-do, and half an inch of petticoat showing beneath her skirt. He had reached the front and smiled at her, the smile freezing on his face when he saw Hadley parked beside her – a Hadley in blue jeans. Isobel had saved her, jumped up to her feet and given him such an enthusiastic (and highly public) kiss, he’d been far too disconcerted to do anything but detach himself and retire to his own seat.
Jane watched the sun glinting on the bishop’s ring, brightening the brass candlesticks, competing with the flickering flame of the flower-wreathed paschal candle. It had been showery early on; fast-moving bloated rain-clouds churning across a restless moody sky. She had sat in her pyjamas, gazing through the window at the battle going on – a contest between sun and shower, blue and grey, hope and gloom. Sun and hope had won. It was now a perfect Easter Day, as if Isobel’s benevolent God had laid it on deliberately – puffed up the white clouds, strewn the dappled fields with primroses and dog-violets. The church was bright with more luxurious flowers – freesias, stiff-necked iris, stately Easter lilies, whose embroidered white and gold matched the bishop’s vestments. Anthony, the vicar, was also robed in white, but his short, plump, balding figure provided an almost comic contrast to the tall and raw-boned bishop, with his lion’s mane of grey hair.
Both were now processing to the Resurrection window, preceded by three servers carrying candles and a cross; the organ pumping out a triumphant Handel voluntary, to underline the importance of the moment. Isobel clasped her hand, and she and the Mackenzie tribe trickled from their pews and followed the procession, Christopher and Anne bringing up the rear. Jane was thrilled to be included. She wasn’t standing in that special group as Isobel’s protégée, but as Christopher’s assistant, his almost fellow-artist. She hadn’t seen the window yet – not finished, not in place – save for the briefest of brief glances when she’d first walked into the church. She had hoped to watch it being fixed, was still very disappointed that she’d missed the installation of Adrian’s red birds, but the artist had said no; wanted her to see it at its unencumbered best, without the obstruction of the scaffolding, the glaziers’ fuss and clutter. He had returned from the fixing moody and depressed, slating himself for a whole list of faults and failings. ‘The bloody useless window’ didn’t have the vigour he’d intended, looked smaller, less dynamic, less impressive altogether. The borders were too fussy, when he’d been aiming for simplicity, and both the eagle and the dove were slightly overpainted. She remembered Isobel had told her, way back in December, how he always overreacted, agonising endlessly over trifles or minutiae which no one else would notice, but all the same she’d still felt sick with dread. Supposing he was right this time, and the whole thing was somehow ruined. It could be her own fault. She had flounced out of the studio at the crucial painting stage, maybe put him off his stroke.
Even now, she felt a strange reluctance to share his disappointment; had to force herself to raise her head, look up at the window. She immediately stepped back, startled by its impact. It was totally transformed since the last time she had seen it. The painting, firing, glazing, had kindled it into life, a richer and more detailed life; the dark lattice of the leads defining each small piece of glass, yet also tying everything together, emphasising the sense of rushing upward movement. The Angel was a power-source, a charismatic Spirit exploding up to heaven, and demanding faith in God by its own vehement intensity. The angels in the other windows looked insipid in comparison, earthbound and quiescent, whereas Christopher’s had broken free of all material ties. Its thrusting figure cut across both lights, and appeared to soar still further, beyond the mullions and the glass, beyond the solid stocky church to the infinity of sky. And the spectator soared along with it, had no other option, however gross and crass he was; was carried up beyond himself, beyond the froth and faddle to a new and higher realm.
Jane glanced back a moment at Hadley’s shock of hair, which he was growing for a part in a new play; knew that he was wrong about the window. The thousands that it cost shouldn’t be given to the homeless, or turned into hot soup. This was a different sort of rescue work, but ev
ery bit as vital – to pluck man from the pig-trough and fling him into heaven.
She was aware that eyes were on her face, not Hadley’s but the artist’s; allowed herself to meet his gaze, tried to put a hundred heady adjectives into one brief smile and nod. All the strenuous effort which had gone into the job, all the hours at bench and easel, the standing, stooping, stretching, the decisions and anxieties, had been somehow cancelled out. The window looked spontaneous, as if it had been created out of nothing, or out of light itself; a magnetic presence, inevitable and changeless.
The bishop’s voice cut through her reflections. She was so caught up in the window, she’d hardly realised he was speaking, but she did her best to concentrate, to become part of the whole ceremony. He was thanking God for Tom’s great gift of healing, for his compassion and his skills, the importance of his life. Isobel was smiling, while mascara-smudged grey tears ran slowly down her face. She didn’t use a handkerchief, let them fall unchecked, as if she owed the tears to Tom, as another sort of tribute. Her son and daughter were standing either side, Rowan linking arms with her, a selfconscious-looking Hadley squeezing her gloved hand. The entire congregation had turned to face the window, and were listening to the bishop’s rumbling baritone.
‘We also thank Thee, Lord, for the gift of this new window, which speaks to us of hope, and reminds us there is life beyond the grave, everlasting life and light. We give Thee praise for all who have widened our vision, or helped to lead us to the truth: the prophets, thinkers and artists of this and every age. Thou art glorified, great God, by things of beauty, and so we earnestly beseech Thee to bless this window in memory of Thomas Hugh Mackenzie, that all who see it may be enriched, inspired, and brought to life eternal.’
Bird Inside Page 45