by Rachel Hore
‘And some they call beautiful are hard and empty,’ Sarah agreed. ‘Some of those Supermodels you read about–I don’t know why the men go for them when there are such lovely girls around like your friend Jo.’
She’d know Jo from the hostel, of course. I smiled to myself. Mrs Quentin obviously shared Jo’s mother’s anxiety to see a nice girl happily married off.
There came the sound of the front door opening, then a voice urged, ‘Well, are you going in or not? I haven’t got all day.’ A large white cat slipped into the kitchen. It regarded me with wide green eyes full of dismay and shot off through the cat flap.
‘Oh, Lucifer!’ Sarah scolded. ‘He’s wary of strangers, I’m afraid.’
Jeremy came in with a brisk, ‘Hello, hello,’ dropping a large brown envelope on the table. ‘Wretched animal doesn’t like anybody,’ he remarked.
‘I thought a Lucifer would be black.’
‘Not at all. “Oh, Lucifer, bright Morningstar”,’ he intoned, then added sadly, ‘No one knows their Old Testament any more. In the Book of Isaiah, the devil is portrayed as a rebellious angel, Fran, and his name means light-bearer. Our little feline Lucifer is certainly rebellious. Comes and goes as he pleases. Any tea left in the pot, dearest? Sorry I’ve been so long. Mrs Taylor wanted to pass the time of day.’ He sat down at the table and started sorting through his post while Sarah fetched a cup. ‘Anyway, Fran, it’s good to see you.’
‘I won’t take up much of your time,’ I said. ‘You’re obviously busy. I came to show you the journal I told you about.’ I pulled out the leather-covered book and passed it to him.
‘I found it in a filing cabinet,’ I went on. ‘Laura must be the Reverend Brownlow’s daughter, and she’s written the journal to her dead sister Caroline, you see, and she’s the one the angel was meant to remember. So the whole story behind the window might be here, though I haven’t read all of it yet.’
Jeremy turned the pages, stopping to read bits from time to time. Finally he closed the book and handed it back. ‘It looks really interesting,’ he said, ‘and I’d love to look at it properly when you’ve finished. I’ve read a bit about Brownlow. He was vicar here in the 1870s and 1880s.’
‘Do you mean actually here?’ I said doubtfully. ‘This house is more recent than that, isn’t it?’
‘You’re right, of course. The old place in Greycoat Square came to be considered too big. It’s divided into maisonettes now. One’s kept for the curate, but we don’t have one at the moment, so our organist lives there.’
‘Ben, you mean?’
‘Ben’s been there since he joined us in June. But yes, the Brownlow family lived there at one time. He was rather a troubled man, from what I’ve heard. Deeply concerned with his mission to the poor, but things went badly wrong.’
‘Oh? What sort of things?’
‘St Martin’s has always been High Church. Emphasising the mystery of God, the importance of the Sacraments–the mystical side, really.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, I see.’
‘Well, Brownlow took all this very seriously, as you’d hope, but he was also attracted to the idea of church tradition and doctrine. I once found a rather dry book he’d written on church history. Although he was Anglican, there was much about the Roman Catholic Church that appealed to him and he read extensively the writings of figures from the High Church Victorian Oxford Movement, especially John Newman who, as you probably know, eventually became a Catholic Cardinal. Later in his ministry, Brownlow felt led to do things in St Martin’s that some of his parishioners thought were beyond the pale, setting up statues of Mary and the saints, employing what some of them saw as excessive ritual. “Idol worship”, certain less sophisticated members of the congregation called it. Brownlow saw it all as being to the glory of God.’ Jeremy paused. ‘There was confrontation, I believe.’
‘Didn’t they care about all the good things he’d done?’ Having read Laura’s viewpoint, I immediately took her father’s side.
‘I think they forgot these in the upset, unfortunately. It’s always important for clergy to remember that they are serving their congregation. If a priest starts acting off his own bat and fails to take his parishioners with him, he’s asking for trouble.’
Poor Mr Brownlow. I looked down at his daughter’s journal, wondering how it had all turned out. Slowly I said, ‘One of the puzzles is, of course, how on earth did this book end up at Minster Glass?’
‘I simply can’t guess,’ said Jeremy Quentin. ‘Perhaps it’s something to do with the making of the window.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I must tell you, while I remember. I had a little chat with one of my ladies in the almshouse,’ he said. ‘Mrs Muriel Trask, her name is. She’s lived in the parish all her life, so I always go to her if I need any local background. She’s especially useful when I’m giving funeral orations, I can tell you. Memory like the proverbial elephant. Anyway, she remembers the angel window blowing in. A bomb destroyed one of the houses behind the church in 1940 and our angel got caught in the blast.’
‘That’s amazing. Did you ask her what the window looked like?’
‘Yes, of course, but she was a bit vague. She tends to remember details about people–you know, who quarrelled with whom, whose son stepped out with whose daughter in 1957, that sort of thing. But she did say that it was very lovely, all gold and white and glowing. Made her feel very peaceful and loved. And something about being a child and believing that it was a real angel, not just a picture. Apparently she wept when it got broken.’
I knew the vicar must be busy, so I stood up to go. But there was something I was still bursting to ask, and as I looked from Jeremy to his wife, Sarah Quentin discerned that I wished to speak to him alone.
‘Will you excuse me?’ she said graciously. ‘It’s lovely to see you, but I must bring in the washing.’ She unbolted the back door and we both watched her through the window, walking across the tiny garden, calm and graceful in her movements, despite her round figure.
‘It’s nice for her to see you,’ said the vicar. ‘She misses our girls terribly.’
‘How many do you have?’
‘Two. Fenella’s twenty-five. She works in Manchester now. Engaged to a very nice young man she met up there. And Miranda. She’s at college in Bristol. Well, she should be, but she’s taking a year out. Miranda’s given us a lot of problems, I’m sorry to say.’ He trailed off sadly. ‘It’s been immensely upsetting. But I mustn’t run on. I think you wanted to ask me something.’
‘Yes, I do, though I’m sorry about your daughter.’ I paused and took a breath. ‘Jeremy, how well would you say you know my father?’ I wanted the truth, but at the same time was frightened of it.
He was silent for a moment, folding his glasses and pushing them into his top pocket.
‘I’m glad you asked that, Fran. Before last year we’d met once or twice in a professional capacity. He was interested in the windows. But then he came to see me a year ago to ask my advice as a priest. We met several times to talk. And I feel, yes, that we became friends. We’re the same age, practically, and, as I’ve said, he’s a very interesting man. Has a detailed knowledge of the history of his craft–quite fascinating. Did you know—’
‘Yes, yes,’ I broke in, and he must have caught my desperation, because he suddenly gave me his full attention.
‘You see,’ I went on, ‘my father has always been something of an enigma to me and we’ve grown somewhat…estranged. I cannot truly say I know him.’
‘Which of us can ever truly say we know another?’ Jeremy said quietly.
‘No. But he has hidden a lot from me, especially about my mother. Things I think I have a right to know.’
‘You’re asking me to divulge what he told me in complete confidence,’ he said heavily. ‘I was afraid you might. Well I’m sorry to say that I can’t. You must realise—’
‘I do, I do. But you’ve seen how he is. He may not recover.’
‘Th
ough, God willing, he might,’ said Jeremy with unmistakable feeling. ‘I’m deeply sympathetic, really I am. But the guidelines of my calling are clear on this matter. I would be betraying his trust.’
‘But what about me? Do I need to suffer because of this principle?’
‘Fran, my dear. We are all hoping that your father will be restored to us, and it seems wrong to believe otherwise whilst medical opinion is unclear. What if he gets better, then learns that I have divulged his deepest secrets? It might change his relationship with you for ever–and he would certainly never trust me again. I know this is incredibly difficult for you…’ He sounded genuinely upset.
I was furious when I eventually stumbled out on the street, absolutely furious. I knew Jeremy was right, he couldn’t break his promise of confidentiality, but in this particular situation it all seemed unfair. And how could Dad have confided in Jeremy when he never had in me? What on earth had my father done that he couldn’t tell his only child? Another thought occurred to me and I tasted bitterness. I might only know Dad better after he died. But I didn’t want him to die. And what about the alternative? Maybe he’d stay alive for years and years and I’d be stuck in some limbo with him, intimate with his bodily needs but never getting any closer to him as a person, never learning about my mother. Never coming to terms with who I was.
Zac had locked the door and was totting up the day’s takings when I got back. He let me into the shop, and I must have looked black as thunder, because he gave me a wide berth and went off home shortly afterwards.
I locked all the doors then mounted the stairs. I couldn’t face going to see Dad tonight and felt wicked for my resentment. But a sort of weary numbness was creeping over me. In the end I opened a dusty bottle of Bordeaux I found in a cupboard and curled up in the armchair by the window to weep a little. Then I went to find Laura Brownlow’s journal and began to read once more.
Chapter 12
The more materialistic science becomes, the more angels shall I paint. Their wings are my protest in favour of the immortality of the soul.
Sir Edward Burne-Jones
LAURA’S STORY
April 1880
Mr Russell called on the Brownlows on the Tuesday morning after he met Laura and little Arthur was born. He was told that the Reverend Brownlow was out on urgent business but that Mrs Brownlow and Laura would see him in the morning room. Both ladies were weary after a late night, Mrs Brownlow explaining that they had been with the family of a parishioner who was killed in an accident at the tanning factory the day before.
At Russell’s tentative request, Mrs Brownlow brought out two framed photographs of Caroline from a locked drawer in her writing bureau. One was a portrait from before her illness, the other, unfortunately slightly blurred, had been taken in the garden only weeks before she died. Mr Russell studied them for some minutes and his expression softened.
He said, very gently, ‘In the first she is a child, and in the second–nay, it’s extraordinary–almost a fragile spirit.’ He shook his head as though further words failed him, then passed the photographs back to Mrs Brownlow.
‘My husband asked for you specifically to design the windows, Mr Russell.’ Theodora Brownlow’s eyes were huge in her tired face.
Mr Russell inclined his head in grave acknowledgement. Laura had as yet said little, but glanced at him where he sat, his expressive hands resting on his thighs. He conveyed such a feeling of lightness, she thought, as though his body wasn’t subject to the usual rules of gravity. His back was straight, his head dipped forward, his concentration full upon Mrs Brownlow. When he stroked his cropped beard, reddish-gold against the pale skin, the slight rasping noise caused the back of Laura’s neck to prickle.
Mrs Brownlow sat back in her chair. She looked exhausted, and from the way she frequently touched her temple, Laura guessed one of her headaches was developing. She vowed to coax her mother back to bed as soon as Mr Russell departed, but for the moment, the over-bright expression in Theodora’s eyes told of some deep source of energy tapped, now that she was talking about Caroline.
She went on, ‘Mr Brownlow and I have seen your designs for St Aloysius.’
‘Ah, the Mary windows,’ he said.
‘Yes. We admired them, Mr Russell. Greatly. They, too, were made by Minster Glass, I gather.’
‘It was I who made them, in their workshop, Mrs Brownlow. If you’d allow me to explain how I like to work.’
She nodded. ‘Please do.’
‘You see, I believe that craft only reaches the state of true art when the whole artefact is not only designed but fashioned by the same man. I wish to avoid the frustrations of the artist whose inspired vision is thwarted by the inability of mere drudges to put that vision into practice. I often used to feel angry and frustrated when the facial detail or precise colour or the spiritual energy I tried to convey in my drawings was not apparent in the final work. So I set myself to learn the craft and create windows myself.’
‘Indeed,’ said Mrs Brownlow absently.
Laura could see her attention had wandered to the pictures of Caroline in her lap. ‘Then you are like Mr William Morris in this matter,’ she broke in, and felt the warmth of his gaze on her.
‘My wife is distantly related to Mr Morris. I have enjoyed many discussions with him on just this subject,’ he said. ‘I take commissions from his firm from time to time.’
She heard the words ‘my wife’ with surprise, though why she had assumed he was a bachelor she couldn’t say. Something to do with the frayed shirt-cuffs, perhaps.
‘Do you seek no assistance at all in making the windows?’ she asked.
‘I have not the skill to make the glass, of course. But I like to consult regarding the precise colours, to draw up the cartoon myself, cut the glass, paint it and fire the result. Another craftsman will help me assemble the window and install it, but these are ordinary manual tasks, and I still supervise.’
‘Do you have a studio?’
‘Indeed I do, Miss Brownlow. I paint in the attic of my lodgings in Lupus Street, but my labours take me frequently to Minster Glass, which has the tools and materials I need.’
‘Your angels,’ said Mrs Brownlow, looking up from her photographs. ‘They are vibrant creatures, not feeble spirits of air. I like to think of Caroline…’ She drew to a halt, as though unable to frame the right words.
‘How do you like to think of Caroline, Mama?’ whispered Laura, leaning forward to touch her mother’s hand.
‘As being somewhere more beautiful than here. Grown into the woman she should have become. Warm and full of life…not as a fleshless spirit.’
There was silence for a moment, then Mr Russell inclined his head and said, ‘I think I can see her in my mind’s eye, ma’am. But do you and your husband wish the angel’s features to be in any way, ah, reminiscent of your daughter? The face in the second photograph, you see, is indistinct, and anyway you might not feel it appropriate…’ he broke off.
Mrs Brownlow’s head was bowed. By a slight shudder of her shoulders Laura was alarmed to see that she was crying. She stood up quickly.
‘My mother is tired after our disturbed night. You will understand, I’m sure…’
Mr Russell rose immediately and said, ‘Of course. I must take my leave for another appointment anyway. Mrs Brownlow–my sympathies for you in your grief. I assure you that this memorial will represent the best of me, for your daughter’s sake.’
And, with a bow and a murmured goodbye, he followed Laura out into the hall, where Polly fortunately appeared straight away with his hat and his coat. He took Laura’s hands in both of his and she lowered her eyes. A button on his coat hung by a thread. Perhaps his wife hadn’t noticed it.
‘Thank you for understanding,’ she said quietly. ‘I think Mama meant also to ask you about the design for the other window. And Papa, I know, wished to meet you.’
‘Please reassure your parents that I shall channel my all into these commissions. As for the Vir
gin and Child, as agreed, I am to see the nephew of the benefactress, Mr Jeffrey—’
‘Jefferies.’
‘Mr Jefferies, indeed–tomorrow afternoon. In the morning I intend to visit the church once more to take further measurements. I wonder, Miss Brownlow, if it would not be an imposition, whether one of your family might be on hand for advice.’
‘I am sure that can be arranged. Father always says morning prayer there at eight but is finished by half-past. Why don’t you come then?’
‘I will perhaps come in time for morning prayer. I should pay more regular attention to matters of the soul.’ His eyes twinkled with humour. ‘Good day, Miss Brownlow.’
With that he was gone. Once Polly vanished downstairs, Laura hurried into the drawing room to peep through the window, but the baker’s cart halting outside robbed her of a last sight of him.
Chapter 13
Behold I send an angel before you, to guard you on the way and to bring you to the place which I have prepared.
Exodus XXIII. 20.
On Saturday I had been home a whole week, though it seemed much longer. After some discussion, Zac and I decided to offer Amber a part-time job. We definitely needed help. If Zac was out on his travels, I was tied to the shop. This was sometimes lonely, and it meant that I couldn’t get on with anything else, such as dealing with paperwork or visiting Dad. So Jo and I talked on the phone a couple of times over the weekend, and Amber came to see me on the Sunday–and started work with us the very next day. She was to do eighteen hours a week on a temporary basis, with part of that being on-the-job training.
Amber was a shy scrap of a girl, but she had a natural friendliness and sensitivity, and I knew she would charm the customers. From the start, though, I worried about her trusting nature.
‘How do you get on with the other women in the hostel?’ I asked, expecting her to complain about the bullying.
‘They’re all right,’ she answered, shrugging. ‘They’re a laugh really.’ Whether she felt some misplaced loyalty towards them or the situation had improved, I didn’t know, but as she spoke her hand flew to her collarbone where a curiously-shaped pendant rested above the dip of her T-shirt.