by Rachel Hore
‘I like your necklace, Amber. What’s it got on it?’
She showed me. It was a tiny silver angel, its head bowed and its wings folded in a point above its head. ‘Gran gave it to me. I wear it nearly all the time. It keeps me safe.’
Zac was amused and bemused by Amber in equal part. He was flattered by her interest in his work. During a quiet period I watched him teach her how to edge the glass with thin copper foil and to make a simple suncatcher by soldering the pieces together. She chattered away in her excitement. ‘Have I done this right? Is this how you hold the–oh! I’m really sorry! I’ve messed up, haven’t I?’ He made her try again until she got it right, exercising the patience and gentleness that a caring father might show towards a young daughter.
‘You love your job, don’t you?’ I heard her say to him at one point. ‘Your face sort of lights up when you’re doing it.’
I watched Zac carefully after that whenever I passed through the workshop. Amber was right. When he was concentrating on drawing patterns or painting glass, his habitual moroseness was gone.
Late in the morning the post brought an electricity bill with an ominous red Final Demand slashed across it, and this was enough to galvanise me into sorting out the finances. It seemed safe enough to leave Amber alone in the shop for a few minutes whilst I scurried upstairs.
Zac’s suggestion had been that I phone Dad’s solicitor, but it had occurred to me to look through Dad’s personal document case first. I dragged it out from under his bed, brushed off the dust and tried the catch. It was locked, but a search in the drawer of his bedside cabinet turned up a small bent key. After jiggling this in the elderly lock for a moment I managed to wrestle the case open.
It was an odd feeling, looking down at the neat row of files inside, the dividers tagged Building Society, Health, Wills etc, Certificates and a tantalising Miscellaneous at the back. I had a strong suspicion that they might contain valuable clues about Dad, and maybe my mother, and yet Jeremy Quentin’s little speech about integrity the day before must have had an effect on me. I knew it would represent a betrayal of my father to rake over his life while he lay helpless in a hospital bed. I wouldn’t be able to look him in the face if I did that. Another reason for holding back was more primal: simply that I was afraid of what I would find. So I did the decent thing and flipped straight to the papers behind the plastic tag labelled Wills etc. And here I found what Zac and I needed.
The file contained a long thin brown envelope and a couple of big white ones. On the brown one was typed Last Will and Testament of Edward James Morrison. One of the white ones bore Pwr of Attorney scribbled on it in Biro. On the third I read with an odd, prickly feeling Living Will.
I put the Will back in the case unopened and read the other two documents quickly. The Power of Attorney gave me the ability to act on Dad’s behalf when he was incapacitated. That was good.
Reading the Living Will left me breathless and indignant for a moment. In it, he’d ticked all the boxes about not being revived when in extremis–and named Jeremy Quentin as the person to decide. Jeremy, not me! My resentment ebbed when I remembered that it could be problematic to give a beneficiary of one’s Will power of life and death. And presumably Dad would leave his property to me.
Retaining the two documents, I locked the case, replaced it under the bed and went downstairs to make the necessary phone calls to set the Power of Attorney in motion. The Living Will I would take with me to the hospital that evening.
I spent the afternoon in the shop with Amber, showing her, in between serving customers, all the different types of glass and their prices, some of the tools we sold, kept in cupboards in the shop. She was fascinated by all the different colour effects that could be achieved with the glass, repeating the different makes and types like a mantra.
She was also fascinated by the broken angel window. ‘It’s so sad,’ she whispered, when Zac showed her the pieces laid out on the table pushed out of the way in the corner. ‘Can you really make it again?’
‘We don’t know,’ he said. ‘We desperately need further clues about what it looked like.’
It was nearly five o’clock and I was fetching the keys from the office in order to lock up the shop. When I returned, Amber was still studying the broken angel. I watched her pick up a piece of golden glass and try, unsuccessfully, to match it with another.
‘Come on,’ I told her. ‘It’s time you went now. You’ve done really well today.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, giving me a shy smile. ‘It’s been great.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ said Zac.
‘Have a nice evening,’ she said, as I showed her out of the back door.
‘I hope to,’ I replied, remembering that it was choir practice at six-thirty.
Just time to visit my father briefly first.
When I reached the hospital I was alarmed to find that Dad had a plastic mask over his face. The nurse, who took away the Living Will to photocopy for Dad’s file, told me his breathing had grown shallow and his oxygen levels had dropped, though now they were recovering.
He was awake though and he looked at me fiercely over the mask as I took the seat beside the bed. I told him about Amber and my visit to the vicar’s house, but didn’t allude to the fact that I knew of his conversations with Jeremy Quentin. This time I was reluctant to leave. The feeling stole up on me, more strongly than ever before, that each time I saw him now was precious.
I walked back home in the twilight, feeling curiously sapped of energy. My enthusiasm of earlier had quite gone. I nearly didn’t go to choir after all, but forced myself. I’d only droop around the flat and get miserable and guilty. Anyway, singing always cheers me up. Our Junior Choir teacher always used to say that, and many times I have proved her right.
Once I got there, a little late, I was glad I went. This time Ben fast-forwarded to the Devils’ Chorus–in which demons, assembling at the judgement court ‘hungry and wild to claim their property’, mock the newly dead soul. When sung properly, it is chilling, but tonight many of the basses were sight-reading and the rest of the choir subsided into helpless laughter every time the men attempted their deep jeering ‘Ha-has’.
‘You sound more like dismal Father Christmases than devils,’ Ben exploded at one point. ‘Put some welly into it, for goodness sake.’
There was a tone of genuine exasperation in his voice, and I overheard someone near me whisper, ‘He’s taking it a bit seriously, isn’t he?’
Jo coaxed me into going to the pub later, and it turned out to be the right decision, for everyone seemed determined to enjoy themselves after such a hard rehearsal. I found myself laughing at some of Dominic’s anecdotes till the tears ran down my cheeks.
He was in the Home Office and, without actually divulging anything that could get him into trouble, he had some marvellous stories of personal encounters with well-known politicians and of bureaucratic incompetence. I couldn’t help noticing how often he looked at Jo. She would smile back at him, but otherwise just didn’t seem to notice.
Ben lounged in his usual place at the bar, nursing a pint and talking to one of the tenors, a tall lean man in a sharply tailored dark suit. He was about Ben’s age, with cropped, prematurely silvering black hair and a clever, mobile face.
‘Have you met Michael?’ asked Ben, after I’d bought my round of drinks at the bar and passed them to Dominic.
‘No. Hello,’ I said, and we shook hands.
‘Michael’s on the choir committee,’ Ben said. ‘He’s yet another civil servant in real life, I’m afraid.’
‘Can’t get away from us here in Westminster,’ added Michael. He had an urbane air, but I thought it masked a sensitive nature, for there was a tautness about his mouth.
‘Foreign Office, can’t you guess,’ Ben drawled. ‘Doesn’t he look the type? Actually, Michael went to school with me. Knows all my deepest secrets. Where the bodies are buried, eh, Michael?’ They were sparring with one another in a way that left me fee
ling uncomfortable. There was something deeper, darker, going on beneath the banter.
‘I used to spend school holidays at his parents’ place,’ Michael explained. ‘Mine were abroad, you see, and Ben’s wonderful mother took pity on me. So we all got to know each other quite well. His folks had this marvellous great pile in Herefordshire. Antiques and statues everywhere. I always felt like Charles Ryder visiting Brideshead.’ There was a sneer in his voice.
Ben burst out laughing. ‘He makes it sound much grander than it really was,’ he told me. ‘And sadly, my parents had to sell it in the end. Cashflow was always the problem. My grandfather had to stump up the school fees.’
I didn’t immediately warm to Michael. He was friendly enough, but he was very bitter about something and I didn’t understand why he was trying to make Ben sound like a spoiled rich kid. It seemed bad manners, especially if Michael had benefited from Ben’s family’s hospitality. I wondered what the real story was behind it all.
‘It’s good to meet you, but I ought to get back to Jo,’ I said politely, and left the men to themselves again.
By half-past ten, I was weary and said my goodbyes, promising Jo I’d meet her for a drink on Wednesday. I was faintly surprised when Ben left with me. Michael was nowhere to be seen.
‘Did he join the choir because of you?’ I asked, as we sauntered back towards Greycoat Square.
‘He was already a member. Actually, when the previous organist resigned, it was Michael who suggested my name for the job,’ said Ben.
That seemed strange to me. If Michael was envious of Ben, why would he go out of his way to see so much of him? But I didn’t know Ben well enough to ask him that. And Ben changed the subject then anyway.
‘How did you think the rehearsal went?’
‘Fine,’ I said, not liking to offer my honest opinion. ‘Early days still, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so,’ he growled. ‘But we didn’t cover everything I wanted to this evening. Second rehearsal and we’re already behind schedule.’
‘I expect we’ll catch up,’ I said soothingly.
As we parted, at the gate of Greycoat Square gardens, Ben said, ‘Look, I wonder if you’re free on Friday. I’ve been given tickets for a concert at St John’s Smith Square. Do you like Berlioz? It’s his Symphonie Fantastique. There’s a Rossini Overture, La gazza ladra, I think. And some Mozart.’
‘I do like Berlioz, very much. And Rossini’s Thieving Magpie,’ I said, though I’m sure I’d have said yes even if I hadn’t. ‘I’d love to come.’
‘Great. It starts at seven-thirty. I have a church choir rehearsal first but that’s usually over by seven. Why don’t you come along to the church, and we’ll go on together?’
As I made myself ready for bed, I reflected on the invitation. It seemed a good sign that I’d hardly thought about Nick for the past week, but a little voice warned me to be careful, not just drift into some new relationship. Still, I was looking forward to going to a concert. How quickly I was sliding into this new London life, I thought as I plumped up the pillows and picked up Laura’s journal. Yet, beneath the surface, I was aware, my fear and uncertainty about the future still swirled.
Chapter 14
Angels are spirits…They become angels when they are sent, for the name angel refers to their office…which is a messenger.
St Augustine, The City of God
LAURA’S STORY
Customarily, the Rector did not expect his family to accompany him to morning prayer. After all, there were household prayers at home at nine. But the morning after Mr Russell’s visit, Laura took breakfast with her father early and went with him to church. She left Polly with strict instructions to take Mrs Brownlow breakfast in her room only when she awoke, and to persuade her to stay in bed and rest. Her mother’s headache had been so bad last evening that Laura didn’t think she’d need much persuasion.
They were met at the church door by Mr Perkins, the verger, his thin, stooping body trembling with distress.
‘It’s thieves and robbers, Reverend, robbers and thieves,’ he quavered. ‘No one has respect for God’s House any more.’
‘What’s happened, man?’ asked Mr Brownlow. ‘Take your time now.’
Perkins finally calmed down sufficiently to explain that he’d arrived a moment ago to discover that several small clear-glass panes of the square-hatched windows in the north wall had been smashed during the night.
With considerable alarm, Laura and her father followed him inside, picking their way across the spray of broken glass to view the damage.
‘They did not gain entry, did they? Has anything actually been stolen, Mr Perkins?’ the Rector asked with anxiety, but the verger shook his head.
‘The door was locked as usual, Rector, and they couldn’t have got in through holes that small, could they?’
‘I suppose not.’ James Brownlow sighed and thought a moment. ‘We’ll send for a Constable after the service,’ he said finally. ‘I will not allow base vandals to interfere with daily worship. Light the candles in the Lady Chapel, will you, Mr Perkins. We’ll be well away from any broken glass in there.’ And he disappeared into the vestry.
Laura waited alone in the chapel, trying to calm her thoughts. Flickering candlelight reflected off the shiny new-painted figure of the Virgin on the altar. Outside, Mr Perkins clattered about, sweeping up glass and complaining loudly about ‘robbers and thieves’ to someone who had entered the church.
A moment later Mr Bond walked into the chapel. Seeing Laura, he immediately stiffened with embarrassment and made to retreat with a muttered apology. She summoned him back, her face burning despite the coolness of the air. They sat together self-consciously, not speaking, his marriage proposal still lying unanswered between them.
A party could be heard approaching and shortly there entered Mrs Fotherington’s cousin Miss Badcoe, as severe as her angular, black-clad appearance suggested, Miss Pilkington the schoolteacher, Mr Perkins, and finally Mr Russell, somewhat out of breath. Laura’s father, now wearing his robes, shepherded them in and closed the door.
‘Rend thy heart and not thy garments…’ he began to read, in a voice too loud for the small chapel.
Laura, constantly aware of Mr Bond shuffling in his chair to her right and Mr Russell thumbing the pages of his prayerbook to her left, hardly pondered a word of the service.
Afterwards, the older women ambled off chattering. Mr Bond stood up, nodded to Laura, and glanced hesitantly at Mr Russell, who acknowledged him politely. Laura introduced the two men and explained the purpose of Mr Russell’s visit.
‘You’ll have need of a ladder,’ said Mr Bond. ‘I’ll ask Mr Perkins to bring one.’ Then, with a meaningful glance at Laura, he excused himself. She listened to the echo of his retreating footsteps.
Her father called out from somewhere, ‘Did you read those letters I gave you, Mr Bond?’
Bond’s deep tones came in reply. ‘I did. It’s a serious matter, Rector, very serious indeed. And now all this broken glass…’ The voices drifted off into the distance and the church door clicked shut.
She was alone with Mr Russell.
He put down his hat, picked up his sketchbook and began to pace around the chapel, staring up at the windows. The sunlight bleached the colour from his skin, glinted off his hair, making an ethereal creature of him.
‘See how the light shines through the south side?’ he said. ‘It’s a bright glow rather than direct sunlight. The really strong light, you see, will come through the Virgin and Child pane here, from the east. But the angel will be softer. I see the light of his face radiating white and gold, don’t you think? Down here will be richer, darker, more mysterious–jewel colours, ruby and deep emerald.’
Laura nodded, seeing the picture vividly in her mind’s eye.
Presently Mr Perkins arrived with the ladder, then her father reappeared, looking distracted. He said, ‘Mr Bond has gone to fetch a Constable about the glass and it seems I have, ah, another urgent
matter to attend to. Mr Russell, my apologies, but I’m unable to speak with you now after all. Would you call on me at the vicarage later this morning if you have questions?’
‘Father,’ Laura broke in, ‘if it helps, I am happy to stay while Mr Russell takes his measurements.’
‘As you will, my dear. I am sure Mr Russell and I are most grateful. Now I must go.’
Laura held one end of the tape measure and wrote down figures while Mr Perkins steadied the ladder. When they’d finished, the verger staggered off with his burden.
Russell sat executing a series of quick sketches with that curious cramped hand movement he had.
‘Do you come from a family of artists, Mr Russell?’
‘Mmm? No, far from it. My father was a travelling minister for the Baptists, but recently retired from his mission because of ill-health.’
‘You’re a Baptist, then?’ Laura wondered what her father would think if he knew that his church’s windows were to be designed by a dissenter.
‘Shortly before I married I was received into the Church of England,’ he said–then, as though anticipating her thoughts, ‘No, not merely because of Marie. I was seduced by the beauty of traditional Anglican worship, you see. I felt humbled to be able to contribute to that beauty through my work. Do you know, the Early Christian mystics believed God’s light cascades through all the ranks of angels into the minds of all creatures, and as optical light into gemstones and other translucent objects. Think what this means–that the light passing through coloured glass comes directly from His angels and ultimately from God.’
‘Don’t the Baptists believe in angels, too?’ she asked abruptly. The sun had gone behind a cloud and she pulled her shawl around her against the sudden chilliness.