The Glass Painter's Daughter

by Rachel Hore

  Where else could I look? There must be a picture in an old book somewhere. Or maybe…I suddenly remembered the Museum of Stained Glass at Ely in Cambridgeshire. Perhaps they could help me.

  Telling myself that I’d ring them the next day, I went downstairs to read a page or two of Laura’s journal.

  Chapter 19

  Four angels to my bed,

  Four angels round my head,

  One to watch and one to pray,

  And two to bear my soul away.

  Thomas Ady, Candle in the Dark

  LAURA’S STORY

  The first letter from Mr Russell arrived at the end of April and was brought by Polly to the breakfast-table. Laura recognised the curious spindly handwriting on the envelope instantly and some tension eased inside her. It was as though some deep part of her mind had been waiting. Murmuring some excuse to her mother, she took the missive up to her room, where she opened it carefully and gasped with pleasure. The margins of the thick cream paper were dotted with humorous little sketches of angels and animals.

  I pray you will forgive my corresponding with you, Miss Brownlow, Mr Russell had written, but I badly need your advice. It is the age-old problem of trying to please two masters, and since you know both parties in the case, perhaps you might graciously agree to be Solomon.

  It regards my design for the Mother and Child window. I sent it to the benefactress’s nephew, Mr Jefferies, and am pained to learn today that it does not find favour. If it is to be the Virgin and Child in Glory, his letter informs me, he wishes to see more of the Glory. Harps, cherubs and pink clouds, and all manner of sentimental pish were his late aunt’s taste, it seems, but this I will not do. Your father saw my design last week and approved it, so now I am caught on the horns of a dilemma. How should I proceed?

  Laura reread the letter with surprise. Mr Russell valued her advice! She’d seen the design in question, an early colour sketch which the Rector passed to Laura and her mother. They’d admired its simplicity, its naturalness. She felt confident of her answer. Sitting at her escritoire, she took up her pen.

  Sir, she wrote, your Mary is already bedecked in rich blue and gold as befits her royal status. Perhaps a simple crown to indicate her position as Queen of Heaven would satisfy Mr Jefferies without compromising your artistic sensibilities? Two cherubs, such as the pretty ones you drew at the bottom of your letter, might hold the crown above her head. Nothing else need alter a jot.

  But Russell wasn’t so easily soothed. On my life, cherubs and crowns speak of the worst excesses of the Baroque, came his reply that afternoon. Perhaps we should meet to see how the matter might be settled. If the weather is clement, we might walk in the park. Will tomorrow at two o’clock suit?

  With the faintest feeling that she was being underhand, she wrote back naming a time the next day when she knew her father would be out and her mother at some meeting. Laura couldn’t say why, but she wanted to see Philip Russell by himself.

  The next day he arrived promptly at two and she took him into her father’s study. Remarkably, his irritation about the window had vanished like the morning’s last puffs of grey cloud. He’d even brought a new sketch that incorporated Laura’s suggestions, though in a different way to how she’d imagined, the angels like androgynous youths rather than small children. ‘Leave it for my father to see,’ she suggested, and Russell readily agreed.

  ‘Now, shall we walk?’ he said. ‘It’s breezy, but quite pleasant out.’ She fetched her bonnet and a Paisley shawl and they set off.

  As they wandered through St James’s Park, watching children playing tag on the grass and a giggling group of young women throwing a ball, Laura thought she’d never felt so happy.

  They talked easily, she and Russell, of pictures and books they loved. Tentatively, she told him about her own endeavours. ‘I don’t know if what I write has any merit,’ she confessed. ‘I sent one of my tales to a magazine once, but it came back with a letter to say that they had no room for it.’

  ‘I’ll read your stories, if you’d permit me,’ he said. ‘I read occasionally for a publisher friend of mine so I know the form.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said, ‘if you’re sure it’s no trouble.’ She felt such a sympathy with him and instinctively trusted that he’d treat her writing seriously. Their milieux were so different, he moving amongst artists and writers, encountering wealthy patrons like his wife Marie’s family, and yet there was much they had in common. They shared their experiences of being the children of church ministers.

  ‘We moved around more frequently than you,’ he said. ‘My father was a travelling minister and rarely at home. Every two or three years he’d be directed to a different region and my poor mother would be beside herself with worry, altering curtains and measuring up the furniture for the next house, complaining about the aspect of the rooms or the run-down nature of the neighbourhood and the difficulty of finding a new cook. When I turned eight, I was sent away to school and so avoided the turbulence of these moves, but ever after it seemed that nowhere was home.’ He, too, was from a family of five children, but the only son. ‘My parents are most dismayed at my choice of profession, never mind my choice of wife.’

  ‘What is the nature of their objection to her?’

  ‘To them she seems strange, exotic, beyond their narrow experience. Her mother is Italian and although Marie was brought up in the Church of England, you’d have thought she was the Pope himself for the way my father speaks of her.’

  Laura felt his anger then, his bitterness. He still spoke of his wife with deep loyalty, despite the wound she had inflicted on him. Marie’s father was a wealthy shipping magnate, he told Laura, and she’d inherited her mother’s passionate, unstable nature.

  ‘Sometimes I think she can’t help herself,’ he said sadly. ‘There’s something about her that draws men to her.’

  After their meeting Laura looked for another letter from him. It came the next day, once again inviting her to show him her stories. She parcelled up her notebook and dispatched it to him with a little whispered prayer that he’d like them. He did, and several days later, wrote back, asking if he could show them to his friend the publisher. ‘It might take some time,’ he warned. ‘My friend is often inundated with work.’ She was satisfied to wait and even more satisfied with his postscript suggestion to meet for another walk in two days’ time.

  On this next occasion, they encountered in the street two women from the church, who greeted Laura and looked at Mr Russell most curiously, so that for the entire outing Laura was anxious that they were being watched. In Greycoat Square, as they said goodbye, she was sure she glimpsed Mr Bond cross the road behind them and she hurried indoors to avoid meeting him.

  Not that she was doing anything wrong in walking with Mr Russell, she assured herself, as she slipped upstairs to change her dress, which was splashed with mud. Discoursing in a public place with a married man of forty, who was a friend known to the family, hardly constituted a scandal. But something made her unsure that her parents would regard the matter in the same way. Yes, he was a friend and only a friend. She accepted that, but she was aware of a growing warmth between them, a closeness that both comforted and disturbed her.

  As she tidied her hair, she told herself that by listening to his outpourings of grief about Marie, offering words of consolation, she was helping him. In return she found herself opening up to him, confiding her own grief about the loss of Caroline, something her parents rarely discussed. Mr Russell listened tenderly, and this made her realise how much she missed good friends, especially now that Harriet was absorbed in motherhood. As she stared at her flushed face in the mirror she had to acknowledge that she already longed to see him again.

  After Mr Russell redrew the Mother and Child sketch, the work on the windows stalled. Mr Brownlow approved the changes, but Mr Jefferies disappeared abroad on business before seeing them. By the time he returned, it was Mr Russell’s turn to go away. He and Laura had arranged to me
et again one afternoon, but during the morning before she received a hastily written note from him.

  I have bad news from home, it ran, and I’m afraid I must break our appointment. My father is dangerously ill and I’m leaving for Manchester at once.

  Laura felt disappointed and had to remind herself to pray for Russell Senior.

  The tone of his next missive, five days later, was irate. My journey was to little purpose. My father, thank God, has fashioned a remarkable recovery from his seizure. That his strength returns is evident in his constant tirades against me. He blames me, me, for Marie’s desertion, saying I should never have made the marriage. I can take no more of this and shall be returning to London as soon as filial duty permits.

  Please tell your father, he finished, that I’m determined to resume work on the windows immediately.

  Chapter 20

  Holy, holy, holy

  Lord God of Hosts

  Heaven and earth are full of Your glory.

  The Angel Prayer from the Communion Service

  ‘Are angels girls or boys?’ I asked the vicar when he came into the shop early Monday morning. ‘It’s been plaguing me.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, frowning. ‘Religious texts usually say “he” but it’s traditionally supposed that they’re without gender. It is further confused by the fact that many artistic representations look feminine. I fear I’m not being very helpful. It’s our angel, in fact, that I’ve come to see you about. Bad news, I’m afraid. We had our PCC meeting last night, as you know, and…well, I’ve been outvoted.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘They don’t see the point of restoring the window.’

  ‘Oh no!’

  ‘Quite. I suppose they have a case. There is the War Memorial window in its place now. The Mothers Union ladies would be most offended if that was taken out. But the main thing is money. We’ve got an ongoing appeal to expand our homeless projects, and in addition it’s been brought to my attention that the organ needs restoring. It’s difficult under these circumstances to argue that mending the angel window is really a necessity. Though we have to honour our maintenance obligations, beautifying the church building at the expense of helping people in need is not a popular option these days. There was a clear majority against it, I regret to say.’

  He stared at the floor, glum.

  ‘So I suppose I must ask for him–or her or it…’ he laughed suddenly ‘…back from you. We’re unable to pay you for the work, you see, except for what you’ve done so far, and for the repair work on the other windows.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ I said. As this news sank in I was dismayed to find how downcast I felt about giving up the quest. ‘An awful shame. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘So I’ll bring the car over to fetch the box sometime, unless Zac is likely to be passing in his van?’

  ‘Right,’ I said vaguely. I was thinking furiously, trying to find some solution.

  The vicar was staring unhappily at Dad’s angel hanging in the window. I thought about Laura’s journal. I felt I was on a sort of journey myself, finding out the history of the angel, becoming caught up in the search for what it looked like, learning about Minster Glass. I’d an idea of continuing Dad’s book for him.

  And I would have enjoyed reassembling the window. Zac would, too. The money would have been useful, but since I’d discovered that Dad’s bank balance was healthy, that didn’t really matter.

  ‘Jeremy?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘We can still do something, you know. I’d like to. Restore the window, I mean. We wouldn’t need payment. It’s just the whole thing intrigues me. I feel involved in its story somehow, especially reading Laura’s journal.’

  ‘I understand, but I couldn’t ask you to do it,’ he said. ‘It would be such a lot of work, and there’s the cost of materials.’

  It would take up time, I couldn’t disagree with that. There would be the research into the design of the window, never mind into the methods we would need to use, the sourcing of the right glass and lead. And that’s before we actually assembled it. But suppose we achieved all that?

  ‘It would be a labour of love,’ I said. ‘The sort of thing Dad would have done gladly, the sort of job he’d have enjoyed, if he were well. He’d be pleased if we did it, I know he would.’

  ‘I think he would. Fran, it’s a lovely suggestion. I’m rather overwhelmed. As you know, it’s become rather a pet project of mine, too. If I can’t persuade the PCC to spend parish money on it, well, maybe Sarah and I could contribute something privately.’

  ‘That’s something we can talk about, but I’d just be glad if you would agree to us doing it. I’d need to ask Zac, of course.’ I laughed. ‘After all, he’d be doing most of the work.’

  ‘And I’d need to ask the churchwardens, the window being church property. But I can’t see that anyone would disagree, really, can you?’

  ‘There is one thing,’ I said. ‘If we do this, I’d like to think that there would be somewhere for the angel to go. I can understand if you don’t want to dismantle the War Memorial window, but I would feel immensely disappointed if the angel had no home at all, just lay unseen in some museum basement somewhere.’

  ‘I see your point. Mmm. I can immediately think of one or two possibilities, but I’d need to study them to see if they’d work. There’s actually another window next to the Mothers’ Union one that’s currently hidden by a cupboard. It might be the right size, I’d have to check–and think about where we could put the cupboard instead. Then we’d have to ask permission, of course. But, well, my dear, I’m very pleased at your reaction. A generous offer. I feel very cheered.’

  When he’d gone, setting off across the garden at a brisk pace, I smiled to see him suddenly skip to one side with the vigour of a man thirty years younger, to kick a stray ball back to a toddler.

  I switched on the lights in the workshop and, energised by my offer to Jeremy, resolved to carry out straight away my promise of last night. I went into the office to find the phone number of the Museum of Stained Glass. When the phone was answered, I asked to speak to a member of staff. I told her the whole story and she asked me to spell various names and clarify dates. ‘I’ll call you back as soon as I can,’ she said, and I put the phone down thinking that perhaps, now, I would make some progress.

  ‘Of course we must do it,’ was Zac’s immediate response to the news that we wouldn’t get paid for reconstructing the angel.

  ‘We’d have to do it on top of all the regular commissions,’ I said. ‘You’re already fairly overloaded.’

  ‘There are some jobs that are worth doing,’ he said with finality. ‘I’ll enjoy it.’

  Good old Zac. Not that I’d really expected him to say anything else.

  It was choir that night, and Ben was in full fighting mode.

  ‘Can we take it from the tutti on page forty-one. “Go, In the name of Angels and Archangels”.’ And it’s fortissimo. We’re sending this soul from the world with a great fanfare of sound. I want to be blown away. Ready…three, four.’

  ‘Go…’ we all wobbled, having trouble pitching the note.

  ‘No, no, no. I said blown away. You need to sound as though you mean it. Graham, play that A, please. Once again now–three, four.’

  ‘GO!’ we all shrieked. Ben rolled his eyes but let us stagger on.

  ‘Watch your timing, tenors!’

  The rehearsal had been going reasonably well. Many people looked surprised at the idea of singing exercises, but had valiantly joined in. But after ten minutes a group of altos I’d once heard Michael refer to unkindly as the ‘knitting circle’ started talking at the back and I noticed one of the basses looking pointedly at his watch. Sensing unrest, Ben turned swiftly to the Gerontius score.

  ‘That’s really not too bad,’ he said, once we’d despatched old Gerontius to his death. ‘Some of you have more obviously prepared than others, however.’ I saw the front line of first sopranos sit up straighter. T
hey were the keen ones, their ringleader being Val, who organised the orchestra. Jo and I felt more comfortable at the back, out of the firing line.

  I was faintly surprised that Jo wasn’t here, given that she hadn’t rung to tell me. Perhaps I was unreasonable to have expected her to, it’s only that it was the sort of thing she did. You always knew where you were with Jo.

  Later, I walked to the pub with Dominic.

  ‘A shame Jo couldn’t make it,’ he said, so sadly that I wondered once again whether she was special to him.

  ‘Perhaps something came up at work,’ I hazarded.

  ‘Unusual for her to miss a rehearsal though,’ he said. Then, ‘I can’t stay long tonight myself. I promised my sister I’d take over before eleven.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Take over what?’

  ‘Babysitting my mother,’ he said, making a rueful face. ‘She’s very disabled now, I’m afraid. It’s a real worry. After the carer goes home my sister and I share responsibility. Monday night’s usually my night off, but tonight my sister can’t stay as they’re going on holiday tomorrow so I must get back at a reasonable hour.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear about all that,’ I said gently, rather moved by his story. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Quite honestly, Fran, I don’t like to complain, but we’re getting to breaking point. My sister and her husband are expecting their first, so what we’re going to do when the baby’s born I don’t know. We’ve got to start thinking of a home for Mum, though it’ll be distressing for all of us. I’ve applied for some time off work to try to sort everything out. The trouble is, the timing is really not great. I’d been hoping for a promotion to come through. But what can you do? You have to take what life deals you. She’s been a wonderful mother to us, and we won’t abandon her in her hour of need.’

  I glanced up at him, walking beside me, expecting him to be cast in gloom, but instead he smiled at me wickedly.

  ‘Perhaps I should bring her to work in a wheelchair. That would be fun on the Tube,’ he said. ‘And she’d probably sort them all out at work, too. Never stood much nonsense, did Mum! She’s still got a lot of spirit.’