by Rachel Hore
She’d clearly brought her children up with a strong sense of duty, too. I couldn’t think of many men who would give up a chance of promotion to look after an ailing parent.
‘I don’t have much time for anything else though.’ And so he sighed. ‘Monday is my one night out. It is a shame not to see Jo.’
At that point we reached the pub. Since Ben hadn’t yet arrived, we were immediately drawn into a conversation about the rehearsal. Of the dozen or so choir members thronged around the table, about half thought the singing exercises a great idea. ‘Ben’s right, we need to be more professional,’ said Crispin, our earnest Gerontius, who was so grateful to have been given the solo part in rehearsals that he would never hear a word against Ben. But some of the ‘knitting circle’ thought it was a shame. ‘It’s too much like hard work, the whole thing.’ Dominic, a tactful man, didn’t say much, merely listened to the others.
When Ben hurried in shortly afterwards, agitated and short of breath, I saw two or three of the complainers go up and engage him in animated conversation. At one point he raised both hands in a calming gesture.
While this was going on, I noticed Michael was standing on his own, so I went over to say hello.
‘I wouldn’t say the choir are completely happy,’ he said, nodding towards the group gathered around Ben. ‘Well, I did warn him.’
‘I expect it’s a storm in a teacup,’ I said, feeling defensive of Ben. I still couldn’t understand the relationship between these two. On one level they seemed as inextricably linked as brothers, yet here was Michael almost taking pleasure in Ben’s difficulties. It made me wary.
‘I enjoyed the other evening,’ I said, to change the subject. ‘I hope you got your train home in the morning all right.’
‘I didn’t go in the end,’ he said, offhand.
‘Oh.’
‘Nina asked me to spend the day with her.’
‘I see,’ I said, not understanding at all.
‘It must seem confusing to you,’ he went on, finally looking at me, unhappiness in his eyes. ‘It is to me, too.’
‘Are you a couple, you and Nina?’
He shrugged. ‘Yes. Or rather, we were,’ he said. ‘Until she met Ben. It was silly of me introducing her to him.’
‘She’s…going out with Ben, then?’ I was alarmed to feel a flood of dismay.
‘I don’t think Ben thinks of her that way,’ said Michael. ‘She’s besotted, I can tell, but she won’t admit it. I suppose I shouldn’t hang around, but I…care for her, you see.’ Michael’s expression was suddenly so hurt, so vulnerable, that for the first time I warmed to him.
We stood in silence, a stew of emotions simmering inside me. Ben wasn’t with Nina. But Nina wanted him to be. And poor old Michael was miserable. It was like a Shakespearian comedy and not at all funny. And here was I, for the moment on the outside looking in. For how long? I could feel myself being sucked in.
I went and talked to Dominic until he had to go, and then I myself left soon after. When I called, ‘Goodbye,’ to Ben and Michael, now in deep conversation together, Ben followed me to the door.
‘Sorry I haven’t had a chance to talk to you this evening,’ he said. ‘Are you free to come round for supper later in the week–Thursday, or Friday after church choir practice, perhaps? It would be fantastic to see you.’
‘Thursday would be less rushed for you, wouldn’t it?’ I said, so we agreed to Thursday.
I was already looking forward to it. In my good mood I even managed to smile at the catcalls from a group of workmen who were gathered round a throbbing generator at the edge of the Square.
I let myself in through the shop door, then turned on the lights and went over to look at our angel. Zac had moved her table to a corner of the studio out of the way, and I could see he’d polished some of the larger pieces. Golds and greens glowed in the overhead light. From the box nearby, the piece of old newspaper peeped up. I pulled it out to study the faded picture of the bombsite.
I wondered who might have lived at Minster Glass in September 1940. My father would have been a boy of around ten. My grandfather would be the one the church contacted, though I knew nothing much about him. Where would the family have been on the night of the raid? We had no garden for an Anderson shelter and were some way from a Tube station. Perhaps the family had gone to one of the trench shelters or merely huddled under a table in the workshop until the all-clear sounded.
That night, I fell asleep and the distant hum of the workmen’s generator must have got into my head because my dreams were filled with the whir of plane engines, but then there were wailing sirens, explosions and smashing glass and then a woman screaming. I woke in darkness, bathed in sweat and shouting for my mother, sure I’d dreamed of some dreadful calamity.
Outside, even the generator had stopped and there was only the distant growl of night traffic.
I lay in the darkness, which in a city is never proper darkness, listening to the quiet that is never complete silence, trying to remember my dream. Shreds came back. Something to do with bombs and the angel window breaking.
I imagined someone, maybe the vicar, picking their way through the damage next day, tenderly gathering up the clumps of glass and twisted lead. Had the window got boarded up as it was or had the remaining glass been knocked out first? Would they even have bothered to seek professional advice?
Let’s suppose they did. Suddenly I had a strong sense of where to search next.
I was haunted by my strange dream all the following day, but I was so busy at work that there was no opportunity to follow up my revelation about the window.
Part of the explanation for my troubled night presented itself when I went next door to the café. Anita repeated to me something her tenant upstairs had told her.
‘He saw a fight last night in the Square. Police cars an’ all. Mr What’s-his-name from the bookshop come in earlier an’ said there was blood on the pavement. Probably something to do with that homeless place.’
‘But that’s for women! Surely that’s not likely?’
‘There’s another place for blokes round the corner, isn’t there?’
‘Could as easily have been drunken City types, Anita. Though, granted, a Monday night would be unusual.’
‘All I know is that decent folks are not safe in their beds. Now tell me how your dad is, the poor man.’
I always liked chatting to the gossipy Anita, but felt uncomfortable about these cut and dried remarks. It was too easy to blame Jo’s flock for any problems, especially given that Anita knew nothing about the incident. I, it seemed, had slept through it, though perhaps the commotion, like the workmen’s generator, had contributed to my dreams.
Later, as I watched a large lorry pull up outside Minster Glass, the shop phone rang. It was Jo.
‘Jo! I can’t talk for long. Our wholesale order’s just arriving. Missed you last night at choir.’
‘That’s what I rang about. Something came up,’ she said mysteriously. ‘How did it go?’
‘It was a tough rehearsal, but we got through,’ I said.
‘Shall we meet later in the week? Have you an evening free?’
‘Where are we–Tuesday. How about tomorrow?’
‘Possibly. I’m not sure. Shall I ring you?’
‘Of course,’ I replied, feeling a bit puzzled and hurt by her uncertainty. ‘Oh, Jo…?’ I’d suddenly thought to ask her if the disturbance in the Square had been anything to do with the hostel. But she’d already hung up.
It wasn’t until the evening, after I’d visited Dad, that I got the chance to do what I’d been wanting to all day. I climbed up to the attic and carefully packed away most of the Victorian documents in their cabinets, to make room for what I had to do next.
Dad had been awake when I’d seen him earlier, and I’d told him all about my dream. I was certain that he understood. His mouth opened slightly and he made a sound, a sort of ‘Ah.’ Had he been trying to tell me something he knew? We stared
at each other and I had whispered, ‘Do you think I’m on the right track, Dad?’ But he didn’t try to say anything more.
I opened a drawer labelled 1940, flipped through the files until I came to September, and laid the folder open on the desk. My idea was simple: if Minster Glass had been contacted by St Martin’s after the bombing, they might have found the paperwork and refiled it as a new commission.
Near the front of the folder was a thick manila envelope with Re. broken light at St Martin’s scribbled on it. I pulled out the wadge of paper inside and flicked through the pile with increasing excitement. The yellowed letter on the top bore the date June 1880. I took in lists of figures relating to materials. Finally, when I unfolded a large, thick piece of cartridge paper and saw the illustration inside, I knew I’d found exactly what I’d been searching for.
Laura’s angel.
Later, I sat by the living-room window. It had been raining and the Square sparkled wet in the darkness. Somewhere along the row of lights on the far side was Laura’s old home. The past seemed all about me as I picked up her journal and began to read once more.
Chapter 21
Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breath of heavens betwixt you…
Oh, never call it loving!
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, A Woman’s Shortcomings
LAURA’S STORY
June, 1880
‘Oh, the darling!’ Baby Arthur was definitely smiling at his Aunt Laura from his nest of white lace in her arms, first uncertainly, then wider and wider.
‘He knows me, I’m sure he does.’
‘Of course he does, silly, he’s seen you ever so many times now. Say Happy Birthday to your aunt, Arthur.’ Harriet, having installed herself in the largest armchair, signalled imperiously to Arthur’s new nursemaid, little Ida Cooper, to sit out of the way on the footstool beneath the window.
Laura gazed down in wonder at her six-week-old nephew. His eyes, navy at birth, were changing to a translucent sea-blue. When she stroked his flawless skin–well, flawless if you discounted the tiny milk spots across his nose–it felt even smoother than Mr Russell’s gift for her twenty-third birthday, a silk-covered writing case, which he had sent round earlier. He had decorated the accompanying note with an ink-drawn border of birds and plants.
I trust this will encourage you to write to me often, dear Laura. Your friendship is precious to me, the letter said. In the privacy of her room she had penned a few careful words to thank him, then hidden the gift in a drawer and taken the note down to the post herself.
‘Let his grandmother have a turn with him now, Laura,’ said Harriet, and Ida hurried over to transfer Arthur in his bundle of white lace to Theodora’s outstretched arms.
Laura felt her throat contract with emotion as she watched her mother’s expression of naked adoration for the baby. Theodora’s tired face glowed with pleasure as she returned his smiles and chuckled back. Perhaps with regular doses of Arthur, Mama’s spirits would improve.
‘Open your present, Laura, do,’ commanded Harriet. How was it that Harriet suddenly seemed older than Laura? Marriage and motherhood gave her new status. Next to her, Laura felt faded, diminished.
Even her gifts were now extravagant, compared with the modest penwipes and needlecases the maiden Harriet used to sew. Laura picked up the huge box Harriet had placed near her, unknotted the ribbon and opened the lid. She peeled back the tissue paper and shook out a beautiful golden tea dress.
‘Oh, Harriet!’ Laura cried. ‘How wonderful!’
‘Go and put it on, Laura,’ ordered her sister. ‘We must see how it looks. Mama gave me your old work dress so I would know the fit.’
The dress was perfect. Laura stood before the long cheval mirror in her father’s dressing room, fastening the front buttons, admiring the ruched sides and the pleated layers that fell flatteringly from the hips to finish, daringly, a few inches off the ground. The gold colour exactly complemented her complexion, she was pleased to notice, and reflected the chestnut lights in her hair. She’d never had such a costume.
‘Well, I never,’ said her mother, frowning with amazement as Laura slipped shyly back into the room several minutes later.
Her father said, ‘Laura, my goodness, child.’
Two gentlemen had entered the room. One knelt to admire Arthur, the other sat stiffly with his back to her. Both turned to look at her. She gazed in horror from Mr Russell, now rising from the floor, to Mr Bond, and almost fled. Mr Bond’s eyes swept over her, his mouth a round O of surprise; Mr Russell studied her, smiling slightly. Her face flamed and for a moment she couldn’t move her limbs. No one had ever made her the centre of attention before.
‘Darling, you look simply beautiful.’ Harriet rose and came to take her hand. ‘Come and sit here, near Mama. Ida, take Arthur now. Mr Russell is going to show us his drawings, Laura.’
Mr Russell cleared his throat and foraged in a leather portfolio. Laura perched upright on the sofa, her mind working furiously. Why was that man Bond here? On her birthday, too. How could her father be so insensitive?
‘This is so fine. Harriet, look.’ Theodora held out the drawing for her younger daughter to see.
‘Oh!’ cried Harriet.
Forgetting her embarrassment, Laura leaned forwards to see over Mama’s shoulder.
It was the design for the light over the altar; a more detailed draft executed in ink and a colour wash. Mary sat gently cradling the infant standing in her lap. The two gazed into one another’s eyes in mutual adoration. Hovering above Mary’s head, two sublime-looking angels held her crown.
‘The morning light will strike the window thus,’ Mr Russell explained. ‘Her cope will be pale gold–less yellow than this; the tracery antique gold and white; her gown the richest of blues. The lead will outline the Christ Child here and Mary’s halo here, framing the faces thus.’
There were murmurs of appreciation.
‘And Jefferies has seen this version?’ asked Bond.
‘Yes,’ Russell replied shortly.
‘He wrote to me yesterday giving his approval,’ the Rector told Bond. ‘Now, may we see the angel?’
Russell unrolled the second sketch and held it up. There was a little silence. Laura stared. It was different to how she had expected it, but she couldn’t say why. The figure was lovely. With its wings folded above its head it filled the tall thin shape of the window perfectly. The face did not look particularly like Caroline’s and she was surprised to feel a quiet relief at this. She would not, after all, have to see her dead sister’s face in church every week. This angel was a solid, powerful-looking, reassuring figure, with one hand raised as though in blessing. She liked it, it made her feel calm and safe; as though she were filled with light, but it was unexpected and she didn’t know how she was supposed to react.
It was her father who broke the silence, and as he spoke she understood that his expectations had been different from hers again. ‘But this is not Gabriel the messenger to Mary, is it? This angel is dressed like a traveller, bears not a lily but a pilgrim’s staff.’
Russell inclined his head. ‘I remember no specific request for Gabriel, sir.’
‘No, I suppose I made none. But in my mind’s eye, it being the Lady Chapel, it was natural to imagine Gabriel, the angel who came to Mary to tell her she was to give birth to the Emmanuel.’
‘Sir, I briefly wrestled with the idea of Gabriel. It was especially difficult, since there is no room for Mary in the window. I discarded several early versions before inspiration came. If I might be so bold with my opinion, I believe that Raphael is appropriate for the Lady Chapel. Raphael is the guardian angel, the special protector of the young, of travellers. It was Raphael in the Old Testament who was the companion of the young Tobias. And, sir, see this banner at the angel’s feet. It’s not easy to read in this sketch but the meaning of Raphael’s name seems so suitable in a memorial to a beloved daughter.’
Laura’s father took the paper and squinted at
the scroll by the angel’s feet.
‘Raphael’s name means “God heals”,’ he told the assembled family, his voice unusually reedy. He cleared his throat, passed a hand through his thinning hair. ‘What do you think, my dear?’ He handed the sketch to his wife.
A long minute passed as she studied the sketch, her face a blank mask as though her mind were a long distance away. Then suddenly she smiled and looked up at her husband. Laura was struck to see that her eyes sparkled with happiness.
‘Raphael the guardian angel. I like it, James,’ her mother said. ‘It is right. We are all pilgrims and our angels watch over us. I especially approve of the patterning on the wings, Mr Russell. You have taken such trouble with the detail and I thank you.’
‘It has been no trouble, madam.’ His voice was soft.
Laura glanced at Mr Russell to see his golden eyes upon her. He was waiting. ‘And you, Miss Brownlow? Your good opinion is important to me.’
‘I like your Raphael,’ she said after a moment. ‘Very much.’
Everyone seemed to have forgotten that the angel had been supposed to look like Caroline. Or perhaps they, like Laura, had been relieved that it didn’t.
‘Why did you do it, Papa? Why did you invite him?’ Laura cried, following her father into the study after everybody had gone.
She looked down at the brown paper package she held. As their visitors left the house, Mr Bond had pushed it into her hand ‘…a small token for your anniversary,’ he had said gruffly.
‘You know how uncomfortable he makes me feel. And it must be a torment for him.’
‘Laura, whilst I am sorry, you must see the difficulty for me. He is my churchwarden, after all, my mainstay in these difficult times. He must share in decisions about the fabric of St Martin’s. It is his right to see those drawings. And as for personal torment, he could have offered some excuse not to come.’