The Glass Painter's Daughter

by Rachel Hore

  ‘All right,’ I told him, ‘I’ll come to your discussion group.’

  ‘Great!’ He kissed my cheek quickly and was gone.

  Chapter 24

  Hark to those sounds!

  They come of tender beings angelical

  Cardinal Newman, The Dream of Gerontius

  ‘I’ve seen a real angel, you know.’

  When she arrived at work on Monday, Amber was entranced by the reconstruction of Raphael and took every opportunity to escape from her designated post in the shop to come and watch Zac and me working. While I continued to clean glass and untwist lead, he collected up the clusters I had finished and moved them onto the tracing paper pattern, which he’d laid over the big light-box; when switched on, this provided a useful light source from below. After this stage he’d decide which pieces of new glass we’d need to find.

  ‘Tell us about seeing an angel, Amber,’ Zac said gravely, as he shuffled the glass jigsaw around. But his eyes were merry.

  ‘I know you think it’s funny, but I really have seen one. He saved my life.’

  We were used to Amber’s zany ideas by now. Her personal guardian angel was somebody-or-other, whose colour was red, and his special area of authority was, I’m sure she said, watching over orphans. But she hadn’t shared this particular story with us before.

  ‘It was after my mum died.’ We both stopped to listen. ‘I was, like, all over the place, kept forgetting things, going round in a daze. Well, once I walked into the road without looking and the next thing, it was like someone gave me a hard push, and I was back sitting on the pavement. Then this car whizzed past. It just missed me. I couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘How terrifying,’ I said, wondering what she was getting at. Had the car clipped her and forced her back? Or had she seen the danger at the last minute and jumped automatically?

  She saw our bemused expressions.

  ‘When I say someone gave me a push, that’s what it felt like. But there didn’t seem to be anyone there. Except I know there was. It was an angel.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘I was so surprised, I sat there on the pavement for a bit. I was sure I could hear music–in the distance, like. I looked up and there was this guy standing in the middle of the road holding a guitar case. And there were white feathers floating through the air around me, lots of them. And that’s a sign of an angel. When I looked again, the bloke had vanished–into thin air, like. I would have seen him walking away if he’d been…well, human, wouldn’t I?’

  Zac and I caught one another’s eye and he raised an eyebrow very slightly at me.

  Not wanting to upset her, I said, ‘Well, whatever he was, I’m very glad someone or something was there and looking after you, Amber.’ I wondered idly what the vicar would make of this story. I’d have to ask him. Vicars should be experts on angels–there were so many in the Bible.

  ‘This is as far as we can get with the pieces we have,’ said Zac, thankfully changing the subject, and we all three studied the mosaic of glass in front of us. Zac had made remarkable progress. Somehow he had managed to cover most of the pattern with the original pieces of glass. Whoever had cleared up after the bombing had helped us by doing a thorough job, although some pieces were admittedly too fragmented or damaged to be able to use. The bare patches of paper for which no glass at all could be found were centred around the top half of the face, some of the grass, some red border and part of a wing. It was a pity that we never did find the broken pieces with the eyes.

  ‘The colour’s right for Raphael,’ Amber volunteered.

  ‘Angels are often dressed in gold,’ I murmured.

  ‘Yes, but Raphael’s special colour is gold,’ Amber insisted. ‘Or sometimes emerald green. His crystal’s the emerald and his element is air. That’s all I can remember, except that he’s an archangel. But the words are right.’

  The banner was cracked, but it was just possible to make out the motto God heals. Amber sighed contentedly. ‘I love the pretty angel in your window best–the one your dad made, Fran. But I like this one, too.’

  ‘Thank heavens for that,’ said Zac, smiling at her. ‘Now could that be a customer coming in?’

  ‘She’s so sweet, isn’t she?’ I mouthed, when Amber had gone back into the shop.

  ‘But such an innocent.’

  ‘Only in some ways. Think of all she’s been through.’

  Later, after Amber had gone home, Zac started searching in the shop for glass that would be suitable for the bare patches on our angel. The green for the grass beneath the sandalled feet was fairly easy to match. He held to the light a piece that looked similar to the old glass, even down to the bubbles and impurities that gave it beauty and character. Trying the old next to the new on the light box confirmed the similarities.

  The ruby glass gave him more difficulty. ‘Colour’s not quite right,’ he grumbled at the pieces I passed him, or, ‘This one’s too transparent,’ or, ‘It’s thinner, don’t you see?’ After going through all our stock without satisfaction, he carefully wrapped up several pieces of angel to take over to the other studio, where he thought his friend David would be able to advise him.

  ‘That’s where I’ll be tomorrow morning, if that’s all right with you,’ he said, taking off his overall and pulling on his jacket. ‘I might end up having to get some glass specially made.’

  ‘I’ll see you after lunch then.’ I was aware of his eyes on me, and was struck by how our relationship was changing. We were more relaxed with one another now–though I was still annoyed with him for being rude to Ben.

  ‘Busy this evening?’ he asked, but his enquiry sounded too casual.

  ‘Choir,’ I told him.

  ‘Ah.’ I suppose he was thinking of Ben, but all he said was, ‘Have a good sing. See you tomorrow.’

  I watched him walk across the Square; a solitary figure, his jacket worn at the elbows. I felt a tug of sadness, as though I’d lost something I hadn’t known I valued.

  The melancholy remained, like a lump in my throat, all the evening. I hadn’t visited my father for two days; this was a part of it. But everything felt as though it was shifting beneath my feet–as though my world had been hit by some great meteor and was turning differently. Some of this must be my unsettled feelings for Ben.

  How can I describe my growing fascination with him? I was falling under a kind of enchantment, like one of Burne-Jones’s languorous women. Perhaps it started that time in the church, with the incense and the scent of lilies and the thrilling music of the organ that caught me up in his aura. I certainly loved his intensity, his complete absorption in music, his charisma as a conductor, the way he bound our choir together, bowed us to his will. And he was so beautiful. How was it possible not to be drawn to a man who looked like an earthly version of a Florentine angel, a deliciously tainted one, one splendid in the passion of his art, yet tender and vulnerable underneath? Yet I’d little idea how he felt about me or whether there was someone else in his life.

  Jo was at choir tonight, I was pleased to see, but she was late and we had to sit in different places. Once or twice I got a sideways glimpse of her. When she wasn’t staring distractedly into the distance she was anxiously scrabbling through the score to find her place.

  Ben took us through ten minutes of singing exercises, which everybody did without argument this time, then embarked on ‘The Chorus of the Angelicals’. He seemed in a good mood this evening, but it wasn’t going to last.

  ‘Now, I know it’s complicated with so many parts singing at once, but this must be absolutely sublime,’ he told us. ‘You must transport the audience to the heavens. Elgar was himself in a state bordering on ecstasy when he wrote Gerontius and virtually felt himself to be in heaven with the angels. You all have to be angels.’

  There was much giggling at this, and a pair of the younger men made silly faces, but the laughter soon died away as we began to wade through the section in chunks, Ben frequently having to stop us as one voic
e-part or another lost its way. Eventually we meandered through the broad fugue of ‘Praise to the Holiest in the Height’ at the movement’s end, and flopped down gratefully in our seats.

  ‘That,’ said Ben, looking seriously pained, ‘was execrable. Simply execrable. Quite how we’re going to turn this tosh into something presentable in the short time left to us, I have simply no idea. Tenors and basses, you were all over the place. Second altos, at one point you sounded as though you were moo-ing–yes, moo-ing. You’re not cows, for goodness sake, you’re angels! And, you, sopranos. Well, the firsts weren’t too bad…’ (here the front row smiled smugly) ‘…but watch me, seconds, can’t you? What’s the point of me standing here like a lemon when you take no notice of me. Now, everyone back to page ninety-five. Graham, play from bar sixty-five, please…and watch, all of you.’

  I glanced quickly round the room to see the general reaction to this verbal battery. For a second, the only sound was the whisper of pages turning. A cloud of gloom had settled over the room. One or two people looked really upset.

  That evening, Ben made us work very hard. We went over and over that wretched chorus until we couldn’t bear to hear it ever again. But, watching him, pushing his hand through his hair, counting bars to himself, lost in the music, I suddenly appreciated what a good conductor he was. He had the will and the vision to get the absolute best out of us. And, what is more, he didn’t care if we hated him for doing it.

  ‘That,’ he finished up, ten minutes over time, ‘was almost passable. And that’s the best compliment you’re likely to get out of me today, if not this term. Graham, thank you, you’ve been amazing.’ And he turned his back on the lot of us.

  Collecting up my things, I expected to hear grumbling around me, but instead the choir seemed beaten into remorseful submission.

  ‘We’re rubbish, aren’t we?’ moaned the woman next to me, to her older neighbour. ‘I’m really going to practise before the next rehearsal.’

  ‘I thought I had practised,’ said the older lady, shutting her spectacles away in a knitted case. ‘But I completely lost my way at one point. I’ll borrow that cassette tape off Deirdre if she’ll let me.’

  ‘What did you think, Jo?’ I asked, walking over to her. She was still slumped in her chair, dazed and tired.

  ‘Exhausted. I’ve got a bit of a headache, to be honest.’ She smiled weakly. ‘Going to give the pub a miss this evening. I’d better confess to Dominic.’

  As I pulled on my jacket I watched the two of them talking. Dominic put a protective arm around her and Jo told me, ‘Dom said he’d walk me home as he’s got to get back early himself. I’ll give you a ring, shall I?’

  ‘Please do. Hope a good night’s sleep works on the headache,’ I said.

  ‘Fran?’ Ben called, and wove his way towards me between a couple of beefy baritones stacking chairs. He looked agitated and his hair reared up at the front like a breaking wave. ‘Are you busy now?’

  Before I could speak, Michael walked up to us and said, ‘You two aren’t heading for the Bishop, perchance?’ I looked at him with curiosity. It didn’t appear possible to me that Michael could ever lose his urbane composure, but this evening he appeared rattled. And when Ben replied curtly, ‘No, I don’t think so,’ and the hurt leaped into Michael’s eyes, I realised they must have had a bust-up.

  ‘What about you, Fran?’ Michael asked, still looking at Ben. Ben gripped my wrist as if to stop me dashing off out of the door with Michael.

  ‘We’re giving the pub a miss tonight. I’m seeing Fran home, aren’t I, Fran?’ he said. I didn’t know what I should do. He glared at Michael. Michael stared back, his face a blank mask. Then he shrugged and left.

  ‘What was all that about?’ I asked Ben, upset that he was behaving like this.

  ‘I couldn’t stand to go to the Bishop tonight,’ he said, as though he hadn’t heard me. He snatched up his music and looked around. The chairs were arrayed in neat stacks now; the piano pushed back into its corner. ‘Can you imagine what a hard time I’d get? Some of those altos have pretty sharp-edged handbags.’ We walked out into the lobby.

  ‘Don’t be silly. They love you.’

  ‘They hate me. Not that I give a damn.’ He held open the outer door for me with a graceful flourish.

  ‘But they respond to your leadership,’ I told him. ‘Some of them are finally seeing the point.’

  ‘Do you really think that?’ he asked, stopping mid-lock-up to look at me. There was a slight mist coiling in the air tonight, lending proceedings an atmosphere of unreality.

  I sensed that he needed reassurance. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I do.’

  ‘Whatever,’ he growled, thrusting the keys into his pocket. ‘I need a drink badly. Let’s crack open a bottle at mine.’ He was angry, imperious, and it made me nervous and enthralled at the same time.

  ‘I think I ought to get home.’

  ‘No. Please?’ Now he sounded petulant.

  ‘Perhaps you need to be by yourself, Ben,’ I said gently. But despite myself I couldn’t walk away.

  ‘That’s the last thing I want. I’m sorry I grabbed you like that just now. Here, let me have a look–have I hurt you?’ Of course he hadn’t, but I let him push up my jacket sleeve and stroke my wrist, so that my skin prickled deliciously. ‘Oh, come and have a drink, do,’ he pleaded, this time more tenderly. ‘Pretty please.’ With his finger, he tipped my chin so I was forced to look at him. He was smiling wickedly and I couldn’t help but smile back.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ I said, giving in, as I wanted to all along. ‘A quick one.’ He tucked my arm through his companionably and we set off together through the mist.

  Once we were ensconced in front of the fire with a bottle of wine, I asked, ‘What was your quarrel with Michael about?’

  ‘Was it that obvious?’ he said flatly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Michael can be particularly tiresome sometimes,’ he said.

  I laughed. ‘If it comes to that, you’ve been quite tiresome yourself.’

  ‘Thanks. The word I’m looking for with regard to Michael’s attitude to me is “proprietorial”. I told you, he thinks he has some God-given right to interfere in my life. I think it has something to do with my parents semi-adopting him, and him spending so much time at home with us when we were teenagers. He feels he has to keep an eye on me, set me on the straight and narrow.’

  ‘Like an elder brother, you mean.’

  ‘Yes. Though he’s not older than me and he’s certainly not my brother.’

  ‘But he feels tied to you in some way. He didn’t save you from drowning or something, did he?’

  ‘No, but he thinks he saved me from other things. The problem is that I certainly don’t feel tied to him.’

  ‘But you’re supposed to be friends?’

  ‘We are. He’s the person who knows me the best in the world. Even more than my parents and sister.’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ I said wistfully, thinking of my own lack of relations. ‘Not something to treat lightly.’

  ‘Lightness is not possible with Michael, I assure you.’

  The alcohol and the slightly surreal tone of the evening made me bold. ‘And what have you done this time to make him interfere?’

  I half-hoped he’d say it was something to do with me. Some perverse part of me rather liked the idea of Ben caring enough to quarrel over me. But after a moment he disappointed me by saying carefully, ‘It’s something to do with Nina. He thinks I have too much influence over her, that I’m letting her get too dependent on me. He means musically, career-wise, though he’s also accused me of all sorts of dreadful things that I’m not remotely guilty of.’

  ‘How complicated!’ I said. And suddenly I didn’t want to know any more. I was only making a fool of myself. I finished my drink and stood up. ‘I really must get back now.’

  When we reached the front door, we seemed suddenly awkward with one another.

  ‘Making sure I’ve got my scarf th
is time,’ I said, wrapping it round my neck and standing tense, hands in pockets.

  Ben hesitated, then pulled me to him and kissed me quickly on the cheek.

  ‘Thank you for putting up with me tonight,’ he said softly.

  ‘That’s all right,’ I said gravely. ‘I understand.’ He opened the door and stood back to let me go.

  That’s it, I thought wildly as I crossed the road. I probably won’t see him alone again.

  I was vaguely aware of a security alarm squealing across the Square. I turned and waved to Ben, I thought for the last time. Halfway across the garden, I looked back once more, but the door had closed. I felt empty.

  The security alarm whooped on and on. Why doesn’t someone blooming well get out of bed and turn it off, I thought irritably, as I continued my walk.

  It gradually dawned on me that the alarm was coming from my side of the Square, and when I reached the street I stopped dead. In the window of Minster Glass, above Dad’s angel, there was a hole the size of a tea-plate. Shards of glass glittered on the pavement.

  A long wail of anguish soared above the sound of the alarm. It took me a moment to realise the cry was mine. As I dashed back across the garden to Ben’s flat, the alarm wailed mockingly on and on.

  By the time I returned, with Ben in tow, there were half a dozen people milling around outside Minster Glass, all talking at once.

  ‘I telephoned the police, of course,’ said an elderly man wearing a Paisley dressing-gown and slippers whom I recognised as Mr Broadbent, the antiquarian bookseller. He had called into the shop once to ask about Dad. ‘It seemed the thing to do. Or none of us will get any sleep.’

  ‘I’m ever so sorry,’ I said faintly, but a woman shivering in a short-sleeved sparkly top immediately admonished him.

  ‘It’s not her fault someone’s tossed a blimming rock through the window.’