The Glass Painter's Daughter

by Rachel Hore

  ‘After four,’ he commanded and we started to play–he, of course, perfectly; I just managing to stagger on.

  ‘It’s the wine!’ I said, when my timing collapsed completely halfway down the page.

  ‘Nah, keep going, the wine should loosen you up,’ he said, still playing. I shook my head, got up to give him more room. He launched into something that, after a moment or two, I recognised as a Chopin Prelude–the one called the Raindrop. And then something crazy seemed to be happening to the air in the room, as though the piece was playing in stereo. Something was prodding at the edge of my mind, some resonance of long ago, something to do with Laura and the passionate music her mother had been playing. That had been the Raindrop, too.

  I stood in the middle of the room with my eyes closed, just listening to the notes rolling over each other and through me until I felt I was actually vibrating. Then finally the last chords faded away and I opened my eyes to find myself looking at a pair of shoes, tucked in a corner. Women’s shoes, black, with high heels and pointed toes. Not new–in fact, quite worn.

  Ben watched me watching the shoes, then got up and came over to where I stood. I felt his touch on my arm, his breath on my cheek. ‘Fran?’ He tried to swing me round to face him, but I resisted. All I could see were those damned shoes.

  ‘Whose are they?’ I asked.

  ‘Only Nina’s,’ he answered lightly.

  ‘Why does Nina leave her shoes here?’

  ‘She often brings a spare pair to change into if she’s performing. She must have forgotten them last time.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I said. I wanted to believe him, but I didn’t quite. I suppose it was because of what Michael had said. About Nina’s crush on Ben.

  ‘Ben, do you mind me asking, are you and Nina…?’ I started. My mouth was dry. ‘I mean…’

  ‘I am Nina’s accompanist and, I hope, her friend,’ said Ben stiffly. ‘As I’ve explained to Michael.’

  ‘You’ve made up with him, then?’ He nodded. ‘Oh, good.’

  He moved closer to me.

  Another question popped into my mind. ‘Whose is the pink dressing-gown upstairs?’ The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, but I needed to be sure. Ben studied me in silence, a frown on his face. Then he laughed.

  ‘My, you have been observant. It’s my sister Sally’s, actually. She left it last time she came to stay.’

  Such an obvious explanation, so why did I still feel so tense? I suppose, looking back, that it was because of my strange experience while hearing the music, and being troubled about the shoes. And then there was Ben’s charming smile, his glossy allure that said ‘come here’ and ‘go away’ at the same time. It bemused me.

  ‘Fran. Please look at me.’ It was a command.

  I did so, and he was mesmerising, gazing at me through narrowed eyes, smiling slightly with that moulded, sensuous mouth; just a little bead of wine like a beauty spot on the curled upper lip. I reached up almost without thinking to brush it away with my fingertip and his hand closed around mine, warm and hard.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered, imprisoning my other hand. ‘There’s really nothing to worry about.’

  ‘No,’ I whispered. ‘Of course there isn’t.’ We were leaning towards one another, and then suddenly he pulled me into a long, practised and very thorough kiss. I kissed him back and he held me tighter. ‘You are gorgeous,’ he whispered when we came up for air.

  ‘Mmm, so are you,’ I murmured, our mouths meeting once more. At last I drew my fingers through the glorious tangle of his golden hair.

  When I finally pulled away and said, ‘I must go,’ he gave me a pleading look and said, ‘Stay longer.’

  I smiled lazily and kissed him again, then shook my head. I hardly knew him yet.

  ‘Do you know,’ I confessed, as we said goodbye in the doorway, ‘when you stand here like you do, watching me walk across the garden, it feels as if you’re an angel keeping guard over me.’

  ‘Angelic–that’s me absolutely,’ he breathed into my ear. ‘Especially tonight, letting you go at all.’

  Chapter 27

  Saint Michael the Archangel, Defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.

  Catholic Prayer

  I could hardly sleep for happiness that night. If I drifted into unconsciousness it was to dream of Ben, my very own earthbound angel.

  ‘What do you make of angels?’ I asked Jeremy, when he came to see Raphael the following day.

  ‘You mean, do they really exist?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A pertinent question this week. Tomorrow is September the twenty-ninth, the Feast of St Michael and All Angels.’

  ‘St Michael being…?’

  ‘One of the archangels. Often pictured with a sword, slaying Satan in the Last Days. Raphael’s another. Then there’s Gabriel. They’re the angels we hear most about in the Bible. The archangels were God’s messengers, you see. They had the most contact with ordinary men and women, like Tobias and Mary–which might be the reason they’re portrayed in human shape, like Raphael here. But they still inspired awe and terror in those who saw them.’

  ‘Do you mean angels might not really have looked like people?’ I’d not considered the idea before.

  ‘Who knows. Maybe they’re spirits of air, usually without visible form. If you read about the visions of some of the Old Testament prophets, Ezekiel and Isaiah, for instance, angels are described as beasts, flying serpents in flames carrying God’s chariot, or great living creatures bellowing out to one another in a universal shout of praise to God. Very different to how they’re portrayed today.’

  ‘Like Christmas-tree dolls,’ I said, thinking of Amber’s mother’s work.

  ‘Or fairy godmothers.’

  ‘Or godfathers.’ I remembered Amber’s story of the young man who saved her from the speeding car.

  ‘Yes. We’ve certainly dumbed-down angels; made them fit into our own manageable little boxes. My favourite story, which I heard on the radio, is about the parking space angel. There’s a lady who lives in Bristol who prays to her angel every day that she’ll find somewhere to park in order to get to work on time. And a space always magically appears. Marvellous!’ He laughed and shook his head, then was serious again. ‘I’m not saying angels don’t exist. I’ve had no experience to speak of myself, but I do know people who have. Quite trustworthy people, sceptical people, who have subjected their experiences to the most rigorous questioning but still conclude that there’s no other explanation than something…otherworldly. There is, to me, a further test which should be applied, that angels do not glorify themselves, only God; their actions will therefore be consistent with the character of Christ.’

  ‘But it sounds so ridiculous in our day and age.’

  ‘When we rationalise everything away? We’re in danger of defining absolutely everything in material terms. And yet there are other ways of knowing. Go about in the world, talk to people of all backgrounds–of all religions and none–about their experiences, and you’ll find that the universe is a much greater and stranger place than our minds will ever be able to fathom. I like to think of angels as a symbol of everything that is beyond our ordinary perception and understanding of the world; part of the universal song of praise that surrounds us always.’

  I thought about this. In some ways Jeremy hadn’t answered my question at all, but he’d made me look at it differently.

  ‘What am I to think about Amber’s stories?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. Clearly something happened to help her in a situation of extreme danger. Whether the feathers and the music and the appearance of a charming young man all happened and can definitely be linked with one another, who knows. Amber believes that. I don’t want to fall into the trap of accepting everybody’s beliefs because they happen to believe them.’

  ‘Do you think we’re all drawn towards the same thing in different ways?’

  ‘Up to a poi
nt, yes. At the same time, we have been given the power to reason, to test our experiences, and I don’t think one should explain everything unusual that happens to us in terms of magic or miracles. It’s very egocentric for a start. Can the activities of the universe really be geared around a working mother’s need for a parking space? I’m not sure about that.’

  ‘But do you think we have guardian angels? Like Gerontius did–watching over us and guiding our every step?’

  ‘It’s a nice idea, isn’t it? And it has some Biblical support. Although to our short-sighted selves, it sometimes seems that the angels are looking the wrong way. It’s probably safest to see our lives as being important to God, but believing that we’re also part of some greater plan that’s ultimately good for all of us.’

  ‘Now that sounds really patronising. As though our responsibility for ourselves is taken away and we’re controlled by a Big Brother.’

  ‘God does encourage us to grow up, but also to acknowledge our limitations and be guided by Him. How about considering Him as a Big Father?’

  I thought of my own father, unable to engage with me, a distant if loving figure, and sighed.

  Jeremy must have understood for he patted my shoulder and said, ‘Think about it in terms of ideal fatherhood rather than one’s earthly, fallible father. The best fathers help their children to grow up and live free but responsible lives.’

  ‘I sometimes think I’ve a way to go there,’ I said, and we both laughed.

  Ben rang me late on Wednesday evening to apologise for not being able to see me for several days, then again on Sunday evening to tell me he’d definitely set the meeting for Tuesday.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to stay on after that for a bit,’ he suggested. ‘We could have snacks at the meeting as some people will have come straight from work.’

  I found myself offering to come early and help him prepare them.

  ‘And of course, I’ll see you at choir practice–though I’ve got some tiresome work thing afterwards. I’m sorry not to be seeing you for so long, Fran.’

  ‘Me, too,’ I said wanly.

  I remembered my conversation with Jeremy on Monday, when we sang of Gerontius’ guardian angel bearing his soul to judgement. The angel’s task, I saw clearly now, was not to whisk the old man’s soul from the path of danger but to help Gerontius through the danger. Perhaps that was really what guardian angels did. Support their human charges through life’s difficulties, through the Valley of the Shadow of Death and beyond.

  Ben was much more supportive of us that evening. ‘More carrot than stick,’ was Dominic’s comment during the halfway break. But the reason for this became clear during the notices at the end. He’d obviously felt the need to butter us up a bit.

  ‘Some of us are having a meeting tomorrow evening about the future of the St Martin’s Choral Society, and next week I will be circulating a questionnaire for you all to complete. One thing we’ll be looking at is a name for the choir. Perhaps you’d all like to be thinking of a name that will give us a higher profile in the musical world here. Something like the “St Martin’s Singers”?’

  I was surprised that Ben seemed to be moving things forward before we’d even had our meeting.

  He left us to deal with people’s puzzlement. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he told me as he rushed away.

  Dominic and I did our best in the pub to answer questions. He seemed different tonight. Jo and I kept looking at him. He’d been granted his sabbatical from work and instead of the usual dark suit wore jeans and a pale blue cashmere sweater under a corduroy jacket; his thinning blond hair curling in unruly little puffs around his face.

  ‘I think he looks charming,’ I whispered to Jo, teasing.

  ‘Oh, shut up about Dominic,’ was all she said, rather tiredly, I thought.

  On Tuesday evening Crispin, our Gerontius, arrived at Ben’s early and began to make his way through the Devils on Horseback I’d prepared, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing in his long neck at every swallow. At six-thirty, Val and the vicar appeared, then Michael, and finally, slightly late, Dominic. He was out of breath from running–he muttered something about cancelled trains–but he was such a pillar of normality that I almost hugged him.

  It was a squash in Ben’s drawing room, with everyone eating and drinking and talking at once. But eventually he shuffled us into some sort of order, onto available chairs, pouffes and sofas, and began.

  He had, of course, talked to me a little about his plans, but listening to the full extent of them now, I realised how alarmingly ambitious they were.

  ‘I would like to see us develop until we stand in terms of reputation beside, say…’ here he named one or two of the best-known amateur choral societies. ‘This means growing numbers by a third, which would involve a recruitment campaign, and we’d also need to look at our financial resources.’

  Here the vicar cleared his throat and said in a mild voice, ‘Of course, the choir is currently self-financing. Where do you imagine the extra money is to come from?’

  ‘There will be the subscriptions of new members,’ Ben said, ‘but then, if we’re to pay for bigger venues–the Queen Elizabeth Hall, for instance–we’ll need fund-raising on a more significant scale. Raising the level of subscriptions would only be a start.’

  Dominic, who had been slowly stroking his chin, now moved restlessly in his too-small space on the sofa. ‘Raising subs would be a shame, Ben. We’re already near some members’ limits. I discovered that when we had a five per cent rise last year. There are a few pensioners and one or two unemployed members. Half a dozen people even pay in monthly instalments.’

  ‘We’ll need to discuss other ways, then. There might be, for instance, Lottery money available. I’m not an expert in these matters. Michael, perhaps that’s something you could look into?’

  Michael frowned. ‘It’s not my area,’ he said, ‘but I could find out what the procedures are.’

  ‘What is the possibility of other sources of funding through the church, Jeremy? I know the PCC have voted to restore the organ…’

  ‘Have they? I didn’t know that, Ben,’ I said, surprised.

  ‘I’m sure I told you.’

  ‘You didn’t.’

  Jeremy glanced from me to Ben and said heavily, ‘It was last week’s parish finance meeting about that legacy I told you about. I wasn’t able to be there but Ben was, and I gather he argued most persuasively for the church to use the money to restore the organ. The PCC will need to ratify the decision, but I have reason to think that they’ll do that. Here is not the time and place, but I need to talk to you about the embarrassing situation that puts me in with regard to the angel.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said confused, ‘but I thought you’d all decided to give the legacy to the hostel appeal.’

  ‘We had. But when the churchwarden spoke to our solicitor last week about it, she was told that the terms of the Will are that the money has to be spent specifically on the church. I’m sorry I’ve been hazy about that one, but I’ve only just heard myself.’

  I thought about the time and money we’d already given towards the window and felt hurt. So there might have been money for the angel window after all, but Ben had won it for the organ. No one at Minster Glass had been included in discussions. Why had nothing been said?

  With Jeremy it must be vagueness, but Ben? Perhaps he’d felt embarrassed that his project had won over mine. Even so, he ought to have plucked up the courage to tell me, especially since my time and money were involved. The more I thought about it, the more upset I felt. I was so absorbed that I missed some of what Val was saying about the orchestra she always booked for the concerts.

  I tuned back in. ‘We’ll need good instrumentalists who might ask for higher fees.’ Val couldn’t help an exasperated whine creeping into her voice and I sympathised. I knew how much work went into organising an orchestra, and how easily egos could be upset.

  Crispin, still making his way through a plate of sausage rolls, gave a
sudden cough and we all looked at him, expecting him to speak, but he merely smiled encouragingly at Ben and carried on eating. I thought him rather a waste of space. I suspected Ben of inviting him because the man so clearly idolised him.

  There was a short silence, then Dominic shifted forward in his chair and spoke. ‘There are some good ideas here, Ben, and you’re getting great things out of the choir.’ He smiled. ‘We certainly haven’t been worked so hard before. But we need to ask ourselves, what is the purpose of St Martin’s Choral Society?’

  Here, the vicar weighed in. ‘Perhaps I can help on that point. As some of you know, it was set up five years ago as an extra social activity. Conducting it is part of Ben’s duties as organist, and we wanted it to attract people living or working locally into our church. And although we don’t expect many to attend Sunday services, it does bring them into the church itself at least three times a year to perform, and I do occasionally see choir members at our lunchtime “pop-in” services. I’m rather worried, Ben, that the expansion you are suggesting, whilst admirable in its scope and imagination, is way beyond our original vision. The choir would inevitably become detached from the church, and current members who can’t take the pace or afford higher subscriptions, might end up being excluded. That would be an awful shame. However, I recognise that these things should be democratic and if the choir members themselves wished to go forward in this way, well, it would be churlish to stifle the initiative.’

  Michael chipped in. ‘Perhaps we should wait until we’ve asked the members,’ he said. ‘Ben’s drafted a questionnaire.’

  ‘I should say,’ added the vicar, in a steely voice, ‘it’s extremely unlikely that extra funds would be forthcoming from the church. We currently offer the use of the church buildings and our organist as conductor, charging the choir a modest part of its subscriptions to cover costs, but we have a small congregation and many big commitments, particularly with our social work in the area. It’s not reasonable to expect us to supplement choir funds.’ He sat back in his chair and took a large draught of wine.