The Glass Painter's Daughter

by Rachel Hore

  ‘That’s terrible.’ I meant it, but my pity for Cassie was limited. I’d almost lost Dad’s shop–my shop–and I could have been killed. I was furious. And not a little relieved that someone had been caught. ‘Why’ve they taken Lisa?’

  ‘They may charge her with being an accomplice. But there’s something else. Another girl at the hostel was so incensed by Lisa’s casual betrayal of Cassie that she revealed that Amber was right about the broken window.’

  ‘You mean it was Lisa who put the paperweight through it?’

  ‘Except it wasn’t a paperweight. It was a crystal ball that Amber’s mother once gave her, and which vanished soon after Amber moved into the hostel. When you called it a paperweight, she didn’t twig what it really was. She’d given up looking for it. So Lisa is also being questioned for criminal damage. It’s sad. More damaged lives and more bad publicity for St Martin’s.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said rather weakly. ‘I seem to have caused an awful lot of trouble to you.’

  ‘It can hardly be considered your fault,’ Sarah said kindly.

  ‘Amber must be very cut up,’ I said. ‘Have the police finished with her?’

  ‘I think so, yes. They only took Cassie and Lisa down to the station. Effie, the hostel manager, has gone with them. They’re meeting legal representation there.’

  ‘Shall we go and find her, Zac?’ I said. He nodded, quickly finishing his soup.

  When we arrived, Amber was sitting with a member of staff in the living area. She seemed calm enough, but when we took her to see the shop she broke into racking sobs, picking up the bits of Dad’s angel and trying hopelessly to fit them together.

  ‘Amber, it’s all right, really,’ I said, feeling stronger as I comforted her. ‘Nobody was hurt and the damage could be a great deal worse.’ I hoped, as I said it, that this was indeed the case. To my untrained eye the fire had scorched the inside of the shop but hadn’t burned through the beams. Everything was a disgusting mess, that was all.

  We returned to the vicarage. This time, I noticed the coat I’d been lent last night, hanging on the rack in the hall, stinking of smoke. I’d need to get it cleaned before giving it back to my rescuer, whoever he was.

  ‘I saw an angel last night,’ I said to Amber, thinking it would cheer her up, but she immediately looked so enthralled that I regretted making a thing of it. I explained about the young man who had helped me but then vanished.

  ‘Do you know anyone round here of that description?’ I asked Zac, but he shook his head. ‘He had an accent,’ I added. ‘Southern Irish, I think.’

  ‘He could still have been an angel,’ Amber said seriously.

  ‘He didn’t look angelic. Just…normal, really.’

  ‘You said his hair was gold. Did you hear any music or anything?’

  ‘Well, no, I don’t think so, Amber,’ I said, but something was teasing the edge of memory.

  ‘There was something, wasn’t there?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘What then? A feather? Or bells? Bells is another thing people hear if they’ve had a visitation.’

  ‘Definitely no bells.’ But there had been singing. When was that?

  ‘You must keep an open mind, Fran,’ Amber said earnestly. ‘He helped you when you were in trouble, after all.’

  ‘If I hadn’t woken up,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘the whole thing might have ended differently.’ And now I remembered my dream–the woman singing and someone calling my name. Had it been him, the golden-haired man? No, I couldn’t make it out. He wasn’t the only untied end.

  That evening, Jo came round to the vicarage. The Quentins tactfully left us alone together.

  ‘I met Jeremy this afternoon,’ she explained, ‘and he told me what had happened. Oh Fran, I’m so glad you’re all right.’ She hugged me, then added, ‘But I’m so sorry about the shop. Jeremy explained about Lisa and Cassie. I haven’t been to work since–you know–so I’d simply no idea that all that had been brewing.’

  ‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Of course, I don’t know how extensive the damage is yet. A structural engineer is going to look tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you all right here?’ she asked, looking round the Quentins’ kitchen. ‘It’s nice of Jeremy and Sarah to take you in, but why don’t you come and stay with me for a bit?’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but I’m fine here for the moment. Can I think about it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How are you though?’ I’d hardly seen her since the scandal broke; she’d stayed at her parents’ house most of the time.

  ‘I’m recovering,’ she said. I thought she looked weary and a bit sad. ‘But I’ve told Jeremy I want to resign.’

  ‘Oh Jo, that’s a shame. You love your job.’

  ‘I just don’t see how I can go back there. And your fire only makes it worse.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I suspect your shop was targeted because you were a friend of mine, and Jeremy agrees. I made him tell me.’

  ‘And because I employ Amber,’ I said. ‘Though I suppose you’ll take the blame for making me do that, too. But you’d be wrong. Lisa and Cassie are the culprits.’

  ‘Yes, but my affair with Johnny has had its effects, hasn’t it? It’s made lots of other people unhappy or unsettled–his wife and family, his Party, everyone at the hostel.’

  ‘Even so, it wasn’t you who put the firework through my door.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why are you going to resign?’

  ‘Because, intentionally or not, I’ve damaged the hostel and its reputation. It wouldn’t feel the same working there, knowing I’d done that.’

  I sighed. Put like that, I could see her point.

  ‘Dominic’s been really sweet,’ Jo added. ‘You know, he came down to Kent a couple of times to see me.’

  ‘That’s good of him,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry that I didn’t. It’s just been crazy here.’

  ‘We talked on the phone though, didn’t we? I didn’t feel abandoned, honestly.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘So what are your plans now?’

  ‘To find another job. Oh, and to catch up with what I’ve missed at choir. Dominic’s going to help me.’

  Chapter 33

  What know we of the blest above but that they sing and that they love?

  William Wordsworth

  On Wednesday morning, the structural engineer visited and declared the building safe. I opened the door of my flat fearfully. The place stank, like the rest of the building, of smoke and damp. The carpet squelched in places as I walked through the first-floor rooms, but otherwise, amazingly, it was untouched by the fire.

  The living room–the window of which I’d opened to effect my escape–had borne the worst of the water damage. Wallpaper sagged, the sofa was sodden and the carpet pooled water where I trod.

  Upstairs in the attic, everything was as usual, though the appalling charred smell seemed to permeate everywhere. It seemed possible I’d never be rid of it.

  I saw straight away that there wasn’t much point in me trying to clear up. My business today was a rescue operation.

  The night before, as we washed up after supper, Jeremy and his wife had talked seriously to me. ‘We’d like you to stay with us,’ Jeremy said. ‘As long as you need to. I can’t imagine that your flat will be liveable in now.’ On that point he was certainly correct. It would feel like a derelict’s squat, I thought, looking round the kitchen. I’d probably catch some horrible ague from the damp.

  ‘Just until I can find somewhere of my own,’ I said, thanking them, ‘that would be lovely.’

  ‘Now both the girls have moved out, the house feels rather empty, doesn’t it, Jeremy? It would be nice to have another daughter. You can stay as long as you like.’

  ‘That’s so kind. Of course I’ll give you something for my keep.’ I hastily did some mental sums, wondering where the money was to come from. Nothing had really changed. All the time I’d
been working at Minster Glass I’d not taken any wages; I’d been living off savings. Those couldn’t last for ever. I’d have to find work sometime. I hoped that Jessica at the diary service hadn’t forgotten my existence.

  I looked round the flat now, wondering what to take with me to the vicarage. All sorts of things seemed essential–clothes, washing kit, my tuba, Laura’s journal, anything really valuable. I’d have to think of Dad, too, what he might need.

  I started pulling clothes out and laying them on the bed, my nose wrinkling at the smoky smell of them. My small suitcase I’d lodged on top of the wardrobe. I lifted it down and stowed the more crushable items in it. When I picked up my rucksack from the floor I found it was wet. The small bag I used to take to the hospital wasn’t large enough. Did Dad keep any suitcases? I didn’t remember him using one, for he had hardly ever gone anywhere.

  I went to his room. Being out of the way at the back of the flat, the carpet there was completely dry. Everything seemed undisturbed. A brief search of his wardrobe and cupboards revealed nothing useful. I knelt down and hunted under the bed. There was his document case. I’d better take that. Behind it glinted the metal locks of a suitcase. I reached under, fumbled for the handle and pulled. The case came out easily. A good size and–I brushed off the dust and opened it–empty. Just what I needed.

  I bent to take another look under the bed. There was another, smaller case, tucked right in the corner so that I had to wriggle right under the bed to reach it. The edge of the metal bedframe scraped my back painfully. This other case snagged on the springs, moved reluctantly, but then I had it. It was actually an old-fashioned vanity case of French-blue leather. At first I thought it was locked, but the catch was merely stiff; it sprang open suddenly. I lifted the lid.

  Immediately I caught a faint scent of that same perfume that haunted my deepest untapped memories. It rose as though by opening her case I’d conjured the spirit of my mother. In it I saw she had kept all her make-up, glass bottles of nail varnish remover and moisturiser tethered to the side, pots of eyeshadow and lipstick and ancient crusted foundation all wiped clean, snug in tidy compartments. I lifted them out, one by one, opening some, recognising familiar names, Revlon, Max Factor, though the colours, textures and smells belonged to another age. And here was her perfume: Arpège by Lanvin. I eased out the stopper and sniffed. It was still strong after all these years, but not quite the same as I remembered. Not quite as it must have been on the glowing, living warmth of her skin.

  But for a moment I had something: the sensation of being held close, warm and safe. A woman’s laughter. A catch of husky lullaby, before the memory died.

  My skin prickled. It was odd, looking round this room, to think that she had lived here, my mother. Had this been their bedroom? There was only the single bed now, though this was the biggest of the three bedrooms, so presumably it had been theirs. Not exactly glamorous. Had she minded?

  As I lifted the lid to close the case, I saw a long slit in the ruffled blue lining. A pocket. My fingers slipped inside and met with paper. It was a programme, curled with age, for a choral concert at St Andrew’s Hall in Norwich in March 1963. On the front cover, the name Angela Beaumont leaped out at me. Feverishly I turned the pages until I came to the biographies of the soloists. And there was her picture, the same one now in my bedroom. I sat for a moment, deep in thought. My mother was a singer. My father had never told me. Or had he, and I hadn’t taken it in? I remembered once he’d said my musical talent wasn’t from his side of the family, but had he actually said it had come from my mother?

  I read the biography.

  Angela Beaumont (contralto) was a Foundation Scholar at the Royal College of Music, where she studied with Nerys Sitwell and gained several awards, including the College Song Recital Prize and a grant from the Princess Isabella Trust. She has performed extensively in oratorio and recital throughout the British Isles…There followed a long list of the choirs she had sung with, notable performances she’d made and the recordings she had been a part of. It was an impressive list for a woman who must still have been only twenty-eight or twenty-nine, yet to approach the height of her career.

  She never reached it.

  I read the programme more closely. It included the Bach Magnificat, some Handel and Haydn. I imagined her, bright-eyed with the excitement of performing, leaving the stage to tremendous applause, packing up her make-up, brushing her hair, slipping the programme into her case before rushing off to the post-performance party or just to catch the train back to London and Dad.

  How had Dad fitted into her life? Good old faithful Dad, back at home in his shop making beautiful things with his hands. Where on earth had they met, and what had drawn them to each other? My mother: lovely, vibrant. Dad? Well, I’d seen photographs of him as a young man in his graduate’s robes, or posing by a gargoyle at Notre Dame, on a tour of French cathedrals in the late 1950s: tall, serious, shy, handsome in a sensitive, cultured way. Perhaps now that Dad was so ill–dying–I would never know. The time had come to try to find out.

  Dad’s document case lay on the floor beside me. With no more than a gentle protesting squeak of conscience I opened it and pulled out the folders one by one. There was his Will, which I scanned quickly. It left everything to me bar a generous sum to Zac. No less than Zac deserved. I was glad. The Living Will and Power of Attorney I knew about. I replaced these and picked up the next folder. It contained Dad’s driving licence and his passport, long expired now; a sheaf of papers on health-related matters, financial documents, share certificates and details of savings accounts. His talent for administration he’d applied to his personal life. All documentation relating to the business he must have kept elsewhere. I found his marriage certificate–and here for the first time I read the names of my maternal grandparents, John and Lily Beaumont; John described as a clerk. There was a history here I could discover.

  I pulled out the remaining folders greedily, flipping through my old school reports and swimming certificates, the baptism certificate signed by some past rector of St Martin’s. All these I put to one side–they were mine, after all. And now there was only one folder left. I took it out, disappointed at its thinness. When I opened it, a number of newspaper cuttings floated to the floor. I picked one up. It was an obituary of my mother from the Daily Telegraph. I started to read it but my mind was so full I couldn’t take in any of it and had to start again. The information in it was familiar from the concert programme. It praised the richness and power of her voice and said she’d died in hospital after a road accident. Another, from The Times, compared her voice to Kathleen Ferrier’s, and others, from music publications, were almost as fulsome. There was also one in German from which the words wunderbar Alt–wonderful contralto–rose from the first line, though my language skills weren’t up to more than that. The sound of a woman singing played in my head, and I remembered my dream on the night of the fire. A coincidence, it must be.

  I laid the fragile papers carefully back in the folder, replacing it in the document case, then checked that I’d looked at everything. I had.

  But now I’d been fed a few crumbs I was hungry. I had to know whether there was anything else. My previous scruples about respecting Dad’s privacy were in shreds. Scanning the shelves, I took down a couple of box-files from amidst the art books, the novels by forgotten writers, and began to search. For what, I wasn’t sure; just anything about my mother.

  Dad seemed to have kept everything–except what I was looking for. In one file were mementoes from his time at art college–scribbled notes from friends about meeting for tea, flyers for exhibitions, a rent book, little drawings on scraps of paper. Several battered photo albums I’d been allowed to flick through before, charted his childhood in sepia. There he was, aged about three, holding Granny’s hand, both wearing wool coats buttoned up to the chin. Here was Grandad in overalls, next to a newly made arched window in the workshop. Onward. There were other people, unknown to me–friends or relatives, perhaps. Ger
ry and Cynthia one 1960s’ wedding photo was labelled, the plump bride dimple-kneed in her short dress. Great Aunt Polly/Cuckmere Haven showed a perky old lady with a fox terrier on a leash, the white chalk Seven Sisters cliffs in the background.

  I moved on, glancing through Dad’s stamp album, illustrated school projects, a box of certificates, including his stained-glass qualifications. In another box was a portrait of Dad as a young man, smiling self-consciously for the camera through the soft studio filter. He seemed so vulnerable, so untouched by suffering that I couldn’t help wanting always to picture him like this rather than as the old man who lay paralysed, ravaged by the marks of time and illness.

  Finally my energy gave out. I’d found out very little about my mother and a great deal about my father instead. Perhaps that was how it should be, I thought, suddenly ashamed.

  Just then, a van bearing the logo of our insurance company pulled up outside. Two men got out and came into the shop below, where I could hear them moving things around and talking. Slotting the final box back in its place on the shelf, I went downstairs.

  Chapter 34

  We are never so lost our angels cannot find us.

  Stefanie Powers in Angels–Beyond the Light

  Later, Jeremy helped me lug bags and boxes across the Square to the vicarage and we piled them upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms. After a bite of lunch I returned to the workshop, where I’d agreed to meet Zac. Together we moved Raphael to a locked garage then went for coffee.

  It was a quiet patch in the café and, since it was Anita’s afternoon off and the young girl who served us was busy chatting to her boyfriend on the phone, we had the place to ourselves.

  Zac looked tired and worn, as though he hadn’t slept. The fire had been a tremendous shock for him, worse than for me perhaps, because my livelihood didn’t depend on it like his did, and I hadn’t been going there every day for twelve years.