The Glass Painter's Daughter

by Rachel Hore

  Laura and Polly had to rap on the knocker of number 4 several times before they heard slow footsteps on the stairs and a stooped old man peeped around the door.

  ‘Mr Murray?’ enquired Laura. Relief crossed the man’s creased face as she introduced herself.

  ‘Mind the ’ole,’ he said in a reedy voice as he beckoned them upstairs, and they swung their skirts around a confused area of the hall floor where the boards had split and someone had made a cack-handed job of fixing it. They trudged up seemingly endless wooden stairs, Mr Murray stopping several times to take his breath. Then they stopped at a door on the second landing. Mr Murray rapped twice and on hearing a groan from within, turned the handle. He showed the ladies into the room and withdrew, shutting the door behind him.

  Inside was more bare wooden floor. The smell of damp clothes and naphthalene could not quite disguise that of unwashed human body. On a single bedstead to one side of the room near the fireplace, a frail figure huddled under a heap of blankets and coats, coughing horribly in between rasping breaths.

  ‘Miss Badcoe, it’s Laura Brownlow. Mama sent me…I’m so sorry you’re ill…’ Laura faltered as she met Miss Badcoe’s desperate expression. The Miss Badcoe she knew from church was straight-backed, formal, neatly turned out, if forty years behind the fashion. Her boots were always polished, her gloves clean, her bonnet standing to attention along with the rest of her.

  If Laura had ever given the woman a second thought–which, she had to confess, she probably hadn’t–she would have imagined her living anywhere but here, in this bare room. It wasn’t quite a hovel, but…Laura looked round the room while Polly helped the old lady sit up and began to rearrange the bedclothes for her, trying to plump up the thin, lumpy pillows.

  The grate was full of cold ashes, the coal scuttle empty. There was at least a basin with a cold water tap, Laura noted. It stood by the only window, the curtains of which sagged half-open to reveal, through sooty glass, the grim back view of an edifice identical to this one.

  ‘Shall I go to buy coal, miss?’ Polly was asking her.

  Laura gave her some money for coal, milk and soap, then asked Miss Badcoe which room Mr Murray inhabited, intending to see if he had hot water. He proved to be next door and promised to boil some right away. ‘I give her tea this morning,’ he whined, ‘but I can’t hardly manage myself now. I ain’t no damned use to a lady by any method, begging yer pardon, miss.’ His eyes glittered with wicked humour. Laura, nervous of him, retreated. When, several minutes later, he hobbled in with a steaming kettle, she told him to place it by the fire and dropped a couple of coins into his hand.

  Her mind whirled as she set about her tasks, brewing a pot of tea from the scrapings in a caddy, taking out the food Mrs Jorkins had given her. She poured a bowl of warm water, found a worn towel and a tiny sliver of soap by the basin, then gently washed the sick woman’s face and neck, brushed her straggly ash-coloured hair. Polly returned and soon a fire crackled in the grate, though the smoke made Miss Badcoe cough. The chimney badly needed sweeping.

  All the time, running through Laura’s mind, were thoughts of Miss Badcoe, present at every Sunday-morning service; Miss Badcoe polishing brass, arranging flowers; Miss Badcoe, eschewing the hassocks, always kneeling direct on the stone floor to pray; Miss Badcoe, who was Mrs Fotherington’s cousin–‘on her father’s side’, as Miss Badcoe liked to add with a sniff. Laura didn’t recall the ladies ever even sitting together. She thought of Mrs Fotherington–lively, loud-voiced, with her strong views about everything and her fine house in Vincent Square. Mrs Fotherington, who had left all her money to the church and to her dear nephew (on her mother’s side) Stuart Jefferies; but nothing, it seemed, to this impoverished cousin. Of course, one didn’t know the background–who might have quarrelled with whom, or whether Mrs Fotherington had ever known the true circumstances of her father’s sister’s daughter, but even so, there was injustice here, Laura couldn’t help thinking.

  She reached for one of the line of grimy storage tins, in search of sugar for the tea. Salt, Sago, Sugar the labels read in careful spindly letters, the capital Ss as ornate as little harps. There was something about those ornate Ss that bothered her. She’d seen them before…in a letter! A letter that she’d picked up from her father’s desk. S for Scarlet. Scarlet woman.

  Suddenly, revelation dawned. Miss Badcoe was the secret letter-writer. Her mother’s worn face flashed into her mind, she saw dull defeat in her father’s eyes. For one wild second, she was so angry she felt like tipping the tea into Miss Badcoe’s lap. Then her vision cleared and she forced herself to focus with pity once more on this ailing bag of bones. Here was an elderly woman who had no one who loved her, no one to love; she would die unnoticed and unmourned unless she, Laura Brownlow, did something about it.

  She knelt down by the bed and helped Miss Badcoe sip her tea. Behind her, Polly waited for the fire to establish itself and hung a can of broth to warm. Laura sent her out to return the kettle to Mr Murray. When the door closed she said, ‘Miss Badcoe, it’s you, isn’t it, who writes those letters to my father.’

  The sick woman became as still as an old gnarled tree; her mouth set rigid like a knothole in the bark. She said nothing, only stared into the distance. Laura took the cup from her unresisting hands.

  ‘Miss Badcoe, I know it’s you, and I’m going to tell my father. He’ll tell Mr Bond and soon everybody will know.’

  She waited, watching Miss Badcoe consider all this. Finally the woman crumpled and wept.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ asked Polly, coming back into the room. Seeing Laura’s stern look she made to withdraw again, but Laura called out to her to go and fetch a doctor.

  ‘Miss Badcoe, why did you do it?’ Laura hissed. ‘Do you know what misery you’ve caused?’

  In between tears and coughing fits, the old lady confessed.

  For years and years, Ivy Badcoe had done her duty in life. She’d nursed her parents as they aged, sickened and died, losing all chance of marriage and having a family of her own. Her father had mismanaged his money and Ivy was left with practically nothing except her pride. Sunday after Sunday she had attended divine service, kept up appearances, placed her mite in the collection, done her duty in various ways. Yet, somehow, she was never noticed, never cared for; her stiff pride, her formal manners, kept everyone at a distance. She was one of those for whom society seemed to have no role but to assist others; she herself was not deemed to have a right to anything–not love, companionship or attention. She had watched the parish poor receive charity–indeed, she had contributed herself where she could, never thinking that she should ask for help in return. Oh no, her parents would have turned in their grave.

  She must have watched with some puzzlement as the Reverend Brownlow bestowed riches upon the church: beautiful new altar linen, with different sets for all the church seasons; the gold candlesticks; a jewel-encrusted processional cross. Her eyes were dazzled by all this beauty, she told Laura, but as the years passed and her limbs ached more and her breath grew shorter, she became frightened and her resentment grew. When Sarah Fotherington died and left part of her wealth to make a window, leaving nothing for her impoverished Cousin Ivy, something broke in Miss Badcoe’s heart.

  When Laura questioned her, she insisted that she had nothing to do with the violence to church property–nay, she abhorred it–but the vandalism inspired a way in which she could safely express her feelings. In anonymous letters she could pour out her hatred and frustration without anyone knowing who it was. But now everyone would know, she finished sadly, and she might as well be dead.

  ‘Oh really, it’s not that bad,’ said Laura softly, thinking that this woman had clearly suffered enough. ‘When Polly returns, I shall have to go, but please do not worry. I must tell my parents, but I will urge them to keep your secret. I know they will offer you nothing but pity. However, you must swear to write one more letter and one only: a letter of apology to my father. In it, I want you to ask for
one thing.’

  She studied the fearful rheumy eyes fixed on her.

  ‘You must ask them for a place in one of the almshouses. We cannot allow you to live here any longer.’

  Miss Badcoe lay still for a moment thinking. Then she said quietly, ‘I will do what you suggest.’

  Polly returned with only the promise of the doctor, but agreed to wait with Miss Badcoe until he came. Laura pressed the sick woman’s hand in hers and left, taking care down the steep staircase despite her haste. She hardly noticed her surroundings in her anxiety to get to her assignation in good time. She was certain that her charitable solution to the problem of Miss Badcoe would appeal to her parents. They would be glad that the writer of poisonous letters was found out; would be horrified at the thought that a vulnerable and otherwise respectable old lady be humiliated. Whether she could secure the poor woman a much-coveted place in one of the almshouses was another matter, but she would ask her father to influence the commissioners.

  She had been expected at Russell’s house in Lupus Street at ten. Instead it was gone eleven-thirty when she arrived, out of breath and dizzy with hunger. She wished she hadn’t told Polly that her parents shouldn’t delay luncheon.

  A skinny girl in a nurse’s uniform admitted her at the street door and led her into a large, airy drawing room. Laura realised that the girl was nursemaid to Philip’s son, and that the mysterious guest was the young boy himself. He knelt on the floor, his dark head close to Philip’s red-gold one, both absorbed in sketching lions and tigers on a large pad of paper. The nursemaid said something about preparing the boy’s luncheon and withdrew.

  ‘Laura,’ said Philip, rising stiffly and coming to take her hands.

  ‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t send a message.’ She explained about Miss Badcoe’s sickness.

  ‘You’re here, that’s what’s important. Laura, this is my son, John.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Laura, studying the boy’s smooth olive skin, his large black eyes and perfectly moulded lips. So, she thought with a jolt, he favours his mother rather than his father.

  He met her gaze solemnly, telling her, ‘My papa’s going to draw a nellyphant. Aren’t you, Papa?’ His voice was low, the words carefully pronounced, and yet there was a suppressed anxiety in his manner that made her say reassuringly, ‘Of course he will. Philip, we’d both like you to draw an elephant.’

  When a comic-looking pachyderm with raging tusks and bulging eyes had been duly made to gallop across the page, the nurse fetched the boy to the kitchen to eat bread and butter. After that he was to rest before their proposed outing.

  ‘He’s quietly behaved today,’ Philip whispered, lighting a pipe, which Laura had never seen him do before. ‘Sometimes he won’t settle. I think he’s taken to you.’

  ‘Oh, do you think so?’ She felt unconscionably pleased.

  ‘I do. Now, I’ve promised to show him the trains at Victoria Station, then we’re to see the Queen’s horses at the Royal Mews. After that, the girl returns him to his mama in Eaton Square. Will you accompany us?’

  Laura readily acceded, thinking how much he had changed since that day in the studio. He seemed solicitous of her now; anxious to please.

  They ate cold meat pie while John slept, then, at half-past one, they sallied forth with the boy between them, the girl, Kitty, hurrying behind.

  Laura was touched to see how well they were together, father and son, as they watched the trains draw in or leave the station. Philip even found a willing driver with time to take the boy into his cab and show him the controls.

  At first, when it was time to move on, John complained, but his nurse insisted, and he held his father’s hand, chattering happily enough, as they walked up Buckingham Palace Road towards the Royal Mews where Queen Victoria’s coaches and horses were kept.

  On the other side of the busy street a hackney carriage stopped to let passengers alight. A dandified gentleman with top hat and cane could be seen paying the driver. There was a lady behind him; her face was for the moment hidden as she smoothed the folds of her dress. Then she looked up. Laura drew a sharp breath.

  The boy followed the direction of her gaze. ‘Mama!’ he shrieked, and threw off his father’s hand, dashing into the road.

  ‘John!’ Philip leaped in immediate pursuit.

  Another carriage jangled up at a lick, overtaking the first; the snort of the horses like an urgent warning. Too late.

  ‘John, get back!’ screeched Marie, dodging out in front of the hackney.

  Philip grabbed his son from the path of the flailing hooves. Marie tumbled under them. Laura would never forget her scream; long, high-pitched, animal, as the wheels ran over her.

  That scream rang through her dreams for weeks, months, so that she woke in the early hours, shaking and sweating. Then she’d lie awake going over and over what had happened, wishing she could have done something. They should have anticipated John’s excitement, known that he was tired and a little anxious about being away from his mother. If only they’d recognised Marie another second before John did. In one tiny, fatal moment of distraction they’d failed this little boy, robbed him of his mother. Philip was forever stripped of hope, Marie’s parents had lost their beautiful daughter. So many people were suffering.

  Despair dragged her down. It seemed that all her recent sadnesses, her uncertainties, had been but waiting for this final blow.

  She wrote one short broken sentence to Philip–I feel so wretched for you both. My prayers are all for you…but heard nothing in return, though she watched the arrival of every post.

  The funeral came and went. Harriet read her the account from the newspaper. It had taken place in the fashionable St George’s Hanover Square, where Marie and Philip were married. The list of mourners included many famous names: Edward Burne-Jones, William Morris, John Ruskin, Alma Tadema, even the poet Swinburne winkled out of his lair for the spectacle.

  Laura told her parents about the accident. Of course she had to, since she was eventually escorted home, silent and white-faced in a cab by a police officer, to collapse weeping into her mother’s arms. But it was in Harriet that she confided her deepest feelings of guilt, which, as time passed and she had room to think, came to encompass not only her belief that she was somehow responsible for the accident by being there when she shouldn’t–but that her calumny had begun when she’d allowed her friendship with Philip to wander beyond the boundaries of propriety and good sense.

  In the journal, Fran read Laura’s outpourings of anguish and found herself weeping with her. By this scandal, I have deeply hurt everyone whom I love, Laura had written, slashed at the tender threads that bind us to one another.

  Although they never chided her, she could tell that her parents were disappointed. At church on Sunday it was apparent that the tragic event had become the latest gossip at firesides and dining-tables around the parish. Few of the women would meet Laura’s eye, and the men glanced at her curiously. No one actually said anything, but as she knelt to pray she felt all eyes on her.

  She took no comfort even from the letter that arrived from Miss Badcoe, and which her father had passed round the breakfast-table the day before, confessing to her calumnies and craving mercy.

  It has taken the intervention of your daughter to make me see how I might have been mistaken in my complaints. I respectfully ask for your understanding and your forgiveness. I deserve no more, except, I beg you, for your discretion. Even now, the stiff old lady was too proud to ask for practical help, so Laura explained on Miss Badcoe’s behalf. Mr Brownlow merely nodded, walked slowly away to his study without a word and shut the door.

  His wife expressed her feelings more strongly. ‘I cannot believe that a lady would know, let alone employ such language as she has done.’

  ‘She’s elderly and lonely…and perhaps a little mad, Mama,’ Laura said gently. ‘She deserves our pity.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Her mother sighed and capitulated as Laura knew she would. �
��But I shall never be able to consider her in the same way again. And does this explain all the damage? No, it doesn’t. Whatever shall become of us all?’

  They didn’t have to wait long for the rest of the mystery to be solved. Three nights later, on the Festival of St Michael and All Angels, one Alfred Cooper was apprehended, drunk and insensible, in the porch of the church. Two more windows had been broken, said the policeman who visited the rectory the following morning, and the man’s pockets were found to be full of stones. He’d confessed, giving the names of other villains he’d ensnared.

  Later that morning, a carriage and pair, briskly driven, rolled up outside the house and Harriet climbed out. There was no sign of baby Arthur. Instead, she was dragging a clearly reluctant Ida by the arm.

  ‘Ida, tell my parents what you told me, you wretched girl,’ she ordered, pulling off her gloves and settling back in her chair. Mr and Mrs Brownlow exchanged glances. Laura stood quietly by the window.

  ‘What is it, Ida?’ said Mr Brownlow, more gently, and gradually the white-faced maid stumbled out her story.

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong, sir. I was pulled all ways. I didn’t know what was right.’

  ‘It’s that man they’ve arrested,’ Harriet said. ‘Her father. Ida, go on, tell them properly. I caught you last evening, didn’t I? Giving him food. Which she’d stolen from my kitchen.’

  ‘I’m sorry, madam, I’ve told you I’m sorry,’ squeaked Ida. Humped up in misery, she was close to tears.

  ‘Now now, my dear, you’re with friends here,’ said Mrs Brownlow. ‘There’s nothing you can’t tell us.’

  Little by little, they extracted from her the whole story.