by Rachel Hore
Dad had underscored the names of anyone who had actually owned Minster Glass and Samuel was one of them. Philip and Marie’s son John was not. In brackets next to his name, Dad had written Joined maternal grandfather’s shipping business. Maybe John had inherited that palazzo in Verona, too.
Laura had given birth to five children. All of them had survived to reach maturity, I was glad to see, but a different mortality was to strike their generation. Her third son died in 1915, aged thirty. It was impossible to tell from the simple chart how he died, but easy to believe it was at the front in France or Belgium.
I gazed around the attic, wondering what other secrets were hidden here. Maybe there’d be a photograph of Laura somewhere; if not with the business archives, somewhere else, downstairs. When I had more time, I’d search. And maybe one day I’d carry on writing Dad’s history of Minster Glass. I felt that’s what he would have wanted.
Chapter 42
May the archangel Raphael accompany us along our way, and may we return to our homes in peace, joy, and health.
Catholic Prayer
‘Hold it up higher. Higher. There now, don’t move while I look.’
Amber marched outside and posed, head to one side, hands on hips, to make her judgement. A lifting gesture with her hands and Anita’s lodger Larry, teetering on a chair, raised the new angel another six inches on its chain. Amber frowned and signed again. Down half an inch, the angel swaying dangerously, and she nodded enthusiastically. He slipped the link over the hook above the window and stepped down with obvious relief.
‘She’s a hard woman to please, that Amber,’ he moaned, rubbing his aching arms.
‘Don’t think you’ve finished yet, Larry. When you’ve recovered there’s the champagne to unpack,’ I told him, smiling, and left him hefting bottles onto the table next to the glasses whilst I went outside to join Amber.
We contemplated the new angel with satisfaction. Amber had made her entirely by herself. In colour and design, as we had both agreed we wanted, she was similar to the one destroyed in the fire. But, of course, under Amber’s hands she had come out slightly differently. She looked younger, this angel, and more feisty than Dad’s 1970s’ version.
‘She’s beautiful,’ I told Amber. And now that she was in place, the shop was truly ready. I checked my watch. ‘Only half an hour till people start arriving.’
‘I’ll help Anita bring the sandwiches,’ Amber said. I watched her vanish into the café, thinking how assured she had grown over the previous couple of months. It was the beginning of February and she had been enrolled on a local college course for a month, spending much of her time on her special project, this angel. Her relationship with Larry was gentle, slow-flowering, but they were natural together, as happy as sandboys. Larry had recently begun his training in hotel management. I wondered what Mrs Finnegan back in County Kerry would think of a half-Egyptian girl for her beloved youngest, and crossed my fingers that Amber’s guileless charm–and her love of angels–would make everything all right.
I gave the window one more glance then went back into the shop to help Larry.
‘It’ll be a squash in here,’ I told him as he polished glasses with a professional flourish. ‘But we can always spill over into the workshop.’
‘Or out the door,’ he agreed. ‘It’s such a lovely day for a party.’
And it was. A beautiful, unseasonably warm Saturday. There had been frost on the garden when I’d gone out first thing, but this had quickly melted, leaving dew sparkling on the branches and shrubs. Now even that had evaporated and everything looked fresh.
The party for the reopening of Minster Glass was Amber’s idea, too. The builders had worked incredibly hard over the last five weeks, making good the structure, rewiring and decorating the whole of the ground floor, restoring the floorboards and fittings. Instead of the old musty whiff, the air was redolent with woodstain and fresh paint. The shelves were packed with new glass, the ceiling dotted with coloured lampshades, the walls sparkling with mirrors and glass picture frames. Like Amber’s angel, everything had been restored to look like the vanished old, but couldn’t stop itself looking new. I could live with that.
I was delighted with it all, especially the new lighting, and I hoped that Zac, when he came home, would be pleased with the workshop, with its smart shelving, state-of-the-art work-tables and machines. If he comes home, a little voice said inside me.
Late on New Year’s Day, he’d phoned to say that he’d decided to go travelling. ‘It seems crazy not to, now I’m here,’ he said, and although I was disappointed I tried not to let him know it. There was something different in his voice, a lightness I’d not heard before. He’d seen Olivia two or three times more over the holiday, he told me, and then, on the spur of the moment, he’d bought a plane ticket to Sydney.
A week later, a postcard of the harbour arrived, marked with a tiny cross on the skyline: My hostel here. A week after that a picture of Ayers Rock at sunset slipped onto the Quentins’ doormat. Finally, last week, a fleet of brightly coloured fish announced that he’d reached the Barrier Reef. Scrawled on the back was, You won’t believe the amazing things I’ve seen. The landscape’s spectacular, the blue of the sea like light through opalescent glass. See ya, Zac xxx.
I propped it up on the bookshelf next to the others, picked them up one by one and studied them. There was no mention of coming home. He hadn’t phoned for a couple of weeks, apart from leaving a message several evenings before, when we were all out. It said something about being ‘on the hoof’ and that he’d ring again. He hadn’t. I had no address for him except the Quentins’ friends in Melbourne. In the end I got fed up with wondering and wrote to them enclosing a letter for Zac. It was a newsy letter; I hoped the light tone would disguise how much I’d agonised over it. I reminded him how beautiful London was in the pale January light, told him I’d been asked to play the Vaughan Williams Tuba Concerto at a music festival in Birmingham the following month, that his friend David sent his best. Oh, and that the shop was nearly finished, and there was already a backlog of orders building. It didn’t feel right to plead with him to return. He needed space. But I prayed that thoughts of life going on here without him would make him want to come home.
I passed the letter across the post office counter and turned to leave. Suddenly I wished that I’d been warmer, that I’d begged him to get in touch, to come home. But it was all too late. I could only wait and see.
Now I opened the shop door to let Anita and Amber in with their trays of little sandwiches, then helped them lay everything on the counter next to the stack of paper plates and serviettes.
‘I’m so glad you’ll open again, dear,’ said Anita, brushing away my thanks. ‘It’s bad for business having a burned-out shop next door. This’ll be good for all of us. Oh, I don’t know how you can stand all these mirrors. I wouldn’t be able to get away from myself.’
I laughed.
‘They make it ever so sparkly and bright,’ said Amber, spinning round the room in a little dance.
‘Amber…’
‘Careful of the GLASSES,’ Larry yelled, just in time.
‘Look–guests!’ I said, spotting Jo and Dominic walking down the pavement towards us, hand-in-hand. ‘And there are the Quentins.’ Jeremy was cradling a vast bouquet.
‘Don’t worry, I’m always careful with the corks,’ Larry said, catching my anxious eye as he twisted the wire off a champagne bottle.
Soon the shop was full of people. Zac’s friends David and Janie brought their children, who soon went off to play in the garden. Ra came from the hostel. Everything had settled down there now. Cassie and Lisa had both been charged with offences to property and bailed. They had been sent to other accommodation. The vicar’s wife had visited them once or twice. Though accused of the worse offence, Cassie was so obviously remorseful there was a good chance that her crime would be seen for what it was–a thoughtless prank that had gone badly wrong. Lisa, though, was a harder case, had rea
cted aggressively to attempts to help her. ‘But she’s exactly the wrong kind of person to send to prison,’ Sarah sighed, and I had to agree.
‘Amber is so happy now,’ Ra whispered to me, sipping Buck’s fizz. ‘The change in the girl is astonishing.’
‘She’s easy to help,’ I said.
‘And lucky to find someone like you to give her a chance. That’s all some of these youngsters need.’ I smiled. Ra couldn’t have been more than thirty himself, but with his round wire glasses and earnest expression he seemed fatherly.
‘Fran, how are you? This is all simply marvellous.’ Mrs Armitage sailed up in a cloud of scent, her husband close behind. ‘I’ve been showing the children’s panels to all my friends, you know. You mustn’t be surprised if you get a few orders.’
‘Well, thank you,’ I said. ‘Amber will be delighted to hear that.’
Michael and Nina arrived shortly afterwards. ‘Sorry we’re late. Nina had a rehearsal,’ said Michael, shaking my hand. ‘She’s started work with a new pianist,’ he whispered confidentially, as Nina fetched them drinks. ‘Have you heard? About Ben, I mean.’
‘What?’ I looked around for Ben. After um-ing and ah-ing I’d decided to invite him, but there was no sign of him.
Before Michael could reply, we were interrupted. ‘An excellent party, Miss Morrison. The champagne’s superb.’ It was the bookseller, his wild hair carefully combed down for the occasion. He introduced himself to Michael and soon they were talking hammer and tongs about first editions of James Joyce, and I went over to speak to Jeremy, who was studying one of the lamps in the window. ‘Sarah has been admiring this lovely thing,’ he said, ‘and I was wondering whether it was a hint for me to buy it for her. Do you think she means it?’
‘I think it would look beautiful in your living room,’ I said, my mind working quickly. ‘But I want to make you both a present of it. To say thank you.’
‘Oh, there’s no need to do that,’ he said, looking embarrassed.
‘If Sarah really does like it, then I insist.’ I smiled, turning as Sarah came to join us. Jeremy explained and Sarah looked as excited as a small child.
‘Thank you so much. That’s so kind of you. But you know dear, we’ve loved having you.’
‘And I’ve loved being with you both. Now I’ve lost Dad, it’s like having another family.’
‘I know,’ said Sarah, hugging me, ‘and that’s how we feel about you, isn’t it, Jeremy? I’m so glad the shop looks so lovely and it’ll be wonderful to sort out your flat. Was it next week they were going to make a start?’
‘Yes, so I won’t be taking up space in your house that much longer.’
‘Take as long as you need to. You know that.’
‘Thank you.’
Jeremy cleared his throat. ‘I had a strange letter from Ben earlier. It’s…well, it’s a letter of resignation.’
‘Oh!’ This must be the news Michael had meant. I felt suddenly strange. ‘Why?’
‘He’s been offered some amazing job in the States, conducting a new orchestra. Boston, I think his letter said. It starts at Easter.’
‘Boston? Really?’ I couldn’t believe it. Not that he wasn’t talented, but he wasn’t known as a conductor. How an earth had he blagged his way into that?
Michael appeared and explained. ‘This chap from the Phil came to the concert and was impressed by Ben, apparently. He thought of him when an American colleague mentioned that they were recruiting. Put in a word for him. It’s connected with some college there, so he gets his accommodation thrown in.’ Michael laughed. ‘Always falls on his feet, does Ben.’
Lucky Ben. Once again, then, he was flitting on to the next opportunity, not ever really having to face the mess he left behind; going on undoubtedly to create more havoc. Part of me was glad. It wasn’t easy having him living across the Square, a constant reminder of my foolishness. And maybe with him abroad, Michael and Nina would have more of a chance together.
‘It’s a nuisance for the choir,’ I said.
‘Yes, and the church. Still, they’ve got a couple of months to sort it out, and there are always people around who can fill in for a bit.’
I moved on to talk to David, who hadn’t heard from Zac either; then, feeling slightly depressed, I introduced myself to a woman on her own who turned out to be a friend of one of our best customers. She hinted at the possibility of a big commission for some luxury flats she and her husband were designing out of a deconsecrated chapel. ‘The old glass is poor quality and a new design will make a splendid centrepiece to the common staircase,’ she said.
‘It sounds right up our street,’ I told her firmly. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Quite who’d design it without Zac here, I didn’t know. But I couldn’t turn business away. Perhaps David would do it as a freelance job.
It was well after three before everybody left. Then there was just Jo and Dominic, Amber and myself clearing away. Larry had to go to work and Anita had returned next door. Finally there was just me, locking up the shop.
I stood there on the pavement, in my coat and beret, looking up at Minster Glass just as I had done a few months ago, on my return to London. How much had changed in that short time.
I’d lost my father and found my mother. I’d helped recreate a beautiful window and, in the course of it, discovered a whole story from the past about people who belonged to me and about this shop that was now mine. Whatever happened–whether Zac came home or not–I’d found my place in the world.
It was late afternoon of the following Tuesday, and I was in the living room of my flat piling papers and books into boxes in preparation for its decoration. The men had started with my bedroom, moving most of the furniture into Dad’s room. I’d just found an ancient address book of Dad’s and, following up a hunch, had turned to B for Beaumont. In my mother’s rounded handwriting, familiar from her inscription in the Edward Burne-Jones book, was written John and Lily Beaumont, followed by an address in Suffolk. My grandparents were dead, of course, and someone else would live there now. What was more useful was the name underneath, Gillian Beaumont. Dad’s letter had mentioned my mother having a sister. The address, a hospital nurses’ home, would be out of date, and if she’d married she’d have a different name. But maybe, just maybe, if I wanted to at some point, I could try to find out what had happened to her. It was an exciting thought, that I might have an aunt somewhere, even cousins.
While I was thinking about this I looked idly out of the window. The sun had disappeared now and the February afternoon was settling down into gloomy twilight. The bare trees shivered in a slight wind. There were two or three people crossing the garden. A woman in black high heels with a briefcase, her head held high; a shabby old man in a duffel coat limping along and, in the distance, a tall figure trudging under the weight of a rucksack.
My eye was drawn to the backpacker. He had untidy black hair and a beard, I saw as he came closer, and although he seemed dragged down by the weight of his burden he was walking quickly, eagerly. There was something about his gait that reminded me of Zac. But then, so many things reminded me of Zac. I watched him a moment longer and all the time a suspicion grew inside me until it became a certainty: it was Zac.
I’m not sure how I got down those stairs and out of the shop. Perhaps, like the angels in heaven, I flew. All I know is that I was on the pavement and it was Zac and he stopped and we stared at each other from opposite sides of the road, and then he shrugged off his backpack and held out his arms and I was nipping between the hooting cars and into his arms.
‘So when did your plane land and why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’ I asked, breaking away from our embrace to look at him. He’d changed, there was no doubt about it. It wasn’t just the hair and the beard and the fact that his pale skin was burned by the sun, there was something different about his expression. His face was more open. He looked free and happy.
‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘Give me a moment to breathe. I’m trying t
o take all this in.’ We were back in the shop now and I was amused when he started looking around at everything, literally open-mouthed.
‘Why didn’t you say you were coming?’ I couldn’t help asking. ‘I’d have gone to meet you.’
‘I wanted to surprise you,’ he called over his shoulder.
‘You certainly did that.’ Why didn’t you write for so long? I wanted to say. Or phone? But something made me hold back. The old nervousness and fear.
‘Sorry. He-ey, look at this! Wow!’ He’d pushed open the door to the workshop now and I followed in after him. He went straight across to the sparkling new kiln and started opening all the little doors, pulling out the trays, then turned the new ceiling lights on and off. ‘This is amazing.’
‘There’s an etching tool arriving, too,’ I gabbled, ‘and you should say if there’s anything else you need. That is—’ I stopped, remembering that I didn’t even know what his plans were. He might not want to come back and work here at all.
‘What were you saying?’ he prompted, coming over and taking me in his arms once more. It was a while before I could answer.
‘Zac,’ I said, pushing him gently away. Then giving him my sternest look, I said, ‘The best thing to do right now is surely to go up and open a bottle.’
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t in touch much after Melbourne,’ he said, taking a gulp of his wine. We were sitting amidst the mess in the living room now, both of us on the sofa, not quite touching. ‘I had a sort of crisis, I suppose. It was great seeing Olivia, really great, and I got on quite well with Shona, considering everything. You know, she’s thinking about bringing Olivia over, maybe next year if she can get the time off work. So I’ll see her then, show her around London. Maybe I could take her up to Glasgow to meet Dad.’