Page 23 of The House of Hopes and Dreams
‘I’ve a horrible suspicion that’s what he’s going to say to Ivan on Monday,’ Grant said gloomily.
‘But Ivan’s really handy! Besides, the few quid Julian used to slip him to supplement his pension would hardly break the bank.’
‘He’s opinionated, though, is old Ivan,’ Grant pointed out.
‘Well, so are you sometimes, Grant, and I don’t want you to lose your job, defending me or Ivan.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ he said. ‘I’ve decided I’ll look for another job, though it will have to be near enough to drive to, because Molly and I don’t want to move. Or then again, I might just set up on my own to do leaded light repairs. There’s always a big call for that and I’m not arty like you and Julian, so I don’t care much what I’m leading up, as long as I get paid for it.’
‘Yes, that’s an option,’ I agreed. Julian hadn’t been interested in repairs, only in creating new works of art, but if Grant, one of the best craftsmen in the business, chose that more mundane use for his skills, then it was a sad loss.
‘I’d not take on the restoration or conservation of old glass – that’s a matter for experts,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘But goodness knows, there are enough damaged front-door panels and broken chapel windows in that pink, yellow, blue and white machine-rolled glass that reminds me of Molly’s Battenburg cake. If there’s enough business, Ivan can come and bemyright-hand man.’
On Sunday I furtively skirted the cottage and popped into the workshop, because I’d left my sketchbook behind and didn’t want it lying around with Julian’s drawing of the angel’s head tucked into it.
As soon as I opened the door I could tell that someone – presumably Nat – had been in there. It was in the air, rather than in anything different, though one or two objects had been slightly displaced. I think he’d been checking on what I’d taken.
My sketchbook was still in my desk drawer, though, with the drawing safely tucked inside.
I wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow, when the workshop reopened under the new regime. But nothing mattered now: the cutting, painting and staining – the interpretation of Julian’s genius – was completed and whoever leaded up and cemented the remaining panels of the rose window couldn’t change that.
When Father returned, Mr Revell looked again at the window panel I’d made and said that he thought something similar would look very well in the inner hall at Mossby, to replace the plain opaque half-glazing.
‘It would be extra expense,’ Father pointed out, but Mr Revell simply shrugged.
‘Also, it would make the hallway darker,’ Father added, ‘though since you told me you’d had most of the interior painted white since I visited, that should not be a great issue.’
‘Perhaps later Miss Kaye might also design something for the window on the landing above the main staircase too,’ Mr Revell suggested.
‘I … should be very glad to,’ I stammered, dazzled by those strangely beautiful purple-blue eyes. Lavender, I thought confusedly. Yes, that’s the colour. Fresh lavender flowers …
‘Good!’ He gave me a beguilingly boyish smile, then turned to Father. ‘Mr Kaye, perhaps you could revisit Mossby to discuss the new changes – bringing Miss Kaye, too, of course, since she will wish to see the setting for her design.’
‘Well … I suppose that could be arranged,’ began Father, as taken aback by this unprecedented suggestion as I was myself. He was quite used to paying such visits by way of business, but Mr Revell being very much the gentleman, the social niceties of taking me with him were somewhat complicated.
‘Excellent: you must spend a weekend with us! My sister, Honoria, will be delighted to welcome you,’ he said, which made all clear.
And that was that: we were soon to travel north to Lancashire and I would see Mossby for myself!
10
Designs
Next morning the workshop officially reopened and I’d meant to turn up with Grant at half past eight, his usual time and now, presumably, also mine. But the previous night Nat sent me a terse message (did he ever send any other kind?) telling me to take the morning off in lieu of overtime and go in after lunch.
My first impulse was to ignore it – I mean, what would I do with myself if I wasn’t working, except grieve and worry? – but Grant persuaded me not to.
‘Let the dust clear a bit first. He’ll see the huge amount of work you’ve done over Christmas and realize just how important you are to the business. Then he might change his tune a bit.’
‘I doubt it,’ I said, though perhaps he had a point, and now Nat had gained possession of both the cottage and workshop, maybe he’d mellow a bit and be slightly more magnanimous in victory. But if I turned up anyway, he might take it as a sign I was still trying to assert my authority.
So instead I spent the morning watching Molly prepare a batch of Lancashire hotpots and vegetarian curry puffs for her freezer-filling service.
After that, fortified by the excellent Spanish omelette we had for lunch, I walked down to the workshop … and my feet began to lag, the closer I got to it.
My Pollyanna gene curled up in a corner and whimpered the moment I opened the side door because I knew, as I walked into a heavy air of discord, that things weren’t going the way Grant had hoped.
He and Ivan were leading up panels of the chapel windows on adjoining tables, and the sixth-form college term mustn’t have started yet, because Ivan’s teenage grandson, Louis, was busily stretching lead calme on the workbench, ready for use.
