Miss Garnet's Angel Read Online Free PDF Page B

kissing and the boots amid the unspeaking elegance. She was relieved to see them depart, noisily snatching at the water in a carved high stoup by the door. Around the bowl more angels.
    One of the silent furred ones was wearing a wide-brimmed emerald hat. The woman was no younger than herself and Julia Garnet found she wanted just such a hat too. But surely this was not what the silence was for? Designing a wardrobe! Gently, like dripping honey, the quiet filled her pores, comforting as the dreamless sleeps she had fallen prey to. The angel over the inclining man gestured at the heavens; beneath him, another angel on the tomb looked with all-seeing, sightless eyes towards the angels on the holy-water stoup…
I
see an Innumerable company of the Heavenly host crying, ‘Holy, Holy, Holy!
…’ The silence was holy. What did ‘holy’ mean? Did it mean the chance to be whole again? But when had one ever been whole? Silently, silently the priest sat and in the nameless peace Julia Garnet sat too, thinking no thoughts.
    A slight stir on her right and someone had entered and waswanting to take the place beside her. A man crossing himself, but discreetly, thank God. Removing the Reverend Crystal from the seat she smelled tobacco and instantly her father was there, not in the days when he would remind her that cleanliness was next to godliness but in those last days when he was losing his mind and could smoke only under supervision. She had had to apologise to the nurses. ‘I am so sorry, he doesn’t know what he is saying,’ she had said, hearing with shame her self-righteous father’s demonic curses. And they would smile and tell her not to worry, it was all in a day’s work. But he did know what he was saying, Julia Garnet thought. And the nurses knew he knew.
    And now the priest had risen to his feet and they were all on their feet a little after him and a man with a bell had arrived and incense. Fervently, praise was given to ‘Signore’, (how nice that God should be a humble mister!) and there was singing and the amen. And then the furs were chatting to each other while she stood and drank in the blue Madonna and her stiff, truthful baby.
    â€˜You like our treasures?’
    It was the man who had sat beside her.
    â€˜How did you know I was English?’
    As if it were a reply the man said, ‘I have friends in England.’ Then, nodding at the mosaics, ‘Do you know the story?’ and enlivened for her the story of the removal of the saint’s remains. ‘We Venetians always take what we want,’ he laughed, and his eyes crinkled; a tall man, with white hair and a moustache.
    Coming down the steps beside her into the darkening Piazzetta he said, ‘Look, another example of our looting,’ pointing to the two high columns. ‘St Theodore with his crocodile was once our patron saint. But in fact this is not St Theodore at all—it is a Hellenistic statue which we have taken for our own. And opposite, you see, the lion of St Mark is not a lion at all—a chimera from the Levant we stuck wings on. All stolen! The columns too. Would you honour me by taking a glass of prosecco, perhaps?’ And he smiled, so that she omitted to say she had suddenly remembered she had left the Reverend Crystal behind on the chapel floor.
    Instead, why not? she decided, for no one waited for her return but aloud she said merely, ‘Thank you very much. That would be delightful,’ and felt proud of herself that she had added no objection.
    â€˜Good. I take you to Florian’s.’
    *    *    *
    â€˜But is this not very expensive?’ she could not prevent herself saying ten minutes later, as they sat, all gilt fruit and mirrored warmth, under the wreathed colonnades surrounding the Piazza.
    â€˜But of course!’ The man who had introduced himself as Carlo crinkled his eyes again. ‘Next time I shall take you to the