The phoenix rises – remembering a remarkable man

Peter Gibson OBE, 1929 - 2016

I entered the cathedral at night, immediately overwhelmed by the vast space of half light and shadow play, drawing my eyes ever upwards to the ancient vaulted ceiling.  People were milling about, silently waiting in the near darkness for the light show to begin.  Phoenix.  A story of lightening, fire, devastation and loss when, in July 1984, the south transept of York Minster was consumed by flames.

York Minster fire, July 1984

I was 12 years old that summer.  I recall, vaguely, the media fuss and seeing my city on the TV.  The fundraising and rallying to rebuild.  The tales of how it might have been caused and, if it were an act of God, why strike this most beautiful place of prayer?  Yet my own intimate relationship with the cathedral, and its glass, would not begin for another two years.

When I was a teenager, my mum decided to turn to evangelical religion in her bitter disappointment at the lack of spiritual sanctuary available to divorced single mothers in the local Catholic churches.  We began to attend services at St Michael Le Belfry, a small church nestled next to the giant cathedral in the centre of York.  I enjoyed the lively services, filled with music, dance and sometimes people speaking tongues, which scared me a little if I’m honest.  I took to attending Sunday evening services alone or with friends.  And that is how I met Peter.

St Michael Le Belfry Church, York

Peter was a quiet, reserved, yet friendly gentleman who, as Church Warden, always met and greeted worshippers as they arrived.  He was kind and welcoming, smart in appearance and well-respected.  I took to arriving late for church so I could sit in the back and chat with him during services.  At over 40 years my senior, I looked up to him almost as a surrogate father figure.  I had no dad in my life, and in my heart, he began to fill that space.  We would talk about my school work, with him encouraging me to do my best, otherwise I’d end up like him, a mere window cleaner.  I still remember how proud he was when I got a place at university, reading Classics.

Our friendship developed and I’d often walk into town to visit him in the glazier’s studio where he worked.  You see, Peter wasn’t just any window cleaner.  He was a master craftsman, with a life time’s experience of curating the beautiful stained and painted glass of York Minster.  I’d arrive (often unannounced) at the little wooden door to the glazier’s studio and he would generously let me accompany him upstairs to where the restoration work occurred.  It was there that I saw the rose window, in pieces, that had been badly damaged by the 1984 fire.  Peter explained how the glass had miraculously survived the blaze, but had been cracked into thousands of pieces.  He showed me how glaziers were painstakingly sandwiching each piece of shaped glass between two layers of modern glass, to preserve it and enable it to be reassembled and refitted in the south transept.  Looking back, I don’t think I fully grasped the enormity of this task and how privileged I was to see the process up close.  He gifted me a copy of the book he had written and took me on a personal tour of the cathedral windows and their hidden history.  When I first visited Paris, aged 15, he instructed me to look upon the gothic rose windows of the Notre Dame cathedral, older than their cousin here in York, in order to further appreciate the craftsmanship of medieval glaziers.

Peter’s book

Other days, Peter would pull out samples of glass from across the ages and task me with putting them in age order.  He would point out the techniques used in medieval glass compared to the vibrant, jeweled colours preferred by Victorian artists.  My passion for glass grew and I happily listened to his expertise.  One time, we went on a day trip to Scarborough, as Peter wished me to see some important Victorian stained glass windows in a church there.  On the way, he pointed out the cats’ eyes demarcating the road.  He told me the man who invented these was less financially successful than the one who patented the rubber casing the reflective glass was held in.  These wipe the glass clean as cars drive over them, rendering them effective without other intervention.  I still think of Peter when I see cats’ eyes reflecting my car headlights or when I bump over them, cleaning them!  Peter remained a firm friend throughout my time at university and we regularly exchanged letters, meeting up socially when I returned home.

Me and Peter at an engagement party, c.1991

My focus once more back in the cathedral, lights flickered and music played, whilst a series of stunning images danced across the surface of the cathedral’s Great West Window.  I stood, transfixed, as the story of the fire unfolded in a dazzling montage of colour, light and sound. Included were clips of people speaking about the impact of that one night on many lives and the painstaking process of restoration that followed. 

The music softened and a beautiful image of the rose window filled the west wall.  And suddenly, it was Peter’s voice I heard, speaking of how he had worked to restore this precious piece of our city’s heritage.  His elegant articulation brought me back to years of conversations and correspondence, based on a shared love of history and a passion for the cathedral I now stood in.  Peter had often spoken to me of the presences he felt and the strange sights he’d seen when he worked late at night, alone within the minster, save for the Minster Police.  I sensed him beside me then, looking on in admiration at the retelling of the story he had dedicated his working life to.  I felt strongly that he was pleased I had found my way back to our cathedral and would be linked more closely to it through my new role.  The grief I felt for a friendship that helped shaped me in my most impressionable years took my breath away.  This man had watched me grow from a curious and naïve teenager into a mature woman with children of her own and had gifted me with an enduring love of cathedrals and fascination with the jeweled glass they contained.

With a surprising recognition, in that moment, of the way our lives are interlinked, across generations and beyond physical death, I softly recited the poem Peter taught me:

A man that looks on glass, on it may stay his eye;

Or if he pleaseth, through it pass, and then the heaven espy.

George Herbert, 1593-1632