The Glass Guardian

by Linda Gillard

  There was, of course, no blood.

  Nor was there any mud.

  But the wardrobe was still in its new position.

  Breakfast was a cup of tea and two paracetamol. It was all I could face. When I thought it was a respectable hour to call, I rang Tom and said with studied casualness, ‘Hi, Tom, It’s Ruth. Sorry to bother you. I’ve got a rather strange query about furniture. Have you got a minute?’

  ‘Of course. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure it’s a problem, exactly. Not yet. I’m just curious. How well do you know the inside of this house?’

  ‘Pretty well, I suppose.’

  ‘Upstairs?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been up there a few times doing jobs for Janet. And I’ve been in the loft.’

  ‘Do you remember a double-fronted mahogany wardrobe in the passageway upstairs?’

  ‘The one that would take a rugby team to move it?’

  There was a brief pause in which I struggled to regain my composure. ‘Yes, that’s the one. Do you happen to know if there’s anything behind it? Anything important I mean. A safe? A secret passage? Priest’s hole, that sort of thing?’

  ‘No, there isn’t. It’s an external wall.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘There’s just a window behind it.’

  ‘Really? I don’t remember seeing that from outside.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. A dirty great rowan tree has grown up in front of it. That was on my list of things to discuss with Janet, but then she had her fall. The rowan’s far too close to the house. It’ll be damaging the foundations.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Ruth, is something wrong? You sound worried.’

  ‘No, it’s nothing! It was just that... well, I was thinking about getting rid of that wardrobe. It’s a real eyesore and it takes up so much room. If there’s a window behind it, then so much the better. That area could do with more light.’

  ‘Ah, but that’s the thing, you see. That’s why Janet had the wardrobe put there.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘It’s not an ordinary window.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’ve never actually seen it, Janet just told me about it. But surely you must remember it from when you stayed there as a child? It’s stained glass, apparently.’

  ‘I don’t think I remember it. Did Janet ever say why she’d covered it up?’

  ‘No. Just that it was gloomy. And she didn’t want to be brooding about dead people all the time.’

  ‘Dead people?’ I asked, in a very small voice.

  ‘Yes. It’s a memorial window. There were three originally. One for each son who fell in the Great War. One of the windows was badly damaged in a storm and another got taken out when Janet had the conservatory built. But there’s one left. It’s behind that wardrobe.’

  First of all, I tried to sell it. I rang some dealers and told them I had a Victorian double-fronted wardrobe in good condition and would they like to come and value it? Then I told them it was on the Isle of Skye. Assurances that Skye had long been connected to the mainland by a bridge made little impression. Their response remained cool. Just the one piece?... They were sorry, it wasn’t worth their time and petrol... The market for Victoriana was very slow... Nobody had room for big pieces nowadays and what with the recession...

  It was the same with every dealer I spoke to. After that I tried giving the wardrobe away. Tom put the word out on the Skye jungle drums that the piece was free to anyone who was prepared to take it away.

  No response.

  Then I rang the charity shops in Inverness and Fort William and asked if they could relieve me of my white elephant, or if they knew someone who would? I drew another blank. One enterprising soul suggested I put it on eBay, but I said I was in a hurry. I wanted the piece out of the house as soon as possible.

  I didn’t tell her why.

  Tom obliged me by cutting down the rowan tree that was obscuring the memorial window from outside. This proved to be vastly entertaining. He chose a fine day for the job, so I had a good excuse to sit outside on a bench, swaddled in a big scarf and jumper, while I enjoyed the last of the autumn sunshine and Tom’s lumberjack cabaret.

  Despite his plastic goggles, he looked awesomely macho, perched in the tree like Tarzan, dealing death to the old rowan with his chainsaw. Gradually, as branches fell, the house wall and then the window itself emerged. We could now see how big it was, but, as stained glass is colourless and dark from the outside, we could discern no clear picture.

  When he’d finished, we stood under the window beside the sad stump of rowan. Removing his goggles, Tom said, ‘You’re sure you don’t remember it from when you were a kid?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘But then, you forgot Heckie,’ he said reproachfully.

  ‘No. Heckie forgot me.’

  We contemplated the mutilated corpse of the tree, spread across the lawn. It now took up much more space than when it was upright.

  Tom kicked a log. ‘Shall I cut this lot up for firewood?’

  ‘I’ve got a log splitter. And I know how to use it.’

  ‘Quicker with the saw. And easier. You won’t be able to use the logs this year, but we could stack them to dry. Or if you don’t want them, I can take them away. I’ve got a wood-burner. So’s my neighbour.’

  I hesitated. I felt bad enough about chopping the tree down, even though Tom had convinced me it was damaging the house. For purely sentimental reasons, I was reluctant to give the wood away, but it was unlikely I’d ever use it as fuel. Even if, in my most optimistic moments, I dreamed of keeping on Tigh-na-Linne as a holiday home, I knew I’d never stay here in winter.

  ‘Leave me half,’ I said finally. ‘Take the rest away, but leave me some for old times’ sake. I’ll feel less guilty about the rowan if I think I’m going to recycle some of it.’

  So while I stood and watched, Tom reduced the mountain of branches and trunk to a much smaller mountain of logs. The sun was higher now and he’d removed his thick work shirt. Sweat was beginning to show through his short-sleeved T-shirt. I sat, frankly entranced, for there was much to admire: the breeze lifting his sun-gilded curls, now darkened with sweat; the play of light and shadow on the muscles of his bare arms; the springy agility of his long limbs as he moved nimbly round tree trunk and branch. Arboricultural porn... Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.

  Dragging myself away, I went indoors and made some coffee. Remembering the sweat Tom had worked up, I placed a glass and a carton of apple juice on the tray, then added a tin of biscuits. It wasn’t really warm enough to picnic outside, but I was reluctant to sit indoors on such a fine day and Tom was clearly the hardy type.

  I took the tray outside. When there was a lull in the whining of the chain saw, I called out, ‘Coffee? Or there’s juice if you’re thirsty.’

  He switched off the chain-saw and removed his goggles. When he arrived beside me, I stared at his damp face and arms.

  ‘You’re covered in sawdust!’

  ‘Unavoidable by-product of felling trees,’ he replied lifting the glass of juice.

  ‘Do you want to have a shower here when you’ve finished? You must be so uncomfortable! And I hate to think of you getting any in your eyes.’

  ‘I’m used to it,’ he replied, helping himself to a biscuit. ‘If it was a bit earlier in the year, I’d go and jump in the sea. But maybe not today.’ He finished his juice, then started on his mug of coffee. ‘Ruth, about that wardrobe...’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, don’t shoot me down in flames, but I have a suggestion.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Let me dismantle it.’

  I must have flinched in horror because he laughed, then laid a hand on my shoulder. I could feel the heat of his big hand through my sweater.

  ‘I know it seems wicked,’ he continued, ‘but the wood wouldn’t be wasted. You could keep the mirror and hang it on
a wall. It might look good in one of the bathrooms. The rest could be re-cycled. I know a good joiner who’d make you a superb bookcase out of that wood.’

  ‘But... it’s so old.’

  ‘And so in the way.’

  ‘It’s a genuine antique!’ I protested.

  ‘And genuinely hideous. What’s more to the point, it takes up a lot of space in front of a period window. You can’t re-locate it because there’s nowhere to move it to. Plus we’d need a team of men to move it. Unless you can persuade the buyer to keep it, you’ll have to get rid of it when you sell.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Look, think of it this way: in terms of selling the house, that wardrobe won’t do you any favours, but the window might. The hall will be lighter, even if the window’s an eyesore. And it must have some historic value, I suppose, if it’s in good condition. Perhaps you could remove it and sell it to a specialist dealer. A window’s much more portable - and saleable - than that brute of a wardrobe.’

  I tilted my head to one side and looked at him. ‘You really don’t like it, do you?’

  He grinned. ‘I’m just worried you’re going to ask me to move it to some other part of the house.’

  ‘No, I think you’re just a wrecker at heart. I was watching you dismember that tree.’

  ‘You were, weren’t you?’ Now it was his turn to treat me to an appraising look. ‘Hope you enjoyed the show.’ My mouth opened, then shut again, in what must have been a thoroughly unattractive fashion. Tom seemed to savour my confusion for a moment, then continued. ‘Destruction can be exciting, but I prefer planting things to chopping them down. Both are necessary though. Dead wood has to be cut away, so something new can grow in its place. You know that. You’re a gardener. That wardrobe is dead wood, Ruth. Let it go.’

  I sighed and said, ‘OK. Do your worst. But I want to keep the mirror. And be careful of the window, won’t you? If we damaged that, I don’t think Janet would ever forgive me.’

  ‘She’s dead, Ruth!’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me that!’ I snapped, blinking back tears.

  Tom bowed his head. ‘Sorry. That was a really stupid thing to say.’ Exasperated, he ran a hand through his hair, shedding sawdust. ‘I’m getting out of line. We’re employer/employee now, not ten-year old playmates.’

  ‘We’re both,’ I said gently.

  ‘Yes, we are.’ That look again from those dark eyes, a look that seemed to be both invitation and warning. ‘Maybe we could be more.’

  ‘Oh, Tom - let’s not complicate things!’ Then, already regretting my brush-off, I laid my hand on his bare forearm, dislodging more sawdust. ‘Not yet anyway.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Ruth. You’re the boss.’

  Chapter Four

  Dr Athelstan Blake began to nag me - in the nicest possible way - about Janet’s papers. I suppose he found it hard to believe the world wasn’t waiting impatiently for his book to be published. Even in his emails, his excitement and enthusiasm for his subject was palpable...

  Dear Ms Travers

  In your last email you were good enough to suggest we might correspond on the subject of my research into your aunt’s musical output. I was wondering if you could give me any preliminary pointers regarding the great change in style that occurred some time after she returned home to Skye. (1956?) It’s been assumed that the island itself proved inspirational, but in my view, her compositions don’t actually show any marked change until she’d been living there for a couple of years. This development occurs some time after the final illness and death of her father (although there may, of course, be no connection between her loss and the radical change in her work.)

  Although it’s been assumed Skye was the source of her inspiration, the music of this period is very personal, by which I mean, it’s about people and much of it is written for the voice. This is not at all what I would expect from a composer inspired by their rugged native landscape.

  It’s this “personal” characteristic that has, I fear, led to some critics’ dismissal of Janet Gillespie’s work as “domestic”. This in turn has led to her being viewed primarily as a female composer (which we both believe has done your aunt a great disservice!) Sadly, the world of classical music is shamefully misogynist and inclined to downgrade - sometimes ignore - female composers.

  When you eventually go through your aunt’s papers, it would be very helpful if you could sort the manuscripts, letters, diaries, etc. into two categories:

  1. Those written before her father died, i.e. pre-1958.

  2. Those written afterwards.

  There’s a period of a year or so when Janet (I hope I may refer to your aunt as Janet?) composed nothing at all (at least, as far as I’m aware.) This coincides with the deterioration of her father’s health, his death and the period in which she had to adjust to living alone at Tigh-na-Linne.

  After this “sabbatical”, there followed an outpouring of very different work, some of it brilliant, much of it pre-occupied with death and indeed with men. Yet Janet never married, nor was her name ever linked romantically with anyone else’s. I have no wish to pry, Ms Travers, but if you have any information about your aunt’s personal relationships, it might enable me to interpret her musical output more accurately. In particular, I’ve long been curious as to the identity of “Frieda”, to whom the first song cycle, In Memoriam (1959) is dedicated. You will remember that the songs portray an ardent young man addressing his distant beloved. A familiar enough theme, but the fact that Janet dedicated the cycle to an unknown woman has given rise to speculation.

  I fear I’m over-burdening you with my enquiries, but if you should have time to address any of these issues (particularly the stylistic watershed of the ‘50s) I would be most grateful.

  With very best wishes,

  Athelstan

  In the light of what Tom had told me about the close friendship between Janet and his mother, it seemed possible that the speculation about Janet’s love life might have some foundation. But Frieda could not have been a code name for Tricia. As far as I knew, Janet hadn’t met Tricia before those idyllic summer holidays in the seventies and eighties and In Memoriam was written many years earlier.

  Athelstan’s request to sort Janet’s papers chronologically was a reasonable one and something within my capabilities. Given Janet’s obsession with order, it seemed likely she’d have dated everything. Perhaps she’d even filed it all away in date order. Then I remembered I’d dropped a load of her work on the floor when I registered the state of her piano. I hadn’t been in to the room since and those papers would still be on the floor where I’d left them.

  Or I hoped they would.

  I postponed tackling the big sort-out until a day when Tom was in the house, upstairs dismantling the wardrobe. I’d found his presence companionable and generally reassuring, except when I became aware of a certain tension between us, which I suspected was sexual on both sides, but we knew each other both too well and not nearly well enough to do anything about it. I didn’t examine what I felt about Tom, I simply gave myself a variety of reasons for not getting involved.

  I was too busy. It was too soon after David’s death. I wasn’t that attracted to him. It would complicate our working relationship.

  But only the last of these was true.

  Yes, I was busy during the day, tidying the garden, sorting through Janet’s possessions and dealing with correspondence, but my evenings were lonely and usually entailed falling asleep over a book or in front of the TV. Naps in the evening meant I then found it hard to sleep at nights. Whenever I heard (or imagined) noises, I would lie in bed thinking of Tom and how much safer I’d feel with a big, capable man in the room. Or in the bed. Then once I’d started to think about him, it became quite hard to get him out of my mind, especially as I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted him out of my mind. Or my bed.

  It certainly wasn’t too soon after David’s death. Before it ended, that relationship had dwindled into a comfortable friendship
. Our lovemaking was no longer passionate, nor all that frequent and I’d decided I was too young at forty-two to settle for the cosy slippers-by-the-fire scenario which seemed to suit David.

  Nor was it true to say I wasn’t attracted to Tom. I was. But only in a physical way. Because I’d known him as a boy, I felt as if I must know him as a man, but the fact was, I didn’t. I didn’t know if he’d ever been married, or why he was unattached. I didn’t know much about his relationship with Janet, nor who his friends were. Tom was an unknown quantity, but also a solid, physical presence around the house and garden, capable and self-contained, all of which appealed to me in my emotionally exhausted state. But now was not the time to rush in to a new relationship with a man I hardly knew. Especially as I paid his wages.

  So while Tom dismantled the wardrobe, I found three cardboard boxes and labelled them “Pre-1958”, “Post-1958” and “Unknown.” I entered the music room with a certain amount of trepidation, but I could hear Tom at work upstairs. (The sound of him swearing was particularly comforting.)

  The grand piano was still closed and Janet’s archive was still on the floor.

  So far, so good.

  I collected up the papers and piled them on top of the piano and began to sort. As I expected, everything was dated clearly, apart from a few odd sheets and scrappy notes that had to be consigned to the “Unknown” box. Most of it went into the “Post-1958” box. Janet had destroyed some of her early compositions, but the majority of her output dated from her years on Skye, so that box filled up quickly.

  I was only examining the work for dates, but as I sorted the documents, I couldn’t help noticing that the original autograph manuscripts that Janet had preserved seemed to be the product of three different hands. Intrigued, I arranged the papers in date order and made an extraordinary discovery. Uncertain of the implications, I emailed Athelstan straight away...

  Dear Athelstan