The Glass Guardian

by Linda Gillard

  You’ll be pleased to know I’ve sorted Janet’s archive as you requested. Almost everything was clearly dated and in most cases she’d also made a note of where the work was done. However, as I was sorting through, I noticed something strange. I’m not a musician and I don’t really understand how musical manuscripts are produced, but I thought it rather odd that Janet’s hand-written manuscripts appear to be written in three different hands. I wasn’t aware she employed a copyist or amanuensis, but in any case, to my inexpert mind, the copied work doesn’t add up. The earliest piece written on Skye (In Memoriam) exists in two versions, in two different hands:

  1. Untidy, with many alterations, obviously written in a hurry, in the heat of the creative moment. This version is undated.

  2. Neatly written, with almost no corrections. Dated.

  Doesn’t this suggest that the work was written, revised later and then copied out? But the really odd thing is, the fair copy is in Janet’s hand, but the rough draft isn’t. Shouldn’t it be the other way round?

  Later work produced on Skye is in yet another hand. The rough drafts are clearly in Janet’s hand and the final versions are in another hand - but not the hand in which In Memoriam was drafted.

  All very puzzling!

  Best wishes

  Ruth

  P.S. I have no idea who “Frieda” was, or if my aunt was a lesbian. I think she could have been.

  The speed with which Athelstan responded suggested he was under-employed at the University of Toronto...

  Dear Ruth

  This is extremely interesting and may have far-reaching implications! Thank you for sharing your observations.

  Your assumptions are correct. If someone had copied out Janet’s work, the final version might not be in her hand. It’s difficult to see why an early draft wouldn’t be hers. Are you convinced both scripts are different? Is it possible Janet injured her hand and this affected how she wrote? Was she arthritic?

  I wonder, could I ask you to scan and email me some sample pages of manuscript? Close examination of the pages will reveal whether they’re written by the same person. Composers have a very individual way of writing notes on the stave.

  Many thanks!

  Stan

  I’d scanned some sample sheets and was emailing them when there was a light tap and Tom’s head appeared round the study door.

  ‘Do you want to come and have a look?’

  ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t cleared the bits of wood away, but they’re all stacked up in the hall. Apart from the mirror. I’ve propped that up in your bedroom. Thought that would be the safest place to put it for now. Oh - and I found this.’ He handed me a small wooden casket, about half the size of a shoebox. ‘It was inside the wardrobe. You must have missed it when you were clearing out.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks.’ I tried to lift the lid, but it was locked. I set the box down on the desk. ‘Let’s have a look at this window then.’

  Tom followed me upstairs. When I got to the landing, I looked along the corridor toward the window. I stopped dead and Tom bumped into me. He apologised, but I didn’t respond, I just stood there transfixed. Then I began to walk forward, approaching the window.

  It took up much of the end wall. It was a bright day and the stained glass threw coloured shadows on to the walls and floor. The hall now seemed full of reds, greens and blues, a kaleidoscope of coloured light, from which a person began to emerge. A man... Or an angel.

  The figure was roughly life-size, but no bigger than me. His slim, neat body was draped to the knee in folds of white fabric over which he wore a metal breastplate, so he appeared to be both angel and warrior. At his feet lay the contorted corpse of some mythical beast, half-snake, half-dragon. Its blue and turquoise scales cast sea-green shadows on to the floorboards below. Death had been dealt to the creature by a spear that the angel-warrior held aloft, as if he’d just extracted it from the beast’s body and might be about to plunge it in again. The angel’s pale face wore a look of solemn concentration. The battle was over, but not the war.

  Where they were exposed, the angel’s limbs were slim, white, and muscular, his sandaled feet beautifully formed, as were his hands: the one clutching the shaft of his spear, the other resting on the hilt of a sword hanging at his hip.

  His face was thin, gaunt almost, and there were hollows under his eyes and cheekbones, as if his face had been stripped back to its essence of muscle, tendon and bone. His eyes were watchful and gazed at something above and beyond me, something in the distance for which he was preparing. Danger?... Evil, perhaps.

  Behind him stood trees, the same birch and alder trees to be found in the grounds of Tigh-na-Linne, all in exuberant green leaf, celebrating the arrival of spring and the renewal of life, while death, in the hideous form of the serpent, lay sprawled at their feet. I could almost imagine a gentle breeze rustling through those glass leaves and lifting the auburn hair of the angel warrior. Sunlight streamed through his fiery glass locks and cast a russet shadow on the wooden floor, the floor where I’d seen mud and blood.

  Beneath the vanquished serpent, there was a scroll which said, “O grave, where is thy victory?” At the very foot of the window there was a small panel of glass inscribed thus: “In loving memory of James, eldest son of James and Agnes Munro, who died at Loos 25th Sept. 1915, aged 35.”

  I found myself quite unable to speak. Behind me, I sensed Tom shifting from one foot to the other, then he moved forward, turning to look at me as I studied the window.

  ‘You OK, Ruthie? You’re very pale. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!’

  ‘Do I?’ My voice startled me, as if it had come from some other throat, not mine. ‘No, I’m fine... It’s just that - well, it’s very moving, isn’t it? He must have died in France. At Loos. Thousands of Scots died in that battle. And his poor parents tried to preserve something of him. As the archangel Michael, slaying a demon. Satan, I suppose... Or the Hun.’

  ‘Ruth—’ Tom laid a hand on my arm and I recoiled, startled by his touch. Just then the sun must have gone behind a cloud because the coloured shadows on the walls faded, then disappeared and the glass figure became dull, his flaming hair now only a deep golden brown.

  ‘I’m fine, Tom. I just need—’ I struggled to find the words. Any words. ‘What I need is to go and make us a cup of tea. Do you think you could clear all the wood away from the walls and stack it in the garage? Anywhere you like, really. I don’t care.’ I turned back to the window. ‘But I’d like to be able to look without distractions. And I think the hall should be cleared.’ I gestured toward the glass angel. ‘As a mark of respect. Would you mind?’

  ‘I was going to clear away anyway. I just thought you’d be curious to see the window straight away.’

  ‘Yes. I was. Thanks... Tea.’ I replied, uttering the syllables in a robotic monotone. ‘That’s what we both need. I’ll go and make us some tea. Won’t be long.’

  Without waiting for a reply, I turned and marched along the hall, down the stairs and into the kitchen where I shut the door and leaned against it, my chest heaving, my throat constricted with unshed tears.

  Tears of recognition.

  For I’d just come face to face with Heckie.

  Chapter Five

  You thought Heckie was a boy?

  If you wanted someone to protect you from demons and dragons and things that go bump in the night, or if you wanted someone to hold your hand while you buried your face in the pillow so no one heard you cry (because you weren’t supposed to know your mother was dying), would you choose a boy to do it? A kid to look after another kid? Of course not.

  Looking after me was a man’s job.

  The kitchen door swung open and almost knocked me off my feet. Tom’s bulky frame appeared in the doorway and I was momentarily confused. I realised I’d been expecting Heckie.

  ‘Ruth, do you want me to put—’ He broke off and stared. ‘Hey, are you all right? You’d better sit down.’ He pu
lled out a kitchen chair and, taking my arm, guided me toward the table. He then strode across to the sink, filled the kettle and switched it on. Just watching Tom, busy and capable, made me feel better. And a bit more sane.

  He came back and crouched in front of me, so I had the unfamiliar experience of looking down at him. His untidy blond hair looked inviting and I found myself curbing an impulse to touch.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked gently. When I didn’t answer straight away, he said, ‘It’s that bloody window, isn’t it? It’s really upset you. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s just... well, it’s so sad.’

  ‘Who was he, this James Munro? Some relation?’

  I looked into Tom’s eyes, searching for something - I’m not sure what - and then I made my decision. I couldn’t risk it. He’d never believed in Heckie anyway.

  ‘He was Janet’s uncle. I suppose that makes him my great uncle... His brothers died too. Two of them. In the war... Their poor mother! What she must have gone through, losing three sons. It’s unimaginable.’

  The kettle came to the boil and Tom sprang up and started to make tea. The silence was soothing, yet companionable. Setting a mug in front of me, he sat down on the opposite side of the table. He watched me for a moment, then said carefully, ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’

  Why did Tom’s questions always sound loaded? Was it his tone of voice, or the unblinking, direct look that accompanied them? Yet again, I was feeling that pull, something that had nothing to do with my brain, just an impulse to lean forward and touch. Be touched.

  As if he’d read my mind, he reached across the table and took my hand. ‘It all happened a very long time ago, Ruth. No use brooding about it now. The poor sod’s been dead for ninety-five years.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose he has.’ I extracted my hand and picked up my mug. Sipping my tea, I decided I should keep busy. ‘I think I’ll carry on sorting through Janet’s papers. There’s an awful lot to get through. Thanks for the tea.’ As I stood up, my chair scraped on the quarry tiles. The sound was harsh. Ugly. I’d noticed noise was beginning to get to me. Life on Skye was so quiet, so solitary, loud sounds had begun to seem intrusive. ‘I’ll be in the study,’ I added. ‘And while I’m in there, I’m going to see if I can find Janet’s Bible.’

  Tom laughed. ‘You really are rattled, aren’t you?’

  I smiled and relaxed a little. The man had a real talent for making me feel better. ‘It’s a proper old Bible. Huge, with a family tree drawn up at the front. I think I’d like to know more about the Munro family. My family. When the brothers died, that sort of thing. So I’ll see you later. Why don’t you stay for lunch? I’ll make us a sandwich. There’s some soup in the fridge. Leek and potato.’

  Without waiting for a response, I turned and headed for the study.

  It didn’t take me long to locate the Bible. It was the biggest book in the room. The dusty spine was frayed top and bottom, so, handling it with care, I took it down from the shelf and laid it on the desk. Opening it with a certain sense of foreboding, I sat and studied the end papers which had been filled with a family tree, drawn up by many different hands. As I pored over names and dates, it occurred to me, I should add the dates of my father’s death and Janet’s.

  My spirits plummeted again. Somehow that would make it final. Janet would be gone for good. She would have become part of my history.

  My eyes scanned the faded ink that recorded the lives of James and Agnes Munro’s four children. The youngest, Grace Emily had produced three children: Aunt Janet, Fergus (who’d died in infancy) and my mother, Kathleen. Grace’s three older brothers had all died within two years. 1914 had seen the deaths of Archibald John and Donald Alec. The following year, she’d lost her eldest brother, James Hector.

  Heckie.

  My first meeting with Heckie was so long ago, I couldn’t remember the date or the details, but it was at Tigh-na-Linne. I only ever saw him there, although at the end of every holiday, I begged him to come back to Cambridge with me. When my mother became ill, I spent more time with Janet, at my father’s insistence. I suppose it was meant to spare me having to witness my mother’s battle with cancer, but years later, it struck me that this had been the beginning of my father palming me off on my aunt. He couldn’t cope with illness or grief, or even children - all those messy, human things. He was a Classics lecturer. He dealt with dead languages, not dead people.

  I don’t really remember a time before Heckie. That’s probably because I don’t remember much about life with my mother. After she died, my father refused to talk about her. He wasn’t comfortable going through the photo albums Janet had made for me as mementos, so I got used to a family life with a split personality. When I was at home in Cambridge it was just my father and me, sharing silent meals during which he usually read an academic journal while I tried hard not to scrape my cutlery on the plate. I would listen to the loud tick of the longcase clock and imagine it was trying to tell me something, word by surreptitious word, or I would stare at the pendulum as it swung back and forth, trying to hypnotise myself.

  But when I was on Skye, there was music and singing, boisterous games with Tommy and long chats with Janet about what my mother got up to as a girl, chats which always ended in hugs and tears - sometimes of laughter.

  And there was Heckie.

  To begin with, I didn’t realise he was a soldier. He wore a kilt, like a lot of men on Skye and I didn’t realise the rough, khaki tunic he wore, with all its pockets and buttons, was his uniform. Heckie and I took walks together along the beach and played hide and seek in the garden. He’d sing me songs and I’d learn them; I’d recite poems I’d written at school and he would learn those. We’d sit outdoors till the light faded and whenever I wanted to talk about my mother, Heckie would listen.

  What I wanted to know was, would she be happy now? She hadn’t seemed very happy when she was alive, but I couldn’t really remember much about the time before she was ill. I supposed you wouldn’t feel very cheerful if you had cancer. I could remember a woman who was pale and very thin, with bright auburn hair - rather like Heckie, in fact - but I don’t know if I was actually remembering my mother, or just the photos of her taken in happier, healthier times.

  Heckie told me she was happy now. He said she really missed me, but apart from that, she was content. I asked if she could see me growing up and looking at her old photos. He hesitated and said he wasn’t sure, but he thought she probably could. One day I asked him why my mother didn’t come and play with me, as he did. Heckie didn’t answer straight away and looked rather sad. I thought perhaps I’d offended him by implying I’d rather play with my mother than him. I apologised for sounding ungrateful, but Heckie said it wasn’t that, it was just that my question was a difficult one to answer. My mother didn’t come back, he said, for a good reason. A nice reason. She was at peace. She’d died calmly, without suffering any pain, surrounded by people who loved her. She’d just drifted off to sleep and not woken again. Heckie explained that my mother didn’t need to come back because she’d said all that had to be said. It was finished.

  After I’d thought about it for a long time, I decided I was happy with this explanation. I started to think of my mother as Sleeping Beauty or Snow White: very beautiful and fast asleep, only she would never have a Prince who would wake her with a kiss. Thinking of her like that was much better than thinking how she looked when she was ill.

  I was fine until I worked out why no one else could see Heckie, why even though I got taller and fatter, he never changed. He never wore different clothes and his tufty hair, red like a fox’s fur, never grew. He never got hungry or thirsty and he never had to pee (unlike Tommy, who was always nipping behind bushes when we were out walking.) I worked it all out for myself. I suppose I must have been about nine.

  Heckie was dead and he’d died a long time ago.

  So I asked him how he’d died.

  I knew it wasn’t going to be good after what he’d said a
bout my mother’s peaceful death. When he told me, I cried so hard, I thought I would choke and die myself. I threw my arms round his neck and clung to him as if he were the dearest thing in the whole world - dearer than Aunt Janet, dearer even than my father. Much dearer.

  Heckie told me he had died in battle, a very famous battle in France, during a long and terrible and completely pointless war. (Heckie said all war was pointless, but he hadn’t realised that when he enlisted.) He said he’d been killed by a bullet from a machine gun, but it had been quick and he’d felt no pain. His pale blue eyes didn’t meet mine when he said that, so I wasn’t sure if he was telling me the truth, but I didn’t want to embarrass him by asking awkward questions. If Heckie was telling me a white lie, then he must have a very good reason. I trusted him and knew he’d always told me the truth before, even when it was hard for me to hear it.

  He told me how he’d died and said that one day, when I was older, I would understand these things better, but until then, I wasn’t to worry. He hadn’t suffered long, unlike some of the poor devils who’d survived the war, but continued to live in that hellish world, even though they’d been sent home to their families. Heckie said he’d rather be dead than trapped out there in No Man’s Land for ever, listening to the crump of shells, the screams of the wounded and dying. (I didn’t know where No Man’s Land was, but there was something about the way Heckie said those words and the haunted look in his eyes that made me wonder if he’d known what it was to lie abandoned in this terrible place. But I didn’t ask because I sensed he didn’t want to talk about it.)

  Heckie said he’d “come home” to Tigh-na-Linne because he had unfinished business. He’d died when there were still important things he needed to do. He didn’t explain in any detail, but made it sound as if he was looking for something or someone. He said that, unlike my mother, he hadn’t had time to put his affairs in order. He’d received a letter - a very special letter - when he was fighting in France and it had made him happy but, at the same time, very sad. He’d needed to do something about this letter, but he’d been killed shortly afterwards.