The Glass Guardian

by Linda Gillard

  I was clutching at straws and I knew it. I hadn’t opened that book since I’d found it. I hadn’t dared. So I couldn’t believe I’d scanned Milton’s lines and subconsciously committed them to memory, not when my mind was already freaked out by handling a book stained with blood - possibly the owner’s.

  But still my scientist’s mind craved proof.

  I shut down the laptop, checked the back door was locked and went up to bed. There was no sign of Hector apart from his glass incarnation. I got ready for bed, but before turning out the light, I opened the bedside drawer and took out his journal. The earthy smell was faint, but distinct. Overcoming my sense of revulsion, I opened the little book and forced myself to read some of the words beneath the stains.

  There were dates, descriptions of weather, records of letters received, of deaths and other casualties. Every so often there were titles of books (or possibly poems) and a few lines in quotation marks. Hector seemed to collect other people’s words and, as he’d told me, it seemed he’d read a lot of poetry. But he didn’t appear to have written any. All the poetry was carefully attributed. Not only was the author recorded, but also the title of the poem, often the name of the anthology.

  And then I found it.

  Milton’s description of Hell. It was the last quotation in the journal, transcribed not long before Hector died.

  I’d never seen this page before. This I knew for a fact because the page had been stuck to the next, glued together with dried mud. I had to peel the two pages apart to read them. Did this prove Hector existed? I still didn’t know for sure, but one thing I was sure of: I’d had enough of trying to believe he didn’t.

  I put the little book back in the drawer, switched off the light and got into bed. For a few moments, I lay still, listening to the silence of the night, then I whispered, ‘Goodnight, Hector.’

  There was a slight movement of cool air around my face and then the bedroom door (which I’d left slightly ajar) closed with a gentle click. Silence descended once again, like a blessing.

  I was still thinking about Hector in the trenches, writing in his journal, when belatedly, I registered a word I’d seen on one of those filthy pages. Galvanised, I sat up in bed and switched on the light. I got the journal out again and quickly leafed through, searching for a name. I was about to give up, almost convinced I’d imagined it, when there it was, right at the end of the journal: a short entry, dated only days before Hector was killed. It said, “Received letter from Frieda. This is a very bad business. I am in Hell.”

  Frieda.

  The woman to whom Janet had dedicated her song cycle, In Memoriam.

  Intrigued, excited even, I turned back to the beginning of the journal and started to skim the first page, looking for more references to Frieda. As I read, it suddenly struck me that I was sitting in bed, devouring the very private journal of a man who sat patiently outside my bedroom door. I hadn’t asked his permission to read the journal and I had no reason to believe if I’d asked, he’d have given it.

  Reluctantly, I closed the book.

  Received letter from Frieda. This is a very bad business. I am in Hell.

  It didn’t sound like a subject I could bring up casually in conversation. Given the delicacy Hector had already shown, insisting on waiting outside my door; given that he’d been born in 1880, I couldn’t imagine he’d relish the thought of a woman reading the unconsidered words he’d scribbled while facing death on a daily basis. This was not a journal written with any hope of publication or even any intention of sharing. It was a private record of the occasionally desperate thoughts (“I am in Hell”) of a man who’d lost his faith, his two brothers and many of his friends and who ultimately gave everything for what he himself described as a pointless war. It was not my place to read this journal, however curious I was to know the identity of Frieda. I would never dream of reading, without permission, the diary of a living person. Hector might not be alive, but he wasn’t exactly dead either. Not to me.

  With a sigh of disappointment, I put the journal back in the bedside drawer and turned out the light again. I lay in bed, staring into the darkness, cursing my moral scruples. If only I could bring myself to think of Hector as dead, there would be no obstacle to further investigation.

  And then it hit me. The solution.

  Dr Athelstan Blake.

  As far as Stan was concerned, Hector was dead. Stan could - should - read the journal as part of his research into Janet’s music since he was keen to know more about Frieda, the dedicatee of In Memoriam. So I could send the journal to Canada...

  Never. I couldn’t bear to part with it.

  I didn’t care to examine the reasons why I felt so strongly, but I wasn’t prepared to entrust a precious family heirloom to the vagaries of transatlantic post. So if I wouldn’t post the journal, Stan would have to come to Scotland to read it.

  I fell asleep wondering whether Christmas on Skye would make a refreshing change from the inane round of London media parties. Would Dr Blake appreciate an invitation to celebrate the holiday, Highland-style? Something told me - Sane Mind, for once - that he’d jump at the chance.

  Chapter Nine

  When I woke the following morning it still seemed a sane idea to invite Stan to Skye. It also seemed to be the only way I could actually move forward. I wasn’t ready to put Tigh-na-Linne on the market yet. I couldn’t bring myself to read Hector’s journal, nor did I feel able to ask him directly about “the bad business” with Frieda. And how could I advance Janet’s musical reputation (or protect it) if I refused to let Stan investigate? In addition, his research might unearth a story I could use in some way to revive my own career. There had to be a TV programme in there somewhere, perhaps even a book. A different one from the musical study Stan was planning. A book about Tigh-na-Linne, its garden and the history of the Munro family.

  A ghost story.

  Running on, my mind suddenly tripped over itself. What the hell was I doing?

  Finding excuses to stay at Tigh-na-Linne, that’s what I was doing, when I should be back in London, schmoozing producers in wine bars, and lunching with useful people, giving them my feeble impersonation of a media tart.

  I’d hated all the fatuous celebrity nonsense that went with being a gardening guru. “Delia of the Delphiniums” just about summed it up. It wasn’t what I had in mind when I trained at horticultural college, but I’d somehow drifted into it. Telegenic, a good communicator and enthusiastic about my work, I was a natural apparently. TV gardening programmes are built on such personalities.

  David had had a better life/work balance with his gardening column in a Sunday paper, a modest income from writing book reviews, plus the royalties from his own old-fashioned, but ever popular gardening manuals. He’d always found time to “stand and stare”, whereas I’d never had enough - not enough time to spend with my father, Aunt Janet or my ever-decreasing circle of friends. I certainly hadn’t had time to meet other men. When I wasn’t filming, I was writing scripts or travelling for programme research. I had a career, but I didn’t feel I was living. Losing my job had been something of a wake-up call.

  The trouble was, I’d woken up in limbo. No job, no man, a big old house I ought to sell, an address book full of friends and contacts I hadn’t seen in months, in some cases years. It meant starting all over again.

  What was it Hector had said about me?... That I would know what to do? What a joke.

  Yet I did feel a strong impulse to invite Stan to Skye. It felt like the right thing to do. I wondered whether I should ask Hector’s advice, but I could hardly be straight with him about wanting Stan to do my dirty work for me. (Was it dirty work? Wasn’t it simply researching my family history? Yes, if I could just remember that Hector was dead.)

  Sick of indecision, I gave in to my impulse and emailed Stan with an invitation to come and stay in December. Madness of course, but if I hadn’t sent it, I would have had to deal with the fact that I’d be spending Christmas on my own, without David,
without my father, without Janet. I didn’t have any other family I could impose on, nor any single friends who could be relied upon to be around over the holiday period. They very sensibly went ski-ing or sunbathing and with my uncertain finances, I didn’t feel inclined to join them.

  For all I knew, Stan might be fully booked, spending Christmas with children and grandchildren, but there was no harm in asking. To tell the truth, I rather liked the idea of spending Christmas on Skye with an eccentric academic.

  And a ghost.

  As I finished my breakfast, I remembered I needed to check the contents of the garage and lock up again, so I wrapped up well and went out to investigate the scene of the crime.

  I couldn’t tell if anything was missing. The lawn mower and strimmer were still there and so was the rotavator. There was a pair of hedge trimmers, but I had a feeling there should have been two. All the smaller tools were hanging in rows on the wall (Janet’s obsessive tidiness extended to garage, greenhouse and potting shed) and I couldn’t see any gaps. Perhaps the intruder had heard me talking to Hector and bolted.

  I locked up, pocketed the key and walked on through the garden, heading down to the beach. I stopped when I got to the pond and watched a grey heron. It stood hunched and motionless, like a stone ornament, staring dolefully into the water’s murky depths. There must still be some fish then. Janet had said the pond had been a bathing pool originally, fed from a spring, so it was several degrees warmer than the freezing sea and not subject to treacherous currents. The four Munro children had no doubt played and swum in it in summer and perhaps skated on it in winter. Now the pond was in sad need of attention. It was choked with pondweed and the rotting wooden bridge needed replacing. I added the jobs to my mental To Do list and walked on, trying not to feel despondent. There was no denying, if I kept Tigh-na-Linne, it could turn out to be a money pit. I mustn’t be blinded by sentiment. The house would have to earn its keep.

  Despite the brightness of the November day, it was bitterly cold once you moved away from the shelter of the garden. I pulled my fleece hat down over my ears and strode along the shingle beach, wishing I had a dog for company. Or even Hector.

  I hadn’t gone far when a vibration in my coat pocket told me my mobile was ringing. (My tasteful ring tone couldn’t compete with the roar of the breakers on the shore and the crunch of my boots on the shingle.) I looked at the screen, but it was a new number, someone ringing from abroad. As I answered, I walked away from the water’s edge, toward the shelter of some rocks.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ms Travers? Ruth? I hope I’m not disturbing you. This is Athelstan Blake.’

  For a moment I was thrown by the transatlantic lilt and then my brain, numbed with cold, finally stirred. ‘Dr. Blake?’ I glanced at my watch and made a quick calculation. ‘But surely it must be 4.00am in Toronto?’

  ‘4.10 to be precise, but I couldn’t sleep and I was checking email when your invitation arrived. I was so excited, I had to tell someone and I thought it might as well be you. I’m not interrupting your breakfast, I hope? Or work?’

  ‘No, not at all. I’m out for a walk on the beach. And shortly about to expire from hypothermia, I fear.’

  Stan laughed, then said, ‘Tell me what you can see! Are you looking out at the islands?’

  ‘Yes. Visibility’s good today. It isn’t usually in November.’

  ‘Do you have snow yet?’

  ‘No. We don’t ever get much - though they say this is going to be a hard winter. I imagine you have some already?’

  ‘Plenty. But we’re used to it. The Canadian gene pool supplied us with a useful mix of English phlegm, Scottish ingenuity and Inuit stoicism, so we get by.’

  ‘Do you have any Scottish blood?’

  ‘If you go back far enough. I was told my grandmother emigrated from Scotland. I’ve always wanted to come over to research my family history. You can do a certain amount online, but I imagine it’s no substitute for actually being in the land of your forefathers.’

  ‘You’ve never been to Scotland then?’

  ‘Why, no, that’s why I was so excited about your invitation! I managed a short stay in Europe in my youth, but I never made it as far north as Scotland. Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland and we, in dreams, behold the Hebrides... That’s from The Canadian Boat Song, first recorded in 1829. Ex-pat Gaels used to sing it - in Gaelic, of course - as they rowed down the St Lawrence River. I heartily concur with the sentiment.’

  ‘So I take it you’d like to come and stay?’

  ‘Ms Travers - Ruth - I can’t tell you how thrilled I am with your invitation. But are you sure? You know, you really don’t have to offer me hospitality.’

  ‘Oh, but I do!’ I heard myself and wondered why I’d said that. The impulse was genuine. It wasn’t just courtesy. I felt I had to invite Stan because there was so much I wanted to talk to him about. But I took refuge in good manners. ‘Highland hospitality is both legendary and mandatory. I may only be half-Scots on my mother’s side, but I don’t propose to do things by half-measures. You’re very welcome, Dr Blake.’

  ‘Please, call me Stan.’

  ‘Your first name is very unusual. It must be Anglo-Saxon.’

  ‘My father was a historian with a passion for the Anglo-Saxons, for which I’ve never quite been able to forgive him. “Hereward” would at least have had a glamorous ring to it.’

  It was my turn to laugh. ‘My father was an academic too. Classics. He despaired of me because I rejected books and history and went into horticulture.’

  ‘Well, we obviously both bear the scars and will have much to talk about - if you’re really sure it won’t be too much trouble?’

  ‘It won’t, I assure you. It will just be you and me for Christmas - I have no family - so I’ll be glad of the company. I’m finding it’s a big house to rattle around in on my own.’

  ‘Is it haunted?’

  Stunned, I didn’t reply for a few moments, then said cautiously, ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Wishful thinking, I guess.’

  ‘Have you ever seen a ghost?’ I asked as I plodded up the beach and back through the gate into the garden.

  ‘I regret to say, I haven’t. But I maintain an open mind on the subject. On most subjects, in fact. So do you have a ghost in residence?’

  ‘Well, I - I’m not sure. But I think there may be something strange going on. There’s a... a definite presence.’

  ‘I knew it!’

  ‘Knew what?’

  ‘That Janet knew more than she was letting on. For fear of ridicule, I guess. Well, you can hardly blame her. She spent her life struggling to be taken seriously. Declaring a belief in the paranormal would hardly have strengthened her cause.’

  ‘What makes you think Janet might have seen something?’

  ‘An interview she gave on radio. She was asked about In Memoriam and her interest in World War I and her female take on that. Well, that was a red rag to bull, of course.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said, although she’d never known the men in her family who’d died - it was three brothers, I gather?’

  ‘Yes, Janet’s uncles. My great-uncles.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, Janet said she’d felt the presence of the past at Tigh-na-Linne. The legacy - I believe that was the word she used. Living there had made her conscious of how the past reverberates down the years and on into the present, even into the future. It was a fascinating interview. I’ll email you a transcript. Janet was ahead of her time in her thinking - I mean, when you consider this was only the 1950s. DNA was a very new discovery then. But Janet believed we carried some sort of imprint of the past in our mental and spiritual make-up, that some people could sense the presence of the past in objects, buildings, geographical areas. She even thought some could sense the presence of the dead - somehow connect with their lives - and that the resonance of those lives could influence the living. From what you say, I think Janet was talking ab
out herself and that maybe she’d seen a ghost.’

  ‘Yes, I think perhaps she had.’ I was now standing outside the house, beneath Hector’s memorial window. I looked up at the dark patchwork of glass which, seen from inside, would bring his form brilliantly to life.

  ‘Do you sense the past at Tigh-na-Linne?’ Stan asked.

  I hesitated, then said, ‘Yes, I do. Quite strongly.’

  ‘Oh, this is thrilling!’ he chuckled. ‘Have you seen the ghost?’

  ‘Will you think I’m raving mad if I say... I have?’

  ‘Not at all! I’m completely sympathetic to such aberrations. Perhaps I should explain. In my own small way, I’m a composer. My academic work buys me time to indulge that passion. Now, I couldn’t begin to explain to you the process of composing, or where my music comes from. But what is the nature of inspiration, if not a sense of the past, of artistic tradition, combined with a feel for the future and the potential of the future? Did you know Beethoven composed for a type of piano that didn’t yet exist? He imagined the kind of music that could be played if it did. Now that is vision.’

  I walked on briskly, heading for the back door and the warmth of the kitchen. ‘So you really don’t know where your music comes from?’

  ‘No idea. To me it feels as if the melodies are out there, inaudible, but detectable, like something you can just see out of the corner of your eye. They’re vibrating silently, waiting for someone to receive them. Channel them, if you like. If there’s music out there that only some people can hear, I see no reason why there shouldn’t be beings out there that only some people can see. In other words, ghosts.’ Stan sighed and added, ‘Does that make any sense at all?’

  ‘Yes, it does, actually. It makes a lot of sense to me.’

  ‘I’m delighted you think so! You know, the so-called “music of the spheres” was supposed to be silent, but Buddhists believe you can develop a third ear through meditation and so attune to this silent music. Fascinating, isn’t it? The way all these strange ideas connect.’