The Glass Guardian

by Linda Gillard

  An aroma of frying bacon began to dominate the wood smoke and reminded me I was hungry. I set off down the stairs feeling a slight pang of disappointment, which I couldn’t really fathom. As I placed my hand on the kitchen door handle, I realised I was disappointed Hector wouldn’t see me in my glad rags, wouldn’t know I’d scrubbed up rather well. Not that I imagined he’d care. If Hector had ever been a red-blooded male, he certainly wasn’t now.

  So with Hector - and Hector’s blood - on my mind, I made my entrance.

  I opened the door to find the air cloudy with steam and throbbing with Classic FM. Candles were lit on the table (where had Tom found those?) and the top lights were out. Unaware of my presence, he was holding the bottle of champagne in both hands and was easing out the cork.

  ‘I made it then,’ I said brightly, feeling suddenly awkward in my finery. Tom spun round and as he did so, the cork popped and foam began to bubble upwards slowly. He stood transfixed, staring at me with his mouth slightly open, the champagne apparently forgotten.

  I grabbed two glasses from the dresser and stepped forward, holding one out for him to fill. As I stood close, I could smell whisky on his breath. Glancing across at the worktop, I saw an empty tumbler and assumed he’d helped himself while cooking. He certainly knew his way around the kitchen.

  Without speaking, he carefully filled both glasses, then set the bottle down on the table. He looked me up and down, smiling, raised his glass and said, ‘Here’s to you. You look... amazing! Cheers!’

  ‘You’re very kind. Slàinte!’ I sipped my champagne but Tom downed half a glass, as if it were lemonade.

  ‘Was the “Before” fancy dress just a cunning ploy to make me appreciate the Cinderella transformation scene?’

  ‘No. Poor Cinderella is completely incompetent and forgot the Prince was expected.’ I swallowed another mouthful of champagne. ‘I’m just not used to socialising here. I’ve become a hermit, obsessed with my family history! Do you know, I seem to have actually invited a crusty old Canadian academic to stay for Christmas, just so we can discuss Janet’s music and my family tree. I must be out of my mind.’

  Tom went over to the hob, set down his glass and pushed spaghetti into a pan of simmering water. ‘Janet and Tricia used to spend Christmas together. When Tricia moved to Skye, I mean. And I was out of the way. They used to have musical soirées.’

  ‘Was Tricia musical then?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She sang and played the piano. When I was young she used to play the flute, but then she had to sell it. We needed the money. She always wanted me to learn the piano, but we couldn’t afford lessons, let alone a piano. And I wasn’t interested anyway. You couldn’t keep me indoors on a sunny day.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised Tricia was musical.’

  ‘That was what brought them together, I reckon. A love of music. And gardens. Which reminds me,’ he said, turning back to face me. ‘You haven’t put my chainsaw somewhere, have you?’

  ‘Oh, God...’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I forgot about the break-in. I meant to tell you.’

  ‘Break-in?’

  ‘I don’t even know if it was a break-in. Well, I know it wasn’t because the garage wasn’t even locked.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, you’re not making sense. Start again at the beginning.’

  ‘I didn’t lock the garage. After you rang me. I didn’t go out and lock up. I got... distracted.’

  Tom looked annoyed, but all he said was, ‘And stuff’s been taken?’

  ‘I don’t know. I couldn’t see anything missing.’

  ‘But you didn’t see my chainsaw? I left it in the garage after I finished work that day. Didn’t mean to, I just forgot. I was a bit distracted too if you remember. In a nice way.’ He smiled at me and I remembered our kiss and my confusion. ‘That’s why I rang you,’ Tom went on. ‘To tell you to lock up. So someone’s nicked it then?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t looking for a chainsaw.’

  ‘You’d have seen it. I left it just inside the door because I meant to take it home with me. If it was still there you’d have fallen over it.’

  ‘Oh, Tom, I’m sorry. It wasn’t there!’

  ‘Shit!’ He ran a hand through his hair, clearly exasperated with me. ‘I have to have one for work. I’ve got another, but it’s a bit temperamental.’

  ‘Get a replacement and give me the bill. It’s my fault entirely.’

  ‘You’re talking £350 to replace that one.’

  ‘Oh... Well, that’s OK.’

  ‘You’ll get some of that back on the insurance, won’t you? I mean, this was theft.’ I didn’t reply and Tom said, ‘You did call the police?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Ruth - what’s got into you?’

  ‘I didn’t know if it was a break-in, I just heard noises... and it was very late... But I expect I’ll be able to claim. I’m sorry, Tom, but I’ve just been so pre-occupied! Things have been really... strange lately.’

  He could see I was close to tears. He put his glass down on the table and took my face in both hands. ‘Hey, don’t get upset! It’s just a bloody chainsaw.’

  ‘I’ll replace it.’

  ‘It’s only money, Ruth, not life and death! Any problem that can be sorted by throwing money at it is not a real problem. Having money - that’s the problem. Though luckily, not for you,’ he added, then he leaned forward, still holding my face and placed his lips on mine in a lingering kiss that smelled too strongly of whisky for me to enjoy. Still holding my face, he said, ‘Has it ever occurred to you, that if Tricia had been a man - or Janet had - and they’d married, Tigh-na-Linne would now be my home? Now there’s a thought.’

  The kitchen timer started bleeping and Tom released my face, caressed my hair, then went over to the hob to drain the pasta.

  ‘Sit yourself down. Just a few last minute things now.’ He reached for his champagne glass, drained it, then said, ‘You do the refills. Where will I find a colander?’

  ‘In the cupboard to your left. Top shelf.’

  I refilled Tom’s glass and topped up mine. The bottle was already half-empty and I was beginning to feel light-headed, so I sat down at the table. Tom set a plate in front of me with a flourish, then set another on the other side of the table. He removed his tie, rolled it up and pushed it into a pocket of the jacket he’d hung over another chair. He sat down looking happy and relaxed, but I felt like a guest in my own home.

  The pasta was delicious and conversation was easy, apart from the fact that I was distracted by the speed with which Tom drank and the absence of any effect on him. When the champagne was gone, he leaped up and went to the fridge and brought out a bottle of wine he must have chilled earlier. He obviously wasn’t intending to drive home, but I couldn’t see him walking in November. It would take about forty minutes to get to Larachbeag on foot. I began to wonder if, in fact, he wasn’t intending to go home. I had a spare room made up, so staying over wouldn’t be a problem. I did wonder if getting Tom to occupy the spare room might be.

  After we’d finished eating, I stood up to clear away and, forgetting the hazard of my wrap-over dress, I leaned over to pick up Tom’s plate. It must have looked deliberately provocative, I suppose, so I didn’t really blame him for getting the wrong idea. It was my own stupid fault. His hand went up to the base of my throat and slid down over my necklace. His hand was still descending when I tipped a plate so that cutlery slid off and landed noisily on the table. At the same time, I stepped backwards, out of his reach.

  It must have looked accidental and he cleared up the dirty cutlery without a word. As I loaded the dishwasher he went back to the table, topped up my glass and refilled his.

  It was ridiculous for me to feel nervous. Tom was an old friend. I found him attractive and he knew it, but it made absolutely no sense that I should feel threatened by him. I should feel flattered, surely? What was it that was making me feel trapped? The weight of his expe
ctations? Perhaps the fact that I couldn’t just walk away if I wanted.

  As I switched on the dishwasher, I told myself I was just woefully out of practice, playing the dating game. Two rather sedate years with David had protected me from the rough and tumble of predatory males.

  (Predatory? Is that what I thought Tom was?)

  ‘By the way,’ he called out. ‘While I think of it - that bridge. The one across the pond. It’s completely rotten. Do you want me to remove it? I know it’s picturesque, but it’s dangerous. Someone could fall in and drown. That pond’s pretty deep in the middle.’

  I turned round and searched his face, looking for some clue to the past, some hint that he remembered, but I saw nothing. In the flickering candlelight his dark eyes were fathomless, his expression inscrutable.

  ‘Yes, I would like you to get rid of it, please.’ I hesitated, then said, ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘Remember what?’

  ‘That time when I... fell in. Fell into the pond.’

  He frowned. ‘When you were a kid, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. We were both playing on the bridge.’

  ‘And you fell in?’

  ‘I— yes, I suppose I must have.’

  ‘No, I don’t remember.’

  ‘I nearly drowned.’

  ‘Really? How come I don’t remember?’

  ‘You said you’d pulled me out. Saved my life.’

  ‘Did I? Well, if that’s what I said, I suppose that’s what I did. I’d forgotten all about it. Quite the little hero, wasn’t I?’

  ‘You really don’t remember?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Though now you come to mention it, I do vaguely remember you getting very wet and muddy once... Yes, you were lying on the grass, covered in pondweed. But I don’t remember pulling you out.’

  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if he remembered pushing me in, but my nerve failed and I turned away to fill the kettle and set it on the Aga. Feeling shivery, I leaned against the rail, drawing comfort from the warmth radiating from the stove’s metal shell. I told myself I just wasn’t wearing enough clothes. It had nothing to do with the conversation with Tom.

  A chilly draught seemed to come from nowhere and blew a lock of hair across my face. I put my hand up to push it back, but then the draught blew in the opposite direction, lifting my hair before I could touch it.

  Hector.

  No sooner had I registered a sense of profound relief, than it was replaced by a wave of irritation. How long had Hector been here? Why hadn’t he made himself visible to me? It was bad enough being creeped out by one man. Was I now to be spooked by another? Or rather, a ghost?

  I resented Hector intruding on my evening with Tom almost as much as I resented feeling relieved he was around to keep an eye on me. As the kettle came to the boil, I felt cross and tired and, to tell the truth, a little drunk, which must have been why I said something so very silly.

  ‘Coffee and brandy by the fire?’

  Tom’s face lit up and I was rewarded with one of his film star smiles, which I have to say, went some way toward cheering me up.

  ‘That sounds great.’

  I didn’t bother to tell him where the brandy was and, sure enough, he laid a hand on it in seconds. While I made coffee, Tom put two glasses and a bottle of Courvoisier on a tray and set off for the sitting room. I loaded the coffee things on to another tray and started to follow, then stopped. I looked round the room, waiting. After a few seconds, I said, very softly, ‘Hector?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Hector, I know you’re there,’ I whispered. ‘Go away. Please. You aren’t needed. And I can’t bear to be spied on. It’s hard enough for me to cope when you’re visible. So please, leave me alone. I’m entitled to my privacy.’

  There was still no reply, but Tom put his head round the door. ‘Come and see my wonderful fire. It’s really cosy in there now. Here, let me take that.’

  He relieved me of the tray and went on ahead. At the kitchen door I turned, looked round the room a final time and whispered, ‘Hector, go away. Or if you won’t go, at least stay in here.’

  There was no answer, but a paper napkin suddenly blew across the table and floated down on to the floor.

  Chapter Eleven

  The sitting room was warm and inviting. Janet’s shabby chintz décor was definitely improved by the low level lighting Tom had organised: a table lamp and a couple of candles were the only sources of light apart from the log fire. He’d removed the fireguard and was sitting on the sofa facing the blaze. I thought it would look odd if I didn’t sit next to him, but I knew what would happen if I did. I was hovering over the coffee tray, trying to decide what to do, when I felt a chill breeze again. I suspected Tom had felt it too because he got up, poked the fire, and put another log on.

  The draught could have come from the ill-fitting French windows, long in need of replacement, but I had a sinking feeling Hector had joined us. First one candle flickered and then the other. Hector on the move?... As I stirred the coffee, I didn’t know who was irritating me most - Tom or Hector. Right now, Hector possibly had the edge.

  Despite Tom’s ministrations to the fire, the temperature in the room had dropped. As I turned to hand Tom his coffee, I saw something I’d never seen before. In a dimly lit corner of the room, Hector was gradually materialising - an even more alarming sight than Hector materialised. At first he seemed to be just a pair of piercing blue eyes, then his pale face assembled itself around the eyes. His white hands emerged from the semi-darkness, then the light from the fire caught his red hair. The colours became brighter, his form clearer and more solid-looking, until finally, I could see Hector in detail. His eyes were fixed on me, his expression stern, as if he were trying to tell me something.

  ‘Well,’ Tom said. ‘Are you going to give me that coffee, or not?’

  ‘Oh, sorry. Yes, here you are. Do you take sugar?’ I asked absently, looking over Tom’s head to where Hector stood, motionless, but watchful.

  ‘No, thanks. Come and sit down. I poured you a brandy.’ Tom indicated the lamp table at the side of the sofa.

  I glared at Hector in a futile gesture of dismissal, but he folded his arms and looked as if he was prepared to make a night of it.

  I was furious. It was bad enough having to decide how to deal with Tom, but to have to do it with Hector watching? Silently outraged, I sat down next to Tom on the sofa - mainly to ensure Hector wouldn’t be in my field of vision. I stared into the fire and tried to relax.

  ‘This is the life, eh?’ Tom said, savouring his coffee. ‘I love firewood. It warms you twice.’

  ‘Twice?’

  ‘Once when you cut it, then again when you burn it.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I see.’

  He rested his head on the back of the sofa and extended his long legs toward the fire. It was all very pleasant (apart from being observed by Hector), but I found myself hoping Tom would fall asleep, so I could leave him dozing on the sofa and go to bed. My hopes were dashed when he laid a hand very gently on my thigh. Had he made a grab, I think I’d have moved or said something discouraging, but he just laid his hand on my thigh and spread his fingers.

  The sensation was far from unpleasant as the heat from his big hand penetrated the fabric of my dress and warmed my bare skin underneath. If Hector hadn’t been standing in the corner, sulking like a disgraced child, I might even have enjoyed it.

  When Tom’s hand began to slide up and down, it was almost soothing. The rhythm of his strokes, the warmth of the room, plus the brandy made it hard for me to keep my eyes open, so I too lay back and closed my eyes. I might even have dozed off for a few seconds. If so, I was woken by the pressure of Tom’s hand on my naked thigh and his mouth on my neck as he planted delicate but insistent kisses that were moving downward in the direction of my breasts. I sat up quickly and shifted away.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Tom asked, his eyes unfocused, his mouth slack and sensuous. ‘I was enjoying that. Weren’t you?
’

  ‘I think I was nodding off, actually. I shouldn’t have had that brandy. It’s made me feel very sleepy.’

  ‘Perhaps you need a bit more stimulation,’ Tom replied. Leaning across, he flipped the skirt of my dress open and slid his hand between my thighs, then his mouth came down on mine, hard. I laid my hands on his chest and, with an effort, pushed him away.

  ‘Tom, I don’t think we’re ready for this.’

  ‘Don’t worry - I brought the necessary.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant!’

  ‘Am I rushing you? Sorry. But you looked so gorgeous lying there. Sort of abandoned. And I thought maybe that’s what you wanted. So what do you want, Ruth? What do you like? Tell me...’ His hands were on me again, one of them fondling my breast. I pushed him away, shouting, ‘Tom! This is not what I want!’

  He let me go and sat back, looking confused. A movement of air behind me announced Hector’s approach and, out of the corner of my eye, I could see him moving round the room. I braced myself for Tom’s shock as Hector came into view, but he didn’t react. Evidently he couldn’t see him. I looked from one man to the other, unable to believe I was the only person who could see Hector, who’d now taken up a position by the French windows and was staring intently at the phone.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Tom asked, frowning. ‘Jesus, you’re not frightened of me are you? Hey, Ruthie, it’s only me! Tommy! Come here and let me give you a hug.’

  As he made another grab for me, the phone rang. Never was I more grateful to hear that strident sound. I stood up, straightening my dress and said, ‘I’d better get that.’ I walked over to where Hector was standing, turned my back on him pointedly and picked up the phone. ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me. Don’t hang up. I need to talk to you.’