The Glass Guardian

by Linda Gillard

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m really grateful that you’re— well, that you’re not giving up on me.’ He passed a hand over his eyes, dragging at the skin. ‘Because I’d just about given up on myself.’

  I laid a hand on his arm. ‘Let’s just take it a day at a time, shall we?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s the only way. With people like me, I mean. We have to take it one day at a time.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I propose to do too. Now, I don’t know about you, but after all this soul-searching, I’m in desperate need of caffeine. Would you care to join me?’

  ‘I’d like nothing better.’

  ‘Come on then. Let’s get the kettle on.’

  I hooked my arm through Tom’s and together we plodded through the snow, back up to the house.

  Hector behaved himself. I’d worried he might throw a supernatural tantrum if Tom crossed the threshold again, but I wasn’t even aware of his presence and after a stilted, but fairly amiable coffee-drinking session, Tom departed unscathed.

  For the rest of the day, I braced myself for Hector’s appearance. The slightest draft or noise made me imagine I sensed his presence. As the afternoon wore on and evening approached, I found myself wondering if he would appear at night, in my bedroom. And if I would be sleeping alone.

  Anticipation became tension, then tension turned to annoyance as Hector failed to show, even though, as I understood it, he could be summoned by my need for him. Perhaps sexual need didn’t count. Or (and this was not a flattering thought) perhaps Hector knew I was waiting for him, but chose not to appear.

  Why would a ghost play hard to get?

  I spent the evening looking over the notes I’d made about the history of Tigh-na-Linne and the Munro family. When that subject palled, I started drafting a vague business plan for turning Tigh-na-Linne into a horticultural centre of some sort. But neither subject distracted me for very long from my real preoccupation: Hector’s non-appearance. So I abandoned my notes, shut down my laptop and settled for an early night.

  As I climbed the stairs, I became aware of a strange sensation: a prickly feeling at the back of my neck, so uncanny that eventually I stopped and looked round. I hadn’t heard any noise and I’d checked the house was locked before retiring, so I wasn’t worried about intruders. No, this was more a sensation of being watched, or rather followed, because I continued to experience it as I turned off at the top of the stairs and walked along the passage to the bathroom.

  I knew it had to be Hector watching me, but I couldn’t imagine why he wasn’t materialising. Did he think I couldn’t sense his presence? As I entered the bathroom, the prickly sensation ceased, which to my mind only confirmed it was Hector stalking me. His sense of propriety would never allow him to observe a lady at her ablutions. Convinced I was no longer being spied on, I decided to take a shower in an attempt to dispel the tension that had built up during the day.

  When I emerged from the bathroom some time later, wrapped in a towel, I wasn’t at all surprised I felt observed again. Hector had evidently waited for me outside the door and was now accompanying me, unseen, to my bedroom.

  I entered and left the door open, but already I could tell he hadn’t followed me into the room. I walked out again, sensed his presence, then walked back in, unaccompanied. I sank down on the bed, still wrapped in my towel, annoyed, disappointed and perplexed in equal measure.

  ‘For Heaven’s sake, Hector! Come in. Do you think I don’t know you’re out there? Why won’t you show yourself?’

  There was no response of any kind, except that the bedroom door began to move slowly. As it swung, my spirits rose and I stood up, wondering if I was about to be embraced by my invisible lover, but by the time the door was shut, I knew Hector was on the other side of it.

  ‘Hector?’ I called. ‘What’s all this about? Why are you ignoring me?’

  No response.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to come when I call you? Don’t you have to respond to my need? Or have the rules changed?’

  Still no response.

  Fed up with game-playing, I tucked my towel in firmly, tossed back my damp hair and headed for the door. I flung it open and stepped into the passage and stood there, hands on hips, too angry to feel the idiot I must have looked, talking to the air.

  ‘Hector, you’ve seen it all before, so why the coy performance? I know you’re there, so why won’t you let me see you?’

  My nostrils twitched as I detected the mix of mud and blood I’d originally found so disturbing, but which now had a more stimulating effect on my heart rate than the most expensive male cologne. I turned toward the memorial window, the direction from which the smell emanated. Hector began to appear as a pale shape, or rather, bits of him appeared and then disappeared, as if he was only partly materialising. When I was finally able to see his face, it came as a shock. He seemed to be suffering, perhaps suffering greatly. His eyes were unfocused, sunk in dark hollows and his lips were compressed in a grim, determined line.

  ‘Hector, what’s wrong? Are you in pain? Why can’t I see you properly? You’re coming and going like the Cheshire cat. Is it because we— I mean, is this something to do with what happened last night?’

  His mouth didn’t move, but his eyes - when they were visible - bore into me in a most unnerving way. I couldn’t hear anything, but I became aware that Hector was somehow speaking to me. Goosebumps sprang up all over my damp skin as I realised he must be letting me read his mind.

  You can’t see me because I’m using such power as I have to ignore your summons. And your need.

  ‘But why?’

  My own voice startled me, then once again Hector’s thoughts penetrated my confusion.

  Because there’s no future for us, Ruth. Because what happened last night should not have happened. I displayed weakness and selfishness. Such a lapse must not occur again.

  ‘You mean you’re deliberately keeping yourself invisible?’

  Aye. At least, I’m trying... You caught me unprepared by emerging from the bedroom. Half-naked.

  ‘I was hoping to remind you what you’re missing!’

  Pale lids closed over his tortured eyes, then opened again. I’ve not forgotten. Nor am I likely to.

  ‘But I don’t understand! Are you abandoning me?’

  No, never. But we cannot be lovers.

  ‘We are!’

  Your future doesn’t lie with me, Ruth.

  ‘I don’t care about my future, I care about you!’

  You know it’s madness to think about me in this way. I’m dead. I’ve been dead for almost a century. I was blown to smithereens by a shrapnel shell. It reduced me to bloody gobbets of flesh and bone, caught on the wire in No Man’s Land. There wasn’t even a body to bury, Ruth. That’s the man you now desire.

  ‘Hector, don’t! Please... I still want you!’

  I know, lassie. I can sense how much. Och, it’s very nearly as much as I want you! But I’m not meant for you. There’ll be another. Some day.

  ‘I don’t want another, I want you!’

  It cannot be. You must see that. Our relationship... He shook his head, seeming at a loss. “It was begotten by Despair upon Impossibility.”

  ‘Don’t give me that crap!’ I shouted, fighting back tears. ‘Get your act together and get into that bedroom. Just hold me, Hector! For one minute. Touch me. Please. I can’t bear this!’

  No more can I. That’s why it must end. Here. Now.

  ‘Then I shall leave Tigh-na-Linne.’

  No!

  ‘So you want me to stay, but you’re going to ignore me! Or are we going to indulge in some form of head-sex from now on? Do tell, Hector, what you have planned for us.’

  It’s not what I have planned, Ruth. I’m only an instrument.

  ‘Instrument? But not one I’m allowed to use!’ As I waved my arms angrily, my towel slipped and I clutched at it automatically, covering myself again.

  As I glared at Hector, he became clearer. His body appeared more s
olid, so that, after a few seconds, he was in the form I recognised. He looked like a man again. I took an eager step toward him, but he raised a warning hand and this time, addressed me using his voice.

  ‘Stay there, Ruth. If you approach me, I swear I shall marshall such meagre resources as I have left to remove myself from your sight.’ He paused, allowing the threat to sink in, then said, ‘I want you to listen to me. Will you do that?’

  ‘Yes, if it means I can look at you. See you as I know you. Yes, I’ll listen. Listen all night.’

  ‘We belong to different worlds. There can be no future for us together. I am not a man. I appear to be a man because that’s the form in which I can best serve you. If I thought our carnal relationship was a novelty of which you would eventually tire, the indulgence would perhaps be forgivable. But I have grown to love you. And I very much fear you love me, or are in danger of loving me. How can I allow you to throw yourself away on... a spectre? A dead man who cannot give you children, or support you? Who cannot satisfy you physically in a normal way?’

  ‘Oh, don’t trouble yourself on that score. Believe me, I had no complaints.’

  ‘Your future doesn’t lie with me, Ruth. I have no future, only a past.’

  ‘But you promised me “wonders”. Don’t you remember? You said there would be wonders for both of us.’

  ‘And there will. Believe it.’

  ‘But we won’t be ... together somehow?’

  ‘No. It’s impossible, you know that. What happened between us was... an aberration. You offered yourself to me and I - I should not have given in to my desire. I bear the responsibility for your present unhappiness. To see you like this, to witness your misery, is punishment enough for what I did.’

  Deflated, despairing, I shivered and hugged my bare arms. Hearing a soft, swishing sound behind me, I turned and saw the patchwork quilt from my bed creeping across the threshold of my bedroom. It gathered itself at my feet, slid up and over my body, then draped itself around my shoulders like a cape. As I watched, open-mouthed, the quilt moulded itself to my chilled body, like a lover’s embrace. I looked up at Hector to thank him for this tender gesture, but his eyes were fixed on some point on the floorboards, his brow deeply furrowed, as if at any moment, his struggle might finally overwhelm him.

  ‘You won’t desert me altogether, will you?’ I pleaded. ‘You’ll still appear? And talk to me? Will things be as they were before?’

  He didn’t look up, but said, dully, ‘How can they ever be as they were when you know I love you? That you love me? Its impossible, Ruth.’

  ‘Oh, stop using that word! Can’t we at least try? I’ve lost so much this year. David. My father. Janet. I just can’t bear to lose anyone else! Please don’t leave me.’

  Hector didn’t reply and appeared to be wrestling with his emotions. Eventually he sighed and said, ‘There will come a time when I have to leave, but until then, I shall remain your faithful servant.’

  ‘And friend?’

  ‘Of course. Now away to your bed. You’re cold and tired.’

  Turning, I began to trudge along the passage, dragging the quilt behind me, then I stopped and looked back over my shoulder. Hector was still there.

  ‘Will you wait outside my door tonight? As you used to?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘All night?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘But you’ll be gone in the morning?’

  ‘Aye, I will.’

  As I turned away, I sensed him following me to the door and could smell the damp earth that clung to his boots. I’ll never know how I commanded my feet to take me in the opposite direction. Hesitating in the doorway, I laid trembling fingers on the handle.

  ‘Hector, we—’

  ‘Goodnight, Ruth.’

  I turned and looked into his pale eyes and said, ‘I know you’re right. In my sane mind, I do know that what you say makes sense. It’s just that, I don’t think I want to be sane. I preferred the madness. It made more sense to me. And it was much more fun, you have to admit.’ I was rewarded with the slightest of smiles and a lightening of Hector’s stern expression. ‘Do you know what Janet said once? She said, “A creative artist needs to keep sanity in check”.’

  ‘Did she now?’

  ‘Yes. And I’m sure she was right.’ Quite unaccountably, tears sprang into my eyes and Hector became a blur. ‘I miss her so much!’

  ‘Och, wheesht now!’ he murmured softly. Without touching me, he reached down and wrested the door handle from my fingers. ‘Away to your bed now. You’ll sleep.’

  It sounded like an order and, as Hector closed the bedroom door, I obeyed. I cast off the quilt and my wet towel, put on a warm nightie and got into bed. Miserable and angry, I assumed sleep would elude me, but I fell into a doze almost immediately, lulled by the sound of Hector’s low voice reverberating gently in my aching head, like a sort of spoken lullaby. His words seemed familiar, but it took me a while to place them. He was reciting the last verse of the Marvell poem, the one he’d set to music - music that Janet had appropriated.

  .

  Therefore the love which us doth bind

  But Fate so enviously debars,

  Is the conjunction of the mind

  And opposition of the stars.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The following morning, I saw with startling clarity that I must leave Tigh-na-Linne and as soon as possible. I would leave my car on Skye, fly down to London and embrace normality once more. Tom could be put in charge of looking after the house. He could even live in while I was away. If I went back to London, I would be doing us both a favour. Admittedly, there was a danger he might sell the contents of the house in my absence, but my instincts told me Tom might just have turned a corner. Every time he looked in the mirror (and I suspected he did that quite often) he’d see the evidence of his stupid and selfish behaviour. He would be reminded that I’d trusted him and (perhaps foolishly) continued to trust him. If he had any remnant of conscience left, Tom wouldn’t let me down again. He needed all the friends he could get.

  Stan could be cancelled - had to be cancelled, since Janet’s professional integrity had been called into question. It seemed there had been some plagiarism and, whatever her motives, they’d never withstand the harsh scrutiny of the academic world. Much as I wanted my aunt’s musical legacy to reach a wider audience, I didn’t want her to be pilloried or misunderstood. Stan himself had suggested Janet might have collaborated with another uncredited composer, but even if I could persuade him Janet’s partner in crime was actually a ghost, there was no way we’d be able to convince anyone else. Janet herself would surely have agreed obscurity was preferable to ignominy.

  So after breakfast, I sat with my laptop, attempting to compose a musical Dear John letter to Stan, informing him that changed circumstances dictated my immediate return to London and, since I couldn’t be sure of my future plans, I must reluctantly withdraw my offer of hospitality.

  Saving the email in draft, I felt a total coward and wondered how long it would take me to pluck up the courage to send it. I also wondered if Hector would try to prevent me leaving.

  He didn’t have to. The weather did it for him. When I went online to book a flight to London from Inverness, I found the airport had been closed by snow. It never took much to close that airport and looking at the Met Office long-range forecast, it looked to me as if it might be closed for at least another twenty-four hours, maybe longer.

  I decided I would have to risk the five hour drive to Glasgow and leave the car there, so I checked the AA’s website. In view of local weather conditions (high winds, drifting snow, blizzards) they advised motorists not to travel unless their journey was essential.

  I wondered briefly and paranoiacally if this was all Hector’s doing, but there was no evidence he had any meteorological powers. Locals had predicted a long, hard winter in the Highlands and it seemed it had begun. So perhaps, I thought, searching for the silver lining of this particular dark cloud,
Stan wouldn’t even attempt the journey to Skye. But a Canadian was unlikely to be daunted by a spot of bad weather. No, I would just have to put Stan off. He would never know if I’d gone back to London or not.

  But in the event, I didn’t have to send my email. When I returned to my inbox, I found Stan had got there before me. It was only then, as I read his desolate apologies, that I realised how much I’d been looking forward to meeting him and talking about Janet.

  Crestfallen, I shut down my laptop. So much for all my jolly Christmas plans. And so much for Hector’s promised “wonders”.

  My dear Ruth

  Forgive an email, but as I type, you will, I’m sure, be tucked up in bed - perhaps dreaming of your ghost!

  I’m sorry to say I have a domestic crisis here and it affects my proposed Christmas visit. My father has had to be admitted to a nursing home and I’ve been told that’s where he’s likely to stay now. I’ve also been told his stay might not be a long one.

  I’m his only close relative, geographically speaking, so for some years now his care has fallen to me, which means my visit to Skye might have to be cancelled or postponed. Dad could stabilise, in which case I can come over. He might pass away, in which case I would be free to travel some time after the funeral. But he might just remain poorly, in which case, I don’t think I can consider making the trip.

  The next 48 hours are critical. If Dad rallies, my trip could be feasible as I’m not due to fly out for a couple more weeks. But if I did come, I’d need to be on stand-by in case he deteriorated. My trip could therefore turn out to be a short one. This degree of uncertainty is, I know, most unsatisfactory, so I think it’s probably best if I cancel. That way you’re free to make alternative arrangements for Christmas.

  Before he took a fall, Dad was encouraging me to visit “the Old Country” and I have to admit, I was really hoping to meet Hector the Spectre. (My plan was, if I didn’t make the bestseller lists with my study of Janet Gillespie, I would sell the story of my spook encounter to Haunted Times magazine.