‘I take it,’ said Hector, with a sidelong glance at me over his shoulder, ‘that you don’t wish to hear about foot inspection?’
‘Was that one of your responsibilities?’
‘Aye, when I was a junior officer.’
‘What were you looking for?’
‘Trench foot. Gangrene.’
‘Oh...’ The conversation languished again and I made another attempt to engage him. ‘You said the waiting reminded you of being in the trenches.’
‘Aye. Waiting for something to happen. Or waiting for it all to be over.’ He laid a hand on mine. ‘If you really want to know—’
‘I do!’
‘Then I’ll tell you about stand-to...’ He paused and the silence was so prolonged, I thought perhaps he’d changed his mind about speaking to me, but eventually, in a voice so weary, I hardly recognised it as Hector’s, he said, ‘Troops were required to stand-to on the fire-step. That was a ledge on the forward face of the trench. We stood for an hour at dawn and an hour at dusk, in case Jerry chose that time to attack. The grey light was thought to be the most favourable for mounting an attack. So that’s how almost every day began and ended. With waiting. Waiting while our nerves frayed. Waiting for a few nervous shots along the length of the trench - theirs or ours - as men got the wind up and fired at nothing. We stood-to until it was full light or full dark. Men sat on the fire-step, while sentries stood looking over the parapet. And on the other side of No Man’s Land, Jerry was doing exactly the same. Waiting. Waiting for the war to end... Waiting for our lives to end.’ Hector was silent, then his body heaved with a great sigh. The sound that issued from his throat was broken, a murmur only, like the last words of a dying man. ‘I’ve had a bellyful of waiting.’
I tightened my arms around his waist, at a loss to know what to say. As I did so, his spine straightened and he lifted his head, suddenly alert.
‘What is it, Hector?’
‘Your waiting is over.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You were waiting for something. It’s here.’
‘I’m not waiting for anything.’
‘You were.’ He twisted round to look at me. ‘A message of some sort? It’s come.’ He lifted his chin and looked past me, as if watching something, something invisible. His eyes narrowed and a frown crumpled his smooth, pale brow, then he announced, ‘He’s out of danger.’
‘Who is?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Someone you were concerned about?’
‘Tom?’
Hector’s eyes flashed momentarily and he looked back at me, his frown deeper still. ‘Och, I cannot tell. It’s not clear, it’s only... a feeling. Something distant. Very distant.’
‘Oh - that’ll be Athelstan!’
‘Athelstan?’
‘My professor. I’ve been waiting to hear if he’s coming to visit. His father’s very ill, so Stan probably won’t be able to come.’
‘You weren’t concerned about Tom?’
‘I am concerned about Tom, as it happens, but he’s not ill. Well, not in the way you mean. And I certainly wasn’t waiting to hear from him.’ Hector’s expression told me he was still unconvinced. ‘Tom’s no more to me than - well, than a very old friend. He’s a throwback to my childhood.’
‘So,’ said Hector pointedly, ‘am I.’
‘You’re different.’
‘Aye, I suppose you might say that,’ he conceded. ‘And this professor? What is he?’
‘Stan? He’s a new friend, I suppose. A musicologist. He wants to examine Janet’s manuscripts. He’s been pretty persistent. So I’ve got to find a way of explaining to him that my aunt wasn’t a plagiarist, she was just following a ghost’s instructions.’
‘Och, what does it matter who wrote the damn music? All that matters is what the music does, the effect it has on folk. How it makes them feel.’
‘Well, I have some idea how it made Stan feel. He wrote to me about In Memoriam. He said it was one of the finest and most underrated pieces in the twentieth century classical repertoire. He’s a big fan of yours. Or would be, if he knew you.’
Hector wasn’t listening. His eyes had swivelled toward the bedside table and he was gazing at the phone. My own eyes followed and then the phone started to ring. My naked skin broke out in goose bumps.
‘You must answer,’ he murmured.
‘No, not now! It could be nothing. Someone selling something.’
‘It isn’t,’ he replied, getting to his feet. He strode to the bedroom door, his kilt swinging and unhooked my dressing gown. He returned and held it open for me. As I got out of bed, my eyes never left his face, but Hector’s wandered over my naked body with a look of such guilty longing, I covered myself quickly to spare him.
‘If I answer the phone, you won’t disappear while my back’s turned, will you?’ Still his eyes didn’t meet mine. ‘Promise me, Hector.’
‘Answer the telephone, Ruth. It’s important.’
‘Not if it means you’ll leave!’
He ignored me and stared at the fireplace. The blaze in the grate began to dwindle and then died, revealing the ugly metal bars of the old electric fire. When I looked back at Hector, I could see the other side of the room through him, as he began to fade.
‘Hector, please don’t go!’
‘You haven’t seen the last of me, Ruth. Not quite. Speak to your new friend. He has something to tell you.’
I lunged, clutching at the remnants of Hector’s body, but there was nothing there, just currents of cold, moist air that eddied around me as the phone continued to ring.
Chapter Sixteen
The phone stopped ringing. Relieved, I belted my dressing gown and scanned the room for signs of Hector, but could see nothing, nor could I sense anything. As tears began to prick the back of my eyes, the phone rang again. With one last despairing look round the room, I picked it up.
A voice - I didn’t recognise it as mine - said, ‘Hello?’
‘Ruth! At last! I was beginning to think maybe you’d already gone to London. It’s Stan.’
I sank onto the bed and tried to gather my teeming thoughts. ‘Oh, hello, Stan. I’m sorry, I was just talking to someone. On my mobile,’ I added hastily. ‘Work stuff. It was urgent.’ (How many more superfluous lies was I going to tell before normal service was resumed?)
‘That’s OK. I didn’t really want to disturb you, so I sent an email a while back, but then I decided I should speak with you right away as I haven’t been in touch. It’s about my father.’
‘Not bad news, I hope?’
‘No, on the contrary! He’s made a good recovery and there are no immediate concerns for his health - though the winter’s always a trying time for the elderly. But Dad’s a fighter! He’s rallied and settled well into the nursing home.’
‘Oh, good! You must be so relieved.’
‘Indeed I am. I was ringing to ask - it’s a liberty, I know - but I wondered if it would be possible for me to visit now?’
‘Now?’
‘Well, as soon as possible. Now Dad’s out of danger, I think I have a window. I couldn’t stay long. I want to be back in Toronto for Christmas, to spend it with him. So I wondered if it would be convenient for me to bring my visit forward? But please don’t let me impose on you. This is really short notice and I know you had other plans.’
‘No, that’s OK. There was nothing that couldn’t be postponed,’ I answered vaguely. ‘But I thought term didn’t end until December 7th?’
‘It doesn’t, but I’ve requested leave to do research in the UK and it’s been granted. I only had one more lecture to give this term and I’ll make that up early next year. The department has been very accommodating.’
‘So you’re free now? You can come over straight away?’
‘In a matter of days. If it suited you.’
I was thinking fast. Sane Mind and Insane Mind were slugging it out again and, as usual, Insane Mind was winning.
‘So you’re
saying, if you don’t come now, you won’t be able to come later.’
‘That’s right. But if I do come, it will only be a short visit.’
‘Oh, that’s not a problem. I was looking forward to your visit.’
Was I?... Yes, I was. And then I remembered why Stan mustn’t come.
I took a deep breath and heard Insane Mind say, ‘But there’s something I think you ought to know, Stan. In case it affects your decision to travel. I’ll be straight with you, but what I’m about to say is said in confidence. You see, I haven’t come to terms yet with - well, with the full implications.’
‘Is this about Janet?’ Stan sounded wary.
‘Yes, it is... Stan, she didn’t write In Memoriam.’
‘She didn’t?’
‘No.’
‘Then who did?’
It was now or never... ‘The ghost. When he was alive, I mean.’ There was a long silence, as if the line had gone dead. ‘Stan? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m here. I’m stunned, but I’m still here. Are you sure, Ruth? I mean, how do you know?’
I recalled Aunt Janet lecturing me as a child, pointing out that one of the advantages of telling the truth is that you don’t have to remember the lies you told. I took Janet’s advice.
‘I know because the ghost told me.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’
‘It wasn’t exactly plagiarism,’ I insisted. ‘Well, not plagiarism at all, technically. Janet had Hector’s permission.’
‘So, let me get this straight... Hector - that’s the ghost, right?’
‘Stan, you’re not laughing at me, are you?’
‘Not at all! How could I laugh at something so serious? And so exciting? Tell me, how did you establish that Janet had the ghost’s permission?’
‘Hector told me that too. He explained everything. It was all part of a quest. To find someone. His lost love,’ I added lamely.
There was another silence while I waited, heart sinking, for a change in Stan’s voice, for him to hang up or say something that indicated we’d moved out of his credibility comfort zone.
‘Well... I don’t know how the hell I’m going to incorporate all this into an academic study,’ he said slowly. ‘But I guess I’ll cross that bridge later. Maybe we’ll make a movie instead,’ he added brightly. ‘If you could contrive to fall in love with this ghost, it would be more commercial.’
I swallowed and said faintly, ‘Now you are laughing at me.’
‘Not at all! But I admit, excitement is getting the better of me. You know, unless you expressly forbid it, I’ll be on the next plane out of Toronto that’s headed in the general direction of Scotland.’
To my surprise, I found I was absurdly pleased. ‘Oh... I thought you’d be upset! Or that you wouldn’t believe me.’
‘Why wouldn’t I believe you? And why would you lie? If you were lying, would you have concocted quite such an outrageous story? No, either you’re completely insane or you’re telling the truth. And I’ll know which, just as soon as I meet you. Now I am laughing at you, Ruth. At us.’
If he’d been present, I think I might have thrown my arms round Stan and given him a hug, so relieved was I to share the burden of Hector’s existence. ‘I know it does sound quite mad. Believe me, there have been moments when I’ve doubted my sanity! It’s been awful at times. Yet also... very wonderful. But all this is going to ruin your study, isn’t it?’
‘Probably,’ Stan replied, sounding unruffled. ‘I don’t really know. I’ll keep an open mind. But what the hell? If Janet didn’t compose In Memoriam, I’d certainly like to meet the man who did.’
‘He’s dead, Stan. Long dead. He’s a ghost.’
‘Oh, I won’t hold that against him. In fact I sincerely hope to shake him by the hand and pay my respects. Do you think he’ll appear to me?’
‘I don’t know. He says the only people who can see him are those who want to—’
‘Oh, I want to!’
‘And those who need to.’
‘Why would anyone need to see a ghost?’
‘It’s complicated. I’ll explain when you get here.’
‘So I can come then?’
‘Of course! On the understanding that I still haven’t decided what to do about Janet’s archive. I mean, you can go through it all, but I don’t know what I want to do about it yet. Whether I should go public about In Memoriam. I don’t see how I can without Janet’s reputation being damaged. She passed off the work of a dead man as her own. No one - apart from you - is going to believe the dead man instructed her to do so. They’ll assume she was delusional. Or that I’m delusional. Maybe they’ll think it’s hereditary insanity... Perhaps it is.’
‘Don’t worry about all that now. Let’s just take a look at Janet’s archive and see what we’ve got. We can worry about falsifying the evidence later.’
‘Stan, I wouldn’t dream of asking you to—’
‘It’s OK, I was joking! Though I happen to know a few authors with a reputation for academic rigour founded on more dubious studies than mine is likely to be.’
‘I feel dreadful. As if I’ve sabotaged your work. Your career even. I know this book must be very important to you.’
‘It is, but what’s more important to me is to understand Janet’s creative process. Hector’s too, I suppose. Remember, Ruth, I’m a composer primarily. My academic work subsidises that. If my book about Janet creates a stir in musical circles, well, that could be bad for me as an academic, but good for me as a composer. A reputation for eccentricity hasn’t done Schumann or Satie any harm. But it doesn’t really matter to me who wrote In Memoriam. It’s the music that’s important.’
‘Oh...’ I couldn’t help expressing surprise at the echo of Hector’s words.
‘Did I say something wrong?’
‘No, not at all. You just said something I heard someone else say. Quite recently.’
Stan paused for a moment, then said, ‘Hector?’
‘Yes. He said all that really mattered was what music does. The effect it has on people.’
‘Sounds like we’re all in agreement then! So I can come over?’
‘Yes, please do. But beware - the weather’s awful here. I’d offer to come and meet you at Glasgow airport, but I couldn’t actually guarantee I’d get there. The snow’s thick and there’s no thaw forecast.’
‘That’s OK, I’ll hire a car at the airport and drive up.’
‘Conditions will be pretty bad.’
‘Ruth,’ Stan said gently, ‘I’m Canadian. We never go anywhere in winter without snowshoes. Igloo-building is in our DNA. I’ll be fine.’
‘Well, you’ll need Satnav when you get to Skye. Tigh-na-Linne isn’t easy to find and landmarks have disappeared since the snow fell.’
‘It must all look very beautiful’
‘It does, but in a dangerous sort of way. It doesn’t do to underestimate Highland weather.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t. Look, I’ll email you details of my flight, so you know when to expect me.’
‘The drive from Glasgow takes five or six hours on a good day, but it will take you longer now.’
‘Duly noted. OK, I have a lot to organise and I’m sure you do too, so I’ll spare you any more of my schoolboy enthusiasm. Thank you so much for allowing me to come - and at such short notice.’
‘You’re very welcome. I’m so pleased you still want to pursue your study of Janet. I thought you might want to abandon it, once you knew. About Hector, I mean.’
‘No, Hector is one of the main attractions. And this memorial window. You say it’s a good likeness?’
‘Oh, yes. Very.’
‘Well, if I don’t get to meet the spook himself, the window will be my consolation.’
As it will have to be mine, I reflected, once Hector ceases to appear to me. He’d already hinted at his imminent departure and I knew I must prepare for the worst. But when I could no longer touch Hector, no longer even see him, I wo
uld still have the window. If I could bear to look at it. Was that why Janet had placed the wardrobe in front of the window? When Hector no longer visited, did Janet miss him badly? Was the window too painful a reminder of the friendship they’d known?...
Stan was talking but I wasn’t listening. I tuned back in, just in time to hear him say goodbye, then he hung up.
I put the phone down. Sitting perched on the edge of the bed, I thought of all the things I needed to do before Stan arrived. Unpack my suitcase for a start. As the mental list grew longer, I found myself curling up on the bed. The room was chilly now without Hector’s phantom fire, so I pulled the quilt over me and lay still, staring up at the window. As the afternoon light faded, more snow began to fall. The large flakes were of the slow, relentless variety, the kind that settle and form thick drifts. Watching them as they sank past the window, I faced facts.
Hector would leave me. He would perhaps never leave Tigh-na-Linne, but he would leave me. I understood why and knew it was for the best. For both of us. But that didn’t make the loss any easier to bear. I’d hoped the prospect of Stan’s visit might drag me back into the real world, but pleased as I was he’d decided to come - and that I’d decided to let him - it did little to assuage my loneliness and the gnawing despair I felt when I contemplated a future without Hector, my lover and friend.
When finally it was dark, I switched on the bedside lamp and sat up. Throwing back the quilt, I got off the bed, went into the hall and dragged my suitcase back into the room. I unpacked the contents, putting Hector’s precious journal back in my bedside drawer and his photograph on the table, facing the bed. These and the old family albums would soon be all I had of him, apart from my memories. I stared at the photograph for a few moments, then decided I couldn’t cope. It joined the journal in the drawer, which I slammed shut. I lay down on the bed again, turned out the light and then slept.
I dreamed of Hector - not the Hector I knew, but the warrior angel in the window. But in my dream Hector wasn’t made of glass. He was made of ice and as I clung to him, he melted, until eventually my wet and frozen arms held nothing.
The Glass Guardian Page 19