The Glass Guardian

by Linda Gillard

  ‘And when I met you-’

  ‘You thought I was Hector. That isn’t coincidence, Ruth. And it can’t really be a shared delusion, can it? Of course, one of us could be lying... Are you?’

  ‘No. Are you?’

  ‘No. So what is it then?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  Stan was pensive for a moment, then announced cheerfully, ‘Me neither! But you know what? I really don’t mind. Do you?’

  As I pondered my answer, it was if a heavy burden was suddenly lifted from my shoulders. ‘No, I don’t think I do. I don’t think I actually need to understand.’

  ‘No, neither do I.’ Stan grinned at me, his eyes bright with amusement. ‘Now there’s a coincidence...’

  Stan and I caught the bus back to Skye. We sat side by side in enforced intimacy for a couple of hours as I pointed out the sights he hadn’t see on his drive up from Glasgow. As we drew up on the shore of Loch Ness to drop off and pick up tourists, Stan exclaimed like an excited schoolboy, pointing to the snow-clad ruins of Urquhart Castle. ‘Oh my - just wait till I tell Dad about this! Everywhere you go in this country, you bump into history!’ He tore his eyes away from the outrageously picturesque ruins to smile at me. ‘I’m so glad I came.’

  ‘I’m glad too.’

  ‘And I’m glad you’re glad. Are there going to be any more castles? I’m not sure I can cope with much more architectural excitement.’

  The time passed quickly and easily. I felt relaxed in Stan’s company and I put this down to the fact that I was constantly confusing him with Hector, but the truth of the matter was, I’d rarely felt relaxed in Hector’s company. After love-making perhaps, but at all other times I’d felt apprehensive, disturbed or simply unhappy. Being with Stan reminded me rather of how I used to feel with Hector. As a child, I hadn’t known what he was and had just accepted him as a friend, an uncle, an eccentric but loving extension of my family, like my Aunt Janet.

  Stan was also - it turned out - an extension of my family. Also somewhat eccentric. And loving? Warm and attentive, certainly, but I attributed that to my recent near-death experience and his delight in discovering a new branch of the family. There could surely be nothing more to it than that?...

  As we approached Kyle of Lochalsh and the bridge that would take us over to Skye, I realised it would still be daylight when we arrived at Tigh-na-Linne. Stan would get to see the glass guardian in all his technicolour glory. But would he see the window’s ghostly counterpart again?

  Would I?...

  I’d ordered a taxi to meet us off the bus and we were driven back to Tigh-na-Linne by a driver who appeared to know more about my accident than I did. I presumed Tom and the Skye jungle drums had spread the word.

  The driver deposited us outside the back door. I’d been carted off to hospital without my handbag, but as I kept a spare house key under a flower pot, we were able to let ourselves in. I was braced for the worst. Stan had said he’d left mud and pondweed all over the floor, but we found the kitchen clean and tidy. Tidier than usual in fact. I guessed Tom had cleaned up, but he’d left a note on the kitchen table confirming it and explaining he’d left some milk in the fridge. He also said I was to call him straight away if I needed any help.

  I was touched by his thoughtfulness. I wondered if, when he’d met Stan, he’d noticed his resemblance to the stained glass window. I thought it unlikely. Tom’s attention would have been on the mud-covered body deposited in front of the Aga. Since he’d removed the decaying bridge, Tom must have wondered how I’d come to fall through the ice. Had he also marvelled at my good fortune, being hauled out of the pond by a stranger for the second time in my life?...

  I’d prepared a guest room for Stan on the same corridor as the memorial window. There was no way I could show him to his room without his seeing the portrait of his grandfather. In any case, I knew Stan was anxious to view the window and eager to confirm that the vision he’d seen of a figure bearing my apparently lifeless body was in fact the ghost of his grandfather.

  So I turned to him and, my heart beating slightly faster, said, ‘I imagine you’d like to meet your grandfather?’

  Stan rubbed chilly hands together, grinned and said, ‘You bet!’

  I led the way upstairs. My legs felt leaden, partly through lack of exercise, partly through fear of meeting Hector at the top of the stairs, or finding him in front of the window, waiting for me. But when I got to the top of the staircase, I had no sense of him and when Stan and I stood and looked along the hallway, all I saw was the window, brilliantly illuminated by the bright winter sunshine, its strength magnified by the reflective power of the snow.

  Stan stood and stared. I couldn’t bear to look at the window, so I watched Stan (which amounted to much the same thing.) He seemed to straighten up as he looked. He stood taller - perhaps as some mark of respect? Eventually he cast his eyes down and passed a hand over his face, then he exhaled and slowly shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe the evidence of his own eyes. When he finally lifted his head again, Stan looked even more like Hector. His expression had somehow taken on the sad weariness I associated with Hector, the palpable sense of loss.

  Stan emitted a guttural noise and I wasn’t sure if he was trying to speak or maybe just clear his throat. He pointed to the window and said, his voice gruff with emotion, ‘Looks like he was one hell of a guy.’

  ‘Yes. I think he probably was. In fact, I know he was.’

  Stan turned to me, his eyes brimming and now as bright as Hector’s. ‘Would you excuse me, Ruth? I have to call my Dad. I want him to know—’ His voice tailed off and he stood looking helpless for a moment, then fixed his eyes on the window again.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I replied. ‘I’ll go and put the kettle on.’

  ‘No, no - you don’t have to leave. In fact, I’d rather you didn’t. I’d quite like you to have a word with Dad. And perhaps you might want to have a word with Hector’s son?’

  ‘Do you want to do that now? I mean, what time is it in Canada?’

  Stan glanced at his watch. ‘It’s OK. He’ll have finished having breakfast a while ago.’

  I stood and watched as Stan got out his phone and pressed a few buttons. His face was tense as he waited for a reply, then he began to walk toward the window. He took up a position with his back to me, in front of his almost life-size twin.

  Stan’s head shot up suddenly. ‘Dad? Hey, it’s me... No, I’m fine. I’m in Scotland... That’s right, the Old Country! I wanted to share something very special with you, Dad. Are you sitting down?... Well, listen to this... I’ve seen your father.’

  I was shocked that Stan was prepared to tell his father he’d seen Hector’s ghost, then I realised he was referring to the window. As he listened to his father’s response, Stan turned and smiled at me over his shoulder, giving me a thumbs-up.

  ‘Well, I’m standing in front of a memorial window in the family home of—’ Stan bent to read the inscription on the window. ‘James Munro, who was born in 1880 and died in 1915 at the battle of Loos, in France. He was your mother’s first love, Dad. You were right! He was a soldier and he died before they could marry. Effie named you James after him but,’ - this with a look at me - ‘I have it on good authority that he was actually known as Hector.’

  Stan was silent for a few moments while his father replied, then he continued. ‘No, I’ve been talking to a member of the family. In fact I’m staying with a member of the family. It turns out Ruth Travers is some sort of distant cousin of mine. Can you believe that?’ Stan listened again, then continued. ‘Well, I said I’d seen him, because this memorial window is a stained glass portrait of James Hector, made after he died. Ruth assures me it’s a good likeness... What?... Well, I suppose she’s seen old photos... What does he look like?’ Stan laughed. ‘A lot like me, Dad!’

  He turned round again, but as he did so his wide smile vanished and the hand holding his mobile to his ear began to drift slowly down. I realised Stan wasn’t look
ing at me, but past me. I spun round, but I already knew what I would see.

  Hector, dressed as usual in his uniform, wasn’t looking at me either, but at his grandson. His mournful eyes followed Stan’s hand as it sank down, then rose as Stan put the phone to his ear again.

  Unsmiling now, his eyes fixed on Hector, Stan said, ‘Dad, seeing this window and thinking about your father as a young man - you know, it’s got me wondering. About Grandma Effie... I never knew her when she was young... That’s right, it was a long time ago. But can you still remember what she was like as a young woman? She used to sing, right? And play piano?...’ With the phone still pressed to his ear, Stan walked back along the hall until he faced Hector. He took the phone away from his own ear, then, his hand trembling slightly, he held it up to Hector’s.

  As he listened to the sound of his son’s voice, Hector’s form seemed to thin until he was almost transparent. As Stan stepped back in alarm, Hector reappeared and snatched the phone from his hand. The two men’s fingers touched briefly and I saw Stan recoil as he registered the temperature of Hector’s ghostly flesh.

  They continued to face each other as the old man talked, reminiscing about his mother, Elfriede. Stan was probably close enough to hear the words, or at least get their gist, so when Hector handed him the phone, Stan spoke into it as if resuming a conversation.

  ‘Thanks, Dad. I didn’t know all that about Effie. You never talked about her much. Not young Effie. And now standing here, actually looking at your father—’ Stan gazed steadily into Hector’s eyes, but didn’t miss a beat. ‘Well, I thought it would be good to talk about the old days and the girl who fell in love with this fine young man... What?... That’s right, almost a century ago...’ Stan listened for a few moments more, then said, ‘It was great to talk to you too, Dad. You have no idea how good it was to hear your voice... Look, I have to go and unpack now, so I’ll just say goodbye, OK?’

  Without waiting for a reply, Stan thrust the phone at Hector’s ear and gave him a curt nod. Understanding, Hector’s mouth moved, but no sound emerged. Stan whispered, ‘Go on!’

  Without taking his eyes off Stan, Hector worked his lips until a few dull syllables emerged. ‘Goodbye... Dad.’

  From a few feet away, I heard James Blake’s hearty farewell. ‘Goodbye, son. Thanks for calling. You take good care now.’

  For a moment we all stood listening to the silence, then Stan switched off his phone and put it back in his pocket. He took a step away from Hector and glanced across at me. Still none of us spoke. I watched Hector and waited, but his attention was on his grandson. He drew himself up to his full ghostly height, extended his hand and said, ‘James Munro. I was known as Hector.’

  Stan took Hector’s hand, but this time, his face betrayed no surprise. ‘Athelstan Blake. Everybody calls me Stan.’

  ‘I’d like to thank you for—’

  As Hector faltered, Stan butted in. ‘My pleasure... You know, your son is a grand old man.’

  Unable to speak, Hector lifted a pale hand, laid it on Stan’s shoulder and bowed his head. Then, as he released Stan, Hector turned to me. After what seemed like a very long time, in which nobody moved, he said, ‘It’s finished, Ruth.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I must away.’

  I nodded, no longer trusting myself to speak.

  ‘Thank you... For believing in me. Goodbye.’ He paused, then murmured the traditional Highland farewell. ‘May your god go with you.’

  As I sprang forward, Hector was already fading. By the time I’d covered the few paces between us, he was gone. I heard myself scream his name in a voice that seemed to rend me in two, then, as I sank toward the floor, Stan’s arms went round me and pulled me up again. I lay my head on his chest and sobbed for a long time, during which Stan said not a single word, but simply held me.

  Chapter Twenty

  Afterwards, Stan and I didn’t say much to each other. I was relieved he didn’t try to console or explain, nor did he intrude on my grief. He was just there, a solid presence (unlike Hector) and for that I was grateful. Only by sharing the experience with someone sane could I convince myself I hadn’t gone barking mad.

  Stan suggested I go to bed and try to sleep. I felt exhausted with crying and I was probably still a bit weak from my experience at the bottom of the pond, so I didn’t take much persuading. While I undressed and got into bed, Stan busied himself in the kitchen. He reappeared at the bedroom door (for just a second I thought it was Hector) with a laden tea tray. He’d made two kinds of tea which he presented in his characteristic breezy fashion, but I knew he was only talking to save me the trouble.

  ‘Now, I know how seriously you British take your tea, so I made two kinds. There’s a strong Assam brew there, if you feel in need of fortification. Alternatively, if you require something soothing, there’s also camomile, which gets my vote for universal cure-all. And unlike chicken soup,’ he added, ‘You can actually apply it to open wounds.’ He shot me a look. ‘Of all varieties.’

  ‘Camomile, please, Stan. Just what I need.’

  He set down the tray on top of a chest of drawers and, as he poured, said, ‘Can I get you anything to eat?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m not hungry. But you must be. I’m sorry, I’m being a lousy hostess. This isn’t at all what I had planned.’

  ‘Please don’t concern yourself! I have a tin of emergency shortbread in my luggage and just now I spotted eggs and bacon in the fridge.’

  ‘There’s plenty of bread in the freezer. Help yourself. And you can choose dinner if you like. There’s a variety of frozen pies and casseroles. All home-made.’ His eyes lit up. ‘I stocked up before you arrived.’

  ‘Oh joy! Home cooked food! My batterie de cuisine consists of one well-used wok. If it can’t be stir-fried, I’m afraid I don’t know how to cook it. Sad, but true... OK now, drink your tea, then try to get some rest while I go and unpack.’

  ‘I’ve put you next door. There’s a bathroom opposite. If there’s anything else you need—’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to find it. I feel right at home already.’

  ‘Maybe that’s because this is your home. Your family home. When you think about it, you have more right than me to be here.’ Stan blinked at me, astonished, as I continued. ‘Hector’s son should have inherited Tigh-na-Linne, but no-one knew he existed. By rights, this is your father’s house.’

  ‘Well, I suppose if you look at it like that...’ Stan said doubtfully. ‘But this was Janet’s home for her entire life and she left it to you. I’m just a guest. And very happy to be one.’

  As I sipped my tea, he drew the curtains, then left, closing the door quietly behind him. I managed a few more mouthfuls, then set the cup down, too weary even to drink. As I drifted off to sleep, I heard the distant sound of someone playing the piano, very softly. My heart turned over and I was instantly wide awake again. I thought it must be Hector, then I realised it was Stan, seated at Janet’s piano, paying homage - something he’d travelled three thousand miles to do. The thought was comforting in an odd way. My breathing steadied and eventually I slept.

  If I found it hard adjusting to a new family member and the absence of Hector, Stan must have found it even harder to embrace his new family history - one that included a ghost. I’d already got the impression nothing much fazed him, but after his second meeting with Hector, in front of the window, Stan seemed a little subdued and we spent the rest of the day quietly, chatting and poring over old photograph albums.

  The following morning he took a photo of me on his phone to send to his father and then asked me to take one of him, standing in front of the memorial window. He sensed my unease and apologised. ‘I know it’s a lot to ask, Ruth, but I’d really like Dad to see us side by side. Hector and me, I mean. I think he’d be so thrilled. And I know he’d love to see his father. He’s never mentioned having seen a photo of him before.’

  ‘I’m sure he hasn’t. If he had, he couldn’t have helped commenting o
n how much you take after your grandfather.’

  ‘Exactly. So that’s why I’d like to send him a photo of the window. As soon as possible. If you could bear to take it.’

  So I took a photo of Stan standing beside the glass version of Hector. He immediately sent it to his father and received a delighted text in return. After he’d read me the text, Stan thanked me again and said, ‘Dad’s ninety-four. I never put off doing anything that might give him pleasure. Not now...’

  Stan set up a work station in the music room and spent a couple of days going through Janet’s papers, so I found myself at something of a loose end. It still seemed too soon after the accident to face walking alone in the garden, so I returned to my notes and re-considered the ideas I’d had for a book about my family. So many more pieces of the jigsaw were now in place, I felt the need to re-assess the material.

  Now Hector was gone for good (I repeated that phrase in my head over and over, in an attempt to brainwash myself into accepting the truth of it), I thought it was now permissible for me to read his journal. Stan was still busy in the music room, so I went upstairs, intending to sit in my bedroom, reading the journal.

  I remembered that I’d put it in my bedside drawer when I unpacked after my abortive attempt to run back to London. I hadn’t looked at the journal since. I steeled myself to open the drawer, fearing I might feel overwhelmed, not only by the smell of mud that emanated from the pages, but also by the sight of Hector’s handwriting. And his blood.

  I told myself to stop being so ridiculous and pulled open the drawer. The photograph of Hector that I’d put into one of Janet’s silver frames lay on top, but it was facing downwards, so, mercifully, I wasn’t confronted by Hector as a laughing, very alive young man. But even as I removed the frame and rifled through the accumulated junk of my bedside drawer - pens, medicines, a notebook and several seed catalogues - I knew something was wrong. The journal should have been on top. That’s where I’d put it. The journal and photograph had both been on top in the drawer. I was in too much of a state that day to have done anything other than just shove them in. But now the journal wasn’t there.