I knew it wasn’t there, but I still took every single thing out, tossing it on to the bed, just to make absolutely certain.
Hector must have taken it.
He could hardly have taken it with him to wherever he’d gone to, so he must have removed it and put it somewhere else. Presumably somewhere I wouldn’t find it. But why? Was it for my own good? Did he think he could stop me brooding about his absence by taking away his journal, when I had a shelf full of photo albums cataloguing his entire life? What could he be thinking of?
By the same token, I told myself, attempting to be reasonable, the journal going missing wasn’t really such a tragedy. I had lots of other mementos, including a photo of Hector in his uniform. But that thought didn’t relieve the pain I felt at the loss of his journal; the book that had seen him through the last few dreadful days of his life; the book that was perhaps the last thing he’d held, apart from his rifle. Of all the keepsakes, Hector’s journal was the most precious, the one I wouldn’t wish to lose.
But that was the one he’d taken.
I considered turning the house upside down to find it, but assumed Hector, with his supernatural powers, could have made that impossible. In any case, I could hardly begin a major hunt for the book while Stan was my guest. So I sat on the bed, miserable and angry that Hector should have behaved in such a devious, unfathomable way.
I don’t know how long I’d sat there when I heard Stan come upstairs and go into his room, next door to mine. I looked at my watch and realised it was lunchtime.
I struggled to my feet and went and knocked on his door.
‘Are you ready for some lunch?’ I called. ‘Soup and a sandwich be OK?’
He appeared at the door at once. ‘Sounds great. Can I help prepare it?’
‘No, there’s nothing much to do. I’ll just get some soup out of the freezer and thaw it in the microwave. Did you have a good morning’s work?’
‘Yes, I did, thanks. How about you? You don’t look as if you’ve had a good morning.’
‘Really?... Oh, I’ve just had a bit of a frustrating time,’ I said, deliberately vague. ‘Looking for something. I wanted to show it to you, but it seems to have disappeared.’
‘What was it?’
‘Just Hector’s war journal,’ I said airily, hoping that if I sounded as if I didn’t care, I wouldn’t. ‘The one he wrote in the trenches.’
Stan put his head on one side and treated me to an indulgent smile. ‘Had you forgotten? You left it by my bedside. And that was so thoughtful of you. It makes fascinating reading - not just the anecdotes about his music, but the—’ He broke off and peered at me. ‘Did I say something wrong?’
‘I didn’t put it by your bedside.’
‘You didn’t?’
‘No. I put it in my bedside drawer. I made a particular point of putting it there. For safe keeping.’
‘So... you’re saying somebody moved it?’
‘No, not somebody. Hector.’
‘Hector?’
‘There’s no one else it could be. I promise you, it wasn’t me. Hector must have taken it out of my drawer and put it in your room.’
‘But... why?’
‘Because he wants you to have it. And he wanted me to know that’s what he wanted.’ For once, Stan was at a loss for words. ‘Hector’s absolutely right of course. You should have it. You can take it back to Toronto to show your father. He’ll be thrilled,’ I said, sounding far from thrilled myself.
Stan shook his head. ‘No, I couldn’t possibly deprive you of a precious family heirloom!’
‘You forget, Stan - you have as much right to these things as I do, possibly more. In any case, I don’t see any point in trying to go against Hector’s wishes. He’s made himself quite clear, hasn’t he? And it was his journal.’
Stan considered for a moment, then said, ‘You know, we could always photocopy the whole thing. Make a duplicate.’
‘That’s a good idea. But I’d still like you to have the original. And clearly so would Hector.’
‘Well, in that case,’ Stan said, retreating into his bedroom and unzipping a holdall. ‘I’d like you to have this.’
He extracted a black velvet pouch, gathered up with a silk drawstring ribbon. He opened the pouch, tipped the contents into the palm of his hand and a silver chain slithered out. Attached to the chain was an oval locket. It took me only seconds to realise what it was.
‘Frieda’s locket! The one Hector gave her before he left for France!’
‘Is that so? Dad knew it was Effie’s, but he never knew for sure who gave it to her. The inscription is a little ambiguous. And he thought the lock of red hair might be his own, cut when he was a baby.’
‘Hair?’ My mouth went dry as I remembered. ‘The locket still contains Hector’s hair?’
‘I think we can assume it’s Hector’s, yes. It’s the exact colour.’
‘We don’t have to assume. I know. He told me. He didn’t expect to return from the front and he gave Frieda the locket as a parting gift. She’d asked for a lock of his hair. To remember him by.’
Stan flipped open the locket and held it out for me to see. One half was engraved with words that I didn’t stop to read. In the other half, a lock of dark auburn hair curled round the oval of silver, hair the same colour as Stan’s, but dull after almost a hundred years.
I took the locket and examined the hair - its colour and texture - before I allowed myself to touch it. When finally I did, I found myself unable to speak, but Stan seemed to have plenty to say and I realised I should probably be listening.
‘...so I brought it over, hoping to find out more about the piece. Dad gave it to me shortly before I left. He said I could keep it, but he asked me to see what I could find out about it. He’d established that the locket was nineteenth century and he knew it had belonged to his mother, but she’d never spoken about it. I was going to take it to a jeweller’s in Edinburgh to see if they could tell me anything more about its provenance, but actually I don’t think I’ll bother now. I think I’d rather give it to you. As a Christmas gift. Because if the journal belongs to Dad as Hector’s son, then I think by rights that locket belongs to you as the last woman Hector Munro loved.’ As I gaped in astonishment, Stan said, ‘You haven’t read the inscription, have you?’
‘No.’ I peered at the tiny letters, trying to focus. They said, “This is my beloved and this is my friend. Song of Songs V, 16”
‘Oh... That’s beautiful! That’s what they were to begin with. Just friends. Music brought them together. And then... then they fell in love.’
‘So the locket commemorates both friendship and love. And that’s why you must have it, Ruth. As a gift from me and from Hector. I’m sure it’s what he would have wanted. And what will I do with a silver locket?’
‘You could keep it until you— well, until you find someone you want to give it to.’ I floundered. ‘Someone special,’ I added, extending my open palm toward Stan, offering him the locket.
Without meeting my eyes, he folded my fingers around the locket until they enclosed it completely, then he held my fist in both hands and looked at me. ‘Consider it done.’ Stan’s usual mischievous twinkle was absent and his regard was serious now, almost solemn. His bright blue eyes searched mine for a moment before he released my hand and turned away. ‘Well, I think we can say Christmas has already begun if gifts are being exchanged. I’m delighted with mine. I shall treasure it as a memento of a very happy - and momentous - time. Thank you, Ruth.’ He cast his eyes up at the ceiling. ‘And thank you, Hector. Wherever you may be.’ He raised a hand in salute. ‘God bless.’
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Laughter won - just - and I said, ‘Shall we go and hit the sherry? I was going to tip some into the beef consommé, but I don’t see why we shouldn’t tip some down our throats as well. Come on - I refuse to drink alone.’
‘Now you’re talking! You know, I just can’t get enough of these quaint British habits.’
<
br /> Stan followed me dutifully downstairs and dutifully drank two large glasses of sherry. So did I, after which, things looked much brighter. I very nearly forgot about Frieda’s silver locket burning a hole, deep in the pocket of my cardigan.
As the level of sherry in the bottle went down, we covered a lot of ground, nibbling roasted almonds and cubes of Manchego. We then wolfed down the soup, after which, in the absence of pudding, I suggested we open a bottle of Prosecco “because it was almost Christmas”, which, as it was still the first week of December, was a feeble excuse to drink in the middle of the afternoon. But Stan offered no objection and agreed that Prosecco was the sort of wine you could drink any time of day.
The alcohol appeared to have little effect on him other than to make him more loquacious and hilariously funny. Or perhaps the latter was the alcohol’s effect on me. Whichever, Stan was extraordinarily good company, whether he was telling stories about vicious rivalry in the academic world or treating me to his collection of deadpan Canadian jokes. (“How many Canadians does it take to change a light bulb?” “None. Canadians don't change light bulbs, we accept them as they are.”)
In the end we got to the helpless stage where, if one of us had shaken a stick at the other, we would have howled with laughter. I don’t know about Stan, but it was as if I hadn’t laughed for a year and needed to catch up.
When we’d calmed down a little, I shared my own stories of the rampant misogyny and ageism in television. Stan sympathised and encouraged me to pursue my hare-brained idea of a book about the family. Our family. He even offered to help me write it.
I told him I had to return to London, either to live in my flat or sell it, so he asked what I was going to do with Tigh-na-Linne. Suddenly sober, I hedged and said I might let it, or more probably sell it.
He was too drunk to disguise his horror. ‘Sell up? How can you think of doing that? This is your family home! And it’s so... beautiful. And in such a beautiful place. How can you bear to sever your connection with Janet? And Hector?’
‘Severing my connection with Hector is something of a priority, actually. I need to get on with my life, Stan. With real life. And frankly, I need the money. I’ve trodden water, living off savings for the last year. Janet left me the house, but she didn’t leave much cash. I have to sell up or try to turn the house into a business of some sort.’
‘Let me rent the house.’
‘What?’
‘I’d like to rent the house for a year.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘Well, I told you I was planning to take a sabbatical. A year to write and research. And maybe compose. Here’s as good a place as any. It’s quiet.’
‘Oh, it’s certainly quiet.’
‘There’s a piano, a library, a musical archive. Instead of shipping all that over to Toronto, I could come here. And now I know who Janet is - in relation to me, I mean - I would dearly love to buy her piano, if you’d sell it to me.’
‘Please - have it! It’s rightfully yours. Or rather your father’s. Hector told me his parents bought the piano for him. If you take it off my hands, it would save me the heartbreak of seeing it go out of the family.’
Stan shook his head. ‘I don’t have room for it in Toronto. I live in a tiny apartment, most of which is taken up by a baby grand. I need a carpenter to adapt it so I can eat on it and sleep under it.’
‘So you can’t take Janet’s piano off my hands?’
‘Not if I’m selling Dad’s house. He would have had room, but the poor guy won’t be going home again and I need the cash from the sale of his house to pay for his care... So you see, it would suit me very well to take a lease on a house like this for a year. And I know my sister would love to come here for a holiday with her family. The place is ideal for kids.’
I paused to consider Stan’s suggestion. ‘You think you’d want to live here for a year? Alone?’
‘I live alone anyway.’
‘There are no near neighbours. Or shops.’
He shrugged. ‘I live a pretty quiet life outside term-time. I’m really a wilderness person. I have to work in a city, but I like to hike and fish. And I do a bit of climbing when I get the chance.’
‘Skye would be Heaven for you then.’
‘I guess it would.’
‘Stan, this is going to sound like I’m a total control freak, but if you rented the house, would you keep Tom Howard on?’
‘The handyman?’
‘Well, he’s more of a gardener really. He’s looked after this garden for a while now and I’d hate to see it go to rack and ruin. And... well, I don’t really know what else Tom would do. There’s not much work on the island. And he badly needs a job.’
‘If I lived here, I’d certainly need a gardener, so I don’t foresee that as a problem.’
‘You’re serious about this?’
‘I certainly am.’
‘Because your plan would buy me some time. And I think that’s what I need. I don’t want to sell up, but I can’t afford not to. Equally, I can’t face the idea of strangers occupying the place. I suspect I’d have to pay for major renovations before I could persuade someone to rent it anyway. And I doubt they’d stay on for winter, which is when I really need the house to be occupied. So you see, if you are serious, you’re offering me a bit of a lifeline.’
‘And if you’re serious, you’re offering me the opportunity of a lifetime.’
‘Well, I am.’
‘And so am I.’ He grinned and raised the remains of a glass of Prosecco. ‘I think we might have struck a deal!’
‘But we’re both drunk!’ I exclaimed, laughing.
‘Oh, you noticed? Being Canadian, I was of course too polite to draw attention to the fact... Do you think inebriation presents a serious obstacle to our reaching an understanding?’
Stan was looking at me intently now, with an unfamiliar expression on his face and I suddenly wondered if he was talking about something else entirely. I played his last words over again in my head as I watched him watching me. His frank, appreciative stare unsettled me. When he stopped performing the all-singing, all-dancing Canadian cabaret, his focused stillness and those candid blue eyes had a disturbing effect.
Flustered and definitely the worse for wear, I said, ‘Please don’t look at me like that, Hector.’
I detected a slight sigh as his long golden eyelashes drooped and masked his eyes. ‘Stan,’ he said softly, his voice quite neutral.
My hand flew to my mouth. ‘Oh, God - I’m sorry!’
‘That’s OK. Serves me right for staring at you in what must have been a disconcerting fashion. But I was pretty disconcerted myself.’
‘Oh, bloody hell, I get so confused! Please forgive me, Stan. I’m not sitting here thinking of Hector, really I’m not! I’m enjoying your company very much. In a way I never enjoyed Hector’s.’
‘So what made you think of Hector just then?’
I hesitated, wondering just how honest I could or should be. ‘The way you were looking at me.’ He looked a question. ‘As if...’
‘As if what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know!’
He put his head on one side and nailed me with a look. ‘I think you do.’
‘Well, as if you... as if you wanted to go to bed with me, I suppose. I thought I saw... longing in your eyes. And that made me think of Hector. How he used to look at me. Sometimes.’ I looked down, unable to meet Stan’s eyes and murmured, ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘No, I’m sorry. For not disguising my feelings better.’ I looked up again. He was smiling genially now and whatever it was I’d seen, was now veiled. ‘I hope I haven’t spoiled the afternoon? I promise to be better behaved for the rest of the holidays. And I’ll steer clear of your lethal sherry.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not offended or anything. Just... perplexed.’
‘By me?’
‘By my feelings.’
‘Feelings for Hector?’
‘Yes... And my feelings for you, I suppose.’
‘Which feelings,’ Stan said carefully, ‘would those be?’
The silence that followed was broken by the jingle of a mobile. Stan reached into the pocket of his trousers, drew out his phone and looked at the screen.
He frowned. ‘It’s the nursing home, but it’s not Dad. I have to take this, Ruth,’ he said quickly, standing up. ‘Would you please excuse me?’
Without waiting for a reply, he strode out of the kitchen, speaking into his phone.
I put the kettle on and began to clear away the remains of lunch. It wasn’t until the kettle came to the boil that it occurred to me why the nursing home might be ringing Stan.
My stomach and its contents seemed to surge upwards, as if I was descending too fast in a lift. I laid a steadying hand on the back of a chair and closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I felt calmer. Resigned. If I was destined to spend Christmas alone, then so be it. Things were getting far too complicated anyway.
I made a pot of tea, set crockery out on a tray, then sat down and stared at it, waiting for Stan to return. When he didn’t, I got to my feet, preparing myself for the news that I’d lost another family member, one I’d never even met.
But I could be useful now. I knew all about death and loss. And, if the worst had happened, Stan could no doubt use a friend. I left the cooling tea on the kitchen table and went in search of him.
Chapter Twenty-one
I found Stan in the sitting room, standing by the French windows, looking out into the garden. His arms hung loosely by his side and he still had his phone in one hand. I stood in the doorway for a moment, holding the door handle, uncertain whether to enter or speak. Without turning, Stan said, ‘He’s gone, Ruth. In his sleep... It was a good death. As these things go.’
‘I’m so sorry... Would you prefer to be left alone?’
He ignored my question and said, ‘You know, even though it’s half-buried in snow, you can still see what a lovely garden this is. It must have been an inspiration to Janet, don’t you think?’
The Glass Guardian Page 24