The Glass Guardian

by Linda Gillard

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mr Howard?’ I asked uncertainly.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Hello. This is Ruth Travers, Janet Gillespie’s niece.’ I paused, wondering how to continue when Mr Howard cut in.

  ‘May I offer my condolences? Miss Gillespie was a grand old lady and she’ll be much missed.’

  ‘Thank you. She’ll certainly be missed by me,’ I replied, swallowing down a lump in my throat.

  ‘So,’ he prompted gently. ‘Can I be of assistance in some way?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I just wanted to clarify something really. I believe my aunt used to employ you as her gardener?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. As a matter of fact, I wanted to talk to you about that, but I haven’t liked to call. I didn’t want to disturb you. I’m sure it’s been a very difficult time.’

  ‘What did you want to discuss?’ I asked, bracing myself for a possible altercation.

  ‘My employment.’

  ‘I see. Did Janet owe you money?’

  He laughed. ‘No, rather the reverse. I wonder, are you at home at the moment? Because I’m at your road-end now. Could I drop by? It’s actually a bit of a delicate matter. You might prefer to discuss it in person.’

  My mind was racing. Was I talking to my intruder? Should I perhaps indicate there was someone else in the house? Or, when he arrived, refer to a large, occasionally vicious dog shut in the scullery?... A dog that didn’t bark at new arrivals wouldn’t seem very intimidating. I decided if I received Mr Howard in the kitchen and hovered near Janet’s comprehensive batterie de cuisine, something would come to hand that, in an emergency, I could use as a weapon.

  But the man sounded harmless enough. It was so hard to judge on the phone. He was English and his polite solicitude suggested someone older than me, rather than a young thug. Unless he was one of those vigorous “active retired” types, I was sure that, at 5’ 8”, with the unladylike biceps I’d developed heaving bags of compost and shifting paving stones, I could take him on, armed with the Le Creuset omelette pan I’d spotted sitting handily on the hob.

  Feeling more confident now, I said, ‘Yes, I’m at home. By all means drop by. But…’ Inspired improvisation! ‘I’m expecting an estate agent to call any time to value the house, so I might have to curtail our conversation.’ Especially, I added mentally, if you try any funny business.

  ‘That’s fine, I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to explain something that I’m sure your aunt won’t have mentioned to you.’

  Intrigued, I suggested he come to the back door. He said he’d be with me in a few minutes and hung up, so I unlocked the door again, filled the kettle and switched it on. Boiling water would come in useful, either for coffee or for causing grievous bodily harm.

  The kettle had just boiled when there was a knock at the back door. I hadn’t heard a car draw up so I assumed Mr Howard must have been on foot. I heard a voice call out ‘Hello!’ and then the door swung open to reveal my visitor.

  He stared and I stared.

  I’d no idea why he was staring, but I stared because Mr Howard wasn’t “active retired”. He looked as if he could take me on, frying pan notwithstanding, without breaking sweat. A blond giant; tanned and obviously fit; forty-ish, I supposed, with crinkly brown eyes that looked a little sleepy, or perhaps just amused. By me? Had I got a smudge on my face? Something stuck in my hair? Was that why he was staring?

  He extended a large weathered hand that completely enveloped mine and said, ‘Tom Howard.’

  ‘How do you do?’ I said faintly.

  I admit I was thrown. Partly because it’s not every day you entertain an attractive man in your kitchen, especially one this big. (The man, I mean, not the kitchen.) But also because something about Mr Howard seemed familiar. And the way he was smiling at me now seemed over-familiar. Swivelling my eyes toward the hob, I checked the omelette pan was still in position. When I looked back, he’d released my hand but was still smiling.

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

  ‘Should I? If we’d met before, I think I would have remembered!’

  Damn. That didn’t come out quite the way I intended. Was his smile now one of smug conceit?

  ‘I used to call you Ruthie. And you used to call me Tommy. When you were ten, you promised you’d marry me. But, don’t worry, I’m not going to hold you to that.’

  ‘Tommy?’ He nodded, then grinned. Suddenly I was a child collecting shells, scrambling over rocks, plunging into the freezing sea. ‘Tommy! Oh, no, I don’t believe it! My God, you’ve grown!’

  He laughed, threw his arms wide and folded me in a hug which yanked me straight out of my lonely childhood and back in to my lonely present, where I realised just how long it was since a man had held me in his arms.

  Tommy Howard had been a pale, skinny boy with corrective spectacles, sometimes held together with Elastoplast. For years he and his mother spent the whole of the summer school holiday on Skye. I never knew if he had a father. Tommy and I had an unspoken agreement. I never asked about his father and he never asked about my mother. I suspect we both sensed what the other lacked and steered clear of a painful subject.

  Tommy stayed with his mother in a little house right by the sea, Larachbeag - “The Wee Ruin”. Janet let it out to holidaymakers all year, but for the summer it was always let to Tommy’s mother, Patricia - I suspect so that I’d have the luxury of a playmate for the whole of my stay. And Tommy was the perfect playmate. He was the same age as me, biddable and always happy to fall in with my games. I’d forgotten about my precocious marriage proposal, but I did remember how I used to look forward to seeing him every summer and how disappointed I was when, at about twelve or thirteen, he lost interest in me and took up climbing and canoeing with local boys. Aunt Janet did her best to compensate and we hiked, picnicked, watched birds and pressed wild flowers. She tried and failed to teach me the piano, but taught me to love gardening by giving me a patch of my own to cultivate and a copy of The Secret Garden. In the evenings we played card games and backgammon and took turns reading to each other. Apart from missing Tommy, I was very happy.

  Now I was mortified to think I’d forgotten all about him. Since there was no resemblance between young Tommy and his beefy adult incarnation, I supposed I could be forgiven for not recognising him. Nevertheless, I’d sensed something. Eyes don’t change. Not much. The squint was gone now, but I’d known those liquid brown eyes with their drooping lids, even though they looked very different on a man.

  ‘Sit down,’ I said, indicating the kitchen chairs. ‘Let’s have some coffee. Or would you prefer tea?’

  ‘Whichever you’re making,’ he replied, pulling out a chair.

  I re-boiled the kettle and set two mugs and the sugar bowl on a tray. As I warmed a jug of milk in the microwave, I cast a sidelong glance in the direction of my visitor, who was removing his jacket and hanging it on the back of his chair. He had a slightly unkempt air. His curly fair hair was rather long and untidy and his face was frosted with golden stubble. I noticed a button hanging by a thread from a shirt that had seen better days and he wore no wedding ring. He screamed “bachelor” to me. Divorced perhaps?

  Spooning coffee into the pot, I wondered guiltily if I’d always assessed men in terms of their availability, or was that something that had developed since David died? Did I not look before because I was unavailable? I couldn’t remember. It wasn’t as if I was actually looking now. I just... noticed things.

  And what would Tom have seen if he’d scrutinised me in the same way? That chubby little Ruthie Travers had grown tall and slimmed down. That her chestnut hair had dulled a little with age, but as yet showed no grey. If he’d looked closely, Tom might have spotted shadows under her grey eyes and tense lines around her wide mouth, a mouth not quite as ready to smile now as when she was a girl. Adult Ruth was physically fit, yet emotionally frail. Would Tom’s intelligent brown eyes have noticed all that?...

  ‘So, should I call you
“Tom”, then?’ I asked, as I poured hot water into the coffee pot.

  ‘That’s generally what people call me. You and my mother were the only people allowed to call me Tommy.’

  ‘I forget now - what did Janet call you?’

  ‘Tom. Thomas when she was cross with me.’

  ‘Tricia’s well, I hope?’

  ‘She died a few years ago. A stroke.’

  ‘Oh. I’m very sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I gathered from Janet you lost your father earlier this year.’

  ‘Yes. He had a brain tumour.’

  Tom winced and said, ‘You’ve had a hell of a year then.’

  I decided not to mention David’s sudden demise and changed the subject. ‘So you’ve settled on Skye permanently then?’

  ‘Well, it’s home for now. Tricia came to live here when I went off to uni. She bought Larachbeag from Janet - you remember the house we used to stay in? So I used to come here during the uni holidays. Then when Tricia died, I decided I’d keep the house. It really wasn’t worth much, it needed so much doing to it. But it suited me. I’d been working for the Forestry Commission on the mainland and then a job came up here. I applied and I got it, so I moved in. Janet seemed glad to have me around again. She’d taken Tricia’s death quite badly. They were good friends.’ He paused, then said, ‘Sometimes I wonder if they were more than friends.’

  ‘Janet and Tricia?’

  ‘Yes. Why not?’ I must have blinked in astonishment because Tom added hurriedly, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.’

  ‘I’m not in the least offended. Just surprised, that’s all. I’d love to think Janet’s life wasn’t as lonely as I thought.’

  ‘Well, it’s just a little theory of mine. They were certainly very close. And I’m damned if I know how Tricia was able to afford to buy Larachbeag from Janet. We lived a hand-to-mouth existence. My guess is, Janet gave her the house. So they could be together perhaps, once I was out of the way.’

  ‘How romantic! I hope you’re right.’

  He shrugged broad shoulders. ‘I suppose we’ll never know now. But I always wondered about my father. I gathered the marriage was short-lived and unhappy. Tricia said I was the only good thing that came out of it. And that’s pretty much all she ever said on the subject.’

  I poured two mugs of coffee and set one in front of Tom. ‘But that wasn’t the “delicate matter” you wanted to discuss, was it?’

  ‘No, there’s another one.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. ‘I want to repay some money I owed Janet.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I think you can forget about it now. Janet’s death cleared the debt as far as I’m concerned. Unless...’ I looked at him doubtfully. ‘Was it a very large amount?’

  ‘No, but I’d rather give it back. And now she’s dead, I can give it back.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t follow.’

  ‘Janet insisted on continuing to pay my wages after she’d laid me off.’

  ‘Why on earth did she do that?’

  ‘Because she hadn’t wanted to fire me, but she thought if she did, it would get you involved with the garden. Give you a sense of responsibility. Something to do.’

  ‘Well, she was right about that.’

  ‘She thought it would help you cope with losing your father. Obviously she didn’t think I’d be laid off for long, so she refused to cancel the standing order. Then she had her fall. And you stayed on. So the money mounted up. And now I’d like to return it. I didn’t feel right taking it and I certainly didn’t feel right about you not knowing. I thought if you looked at Janet’s accounts, you might think I was blackmailing her or something.’ He removed a folded cheque from his wallet. ‘So who shall I make this out to? You?’

  ‘Tear it up, Tom. Janet obviously wanted you to have the money, so there’s no way I’m taking it back. I’m sorry she laid you off, but her instincts were sound. The garden has been a life-saver for me. It’s given me a sense of purpose. Something to think about that isn’t death-related.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I could donate the money to a charity Janet supported?’

  ‘No, she wanted you to have it! And you’re not telling me you couldn’t use it.’ The look he gave me would not have disgraced a kicked puppy. ‘Oh - I’m so sorry! That was unforgivably rude of me.’

  ‘That’s OK. It’s true. I’m self-employed now. Tree surgery, garden maintenance, that sort of thing.’ He shrugged those shoulders again, in a gesture that was fast growing on me. ‘The money’s not good and the work’s irregular. So, yes, you’re right, Janet’s money would come in very handy.’

  ‘Well, I apologise for speaking out of turn. I can see that’s going to happen.’

  ‘What’s going to happen?’

  ‘I’ll slip back into treating you as if we’re ten. Don’t stand for it. Keep me in line.’

  He shook his head and laughed. ‘You used to get so mad at me when I called you “Bossy Boots”. But, you know, you were.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure. I bet I was insufferable! I can’t imagine why you put up with me. No one else to play with, I suppose.’

  ‘Rubbish. We had a brilliant time. And I liked being bossed about. It meant I didn’t have to think. You were the brains and I was the brawn.’

  It was my turn to laugh. ‘As I recall, you had arms and legs like pipe cleaners!’

  He smiled. ‘I suppose I have filled out a bit.’

  As he put the cheque back in his wallet, I said, ‘If it makes you feel any better, I could use some help in the garden now, so it would actually suit me to re-instate you as Head Gardener.’

  His brows lifted and those wide brown eyes met mine with a hint of challenge. ‘With you in charge, surely I could only ever be the gardener’s boy?’

  Did I imagine something speculative there? Was he testing the ground? For what?... Tidying our mugs on to the tray, I reflected that young Tommy Howard had never been this inscrutable. Or attractive.

  ‘Would you like to come back to work here?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘Were you happy with your previous terms of employment?’

  ‘Yes. Janet was very generous.’

  ‘Good. Then let me know what those terms were and we’ll carry on as before. If you could just keep things ticking over for now - the autumn clear-up, general maintenance. We’ll put our heads together next week and come up with a plan for the winter.’

  ‘Are you going to stay on here?’

  ‘I don’t really know. I’ve got a flat in London, but my TV career is stalled, possibly over and I’m having to re-think. You know I did a gardening makeover programme for years?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I used to watch it. You were very popular. And influential. “Delia of the Delphiniums”, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, please - don’t remind me!’

  ‘I was surprised when you were replaced with that other woman.’

  ‘I’d asked to be released. On compassionate grounds. I’d had a very sudden bereavement. Someone close.’

  I said no more and sensed Tom was about to ask a question, then I saw him think better of it. He murmured, ‘I’m sorry,’ and the conversation dangled for a few moments until he said, ‘Which agent’s coming to value the house?’

  I stared at him blankly, then remembered my ruse. ‘Oh, I forget which one it is now. Actually, I’ve no intention of selling up yet. I just want to get the house valued. I can’t cope with deciding what to do with all Janet’s stuff. It’s still too soon.’

  ‘I can understand that. But you’d like me to start work straight away, I imagine? There’s always a lot to do at this time of year.’

  ‘If that suits you?’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine. Could you let me have my keys back?’

  With a jolt I remembered why I’d wanted to talk to “Mr Howard”. ‘You don’t have a set?’

  ‘I used to have a key to the shed and one for the garage. I’ve never had a key to the house. Never needed one. Janet didn’t lock
doors. I used to keep the shed and garage locked because they were my responsibility. I wasn’t quite as trusting as Janet. I’ve found tools & machinery have a nasty tendency to go walkabout.’

  ‘Do you know where she put your keys?’

  ‘No idea. But she was a very tidy person, so I’m sure they’ll be somewhere sensible, clearly labelled. Janet ran a tight ship.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I replied, my heart sinking at the thought of her fountain pen and diary lying open on the desk. ‘Do you know if anyone else has keys to the house? Did she leave a set with neighbours?’

  ‘She never mentioned it. But she wouldn’t necessarily have told me. Are you concerned about security? You don’t need to be, you know. There’s no crime here to speak of, apart from the odd drunken fight or car smash. Occasionally a bit of vandalism. You’re much safer here than on the streets of London. But if you’re worried, why not change all the locks?’

  ‘That’s a good idea. I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘Would you like me to do it for you?’

  ‘Oh, that’s very kind of you, but—’

  He raised a hand in protest. ‘My remit was to perform general handyman tasks around the house, as well as garden maintenance. I probably know more about how this house operates than you do.’

  That, I realised, was exactly what I’d been afraid of. But clearly, there was nothing to worry about with regard to Tom. He held no grudge and had no reason to. And he was my childhood friend. What possible motive could he have for wanting to frighten me? But if Tom wasn’t my intruder, then who was?...

  He stood up, surprising me again with his height and said, ‘Thanks for the coffee. I could come back on Monday and make a start on the garden.’

  ‘That would be great. I should have found your keys by then.’

  ‘If you’re passing, stop by and take a look at Larachbeag. I’ve smartened it up a bit. Well, I had to. It was practically falling down.’

  ‘It always was a bit ramshackle. But that was part of its charm.’

  ‘Charming for kids, maybe. I decided a few more creature comforts wouldn’t go amiss.’ He sighed. ‘Does that mean I’m getting old, I wonder?’