Heckie said he’d needed to put things right, but it had been impossible. He didn’t know how to do it. But he hadn’t given up hope. (He said you should never, ever give up hope and told me the story of Pandora’s Box.) He still hoped he’d be able to make amends, after which, he said, he might be able to sleep. I think he meant sleep forever, like my mother.
That was the worst thing about the trenches, he said. The noise. Most of the men were eventually able to fall asleep anywhere, any time, even standing up, but Heckie said he couldn’t sleep until he was literally falling down with tiredness. Even then he dreamed about being shelled.
In the end, he said, that was all he ever thought about. Sleep. Not food. Or warmth. Or even his special letter. Eventually, he wasn’t thinking about King and country, or even his family on Skye. He just thought about sleep, craved it, as the men in the trenches craved water to drink when supplies ran out.
Heckie said there were just two things he wanted now. Sleep was one of them, I knew that. He didn’t tell me what the other one was and I got the feeling he didn’t want me to ask. So I didn’t.
The names and dates on the page had become a blur of faded ink hieroglyphs. I lifted the cover of the worn Bible and closed it with a sigh.
I must have seen the memorial window when I was young. Must have. Could I have seen it before Janet decided to cover it up? (When had she done that? And why?) As an impressionable, lonely child, had I assigned the role of imaginary friend to the glass angel with the fiery hair? Very possibly.
So why had Heckie always appeared to me in uniform?
I made a mental note to find out what regiment James Hector Munro fought with, then immediately scrapped the idea. Heckie had been a figment of my imagination, the product of stories I must have heard about my ancestors. Everything could be explained quite rationally. The disturbance in Janet’s study had been caused by me in a confused, emotional state. I’d simply forgotten what I’d done. As for the noises in the hall upstairs, the blood, the smell of mud, these could all be the component parts of a complex hallucination. Or just a common or garden nightmare.
And the position of my slippers? And the tucked-in bedclothes?
It must have been me. Who else could it be?
And the moving wardrobe?
That could hardly have been me. Not on my own. Even Tom couldn’t have moved it on his own. The thought of Tom applying his considerable muscle to moving the wardrobe only increased my sense of agitation. I just wasn’t myself these days. I had no idea who I’d become and I certainly didn’t approve. Susceptibility to attractive men (not to mention ghosts) had never been a problem hitherto. I was the last word in practical common sense. I was a professional gardener, for heaven’s sake! Aunt Janet, with her artistic imagination, who heard quartets in her head and composed requiems for the departed, she would have been the one to see a ghost, not me.
I gasped, sandbagged by a new thought.
Had Janet seen Heckie? Was that why she’d had the wardrobe positioned so it would obliterate the window?
No, I told myself firmly, Janet hadn’t seen Heckie, because there was no Heckie to see. The wardrobe must have been in its current position all along. I’d simply been mistaken.
I lifted the Bible with both hands and carried it to the bookshelf where I slid it back into place. Everything was sorted now to my satisfaction. I was delusional and apparently well on the way to a mental breakdown, but all anomalies were accounted for. I’d finally set my mind - what was left of it - at rest.
I suppose I should have guessed Heckie would have other ideas.
It soon became clear that sorting through Janet’s papers was going to take longer than I expected. Hunger eventually prompted me to stop what I was doing to go and see about lunch. As I closed the study door behind me, I felt as if I was stepping back into my present-day life - my real life. Childhood holidays spent with Janet and Tommy, my friendship with Heckie (is that what it was - friendship?), all these seemed like a lifetime ago. Yet ever since I’d seen the stained glass window dedicated to James Hector Munro, my mind had flipped back and forth between past and present in a most unsettling way. I was adrift, anchored to neither past nor present.
I resolved to spend the afternoon in the garden, cutting back and tidying, sweeping up debris, restoring order. Fresh air and exercise - and some long overdue lunch - would soon set me to rights.
When I entered the kitchen I was surprised to see Tom had made himself quite at home. He was heating the soup on the hob and had already laid the table. To my astonishment, a few Japanese anemones from the garden stood in a mug as a centrepiece. He must have picked them from the garden.
The radio was on and Tom had his back to me, preparing sandwiches, so he didn’t hear or see me come into the room. I had a moment to register two conflicting emotions, both of which surprised me. My first reaction to Tom’s industriousness was one of slight indignation, that he’d made himself so at home in Janet’s kitchen. (No, my kitchen.) It felt like an invasion of sorts. The employer/employee line had been crossed again. Then, quite contrarily, my indignation ebbed away, to be replaced by pleasure mixed with relief: I was about to have lunch put in front of me and I hadn’t had to lift a finger. It would be served competently and with a smile by a thoughtful and good-looking man. What on earth was I complaining about?...
Tom turned round and beamed when he saw me. ‘There you are! I was just about to give you a shout. You ready to eat? The soup’s been simmering for a few minutes now. Sit down and I’ll serve up.’ Turning away without waiting for a reply, he switched off the radio, stirred the soup and served it into bowls in what seemed like one fluid movement. ‘I made ham sandwiches,’ he announced over his shoulder. ‘The packet said use by tomorrow. Hope that was OK? Didn’t like to disturb you in there.’
He shuttled back and forth between worktop, fridge and dining table, setting out mustard, chutney, glasses and a jug of water. I just stood there, like a spare part, watching him move, as I’d done when he carved up the rowan tree. But tension was dropping from my shoulders; my face and hands were starting to relax and with that came the realisation I was really hungry.
Tom set a plate of sandwiches in the middle of the table and said, ‘You start. I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘Thanks. This is all wonderful. Such a luxury to have food put in front of me.’ He set down the soup, garnished with chopped chives. I hadn’t even noticed we still had chives, but of course Tom knew the garden better than I did. Again, I experienced that odd mix of gratitude and resentment. It seemed like a very old feeling, something I used to experience with Tommy and I had that vertiginous sensation again, as if I were sliding about in time.
I needed to eat.
As I sat down, Tom joined me, helped himself to a sandwich and took a large bite. I felt a bit guilty for offering to prepare lunch, then making him wait so long for it. I wondered if his decision to do it himself had been triggered by hunger? Very likely. He’d had a hard morning, wrestling with the wardrobe.
‘How did you get on?’ he asked through a mouthful of sandwich. ‘Did you find the Bible?’
‘Yes, I did. The family tree was interesting. The memorial window depicts the eldest son.’ I hesitated, then decided to censor. It was just too complicated. In any case, how do you explain something you can’t explain, even to yourself? ‘He was called James Munro and he was killed at the battle of Loos, the year after both his brothers died. Also in France. Their sister Grace was the Munros’ youngest child. And she was my grandmother.’
‘Was Janet the last of the line?’
‘Yes, apart from me. And I suppose it will die out with me.’
‘You don’t want children, then?’
I almost choked on my sandwich. ‘Left it a bit late for that!’ I replied, not answering his question.
‘Really? What are you? Forty-one? Forty-two? Lots of women have kids in their forties now, don’t they?’
‘I’m forty-two. I’d claim to be t
hirty-nine but, if you remember, there’s less than a year between us.’
‘I’d forgotten that.’ He smiled and started on his soup. ‘Well, you don’t look a day over thirty-nine to me.’
‘Thank you. For lunch and for the compliment. Today’s my lucky day.’ He looked up sharply - fearing sarcasm perhaps? ‘No, really, Tom - thank you! There are days when I feel a hundred and two, not forty-two.’ I picked up my spoon and began to eat my soup. ‘It’s been a difficult year.’
He nodded. ‘You do seem a bit fragile.’
‘Do I?’
‘Well, changeable. Like the weather. You sort of... cloud over. But that’s understandable. I mean, a double bereavement.’ He shook his head. ‘That would knock the stuffing out of anyone.’
‘It was triple, actually.’ He looked at me, his spoon suspended halfway between his bowl and his mouth, and waited. ‘Three deaths. I lost my partner at the beginning of the year.’
Tom exhaled. ‘Ruth, I’m really sorry. I had no idea.’
I ignored him and studied the colour and texture of my soup, both of which seemed unappetising. I picked up the pepper mill and ground a punitive amount into my bowl. ‘Well, I say “partner”... He wasn’t really. But I refuse to describe a man of fifty-four as my boyfriend. We’d been together for two years and known each other a lot longer.’ Tom set down his spoon - as a mark of respect, I suppose. ‘No! Eat up before it gets cold! I’m going to.’ We resumed eating and after a mouthful of soup, which still seemed tasteless, I continued. ‘It wasn’t quite as bad as it sounds. I mean it was, it was awful. He dropped down dead in front of me and I was on my own and I didn’t know what to do... But David wasn’t— well, he wasn’t the love of my life, is what I’m trying to say. And I suppose I feel rather guilty about that. That he died unloved. By me, anyway... Don’t get me wrong - he meant a lot to me. He was a very good friend. The best. That was the problem really... Anyway, I’d told him I wanted to call it a day. End the relationship. I’d told him that very day. And then... well, then he went and died!’
I remember dropping my spoon into my soup bowl and the splash it made, but I couldn’t work out how Tom’s arm was suddenly round my shoulders, his hand threading through my hair, sweeping it back from my face. Then I realised he was doing that because I was crying. He pulled me toward him, but he was still standing, so my head was pressed against his stomach, which, even through his thick work shirt, felt so flat and hard, a great kick of desire shuddered through my body. I was shocked by the strength and sheer mindlessness of my response, but I made no attempt to pull away.
Tom cradled my head and made soothing noises. He didn’t try to say anything, which was a relief and gradually I was able to compose myself. I lifted my head slowly, reluctant to let him see the wreck of my face, but as I looked up, he bent and, taking my wet face in both hands, kissed me. It was a long kiss but he didn’t try to force my lips apart. He didn’t have to.
Eventually he let me go and stepped away, his breathing heavy. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and, avoiding my eyes, murmured, ‘Sorry for jumping you like that. But... Well, I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.’
I turned and pushed my soup plate away. ‘No need to apologise. I didn’t exactly put up a fight, did I?’
When I dared to look at him again, his chest was still rising and falling and I was in no doubt as to what was on his mind. With pupils dilated, his eyes looked dark and purposeful. I wondered if he was about to sweep the lunch things on to the floor and take me on the kitchen table. I was asking myself if I wanted him to - I fear the answer might have been in the affirmative - when sanity reasserted itself and I heard the voice of reason say, very politely, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you... Would you like to come and have dinner? Supper, I mean.’
He frowned. ‘Is there a difference?’
‘You’ll have lower expectations if I say supper.’
He gave me that reckless look again, the one that made me fear for the crockery. ‘My interest in food is pretty limited.’
‘Well, that’s probably just as well, because I’m not a very good cook.’ I stood up and tucked my chair under the table, careful to maintain my distance. ‘Are you free on Friday?’
‘Yes. And if I weren’t, I’d cancel.’
I shot him a look, then said, ‘Good. That’s settled then.’
‘Time?’
‘Seven o’clock?’
He nodded, then there was an awkward pause while we both stood and looked at each other, waiting for the other to speak. I cracked first. ‘Tom, do you think perhaps you’d better... go?’ I indicated the table. ‘But do take some sandwiches. It would be a shame to waste them. After you went to all that trouble.’
He stared at me for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. The sound was loud and male and glorious. Unable to help myself, I started to giggle. He made a move toward me and I stepped back, still laughing.
‘No! Go, Tom. Now.’
‘OK, I’m leaving! You’re the boss, Ruthie.’ He picked up his jacket and shrugged it on. ‘See you Friday. For supper. I’ll bring a bottle. And low expectations.’
He headed for the back door and I watched him go, Tom’s back view being almost as appealing as his front. As the back door closed, I sat again, poured myself a large glass of water and drank it straight down. Then, ravenous, I devoured all the remaining sandwiches.
Chapter Six
Still feeling a little flustered, I left the dishes on the table and went in to the sitting room where I sat by the French windows, checking email on my laptop. The activity was mindless and soothing and soon lowered my pulse rate to normal - that is, until I read Stan’s latest. I had to read it twice before the full implications sank in...
Dear Ruth
I have examined carefully the sample pages of Janet’s work you were kind enough to scan for me. My comments are of course tentative at this stage, but I think we can be reasonably certain there are three hands at work here.
If you have no reason to suppose your aunt employed some kind of amanuensis, then the existence of these three hands has, I’m afraid, serious implications. I repeat: I’m not offering judgements at this stage, merely my first thoughts on the matter, so I hope you won’t take offence at what I now wish to set before you.
It’s difficult to avoid coming to the unhappy conclusion that Janet plagiarised someone else’s work and passed it off as her own. I sincerely hope to find another explanation, but if these three pages are representative of what you have on Skye, it looks suspiciously as if Janet produced her own early work (which enjoyed only limited success), then gained access to a superior piece of work by composer unknown, which she then transcribed and published as her own (perhaps with that composer’s approval, even co-operation?)
The sample page from Janet’s later, successful period is a fair copy executed in yet another person’s hand, but as it’s clearly a final version, we have no reason to suspect plagiarism here. Janet could simply have employed someone to transcribe for her. (She was very busy professionally at this stage of her career.)
But this doesn’t resolve the question of why the draft of In Memoriam is not in Janet’s hand.
All these conjectures have serious implications for my projected study and I can make no further progress until I’m able to examine the autograph scores. If you would be kind enough to allow me to do this, I’ll make arrangements to travel to Skye at your earliest convenience. (I would stay at a hotel and work there, assuming you’d let me remove the papers from Tigh-na-Linne.)
Once I have access to the documents, I really wouldn’t expect to bother you (unless, of course, you wished to be involved.) Apart from a close examination of the autograph scores, I shall have to sift through Janet’s letters and journals looking for clues to the identity of a potential collaborator. (At this stage I prefer to think of Janet collaborating with persons unknown than to think there was any deliberate plagiarism.)
Alternatively, if you p
refer, the papers could be packed up and sent to Toronto at my expense, though this might actually entail more work for you than having me on site. There’s also an element of risk in shipping a historic archive across the Atlantic.
I’m aware my views will come as a shock. The implications are potentially serious and professionally embarrassing for your aunt’s reputation. All I can suggest is that you allow me to examine the papers as soon as possible so we can set our minds at rest, or, if our worst fears are realised, embark on some sort of damage limitation exercise.
Of course, if you wish to protect your aunt’s reputation, you can prevent anyone from examining her archive. It might even strike you that the best way to forestall further speculation would be to destroy the autograph manuscripts. I would beg you not to do such a thing. Assuming you haven’t discussed these anomalies with anyone else, you and I are probably the only people who know about them. (Unless of course Janet’s collaborator is still alive. An interesting thought!) You can rely on my discretion. Much as I’d relish the opportunity to investigate this musical mystery, I would - with much regret - abandon my researches. It wouldn’t be possible to make a proper study of Janet’s work without access to her original scores.
When you’ve had time to consider, perhaps you’d be good enough to let me know if you’ll allow me to pursue my investigations, which were, and still are intended to enhance your aunt’s professional standing. Until someone proves otherwise, Janet Gillespie was the composer of In Memoriam and many other pieces that I consider to be some of the finest and least appreciated in the twentieth century classical repertoire.
I look forward to hearing from you soon.
With very best wishes,
Stan
P.S. Please don’t hesitate to call me and don’t concern yourself with time zones. I’m a very poor sleeper and, in any case, would regard the opportunity to discuss Janet’s work with her niece a privilege, not a disturbance.
The Glass Guardian Page 6
