Could I run it as a horticultural study centre? Or a nursery? Janet had a polythene tunnel and propagated her own plants, giving away the surplus. I could turn the vegetable garden over to seed beds and the site could be developed in a variety of ways. Despite the prevailing inclement weather and the curse of midges, there were a lot of keen gardeners on Skye. But a nursery wouldn’t make much money. Enough to run the house perhaps, but not enough to pay the wages of the staff I’d have to employ.
My ruminations were shattered by an eerie, not quite human shriek from the shrubbery. I spun round, peered into the darkness and, without thinking, called out, ‘Hector?’
There was no reply. After a few moments, the bloodcurdling shriek came again. This time my startled brain made the connection. A vixen. Janet used to tell me about fox cubs playing on the lawn and the unearthly cry of their mother. So that was it. Just a fox. Nothing to worry about. A fox, with fur the colour of Hector’s hair...
Damn. Why did everything make me think of Hector?
I walked on, trying to think like an estate agent. Tigh-na-Linne had a lot going for it, including a history. It had been the home of a reclusive composer of some standing. The story of her forebears was also interesting, if tragic: three sons lost in the Great War, wiping out the male line in two years. I wondered what those poor men had been before they enlisted? Hector had died at thirty-five. He must have been established in a profession.
Hector again. Stop it.
I looked up at the house’s impressive façade and stood listening to the distant sound of waves scraping the shingle. It struck me there was TV potential in the story of Tigh-na-Linne and the making of its beautiful garden, especially if Janet had had to live a lie, concealing her love for another woman. A vision of Tom Howard being interviewed about his mother swam into my mind. At once my hypothetical documentary seemed more commercial. Tom was charming, articulate and easy on the eye. I knew two female producers (and one male) who’d salivate at the thought of Tom in front of the TV cameras.
I was warming to my idea when I heard another noise. Not animal this time and not human. Metallic, as if something had been banged or dropped. Was someone breaking in to Tigh-na-Linne?
I cursed myself for coming out with neither my torch nor my phone. I stood still and listened out for the noise again. Then I remembered that despite Tom having rung me to explain, I hadn’t gone out and locked the garage door. And that was the direction the noise was coming from. Perhaps that’s what I’d heard: the door being opened or closed. The garage contained various tools and pieces of gardening equipment, but not my car, which I left parked on the drive. Was someone stealing tools? Crime was almost unknown on Skye and what little there was, was largely drink-related, but Tom had said he made a habit of locking the garage door as a preventive measure.
It didn’t seem a good idea to approach the garage on my own, especially as my intruder might be making off with some heavy object, like hedge-trimmers. But if there was no sign of a break-in - and there wouldn’t be as I’d obligingly left the garage unlocked - I’d find it hard to make an insurance claim stick.
Resolving to keep my distance from the intruder, I decided I would approach the garage and shout out something formidable, like “Oi, you!”, at which (I told myself) the terrified intruder would literally down tools and run. But as I set off in the direction of the garage, someone grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back, so that I stumbled and would have fallen, had I not met with something soft and yielding, like a huge cushion, that kept me upright, but prevented me from running away.
Veteran of two London muggings, I didn’t even bother to scream before fighting back. Who was there to hear me apart from my intruder? I stamped hard where I thought my assailant’s foot would be, while simultaneously jabbing with my free elbow in the direction of his kidneys. Then for good measure, I jerked my head backwards, hoping to hit his nose or, if he was tall, his jaw.
Might as well try to wrestle with marshmallows. There was nothing there. Or rather, there was, but it wasn’t a man.
The cold night air now seemed significantly colder, especially in the region of my face. A voice close to my ear said, ‘It’s me. I’ll let you go if you promise you’ll not try anything foolhardy.’
‘Someone’s stealing my property!’ I hissed.
‘That’s a matter for the police, not a defenceless lassie.’
‘Hector, for God’s sake, I’m not a lassie, I’m forty-two! I grew up! Or didn’t you notice?’
‘Oh, aye - I noticed!’
‘Well, will you please let me go?’
He released me and, caught off-balance, I promptly fell against him again. As he set me upright, I heard distant running footsteps, then a vehicle driving away.
‘There! If you hadn’t stopped me, I could have got a look at him.’
‘It wasn’t worth the risk to you.’
‘That was for me to decide!’
I rubbed my arms, more because I was cold than because they hurt, but Hector saw and misinterpreted.
‘I’m sorry I hurt you.’
‘Oh, you didn’t really. You frightened me, that’s all. The sensation was really creepy.’
‘Creepy?’
‘Yes. You don’t feel like a - well, a mortal, I suppose.’
Hector’s face was hard to read in the darkness, but I thought he looked hurt. ‘That’s because I’m not.’
‘No, I know.’ I blundered on. ‘It was just that, you holding on to me like that - well, it reminded me of the time I nearly drowned. Here. In the pond. I got caught up in a load of weed and water lily roots and I panicked. Tommy had to wade in and drag me out.’
‘No, he didn’t. That was me.’
‘What do you mean, it was you?’ I asked indignantly.
‘Did you see who dragged you out?’
‘No. I was half-conscious. I’d swallowed a lot of water. And mud. It was disgusting. I was sick for the rest of the day.’
Hector said nothing and wouldn’t meet my eyes.
‘I don’t understand... Tommy was there when I opened my eyes. And he said he’d saved me from drowning,’ I added, uncertain now.
Hector still didn’t reply.
‘It was you?’
He nodded.
‘Did Tommy see you?’
‘No. He wasn’t there. He must have run away. By the time he re-appeared, you were lying on the grass, recovering.’
‘Oh... I see. Well, thank you. I didn’t realise.’
After a moment Hector said, ‘Is it really that unpleasant?’
‘What?’
‘Being held by me?’
I blinked in astonishment. Not known for my social skills, I’d managed to hurt the feelings of a ghost. ‘No. But it does feel cold. And very odd. As if there’s nothing actually there. Yet you can feel something. It’s a bit like being underwater.’
‘Sounds bad to me.’ Hector turned away and muttered, ‘Like drowning in a shell-hole full of mud.’
‘Oh, no! Nothing like as bad as that!’ I stopped dead, wondering if I was addressing someone who had drowned in a shell-hole full of mud. I started to shiver. It wasn’t just the cold.
‘I’m very sorry if I frightened you,’ Hector said. ‘Or if my behaviour was... intrusive.’
‘No, it’s just that I wasn’t expecting you.’ I shivered again.
‘Away inside with you now. Lock your doors, then ring the police. When they arrive you can go and check if anything’s missing. But make sure someone accompanies you.’
‘Hector, will you please stop bossing me about!’
He looked taken aback. ‘Forgive me. I was used to giving orders. And having them obeyed.’
‘And it shows! You were an officer, I take it?’
‘Aye, at the end of my life, I was.’
The words hit me like a slap in the face. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound disrespectful. I just don’t know how to talk to a dead person.’
‘Please don’t concern
yourself. I’ve never wanted anyone’s pity! Understanding, perhaps...’ He sighed and went on. ‘When I was alive, home on leave, I found myself wishing there was a way to convey exactly what it was like at the Front, but—’ He broke off and, clasping his hands behind his back, bowed his head. ‘There isn’t. The desolation was... indescribable. Either you were there, or you were not.’
‘Could you try to tell me something about it? Something that you’d like me to understand.’
Hector gazed at me, as if assessing what I could handle, or possibly what he could handle, then he said, ‘Let’s walk back. You’ll be getting cold. Would you like to take my arm? Such as it is,’ he added, with a wry smile.
I hooked my arm through his and we began to walk along the path. As we passed in front of the lighted windows, Hector’s thin face was illuminated and I could see the pale, electric blue of his eyes and the extraordinary length of his curling, sandy lashes. Then as we passed the window, we’d be plunged into darkness again so that, as he spoke, he seemed to appear and disappear.
‘What was soul-destroying about life in the trenches was never seeing, never hearing anything natural. Anything alive. Apart from the men. Though many of them were dead or dying. There were the infernal lice, of course. And rats... But no bird sang. No dog barked. There wasn’t a leaf on a tree. Eventually there wasn’t even a tree. Just rain. And rats. That was all that was left of God’s creation. It was the Book of Genesis in reverse. Chaos.’
I could think of nothing to say that wouldn’t sound trite, so I stopped walking and turned to face Hector. I was close enough to see a glint in his eyes, which in a mortal might have heralded tears. (Could ghosts weep?) To save his feelings, I began to walk again, asking conversationally, ‘What did you do before the war?’
‘I was a schoolmaster.’
‘Oh, well. That explains a lot.’
He turned his head and grinned at me. With a rush of affection, I remembered my childhood playmate. I also noticed how much more attractive Hector was when he smiled, in so far as one could feel attracted to a ghost (which surely wasn’t very far?)
We arrived at the back door and I stood, completely non-plussed, fighting an urge to invite Hector in to drink the glass of wine I’d poured for him some time ago. At a loss, I said, ‘What will you do now?’
‘I’ll wait out here a wee while. Make sure there’s no one else prowling around.’
‘And then?’ He didn’t reply but his expression clouded and I saw his mouth tense. ‘Hector, can I ask you something?... Where are you when you’re not with me?’
As I waited for him to answer, he seemed to age. His eyes became dull and the muscles of his face went slack. He shook his head and said, ‘I wouldn’t know how to describe it to you. No words of mine could ever be adequate.’
‘Try. Please. When you’re not with me, I think about you and - well, I wonder where you are. I’d really like to know.’
I watched as his chest rose and fell in a great sigh, then, with what appeared to be an effort, he said, ‘I suppose you’d call it... limbo. Another kind of No Man’s Land.’
Silence hung between us but I knew Hector was still thinking, struggling once again to share his world with me. Eventually, he said, ‘There are some lines of Milton’s that perhaps—’ He faltered, then said, ‘We read a lot of poetry in the trenches. There was a craving for beauty. For... sense.’
‘Can you remember the Milton?’ I asked softly.
‘Oh, aye. It’s memorable, right enough.’ He gazed at some distant point over my shoulder, and began to intone in his deep, gravelly voice.
.
A dark illimitable ocean without bound,
Without dimension; where length, breadth and height
And time and place are lost; where eldest Night
And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold
Eternal anarchy, amidst the noise
Of endless wars, and by confusion stand.’
.
My hand flew to my mouth. ‘Oh, Hector...’
‘It’s from Paradise Lost. A description of Hell.’
I swallowed and tried to steady my voice. ‘I can’t bear to think of you being in such a place! After all you’ve suffered.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m beyond such things now. Beyond everything.’
‘Everything?’
He stared at me for a moment, as if he wanted to say more, then he turned to go. ‘I must away.’
‘Stay!’ I clutched at his arm and was startled yet again by the insubstantiality of his body.
‘Och, you don’t need me now.’
‘I know, but I don’t want you to have to return to - to that place.’
‘Very well. I’ll wait at your door then. While you sleep. But Ruth—’
‘Yes?’
His eyes avoided mine. ‘I think I’d better wait outside.’
‘The house?’
‘Your door.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘I’d prefer it. As you pointed out, you’re no longer a wee lassie. And I feel... awkward, being in a lady’s bedroom. It’s not something I made a habit of when I was alive.’
I smiled. ‘So you do still have some feelings then? Embarrassment, at least?’
‘Aye. When I’m in my human form, I appear to have a full complement of feelings. Things are... much as I remember. But you’re not, Ruth.’ His eyes searched my face. ‘You’re not at all as I remember.’
I took his hand, bracing myself for the strange sensation, but my own fingers were so cold, I barely registered the chill of Hector’s. He looked down at our joined hands and a little laugh seemed to die, half-strangled at the back of his throat. ‘Dear God, I haven’t held a woman for almost a hundred years!’ He raised his other hand to my face and lifted my chin. ‘And you remind me of the last woman I held, Ruth. She was as fair as you’re dark, but she was strong like you.’ He smiled. ‘And wilful.’ He let go my hand and stepped back. ‘Away inside with you now. It’s cold and it’s late.’
‘You’ll wait outside my door tonight?’
‘Aye, I will.’
‘But you won’t be there when I wake.’
He shook his head, then turned and began to walk slowly back along the path.
I’d opened the back door and was about to enter when a thought struck me. I turned and called out.
‘Hector!’
He spun round, his kilt swinging.
‘Aye?’
‘Did Tommy push me into the pond?’
Hector spread his hands. ‘I didn’t see the accident happen. I just knew you were in trouble. Your need called out to me.’
‘I can remember Tommy being there before it happened... He must have run off to get help.’
‘Did it come?’ Hector asked as he approached again. ‘Did Janet appear?’
‘I think so... Well, she must have. I can remember her shouting at Tommy, sounding hysterical. We weren’t allowed to play on the bridge, you see. The wood was often slippery and that pond’s deep in the middle. But Tommy had dared me. He said Janet would never know... I don’t really remember what happened after that. But I got into big trouble later. Tommy told Janet playing on the bridge was my idea. I didn’t really mind because I thought he’d saved me from drowning. I thought he was a hero.’
‘Don’t distress yourself. It was a long time ago. You were both - what? Eight? Nine?’
‘But it was horrible! And now it seems even more horrible than I remember.’
Hector laid his hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. ‘I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you, Ruth. And I won’t. Not if it’s within my power to prevent it. And that power is considerable. Believe it.’
‘I think I do. Thank you.’
I knew if I didn’t walk away right now, I might put my head down on Hector’s insubstantial chest and howl, so I said a curt, ‘Good night’, then opened the door and went inside, with a sob lodged in my throat like a giant fish bone.
Sitting
on a kitchen chair by the Aga, cold and exhausted, I tried to summon up the energy to ring the police and failed. It was late. The crime (if crime there were) wasn’t serious. It was probably just kids looking for stuff they could sell on eBay. If they’d found it, I only had myself to blame. What would I say when asked if the garage was locked? I could hardly lie, nor could I face a police constable’s withering look if I told the truth. Not tonight anyway. In any case, I might not even know what had been stolen. It was not as if I had an inventory. I would probably need to ask Tom if he thought anything was missing.
Tom.
Was that what had upset me so much? Discovering that my childhood friend had a mean and dangerous streak? Well, I already knew about the mean streak. What young child isn’t occasionally cruel? But what Hector had implied seemed to go beyond that. Malice and deceit were hard for me to swallow, even years after the event.
But what on earth was I doing, taking the word of a ghost against Tommy’s? Hadn’t I already concluded I must be on the verge of a nervous breakdown?
The fact remained, when I’d tried to run to the garage to see off my intruder, something had prevented me. My neck was still sore where I’d pulled a muscle, throwing back my head to hit my assailant. That struggle had definitely happened. And the conversation that followed?...
Something Hector had said came to mind. Words he’d quoted. (He was right, they were memorable.)
‘A dark, illimitable ocean without bound...’ Or something like that.
Were those words by Milton? If they were, did that prove Hector existed? Or had I subconsciously memorised some lines of poetry?
I dragged myself away from the warmth of the Aga and went in search of my laptop. I carried it back to the kitchen, switched on and stared at the screen, waiting. I’d barely scraped English O-Level and had only vague memories of studying Shakespeare and Lord of the Flies. I’d done science A-levels, then trained at horticultural college. How would I know any Milton?
The Google home page appeared. I typed in the phrase I remembered, plus “Milton” and hit return. A page of results came up quoting those very words. I clicked on one and learned that the quotation came from Paradise Lost and was indeed a description of Hell. That still didn’t prove Hector existed, nor that I was sane. I had no idea how the subconscious worked. Perhaps I’d seen these words in Hector’s journal.
The Glass Guardian Page 9
