The Glass Guardian

by Linda Gillard

  Chapter Seventeen

  There was a lot to do, for which I was thankful. I now had an excuse to clean the house from top to bottom, which I did in a frenzy of resentment - not resentment of Stan, but Hector. When I tried to work out why I was so angry with Hector, I came to the conclusion it was not so much because he was about to terminate our relationship, as that he was dead. As I scrubbed and polished, it struck me Hector must also be pretty angry about being dead and he’d been angry for a lot longer than I had. Disgusted with myself for being so self-centred, I cleaned the oven as an act of penance.

  I braved the snow to do a big shop at the Co-op. I cooked and filled the freezer with hearty casseroles and pies. I even bought a haggis since it looked as if Stan might be here in time for St Andrew’s Day.

  I wanted to give him something as a Christmas gift, even though he wouldn’t actually be here for Christmas Day. I thought I could let him have one of Janet’s bottles of Talisker as a souvenir of Skye, but I also wanted to give him something that had belonged to Janet, so I spent some time in the study, going through her things, trying to find something suitable.

  I settled on her gold fountain pen. I’d wavered when I recalled that the sight of Janet’s pen and pen top lying casually on her desk had been the first indication of Hector’s presence, but that seemed reason enough to give the pen away to a good home. I would never use a fountain pen, but it would be difficult to think of anything more personal that I could give to a man who’d never met Janet, but in a way, knew her. The pen would make an excellent gift. I found a box to put it in and wrapped it in some left-over Christmas paper that Janet had put away last year.

  Given the weather, there was little Tom could do to earn his wages, but I did give him the back-breaking task of clearing the drive - something I’d put off doing because it would remind me of witnessing David’s sudden death at the beginning of the year. He also chopped me a mountain of firewood and cleared the snow off the greenhouse roof. When I explained that Stan would be visiting, Tom suggested digging up a sapling fir to serve as a Christmas tree as it was too early to buy one. He put the small tree in an old metal bucket which I disguised with one of Janet’s grotesquely festive tablecloths.

  It took me a while to find her Christmas decorations. When I finally opened the box of treasured glass ornaments that had been carefully preserved for generations, it was all I could do to suppress a tear. The sight of them nestling in their cardboard compartments brought back happy memories of Christmases past, memories now tinged with sadness, because Janet would never share my Christmas again.

  Tom had put the tree in the sitting room in front of the French windows and despite my sombre mood, I made a good job of decorating it. I used tinsel, angels, robins, fairy lights, the works. When I switched on and regarded the illuminated tree, framed in the window against a background of thick snow, my spirits lifted and I was glad I’d made the effort. Something told me Stan would appreciate all the joyous kitsch. After all, he’d expected to lose his father and now it looked as if he’d get to spend another Christmas with him. That was worth celebrating. So was the fact that I would soon have a convivial house-guest who’d distract me from brooding about Hector’s departure.

  Well, that was the theory.

  On the day Stan was due to arrive, I put clean, aired sheets on his bed, gave the room a final dust and chose a selection of reading matter (mostly Scottish) for his bedside table. I found a volume of the collected ghost stories of M R James and placed that on top of the pile. Stan would appreciate the joke.

  Looking round the slightly shabby guest room, it struck me there was nothing living in the room. No houseplants. No flowers. Flowers from the garden were no longer an option and it didn’t seem worth driving up to Broadford in search of any, so I decided to cut some evergreens to stand in a jug. Perhaps I might even make a welcoming wreath for the front door, as Janet had done every year. Even though she wouldn’t be present in person this Christmas, there was no reason why, if I maintained some of her traditions, Janet shouldn’t join us in spirit.

  I checked my watch and decided I probably still had an hour before Stan arrived. Plenty of time to have a walk round the garden in search of holly, ivy and laurel, though I doubted the birds would have left many berries. It was already proving a hard winter and it was still only the end of November.

  I wrapped up warm, pulled on my wellingtons, dropped a pair of secateurs into my coat pocket and ventured out into the snow.

  It was like walking into a freezer, but bracing. After the initial shock to my sluggish system, it felt good to be outdoors, breathing the fragrant, icy air, surrounded by the stark beauty of snow and ice - so much more spectacular close-up than viewed through grubby panes of glass.

  I kept to the paths as much as possible, but still my wellingtons sank deep and the snow went over my feet. As I cut sprigs of holly, some with a few ice-frosted berries, I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye. I spun round in time to see a startled robin fly away. I smothered my disappointment with a resolution to put out scraps for the birds. Almost all the berries were gone and there was nothing for them to eat.

  But there I was wrong. As I rounded a corner I came upon the old covered bird table that stood outside the French windows. The roof and floor had been swept clear of snow and scraps of food had been set out. It looked like the remains of someone’s breakfast - pieces of toast and bacon. Tom had been taking care of the birds.

  I stood and stared at the table, feeling vaguely guilty - about the hungry birds and about Tom - when the robin which had evidently been following me, landed on the table, snatched a piece of bacon rind and flew off.

  I remembered Hector helping me to string half a coconut from this very bird table, over thirty years ago... I must have been ten or eleven. Hector would have been thirty-five. Hector would always be thirty-five. I would age and he would not. And when I died? What then? Was there an afterlife where I’d catch up with Hector, my parents, Janet and David? Would my father be any more affectionate in death than he’d been in life? And just how would I explain Hector to David?...

  It was all nonsense, of course. I had no religious or spiritual beliefs to console me. As a teenager, I’d rejected my father’s nominal Anglican faith in favour of Janet’s brisk atheism. (She used to quote John Buchan with glee: "An atheist is a man who has no invisible means of support.") Then I’d trained as a scientist. I’d built enough compost heaps in my time to know that matter decomposed and returned to the earth, from which new life grew. Death was the end. That was what I’d always believed. Until Hector had reminded me of his existence...

  I hadn’t seen him for days and suspected he’d departed this world without leaving a forwarding address. But it was unlike him to shirk responsibility. I’d been expecting a formal farewell, or at least some indication that this would be our final meeting, but perhaps that was expecting too much of a ghost. I should have learned by now. Hector was a law unto himself and was unlikely to be bound by mortal conventions of politeness.

  I was standing, staring aimlessly at the bird table, waiting for the robin to return, when I felt an odd, but familiar sensation that centred on the back of my neck. I was being watched.

  I spun round and, shocked to find Hector so close, I dropped my bunch of holly. I bent to retrieve it and found myself crouched at his feet. Hector’s boots had made no impression on the snow. There was only one line of footprints - mine - and nothing to indicate where he’d come from.

  The holly gathered up once more, I rose to my feet. Despite the freezing cold, Hector was dressed as usual, in his khaki army tunic and kilt, his red head bare. Whatever sensations ghosts were able to feel, cold didn’t appear to be one of them.

  We stood facing each other and I waited for him to speak. He looked down at the ground for a moment, then lifted his head and said, ‘There’s no easy way to say this, Ruth.’

  ‘Say what you have to say, Hector. Let’s get it over with.’

  ‘I’ve
come to say goodbye.’

  ‘I know. And you’ve chosen to do it outdoors so there’s no possibility of us ending up in bed again. Very wise.’

  He gave me a long look, then said, ‘D’you think that’s not what I want too? But each time we make love, it just makes it harder for you to come to terms with my leaving. With my being a ghost, not a man. So I thought it best we say our farewells outdoors. Where we first met. In the garden that has meant so much to us both.’

  I bit my lip in an attempt to prevent myself from asking, but it was no good. I said it anyway. ‘Hector, will I ever see—’

  ‘I don’t know, Ruth. I suspect not. We were brought together for a purpose and that purpose has been served.’

  ‘Has it?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I don’t know how I know. But I know.’

  ‘Well, I’m damned if I know what the point of it all was.’ I hadn’t meant to sound quite so bitter. I was losing control of my voice as well as my emotions.

  ‘You are reconciled,’ Hector said gently.

  ‘What do you mean, reconciled?’

  ‘To your loss. David. Your father. Janet. Your grief is less now. You feel less lonely. Less... abandoned. And you’re reconciled with Tom. You’ve forgiven him. Even though he doesn’t deserve it,’ Hector muttered.

  ‘I think Tom might be a good friend. Eventually.’

  ‘And I think you know now that Tigh-na-Linne is your real home. That you’re meant to be here.’

  ‘I can’t afford to keep it on, Hector.’

  ‘You’ll find a way. What’s for you will not go by you.’

  ‘Oh, don’t go all cryptic and Highland on me! What would be the point of staying here?’

  ‘This is the Munro family home. You’re a Munro. You’re Janet’s niece. She wanted Tigh-na-Linne to be your home. Your future. And so do I.’

  ‘The house should have gone to your child.’

  ‘Who must be dead by now. But in any case, the house was bequeathed to Gracie, as my parents’ only surviving child. Grace was your grandmother, so the house is rightfully yours. Use it. Make something of it. Make something of its story, of the people who lived here. And loved here,’ Hector added. ‘Tigh-na-Linne has known a deal of love. And it will know more.’

  ‘Did Janet love Tom’s mother?’

  Hector nodded. ‘Aye, she did. And that love was reciprocated, but... impossible. Impossible to acknowledge publicly.’

  ‘Poor Janet.’

  ‘Aye. Poor Janet.’

  ‘Hector, I can’t do this.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, I can’t do this. Say goodbye. Stand around making small talk about a future in which I have little interest. I can’t watch yet another loved one leave me. I won’t hold another dead person in my arms and then try to say goodbye!’

  He nodded slowly. ‘I understand... Och, I’ll just go. But you’ll care again, Ruth. And you’ll be cared for. Believe it.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You will.’

  ‘You make it sound like an order.’

  ‘It is.’ His lips curved in a slight smile and I cracked.

  ‘Go, Hector! Now, please. I don’t want your last sight of me to be red-nosed and weeping. I want you to remember me at my best. Remember what you’re missing.’

  ‘There’s not the slightest chance I’ll ever forget you, Ruth. I’ve known and loved you since you were eight.’

  As the echo of my own words returned to me, I tossed the holly onto the ground. I pulled off my gloves and dropped them too. I took hold of Hector’s cold face - the face of a dead man - and I stared into his icy blue eyes for the last time. He bent his head and I felt the touch of his chilled lips. Closing my eyes, I tried to throw my arms round his neck, but there was nothing there. When I opened my eyes again, I saw that he was walking away from me, his red hair bright against the snow, his booted feet leaving no footprints. His stride was unhurried and his kilt swung in time with his paces. I wondered why he’d decided to walk away rather than simply de-materialise. Perhaps allowing me to watch him go was his final gift to me.

  Hector had always walked away. Or I had. When I was a child, there had been none of the supernatural comings and goings I’d witnessed as an adult. He hadn’t wanted to alarm a little girl, I suppose. He’d presented himself tactfully as my faithful, if enigmatic friend, a surrogate uncle. So he appeared to come and go like an ordinary man, the man he once was, the man he no doubt longed to be. And now he was walking away from me like a man, not a ghost - not just because he thought that was how I’d want to remember him, but because that was how he wished to be remembered.

  I stood and watched for as long as I could bear, then I gave up and followed. Unable to skim the surface of the snow like Hector, I plodded through it, sinking in over my ankles. I trudged through a garden I no longer recognised as my childhood playground. Its geography had vanished. The features that remained distinguishable - trees and tall shrubs - seemed to have doubled in bulk where snow had accumulated on their branches, disguising their familiar, much-loved forms. This arctic landscape was alien. It had become a nowhere place, a No Man’s Land and I ploughed on, following Hector, a dead man, as he strode across it.

  He was heading downhill through the garden, toward the sea. I wondered whether, when he eventually met it, he’d just keep walking. Unable to close the gap between us, I broke into an ungainly run. The going suddenly got easier as I hit firmer ground and my boots got a better purchase. I called out to Hector, desperate to get him to turn round and look at me for what might be the last time.

  He ignored my cries and walked on steadily. Behind me, I heard the sound of a car pulling up at the house, then a door opening and closing, but I didn’t look back. Anxious he might suddenly vanish, I didn’t take my eyes off Hector for a second. I kept walking until I was stopped dead in my tracks by a sound like a gunshot. Hector wheeled round. He saw where I was, then yelled at the top of his voice, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. He started to run toward me, shouting and waving his arms. It sounded like “Lie down!” As he came closer, I could hear him quite clearly, bellowing, “Ruth, for God’s sake! Spread yourself flat!”

  I had no idea what he meant. Lie down in the snow? Had he taken leave of his senses? As Hector approached, almost flying across the snow, I ran forward, laughing, crying with joy that he’d decided to come back to me. Then there were more sounds like shots, louder now. I looked round the garden, startled and disoriented. Too late, I recognised where I was.

  Then the ground gave way.

  I’d walked on to the frozen pond. The ice had borne my weight for a while, then, in the centre where the ice was thinner, it had cracked, then shattered.

  I fell through the ice into the freezing black water below. The cold was so intense, the shock such a physical pain, that I screamed in agony as much as terror. My cries were quickly stifled as my mouth and throat filled with pond water and fragments of ice. Choking, I tried to kick my legs to stay afloat, but my wellingtons had already filled with water and I couldn’t move my feet. I thrashed around with my arms, grabbing at the ice, but it just broke off in my hands. There was nothing for me to hold on to and no way I could pull myself out. If I didn’t drown, I would be dead of hypothermia in ten minutes, maybe less.

  In between choking coughs, I screamed Hector’s name. Scraping hair and pondweed out of my eyes, I saw him standing, motionless and white-faced at the edge of the pond, his skin the same colour as the snow. But he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking past me, across the pond, as if someone were standing there. He suddenly raised his hands and held them up, palms flat. ‘Go back!’ he barked. ‘You can do nothing! Leave this to me.’

  I had no idea who he was talking to and realised I didn’t care. What did it matter? What did anything matter any more? My limbs had stopped feeling heavy. I couldn’t feel them at all now. I couldn’t feel anything. Just an overwhelming
desire to sleep, to cease this pointless struggle. As the foul, black water covered my face and the stench of mud filled my nostrils, I thought perhaps it was all for the best. This way, at least I would be with Hector. For ever.

  When I opened my eyes again, it was much darker. But I didn’t feel cold any more and the pain in my chest had stopped. Hector wasn’t yelling now and neither was I. I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t see anything much, but there was light above me - not bright, but I could see it was lighter on the other side of the impenetrable barrier above my head, like a ceiling. A glass ceiling. Only this one wouldn’t break.

  I’d stopped pushing at it and punching it with my fists. It was too much effort. I was content just to drift down, away from the light. Maybe when it was completely dark I’d finally be able to sleep. Perhaps I’d dream of Hector...

  I was dreaming of Hector. He was there, right beside me, his eyes wide. Wide with horror. I tried to smile, to reassure him I was OK, but something came between us, obscuring my view. Fronds of something dark. Silky. Tangled. I thought it was my hair, then I recognised it as vegetation, curling round my limbs. I waved my arms to free myself from the weed and saw Hector again. His pale skin was luminous in the gloom and he appeared to be naked. I tried to lift my arms to embrace him, but they were too heavy.

  Hector’s arms went round my waist and he started to drag me upwards, toward the light. But something was pulling at my feet. I felt one of my wellingtons slide off, freeing one leg. Hector let go of me, then disappeared. I felt something pull hard at my other boot, then I lurched and floated upwards, until my head hit something hard. The light... But the light was solid and I couldn’t pass through it.

  I didn’t care. I could feel Hector’s arms around me once more and when I turned my head I found his face close to mine. I gazed into his eyes, looking for the love that was usually there, but instead I saw something strange. At first I thought it was pain. Then I realised it was indecision. Hector looked as if he was on the rack.