The Glass Guardian

by Linda Gillard

  ‘That’s right. Dad’s mother was a Scot.’

  ‘Your dad? You mean, the man who’s now in the nursing home?’

  ‘Why, yes.’

  I struggled up onto one elbow. ‘And he’s still OK? I mean, he’s still alive?’

  ‘Well, last I heard he was doing fine,’ Stan replied, looking puzzled. ‘Pretty tired, but the old guy is ninety-four. His white-water rafting days are long gone.’

  ‘Ninety-four? You’re sure?’

  Stan spread his hands, perplexed. ‘Ruth, he’s my Dad.’

  ‘So he must have been born in... Oh my God! 1916?’

  ‘That’s right. Why? Is this important?’

  ‘Stan, you have no idea how important. What was your grandmother’s name?’

  ‘Effie Blake.’

  ‘I mean, before she married.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘I think she was Effie Dunn.’

  ‘Dunn? You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. It just took me a moment to recall her maiden name.’

  ‘Oh...’

  My face must have fallen because Stan said, ‘That wasn’t the name you were hoping to hear, was it?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid it wasn’t.’

  ‘What should my grandmother have been called?’

  ‘Ideally, Elfriede von Hügel.’

  ‘Von Hügel? That’s German.’

  ‘I know.’

  Stan was thoughtful for a moment, then said, ‘Hügel... That’s German for “hill”.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Well, that’s a strange coincidence.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Well, Hügel means hill in German. And in the Scottish vernacular, I believe a dun is—’

  ‘A hill! “Effie Dunn” was the name Frieda adopted when she went to Canada!’

  ‘Frieda?’

  ‘Elfriede. Your grandmother! That was her real name.’

  ‘My grandmother was German?’

  ‘Half-German on her father’s side. But her mother was Scots and Frieda was born in Edinburgh. Do you know when your grandmother emigrated? Or when she married?’

  ‘No, not offhand. But I’m sure Dad would know.’

  ‘I think you’ll find she emigrated to Canada some time after 1915 and that she’d changed her German name to something Scottish.’

  ‘Wait a minute. Are you saying Effie - Elfriede - emigrated without the father of her child?’

  ‘He was dead. Killed at the Battle of Loos in 1915.’

  Stan let out a long whistle. ‘Hector was the father of her child?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then that means my father is... Hector’s son!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I am—’

  ‘Hector’s grandson.’

  ‘Holy moly! You mean to say, my grandpa is a ghost?’

  ‘Yes. And Janet was some sort of distant cousin.’

  ‘Why then,’ Stan exclaimed, ‘So are you!’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I must be.’

  Stan beamed. ‘Well, this is the best Christmas present anyone could have! A new cousin and my own personal ghost! Do you think maybe he’ll haunt me some more? I mean, seeing as I’m a close relation?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think now you’re here and he’s seen you, Hector might think his work is done.’

  ‘Are you saying Hector brought me here?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. But he was expecting something... Something wonderful, he said. But I’ve no reason to suppose he was expecting to meet his grandson.’

  ‘Did Hector even know of my father’s existence?’

  ‘Frieda wrote and told him she was pregnant. He got the letter at the front, shortly before he was killed. He was very upset by it. You see, he’d wanted to marry her, but she’d refused, for the sake of his family, who viewed her as the enemy. Then a few days after he got the letter, he was killed, before he could reply. So he’s never known if his child lived... He thought so. He said he felt a sort of connection, even after he knew Frieda must be dead. He told me he had to know what had happened to his child before he could... rest. But I think we might not see him again now. He’d already said his final goodbyes to me.’

  ‘Well, thank God that final goodbye wasn’t final for another reason.’ Stan took my hand. ‘You know, I hope you won’t think it over-familiar of me, but I would really like to give you a hug. I was pretty glad Hector saved your life before, but now I know who you are - well, I’d really like to shake that guy’s hand!’

  Stan’s voice was thick with emotion and his eyes - so similar to Hector’s - were now sparkling. I suspected he might be in need of the tissues shortly, so to save his embarrassment (and for other reasons, which weren’t entirely clear to me) I spread my arms wide, inviting him to put his arms around me and said, ‘Greetings, cousin.’

  He sprang up from his chair beside my bed and enveloped me in a hug. For a moment I felt the sexual frisson I’d experienced whenever I’d touched Hector, then I remembered this wasn’t Hector, this was someone else. Someone real. A new friend. And someone who’d helped save my life.

  Completely confused now and in a highly emotional state, I released Stan and we sat regarding each other, grinning foolishly, then he let out a joyous whoop of laughter. He looked just like the photo in my bedside drawer, the one of Hector as a young man in his bathing suit, taken by the pool, the pool that was almost the death of me. Twice.

  I looked at Stan laughing, at his bright blue eyes and even brighter hair and I felt an odd mix of sensations, the least comfortable of which was guilt. Could I really be so fickle?... Was I actually sitting up in bed after a near-death experience, thinking how attractive my stuffy Canadian academic was? Or had I just projected what I felt for Hector onto Stan? Surely I was just feeling emotional, not to mention grateful that Stan had looked after me. Maybe I was just glad to be alive, glad to have a newly-discovered family member sitting by my bedside, caring that I was alive.

  I couldn’t tell. But a new thought struck me and I gave up the futile struggle to stave off tears. Stan leaned forward, his sunny smile gone, his pale forehead creased by a frown.

  ‘What’s wrong, Ruth? Are you OK? Should I ring for a nurse?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I just thought of something.’

  ‘Something bad?’

  ‘No, something nice. But so nice, it’s made me cry.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘It just struck me suddenly. You coming to stay at Tigh-na-Linne... It means it’s going to be a real family Christmas now.’

  A slow smile lit up Stan’s face until he was grinning at me. ‘Why, so it is!’ Then he took my hand, leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Merry Christmas, Ruth!’

  Chapter Nineteen

  The hospital wanted to keep me in for forty-eight hours’ observation. Complications can occur after a near-drowning apparently - pneumonia, infection, even heart failure - so I had to stay put. When I wasn’t sleeping, I was showering, trying to get mud out of my hair and the smell of death out of my nostrils. Stan went back and forth on the bus and shopped in Inverness, buying a change of clothes and toiletries for me and Christmas presents for his family (including a Loch Ness Monster T-shirt for his younger sister, the particle physicist.)

  Stan wouldn’t countenance going back to Skye without me and, to tell the truth, I was glad to have him around. Left to my own devices, I had a pathetic tendency to turn my face to the wall and mope. I suppose it was reaction setting in, but I was also missing Hector. I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again. I thought it unlikely. But when Stan was with me, I found I didn’t miss Hector quite so much. Whether that was because he reminded me of Hector, or because he was just nice to have around, I couldn’t tell, but I found myself looking forward to conversations with Stan, in which we swapped details about our lives and families.

  He was thirty-eight, single and, as he mentioned an ex-girlfriend, I assumed he was straight. He said he was tired of academic t
eaching and wanted to devote more time to research and composition. He wanted to take a sabbatical to write his book and decide on his direction in life, but since his father had gone into the nursing home, he felt life was on hold. His father’s health remained uncertain, there was now a big house to be sold and a lifetime’s possessions to be disposed of. It was a scenario familiar to me and I sympathised.

  Sitting together over a cup of tea in an anonymous day room, I’d asked Stan how he’d first become interested in Janet’s music. He narrowed his eyes and was silent for a while, as if struggling to remember.

  ‘I don’t rightly know any more. Janet and I go way back... But I guess it must have been when I was a music student... No, it was earlier than that! It began with something Dad told me about his mother. About Frieda. Long after she died.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He told me she had a favourite poem. By Andrew Marvell.’

  ‘The Definition of Love.’

  ‘Right. So you know where this is headed then. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I didn’t even check out the poem, but I remembered the title and when I was a music student I came across an obscure Scottish composer who’d set this poem to music. I was intrigued enough to find the music and listen to it. Well, I was blown away. In Memoriam really spoke to me. So did the words for some reason. I wondered why this had been my grandmother’s favourite poem? But she wasn’t around to ask, so I just listened to the music, over and over. Then I got hold of some more of Janet’s work. I liked a lot of it, but no other piece seemed to me in quite the same league as In Memoriam. That seemed like a one-off.’

  ‘Which of course it was.’

  Stan nodded. ‘Nevertheless, Janet became something of a hobby-horse of mine. I was very interested in the Scots connection - probably because I had Scottish roots.’ Sipping his tea and settling back in his armchair, Stan said, ‘Do you happen to know why Hector asked Janet to publish In Memoriam after all that time?’

  ‘It was meant to flush out Frieda. It was a long shot, but Hector thought that if by any chance she heard the music, she’d be so outraged by the plagiarism, she’d contact Janet and complain.’

  ‘Frieda knew the piece?’

  ‘It was dedicated to her. She and Hector had played it together many times. Hector played piano and Frieda sang. It was their “song” if you like.’

  ‘So the piece I heard and loved was actually created by my grandparents.’ Stan’s smile was nothing short of beatific. ‘It’s all pretty wondrous, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘But you know, Hector’s plan could never have worked.’ Stan shook his head slowly. ‘If only the poor guy had known.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Frieda never would have heard the piece.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The recording was made in the late 1950s, right?’

  ‘Yes. And it was very popular. On the radio all the time apparently. But as Frieda never got in touch with Janet, Hector assumed she must have died.’

  ‘No, she wasn’t dead. She was deaf.’

  ‘Deaf?’

  ‘Yes. I never met her - she died before I was born - but Dad said she gradually went deaf in her sixties. By the time In Memoriam was recorded, Frieda was no longer listening to music, so she never could have recognised Hector’s piece.’

  ‘Of course! We never thought of that! But how very sad. For someone so musical to lose their hearing. Poor Frieda.’

  ‘But the plan still worked. Partially at least. In Memoriam didn’t locate Frieda. But it did eventually find me.’

  ‘And if you existed, Hector would know his child must have lived. Did you ever share In Memoriam with your father?’

  ‘Yes. Dad was a historian and although it wasn’t his specialism, he was interested in World War I. Maybe he suspected his father had been a soldier who’d fallen in battle. He knew Frieda’s husband wasn’t his father - she’d never made any secret of that - but Dad could never find any evidence of an earlier marriage, even though Effie - Frieda, I mean - referred to being the widow of a “Mr Dunn”. So Dad assumed his mother’s sweetheart had been a war casualty. He didn’t want to embarrass her by asking for details and who knows, maybe he didn’t want to establish for a fact that he was born illegitimate.’

  ‘That would have been quite a stigma in those days.’

  ‘I reckon so. Anyway, he said he didn’t like to ask. But he was always interested in military history and the battles fought by Scottish regiments. So that was why I shared In Memoriam with him. It was a memorial to the fallen of World War I and it seemed to be about a pair of lovers who’d been driven apart in life, then finally separated by death. Dad figured something like that might have happened to his parents.’ Stan was silent, then added with a sad smile, ‘I suppose they just weren’t meant to be together.’

  I fixed him with a look. ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘What? That Hector and Frieda weren’t destined to be together?’

  ‘Yes. And that some people are.’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t say I’ve ever really thought about it.’

  ‘Hector believes it. Believed it. Oh, for Heavens’ sake!’ I said, setting my tea down with a bang and spilling some on the table. ‘What tense is one supposed to use when talking about a ghost?’

  Stan gave me a shrewd look and said, ‘You’re missing him already.’

  ‘Of course I’m not,’ I lied. ‘How can you miss a ghost?’

  ‘Well, from what you say, it seems like Hector wasn’t your average ghost.’ I avoided Stan’s eye, refusing to be drawn. ‘So what is it he believes?’ I still didn’t reply, but Stan persisted. ‘Something that... upsets you?’

  I picked up my tea-cup again and was dismayed to see my hand was shaking slightly. Taking hold of the cup in both hands, I said, ‘Hector believed there was some sort of rosy, pre-destined future for me.’

  ‘Without him?’

  I looked up, shocked by the accuracy of Stan’s guesswork, but I said nothing. He was giving me another appraising look and I began to think that, for all their gentle humour, those eyes didn’t miss much.

  ‘You and Hector,’ Stan continued. ‘Were you... close?’

  I hesitated before answering, then, avoiding Stan’s eye, said, ‘Yes, we were. I first saw him when I was eight. I thought he was real. And I thought of him as my friend. Other people called him my imaginary friend.’

  ‘But not Janet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because she’d seen him too.’

  ‘I presume so. She was always sympathetic anyway. If I asked, she’d lay another place at table, in case Heckie “dropped in for tea”.’

  ‘Heckie?’

  ‘That was my pet name for Hector when I was a child... He disappeared from my life when I was about ten or eleven and I seemed to just forget all about him. Until this year, when I saw him again at Tigh-na-Linne.’

  ‘Do you know why you were suddenly able to see him again?’

  I watched Stan, still apprehensive about his reaction to my story, still thrown by the fact he seemed to take me perfectly seriously. Looking into his eyes as they regarded me calmly and kindly, I decided he could probably cope with the truth if I could cope with telling it.

  ‘I believe I started to see Hector again because I needed to. I needed him. Well, I needed a friend. I’d recently lost Janet and earlier in the year, my father. I’d also lost a very close friend. One I might have married. There’d been so much death!... I was very lonely. And unhappy. I think that’s why Hector came back to me. He also seemed to think I could be instrumental in furthering his purpose.’

  ‘Which was to find out if his child had lived?’

  ‘And what had happened to Frieda. He and Janet had tried and drawn a blank, but Hector seemed to have some sort of confidence in me that I’d be able to help him. That we could help each other. He said... I would know what to do. ’

  ‘Which was
graciously agree to open up Janet’s musical archive to the scrutiny of a persistent and curious academic on the other side of the Atlantic, even though visitors must have been the last thing you needed.’

  ‘Well, I did want to sort through Janet’s stuff. And for some reason, I knew I’d like you.’

  Stan looked surprised. ‘Even though we’d never met?’

  ‘I liked the sound of you. Whenever we spoke on the phone, I always felt better. My heart felt lighter.’ Despite Stan’s candid smile, I felt I’d said too much and I attempted to backtrack. ‘And of course I didn’t relish the thought of spending Christmas alone.’

  ‘Tom?...’ Stan queried, raising an auburn brow in a gesture of exquisite tact.

  I shook my head. ‘Tom’s just an employee. Well, he’s also an old family friend, but nothing more. I was planning to spend Christmas at Tigh-na-Linne on my own, so it seemed like a good idea to invite you. Or something made it seem like a good idea, because most of the time, what I really wanted to do was cut and run. Shut up the house, put it on the market and go back to London.’

  ‘But Hector wouldn’t let you?’

  I shook my head. ‘He said there was some sort of process going on and we mustn’t get in the way.’

  Stan spread his hands. ‘Well, he was right, wasn’t he? And you did know what to do.’

  I stared at him and said, ‘You know what? I think you must be as crazy as I am.’

  ‘You think so?’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s something genetic.’

  ‘Seriously though, you said on the phone that you had an open mind about most things. Is it really this open?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know quite what I thought about destiny before I embarked on this adventure, but since I discovered I have new family and that I’m descended from a Scottish bloodline that includes not one composer, but two, I think I’m prepared to admit there may be something at work here that we simply don’t understand. Either that, or we’re talking about coincidence on a massive scale.’

  ‘Seeing a ghost isn’t a coincidence. But it could be a delusion.’

  ‘And we happen to share the same delusion?... You never told me what Hector looked like and I haven’t seen the window. But when I saw him, it was like looking in a mirror.’