The Flight of Gemma Hardy (11 page)

I did not hesitate. I rearranged my pillow to look like a body, placed my rolled-up cardigan where my head ought to be, and tiptoed to the door. Without stopping, I made my way to the sickroom. The bedside light was on; there was no sign of Matron. Miriam was propped up in bed, her face pale and gleaming. At the sight of me she started to smile. Suddenly her mouth wrenched open, and her eyes flared. The giant hand was holding her tight.

I ran to the bed. “Miriam, what can I do? Do you have your inhaler?”

She glanced down and I saw it lying beside her. “Can't talk,” she whispered.

“What can I do?” I repeated. Her forehead was beaded with sweat. Gently I patted it with the sleeve of my pyjamas. I remembered a scene from
Anne of Green Gables
when someone with croup was put in a tent of steam. I looked around the room, hoping for a kettle. Meanwhile Miriam gathered her strength to push back the hand one more time. And one more. I had never thought of breathing as something that required willpower. What would happen if she fell asleep?

“Story,” she whispered, her voice even smaller than before.

I began a tale about two brothers, both fishermen; the good brother likes the seals and shares his catch with them; the bad brother hates them. Suddenly I realised Miriam hadn't taken the next breath. Her eyes were glaring, her body arching, her hand fumbling with the inhaler. Quickly I took it from her, raised it to her mouth, and pushed the button as I had seen her do. She lay back, eyes closed. “Go on,” she murmured.

“And then the bad brother . . .”

After only a few more sentences her breathing jammed again. I ran to the doorway of the room. “Matron,” I called. “Help. Help.”

I had barely time to hide behind the curtains before Matron, in a dark dressing-gown, was bending over Miriam, saying, “There, there, Goodall.”

Soon she had Miriam settled in a tent of steam just like I had read about. She left the room and I heard her dialing the phone, begging the doctor to come at once, saying “ambulance” and “hospital.” Then I heard her hurrying down the corridor and guessed she had gone to fetch Miss Bryant. I slipped out of my hiding place and knelt beside Miriam.

“I'm sorry I didn't come sooner,” I said. “I tried, but Ross stopped me. Tonight the man from the library fetched me, the one you talked to about convoys and ice cream. He's watching over you. They'll make you better in hospital and when you come back I'll show you the baby blackbirds.”

Beneath the towel Miriam made a gasping sound.

T
he next morning, as we washed the silverware, Smith remarked that an ambulance had come in the night and taken Goodall to the hospital in Hawick. “One of the prefects said she nearly died,” she added cheerfully.

The handful of knives I was drying fell to the floor.

“Dropping a knife is bad luck,” said Smith, nudging one with her foot. “You've enough here to last a year.”

She can't die, I thought. Adults were the ones who had accidents, or fell ill and died, not children. Yet even as I argued, I remembered the small graves in my uncle's churchyard: beloved sons and daughters gone to join their Redeemer. Somehow I survived my morning classes. Serving lunch, I deliberately touched a roasting pan. “Clumsy,” said Cook and sent me to the infirmary. Once again I offered Matron my notebook:
Please tell me how Goodall is.

“She's very . . . I'm afraid all we can . . .”

All we can what?
I wrote.

“Pray,” Matron said, holding up her hands.

The following morning in assembly Miss Bryant said the same thing. “Girls, today I ask you to pray for Miriam Goodall, who is very ill in Hawick Hospital.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed partly to God, partly to the young man. I promised to be good, to tidy my drawers, never to lie, not to hate anyone—even Mr. Milne, even Miss Bryant—if only they would make Miriam better. I pictured her lungs, bean-shaped like the picture I'd seen in a biology book, growing and growing.

In class Mrs. Harris reprimanded me for not getting out my books. In the kitchen Cook chivvied me to finish the potatoes. Meanwhile the rest of the school, the rest of the world, seemed oblivious to Miriam's fate. The weather had turned warm, and on the terraces the roses were in bloom; the regular pupils wore pretty green and white gingham dresses. My only solace was visiting the blackbirds. My guess of four weeks was proving surprisingly accurate. Even as I watched, one of the fledglings struggled to sit on the rim of the nest.

“Little buggers are growing up fast,” said Ross. She had sneaked up behind me.

I started back to the kitchen but she grabbed my arm.

“I'll bet you a shilling,” she said, “you never see her again.”

chapter twelve

T
he night was much milder than the one on which I had taken my box to Mr. Donaldson, but gone were the high white clouds that had lit my journey from Yew House to the village; instead the sky pressed down, indistinguishable from the land. At the top of the stairs I stood counting, waiting for my eyes to adjust. When, at fifty, I could still barely see the driveway I almost gave up. To walk so far, alone, in such darkness, seemed impossible. Then I remembered Ross's taunt and set out across the grass. Hawick was only seven miles away. The Romans had marched through Britain at four miles an hour; I could be there in two hours. Perhaps even less, since running, I soon realised, was the best way to stay ahead of fear.

I slipped on the damp grass and fell once, then again. As soon as I passed the bend and was out of sight of the school I kept to the road. In the lodge all the lights were off. Nevertheless I tiptoed by on the far side, giving a wide berth to Mr. Milne's van. If he came after me I planned to take to the fields, where my speed was an advantage. Then I was safely past and heading downhill on a road I had not travelled since my first day at Claypoole. The animals in the fields were strangers; the trees had no names.

At the bottom I turned left and followed the line of willows. Soon I was crossing the river and entering the village of Denholm. Only a few houses still showed lights, but someone could easily look out of an unlit house and see me. I ran from one pool of shadow to the next, dreading to hear a voice shout, “Stop,” but no one called after me; no dog barked. About half a mile beyond the village I heard my first vehicle. I climbed into the ditch and stayed there until the lorry was safely past. It left the silence even more absolute, the darkness even denser. Breathe, I kept saying over and over. I'm coming. Wait for me.

I had given no thought as to how I would find the hospital. In my mind all I had to do was get to Hawick and there it would be. But as I got closer I began to worry that I would have to search the town, street by street. I had no map, and even if anyone were around—a milkman, say—I would not dare ask for directions. Just past the first houses, though, a sign saying
HOSPITAL
pointed straight ahead. A few streets later, a second sign pointed to the right. I saw a low stone building with two wings.

Cautiously I approached the front door and, after peering through the lowest pane of glass, stepped into the empty hallway. I had been to a hospital only once before, when my aunt had had her mysterious operation, and I recognised the same mixture of smells that did not go together. Faintly, I was not sure from what direction, I heard women's voices. At the end of the hall one arrow pointed to
GERIATRIC
,
MATERNITY
, and
WOMEN
, another to
ORTHOPAEDIC
,
MEN
, and
CHILDREN
. I headed towards
CHILDREN
, stopping every few yards to listen until I reached an opaque glass door. Holding my breath, I gently pushed it open.

Four doors lined the broad hall; one, ajar, spilled a wedge of light. Beyond I glimpsed the ward, with two rows of beds stretching into darkness. I tiptoed past the lit door and approached the nearest bed; the curtains were drawn around it. When I peered between them I saw Miriam by the glow of the bedside light, propped up against several pillows. She wore a faded pink nightdress, unbuttoned at the neck; her pale face seemed even larger. At the sight of me her eyes showed pleasure but no surprise. Perhaps my messages had reached her. I stepped inside the curtains, longing to hear her exclaim over my presence. After my dangerous journey I could feel the blood running through my veins, my lungs effortlessly filling and emptying. It took me a moment to fit myself back inside my skin, to sit down calmly on the edge of the bed and reach for her hand.

“You're cold,” I whispered. I slipped off my shoes, and taking care not to jostle her, I climbed under the covers. My first thought was that she smelled different; her flowery fragrance had been banished by something medicinal. In a low voice I told her how worried I had been, that I had walked through the night to take care of her.

“I saw your father yesterday,” I said. “Is the hospital making you better?”

“They're trying. Daddy came and yelled at them this afternoon.”

“Ross said you were going to die.”

Miriam sighed. “I might. My head feels very strange.”

“You can't,” I said. “I need you.” Even as I spoke, the awful truth came to me: everyone I had ever loved had died.

“Well, if I can't, I won't,” she said. “Tell me a selkie story.”

Whispering so quietly that it was almost like talking to myself, I began, “Once upon a time in a village by the sea a woman named Margaret lived in a house covered with shells. Her parents were dead but she loved her shells and she loved the sea. She was old enough to be married but . . .”

Despite the urgency, and the danger of discovery, I found myself growing drowsy. I yawned, I buried my head against Miriam's shoulder. I had not spoken for several minutes when she patted my arm.

“I have to tell you something,” she said, her voice a tiny thread. “Make friends with Miss Seftain. She'll teach you Latin. You'll like that. And when you get older she'll help you to stop being a working girl. Keep telling the story. I'm going to try to sleep.”

“So Angus followed Margaret into the shell house,” I went on, “and the parlour was full of people he had never seen before. They all had beautiful brown eyes, like yours, and they all wore beautiful long dark coats . . .”

As the intervals between Miriam's breaths grew longer, so did the intervals between my words until we were both silent.

chapter thirteen

I
woke to a pair of blue eyes a few inches from mine. Above the eyes perched a white hat slightly askew; below, plump lips parted to reveal a few crumbs of toast. When she saw I was awake, the nurse jumped back and disappeared between the curtains. I heard a voice crying, “Sister.”

I knew where I was—in bed with Miriam, in the hospital—and I tried not to know that one side of my body, wrapped in the blanket, was warm, the other, pressed against her, cold. Please, Miriam, I thought, wherever you are, take good care of yourself. Don't worry about getting sums wrong, or being untidy. Maybe your mother's there too, and you can grow beautiful blue flowers together and play with Spencer and never have to see your father. I hope your leg is better. I hope you don't have asthma.

A hand touched my shoulder. The uniform of the woman standing over me was the same lustrous blue as the flowers I had just imagined Miriam tending. She was older than the first nurse, but her fair hair, beneath her white hat, was as short as a boy's. I had never seen a woman with such short hair before.

“Hello,” she said quietly. “Who are you?”

“I'm Gemma Hardy, Miriam's best friend. I knew she was ill and I walked from Claypoole to see her last night. I didn't want her to be alone. Please don't be cross.”

“I'm not cross,” she said, holding out her hand. “You're a very brave girl but you have to say goodbye to Miriam and get out of bed.”

Like Miss Bryant, this woman was used to being obeyed. I climbed out of the bed and went around to the other side. Miriam was still propped against the pillows, slumped slightly to one side, her chin resting on her chest. Hesitantly I reached for her hand. It felt mysteriously different: heavier, denser. I kissed her pale cheek but I could not bear to say the word
goodbye
.

The woman stood beside me. “Do you know that poem by Robert Louis Stevenson?” she said. “ ‘Home is the sailor, home from the sea, / And the hunter home from the hill'? Miriam didn't sail or hunt, but we hope in some sense she's gone home. We're just sorry that home is so far away.”

“We used to say his poem about the shadow when it was sunny,” I said. “He was ill as a boy and he got better. My uncle showed me his house in Edinburgh.”

I was still telling her what I knew about Stevenson as she led me between the curtains, across the shiny linoleum, and into the hallway beyond the beds. In the bathroom, she started the bath, and handed me a towel. “Call if you need anything,” she said.

As the youngest working girl I was last in line for our weekly bath and by the time my turn came the tepid water was filmed with scum; I would leap in and wash at top speed, flailing madly to keep the grime of the other girls at bay. Now the water was hot and clear and the bath so long that I could make swimming motions and move myself from end to end. My hair floated around me and my mind became liquid and dreamy. I remembered swimming one summer day with my uncle and cousins in the pool above the weir; I had towed Veronica around in a rubber ring. Through the window I saw a seagull arc by, followed by a dozen grey pigeons. It was still early. Six o'clock perhaps. No more than seven. I shampooed my hair and rinsed it, first at one end of the bath, then the other.

A voice at the door called, “Breakfast in five minutes.” Reluctantly I climbed out, dried myself, and dressed in my mud-smeared blouse and trousers. For the first time since my train journey, I studied my reflection without fear of interruption. Beneath my wet hair, my eyes were still grey, my features still plain, but my cheeks were thinner, my forehead higher; my months at Claypoole had aged me beyond my years.

In the corridor the woman in blue was waiting. “I forgot to tell you my name. I'm Sister Barbara Cullen. Breakfast is served in my office.”

Few meals, no matter how lavish, have given me as much satisfaction as that breakfast: two fried eggs, two sausages, bacon, grilled tomato, and white toast. I ate in ravenous silence. Meanwhile Sister Cullen worked at her desk. Only when my plate was empty save for a few tomato seeds did I raise my head to take in my surroundings: the broad desk, the filing cabinet, the cupboard with a key in the lock, and, most intriguingly, a poster, taller than I was, depicting a naked person with bones and muscles and organs.

“You were hungry,” said Sister Cullen. “Now I'd like to ask you a few questions. It's still too early to phone the school.”

As she spoke I realised that Miriam's death had propelled me back into the world of ordinary speech. Gently Sister Cullen asked me my age and circumstances, and I told her about being an orphan, about getting a scholarship to Claypoole only to spend most of my time cooking and cleaning. I told her how Miss Bryant had put me in Primary 7 not as a reward for my scholastic accomplishments but to conceal the age of her youngest working girl. I told her how Miriam had befriended me.

“And you her,” said the sister.

I had never thought to wonder why Miriam had approached me. Now, as I gazed at Sister Cullen's pristine hat, I understood for the first time that Miriam, even with all the advantages of being a regular pupil, had, like me, no friends.

“So,” Sister Cullen said, leaning forward, “you can't go back to your aunt's. And, I'm no expert on these matters, but I doubt there are many boarding schools that would take you for free. I fear your only option is to make the best of Claypoole. Perhaps Dr. White will have some ideas.”

“He might be angry with me,” I said and confessed my refusal to speak.

Sister Cullen shook her head. “You're a very determined person, aren't you?”

I had not thought of myself that way, but I stored up the idea to examine later. “Why did Miriam die?” I said. “I thought no one died of asthma.”

“Believe me, I would have done anything I could to prevent it. Asthma is very hard to cure.” She stood up from her desk and, approaching the poster, pointed to the lungs. When someone has asthma, she explained, the tubes that go from the face to the lungs and the smaller ones, actually inside the lungs, become inflamed and constricted. “Perhaps if Miriam had been in a sanatorium when she first developed asthma; if someone had made sure that she had the best possible diet, plenty of rest, and cheerful company . . . Well, who knows? But Dr. White took good care of her, and here at the hospital we did everything we could. When I went off duty yesterday, we thought her condition had stabilised. No one had any idea she would die in the night.”

I stared at the dark red lungs as I asked the crucial question. “Do you think it was my fault?”

“Your fault?”

I meant, was I a monster? Did I hurt everyone I loved? Instead I repeated Miriam's remark that being upset made her asthma worse.

“You're asking did the shock of your visit trigger an attack? No, that would have happened anyway. I'm sure your presence made it easier. Didn't you see her face when you said goodbye? She looked as if she'd been smiling, and that was because of you. It would have been awful for her to be alone, or with strangers.”

Then she announced that for today she was going to keep me at the hospital. I could make myself useful by reading to some of the younger children on the ward. One of her nurses, she added, had a daughter my size and would lend me some clean clothes.

I
did not hear what Sister Cullen said to Miss Bryant, but I pictured a glacier meeting a rock; the rock stands firm but the glacier just keeps going. Nor did I hear what must have been a wrenching phone call to Mr. Goodall. I was helping a little girl eat her porridge when he strode into the ward, still wearing his brown suit, and, ignoring the nurse hurrying towards him, pushed his way between the curtains surrounding the now empty bed. A second later he emerged and lurched towards Sister Cullen's office.

“You told me she was getting better. How could you let this happen? First you kill her mother, now her.”

There was a pause—presumably Sister Cullen replied—then a single word rang through the ward.

“Murderers!”

Half an hour later I saw Sister Cullen, her hand resting on his arm, ushering him down the corridor.

That afternoon I was reading
Peter Rabbit
to a boy with a broken leg when another man in a suit appeared. At the sight of Dr. White, my voice faltered. After my weeks of silence, here I was, talking nineteen to the dozen. He listened for a moment, then told the boy he was sorry to interrupt but could he borrow me for a few minutes.

In the office he sat down in Sister's chair and urged me to take the other. To avoid his scrutiny I started counting the legs in the room: two for Dr. White, four for his chair, four for the table, two for me, four for my chair, two for the person in the poster. When there were no more to count I cautiously raised my head. Dr. White was regarding me with an expression that reminded me of the portrait of Lord Minto in the library at Claypoole.

“ ‘If a lion could talk,' ” he said, “ ‘we could not understand him.' A philosopher named Ludwig Wittgenstein said that, and I think the same might apply to children. Sister Cullen is a very stubborn woman, almost as stubborn as you are, and she has persuaded Miss Bryant that you will not be punished for this—”

He paused, and I wondered if suddenly, like Matron, he was unable to finish his sentences.

“For this valiant deed,” he concluded. “She has also made me promise that I will see you when I visit the school. I will be treating you for a chronic condition; that means something that can't be cured. This will be your chance to let me know if there are problems. If you don't plan to continue talking you can always write me a note. Is there anything you'd like to tell or ask me?”

For a few seconds more I clung to my silence, hugging it close as I had used to hug the green velvet curtain in my uncle's study. Then I asked the question I had not dared to ask Sister. “Can a person be cursed?”

Dr. White's mouth opened in surprise. “I suppose you are asking whether you might be cursed?”

I nodded, picturing my aunt, Will, Mr. Donaldson, Ross, Mrs. Harris, Miss Bryant, Mr. Milne lining up to write curse tablets and throw them into the source of the river Teviot.

“There are people,” he said, “who would say yes. I am not one of them. After a decade of practising medicine, I do think that some people attract good luck. And some do not. You've been in the second category for the last six months, but that will change. You must take advantage of Claypoole to get the best education you can.”

“But what will I do without Miriam? The other girls hate me. The teachers don't care whether I study or not. Only Cook likes me, and Matron a little bit.”

“You'll find other—” Then he saw my face. “Forgive me, Hardy. You don't need platitudes. If you can't have a friend, is there anything else that would make your life at Claypoole easier? Something Miss Bryant might agree to.”

I pictured having my own room, but no girl had that. Spending more time with the pigs, but that seemed a stupid thing to ask for. Learning to play the piano, but many of the regular pupils did not have this privilege. “If I could use the library,” I said, “that would help. Next term, if I pass the exams, I'll be in Miss Seftain's class. Miriam said she was nice. I'd like to learn Latin.”

“I'll ask about the library. Now go and finish
Peter Rabbit
.”

T
he following day after breakfast, Sister Cullen announced that my lift back to the school had arrived. She led me briskly down the corridors I had tiptoed along two nights before. “Thank you for all your hard work yesterday,” she said. “I hope for your sake we don't meet again. Or if we do that it's under very different circumstances.”

I was about to fling my arms around her when I saw her outstretched hand.

In the car park the van was waiting. At the sight of Mr. Milne standing by the open door, his dungarees stretched tight over his belly, I almost ran back to the ward. But behind me I felt Sister Cullen willing me on, reminding me that I had no choice. I marched across the tarmac, and climbed into the back seat.

As we drove down the high street Mr. Milne commented on the weather, and then, when we had passed beyond the town, the sheep, but as I gazed stonily out of the window he too lapsed into silence. I recognised nothing from my nocturnal walk until we reached Denholm with its neat, white houses. Some surely held weak-minded wrong-doers, like Mr. Milne, and others strong-minded do-gooders, like Sister Cullen. In the field on the far side of the river half-a-dozen horses were circling. One of them, Mr. Milne said, had won the Grand National a few years ago. “That beast is worth twenty times what I earn in a year.”

I glared at the horses. A member of their species had helped to kill Miriam. I hope you all fall at the first fence, I thought, and break your stupid legs.

“I know you're angry with me,” he went on, “but why should I risk my job and my home for a lassie I don't even know? Would you do that for me?”

I wanted to say he could have refused to take the letter, but I sensed that he felt bad and that my not answering made him feel worse. Halfway up the hill, without warning, he pulled into the gateway of a field of corn. I reached for the door handle, ready to run if he turned towards me, but he stared straight ahead.

“Children are so bloody uncompromising,” he said quietly. “You think everything's black and white, that I'm on one side and you're on the other, but, Hardy, you're more like me than you know. One day you'll see something you want—money, or someone else's husband, or a beautiful vase—and you'll think you'll die if you can't have it. You'll be ready to risk your whole future for a few hours, a few days with whatever it is. When that happens think of me: working out my sentence.”

I did not understand his words—why would I want a vase or someone else's husband?—but the hair rose on my arms. Briefly Mr. Milne had removed the armour of everyday life and was allowing me to see his naked self. Since my uncle's death I had clung to the belief that I was making my way through the rough country of childhood to the safe, fertile land of adulthood. Now I glimpsed that what Miriam had said was true. The years ahead would change not only my circumstances but also my self more than I could imagine, and not necessarily in the ways I hoped.