The Flight of Gemma Hardy (15 page)

“Gemma Hardy,” he said flatly, each syllable a stone dropped into a deep well.

I admitted that I was.

“You're nothing but a wean.”

“I'm eighteen,” I said. “You're confusing size and age.”

“No. I'm not.” His scowl sharpened, and for a moment I thought he might simply turn and walk away. “Well, this is Vicky's mess,” he said at last. “Come on.”

“What's your name?” I asked, but he had already seized my suitcases. Without a word he shoved them into the back, got into the driver's seat, and started the engine. I was still closing the passenger door when the vehicle jerked forward. We drove past a row of houses. Soon the last streetlight was gone. Wind whistled through chinks in the floor and around the ill-fitting door. I sat on my hands for warmth.

“How far is it?” I asked.

Nothing.

Remembering my conversation with Mr. Johnson, I tried again. “What's a Bevin Boy?”

“For God's sake, shut your trap.”

Hard as a horseshoe, I thought.

Later I would learn that the drive took less than an hour, but on that first evening it seemed longer than all the rest of my journey put together. Bitterly I recalled Miss Seftain's comment about how dependent an au pair was on her employers. I was marooned, as surely as Robinson Crusoe. We passed the lights of a few isolated cottages, one or two other cars, but mostly dark fields. With no warning, Seamus turned off the narrow road onto a narrow track. We bumped along until a metal gate barred our way.

“What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “Open the gate.”

I got out to do his bidding. As I struggled with the bolt, I felt his scornful glare, stronger than the headlights. I was small, I was useless, I was not what they had paid for. Finally the bolt relented and, stumbling in the mud, aware that my new shoes would never be the same, I pushed open the gate. The Land Rover roared through, drenching me.

I stood there, wiping ineffectually at the damp patches on my coat. Then I walked towards the passenger door with deliberate slowness. I was almost there when Seamus's door flung open. “For God's sake,” he yelled, “close the gate.”

“Close it yourself,” I said.

He did.

When we were once again jolting along, the night seemed even darker. At last we pulled onto a gravel drive. A house loomed white in the headlights. We stopped. I climbed out, walked over to the only door I could see, and rang the bell. I just wanted to get the whole thing over with. Let Miss Sinclair dismiss me. I would return to Stromness, sleep on a bench in the harbour, and take the first ferry back to Thurso. The door opened. A woman, almost as tall as Seamus, was looking down at me.

“Gemma,” she said. “I was beginning to worry something had happened.”

“Are you Miss Sinclair?”

“Vicky. Why do you have mud all over you?”

“Your brother, if that's who he is, splashed me when I was opening the gate.”

Vicky spread her hands and I saw that they were covered with flour. As I was to learn, she seldom apologised for Seamus—it would have been an endless task—but she did apologise for not coming to meet me. “One of us has to be here for Nell, even when she's hiding in her room. Come in.” She stepped back, and I crossed the threshold of Blackbird Hall.

On that first evening I barely noticed the hall, with its grand piano and comfortable armchairs; what caught my attention were the trousers, very like my own, that Vicky wore beneath her flowery apron. As she led the way to the kitchen she asked, How was the crossing? Was I hungry? Had I seen the Old Man of Hoy? Oh, no, of course it was dark. Would I like a bath? Supper? She was as talkative as her brother was taciturn, and her voice was as warm as it had been on the phone.

“Let me just wash my hands,” she said, “and I'll show you your room.”

In the kitchen I smelled a fragrance I had not encountered since Yew House. “You're making bread,” I said. The weight of my despair rose an inch.

“In your honour.” She smiled, and I saw that I was guilty of what I had accused Seamus of: confusing size and age. She was much younger than her brother. Indeed that evening, with her glowing cheeks and thick brown hair falling to her shoulders, she looked barely older than the prefects at Claypoole. Later she told me she was twenty-seven.

Like Mr. Johnson, she offered tea, and this time I accepted. I didn't care for the bitter liquid but I knew that enjoying it was a badge of adulthood. Under Vicky's direction I moved the kettle to the centre of the hob, warmed the pot, and measured out the tea-leaves. With two spoonfuls of sugar, the result was drinkable. Meanwhile she punched down the dough and asked what the Borders were like. I told her about the soft, rounded hills, the remains of volcanoes—volcanoes in Scotland, she exclaimed—and the green fields. I described the abbeys the regular girls had visited on school trips, and Sir Walter Scott's house.

“We have all his novels in the library,” she said. “I've never read a sentence. Maybe because our English teacher was always going on about
Ivanhoe
.”

“You have a library?”

“Next to the dining-room. There's a good collection of history books—that was what old Mr. Sinclair liked—and almost every Victorian novel you can think of. Let me show you your room.”

We climbed a broad carpeted stair, each stair rod gleaming. I was still determined to leave in the morning, but at the sight of my corner room, my despair rose another inch. A fire glowed in the grate, and the curtains were drawn snug across the four windows. Against one wall stood a large bed with a flowered quilt. Vicky turned on the lamp on the bedside table and another on the desk. Looking around, I caught sight of myself in the mirror on the wardrobe, and then of my suitcases next to the chest of drawers. In front of the fire were two armchairs and a low table.

“The bathroom is next door,” said Vicky. “I hope you'll be comfortable.”

“It's the most beautiful room I've ever seen.”

“I'm glad you like it.” But the little crease that appeared between her eyebrows suggested something other than gladness. Worrying that, once again, I had betrayed my age, I asked where Nell slept.

“Next door, but she's been hiding all day.” Vicky wandered over to the dressing-table and fidgeted with the lace mat. “I should tell you that she's not over the moon about your arrival.”

Why did that phrase “should tell” always herald unpleasantness? Was there no imperative towards happiness? “On the phone,” I said, “you described her as leading her last teacher a merry dance.”

“If only it had been an eightsome reel or a Gay Gordons.” Vicky shook her head. “Poor Miss Cameron. She taught school in Thurso for thirty years before she came here. Seamus said she was husband-hunting, but who would come to the Orkneys to do that?” She described Miss Cameron's efficiency and Nell's awfulness: spilling things on her books, running away. Then in December the two were out for a walk when they spotted a fern they'd been looking for, for their scrapbook, on a ledge beside the sea. Nell climbed down to pick it and claimed to be stuck. Miss Cameron, despite her fear of heights, went to rescue her. As soon as she reached the ledge, Nell scarpered. Fortunately Seamus had heard Miss Cameron's cries. She left the next day.

“And since then,” Vicky said, “Nell's been running wild. I'm too busy with the farm and the house to mind her. It was obvious you were just a slip of a girl—Mr. Sinclair laughed when I read him your letter over the phone—but he thought you'd be a friend for Nell. For all her naughtiness she's lonely.”

“I'm eighteen,” I said for the third time that day. “I'm just small for my age.”

“You must be tired, after your long journey.”

She spoke soothingly, as if my lie were irrelevant, and suddenly I felt exhausted all over again. I said I would take a bath, and she offered to bring up supper on a tray. In the doorway she paused. “Maybe keep your door locked. It's more than twenty years since Seamus came back from the war but he still sometimes sleepwalks.”

“How far away is the sea?”

“Ten minutes across the fields. I'll show you tomorrow, if the rain stays off.”

In the bathroom I filled the bath half full, added a handful of lavender bath salts from a jar on the window-sill, and sank down into the hot, fragrant water. Not since the hospital had I experienced such luxury. Back in my beautiful room I found a tray with a plate of macaroni and cheese and a little dish of canned peaches set before the glowing fire. As I sat down to eat I heard the distant roaring of my long-missed friend, the waves rolling all the way from Iceland, reaching land.

Unless Vicky asked me to leave I would keep my side of our three-months bargain. I was not afraid of heights.

chapter sixteen

A
fter years of narrow beds fit for nuns and prisoners, I slept in my double bed with a sense of ease and woke to the knowledge that the wind had fallen and the day was fine. Vicky had told me to sleep as long as I wanted, another unknown luxury, and during the half-hour that I lay there, enjoying the warm expanse, the only sounds were those of a rooster crowing in the distance and, nearby, the cawing of rooks. When at last I pushed back the blankets, my feet landed not on the frigid linoleum of the Elm Room but on soft carpet.

Following Vicky's example, I dressed in trousers and a sweater. Then, eager for my first glimpse of the island by daylight, I drew the curtains at my four windows. On one side I had a view across the lawn to two beech trees, the bare branches crowded with the rooks I had heard. A swing hung from the taller tree and a bench stood between them. The other windows gave a view over the vegetable garden to the farm buildings and, beyond them, the fields. The whole of the garden was surrounded by a wall twice my height. Of the sea there was no sign.

Downstairs my cautious “Hello” was met by silence. Vicky had pointed out the dining-room the previous evening. The long table had been laid for two; a plate with several crusts marked, I guessed, the passage of my pupil. As I ate cornflakes and toast, I scanned the island newspaper. I was reading about the number of stray dogs found in the last week—six—and the number of licences issued to move pigs—seventeen—when I had the sudden sensation of being observed. I looked up, but the windows were empty. From nearby came a muffled giggle. In almost noticing Nell, I thought, I was doing exactly what she wanted. I decided then, as I ate a second slice of toast, on my strategy. I would not pursue her. I would explore the house and the farm, I would visit the sea, I would help Vicky and do whatever was asked of me. Eventually, I thought, like a hedgehog or a fox, my charge would emerge from her hiding place.

Just as I finished eating, Vicky appeared. She asked how I had slept, seemed pleased by my answer, and offered to show me around. Downstairs, besides the dining-room and the kitchen, were a library, a drawing-room, a billiard room, and a study. These last three were closed for the winter, but I was welcome to use the library. Seamus—she waved vaguely—occupied a room beyond the cloakroom, where he could have his dogs. I did not think to question how he could sleepwalk the length of the house. As for Vicky, she'd been using my room in order to be close to Nell but had now returned to her quarters beside the kitchen.

Upstairs we could hear music from behind Nell's door—she had her own radio and record player, Vicky explained—but she did not answer our knock. With a little shrug Vicky moved on to the schoolroom. The bright, spacious room was stocked with books, maps, notebooks, paint boxes, and crayons; there were even a blackboard and an easel. “This is perfect,” I exclaimed. The rest of the corridor housed the guest rooms, each with its bed neatly made. At the far end, a tall oak door led to Mr. Sinclair's quarters.

“I keep it locked so Nell won't go poking around,” Vicky said lightly, and I understood that I was not to poke around either.

We put on Wellington boots and jackets and headed outside. Vicky led the way around the cream-coloured house and across the lawn to a fountain. “It used to make a lovely sound,” she said, “but it hasn't worked in years.” The bowl was half full of murky water, and the dolphin in the centre was covered with lichen. We continued to the farmyard. She pointed out several barns, a granary, three henhouses, a duck house, a stable, a shed where tractors and machinery were stored, a byre for milking, and a dairy. As I followed her, I asked questions. Why were some of the hens so small? They were bantams. Why were there fragments of seashells everywhere? The hens ate them to harden the shells of their eggs. Why didn't they have pigs? Seamus couldn't be bothered, and she got too fond of them. How many cats were there? One for each rat.

In the dusty henhouse she showed me how to slip my hand under a hen to retrieve the eggs. “Do it quickly,” she said, “so they don't have time to peck.”

On my second attempt I retrieved two warm eggs from a drowsy red hen.

Then she told me that lunch was served in the kitchen at twelve-thirty and pointed out the path across the fields to the sea. There weren't many beaches on this side of the island, but the Sinclairs had their own cove. Beyond the farmyard not a single tree broke the horizon. In one field several black cows ignored me; in another a flock of curlews, pecking at the stubble with their curved beaks, took wing at my approach. Within ten minutes I was standing on a small beach between two headlands. The grey waves were flecked with white, and the wind was so cold it made me blink. My only companions were two gulls marching along the tide line. As I followed them, the larger one stopped to peck at something pink and fleshy: the remains of a skate. At the far end of the cove I knelt to examine the shell-covered rocks. I had a sudden image of myself, years ago, kneeling beside a rock, pulling off a limpet. Someone was beside me, a grown-up, but however hard I tried I saw only the limpet's frill of muscle, not the person's face. Perhaps more memories would return, I thought, carried back by the sea.

At lunch I met the other people who worked at Blackbird Hall. Besides Vicky and Seamus, there was Syd, the cowman, and his wife, who lived in a cottage behind the steading, a girl from the village, Nora, who came in to help Vicky, and her brother, Angus, who worked with Seamus. We were all in the employ of Mr. Sinclair, who, as Mr. Johnson had said, was a businessman in London. Although he lived more than five hundred miles away, he had strong views about his niece's upbringing, which was why no one ever laid a finger on her. “Spare the rod,” Vicky said. “Thank heavens.”

She was in charge of the house while Seamus ruled the farm. I was glad to know he had no authority over me. At lunch on that first day I studied him across the table, curious to see what darkness had hidden the night before. His fine brown hair fell over his forehead and his skin was weather-beaten to the colour of Mr. Waugh's pigskin gloves; beneath fair eyebrows, his eyes were the blue of a newly scoured knife. He must have sensed my scrutiny. Just for a moment, he looked up from his shepherd's pie and those steely eyes fell upon me. Quickly I turned back to my own plate. From then on, whenever I saw him coming, I ducked into a henhouse, or chose a different path across the fields.

B
lackbird Hall was, as Vicky had warned, a lonely place. Kirkwall, the main town on the island, was an hour's drive; the neighbouring farms, to the north and south, were several miles away, and the village was a good half-hour's walk. I went there on my second day and found a few dozen houses, a church, a small school, and a post office that sold milk, bread, and other necessities. I bought a postcard of Kirkwall to send to Miss Seftain. I was retracing my steps when I heard a horse whinnying. In the nearby field a boy was riding a pony round half-a-dozen homemade tents. He waved and I waved back. Later Vicky told me this was the Gypsies' encampment.

For years, as I peeled potatoes and mopped floors, I had daydreamed about being free, but now the delight of my long, empty hours soon faded. I volunteered to feed the hens and gather the eggs, and I spent hours organising the schoolroom. Still the hands of my new watch circled slowly. I had told Vicky my strategy of letting Nell come to me, and she had agreed that it made as much sense as anything else.

“Miss Cameron behaved as if she were still in school, where all she had to do was ring the bell and the pupils ran to their desks. That certainly didn't work. But I'm no expert on Nell. At her age I would have flown around the treetops before I went against my parents. I'm afraid Alison let her get away with murder.”

“Alison was Nell's mother?” I asked, just to be sure, and Vicky nodded.

O
n my third day on the island I drew the curtains to discover rain scribbling across the windows. The rooks had vanished and the two beech trees stood like grey ghosts. After breakfast I trudged round the henhouses. Then I retreated to the library and lit the peat fire. A shelf in one of the bookcases held games and jigsaw puzzles. I cleared the largest of the tables, chose a puzzle of Edinburgh Castle, and began to sort the edges. I had last visited the castle with my uncle the Christmas I was eight. As we stood on the ramparts, looking out across Princes Street Gardens, he had claimed that every Scottish monarch since the fifteenth century had stood in just this spot. “A view fit for kings,” he had said, spreading his arms. “And Mary, Queen of Scots,” I had added.

Now one section of the Castle Rock eluded me. I tried piece after piece to no avail. “Oh, fiddlesticks,” I said and flung myself down in an armchair.

“Miss Cameron said
fiddlesticks
is swearing,” said a voice.

“I thought
fiddlesticks
was the opposite of swearing. That it meant you were trying not to swear.” I was careful not to turn towards the door.

“Why did you say it?”

“Because I can't find a piece of the jigsaw.”

“Jigsaws are stupid.”

“Is that like saying ducks are stupid because they can't add? Or do you mean doing them is stupid?”

Suddenly she was standing in front of me, wearing a ragged blue pullover and dark brown trousers. “I'm Nell. And this”—she pointed to the black and white collie shadowing her heels—“is Tinker.”

The dog growled and its hackles rose in one smooth motion.

“I'm Miss Hardy, but you can call me Gemma. Maybe you'd like to help with the puzzle? If I can get the edge sorted I'll be on my way.”

Hands on hips, Nell narrowed her eyes. “Okay,” she said. “Just for a minute.”

Tinker settled down before the fire and I showed her the picture of the castle on the lid of the box and what I'd done so far. She seized an unlikely-looking piece of edge, and slipped it into place. “There.”

“Well done. Now if we can do the corner by the battlements. Have you ever been to Edinburgh Castle?”

“My mum has.” She reached for another piece, and I saw that her nails were ragged and filthy.

At Claypoole visiting parents had sometimes brought their younger children, and I had watched, bewildered, while the teachers exclaimed over them. Why was being small and inept considered praiseworthy? Size was simply an accident of inheritance, or age. As for being helpless, that was something to fix as soon as possible. The first tenuous strand of sympathy between Nell and me was my recognition that she was not the kind of child people exclaim over. She was thin, all elbows and knees, and she walked in an ungainly way with one foot sticking out. Her skin was sallow and her brown eyes were a little small. Her hair straggled to her waist. She was completely aware that in her case being a child carried few advantages; if she could have grown up tomorrow she would have. She reminded me of my younger self.

We worked on the puzzle for half an hour, during which she fired questions at me. I told her about Claypoole, and that I preferred seals to dogs.

“Seals,” she said. “What is the point of seals?”

“They have beautiful whiskers and there are wonderful stories about them, rescuing sailors and helping people. What is the point of Tinker?”

“He protects me.” She bit her thumb. “He herds sheep.”

“Why do you need protection?”

“The blue piece goes here.”

Presently I announced that I was going to get elevenses. Would she like some?

“No, thanks.” She curled up in one of the armchairs by the fire. “I'm only here because of the rain.”

Five minutes later, when I returned from the kitchen, carrying a tray with two glasses of squash and a plate of biscuits, the puzzle was scattered across the floor.

T
he following day was equally stormy. In the library I lit the fire and tried to settle down with
Ivanhoe
, but I was too discouraged to read. Remembering Nell's small, skeptical eyes, I could easily imagine her continuing to shun me. In which case, I thought, Vicky would have no choice but to let me go, and I would have no choice but to seek another job. What could I do to lure her into my company? I thought of slipping a note under her door—
Come out. Let's make a truce
—but I doubted she could read. She seemed immune to the appeal of the farmyard and to the smells of Vicky's cooking. She had yet to appear at a meal, though often when I came down to breakfast it was clear she had been there first. Lunch she skipped, and in the evening, like me, she fended for herself. Vicky had said I was welcome to join her and Seamus for high tea, but I preferred to carry my plate to the library.

Now I set
Ivanhoe
aside, put on my outdoor clothes, and headed to the farmyard in search of Vicky. I found her in the dairy. “What a day,” she said. “At least we don't have to worry about the milk going off.”

Her nose and cheeks were red with cold and her breath hung in clouds over the milk she was skimming. When I offered to help, she said I could rinse the churn. With my back to her, running the tap, I described what had happened the day before. “Do you have any idea how I can get Nell to come to lessons? Is there anything she likes?”

“Besides being a hooligan and listening to pop music? I couldn't entirely say. She is curious about you. Last night I caught her raiding the larder, and she said she likes that you're small and wear trousers. Shall I ask Mr. Sinclair the next time he phones?”

“No. Please don't.” In my alarm the churn clattered against the sink. I set it on the floor and turned to face her. “What will he think of a teacher who hasn't given a single lesson?”

“You can never guess what Mr. Sinclair will think.” She poured a ladle of cream slowly into the butter maker. “I won't say a word, but if he asks, I can't lie. I expect he'll visit when the weather gets warmer. He often appears out of the blue.”