The Flight of Gemma Hardy (22 page)

“You won't even get wet,” he said. “I'll carry you.”

He reached out his hand. Slowly I took it, surrendering to his warm grasp. No longer running, we moved through the ruins hand in hand and climbed down over the rocks to the shore and the causeway. My heart began to thrum.

“Come on,” said Mr. Sinclair.

We reached the first lapping of water, and before I knew what was happening, he bent down and picked me up. I had no choice but to put my arms around his neck, and then, not wanting to see the rising tide, I buried my face against his chest. I could feel him walking slowly and steadily. Only once did the water splash my legs.

Then he was no longer walking. Were we sinking? Drowning? His arms tightened around me, I felt his breath in my hair and, at last, his face seeking mine.

chapter twenty-two

T
here was no bacon the next morning, nor anything else. The house had, once again, deflated. Even before Vicky spoke, I knew that Mr. Sinclair was gone. Soon after she and Nell returned from Kirkwall someone had telephoned, asking to speak to him, and later he had spent nearly an hour on the phone. “Heaven knows how much that cost,” she remarked. She had kept his supper in the oven, and when he came to retrieve it, he had said there was no help for it: he must leave on the morning plane.

“He said to tell Nell he'll be back for the harvest,” she said.

Under cover of pouring cornflakes, I asked if she thought he really would return.

“Who knows?” She was making her list for the greengrocer's van and I saw her write the word
lard
. “Last week he said he was daft to live in London but then he goes back and forgets all about us. Maybe things will be different now Nell is older.”

“Maybe,” I said, trying to match her casual tone. I ate enough not to draw her attention and then, not waiting for Nell, went out to the farmyard. How could he have left? I demanded as I fetched the bucket for gathering the eggs. How could he have left without a message? So much—I ignored two Plymouth Rocks clucking for food—for his hand holding mine, his lips finding mine. And now all Vicky could say was “who knows,” as if his return were a matter of no more importance than whether she should buy flour this week or next. I swiftly filled one bucket with eggs, then a second. The hens sensed my turmoil. Two of them pecked at me; several squawked.

I was still in a state of furious confusion when I reached the schoolroom. The sight of a single silver grey feather lying on the table stopped me. I picked it up, wonderingly; the barbs and barbules were perfectly aligned, as if the seagull had dropped it there five minutes before. Surely it was a message, but what did it mean—I have flown? I will return? My soul is here?

I was still holding it when Nell pranced in, wearing her new green pullover. “Pretty,” she said. “Where did you get it?”

“I don't know. Maybe the fairies brought it?”

“Can I keep it?”

“Let's put it in our collection,” I said and placed it with the various shells and rocks we'd gathered on the mantelpiece. As we settled to copying sentences I found myself thinking again of all the stories about women turning into trees, gods into swans. Perhaps the Brough of Birsay had transformed Mr. Sinclair and me not into, say, a skua and a kittiwake, but into two people who could embrace each other. Now, back on the mainland, we had resumed our habitual forms: employer and au pair.

I
n the days that followed I kept diligently to my tasks and my teaching but the hours limped by, especially after Nell had gone to bed. I often stayed up late, reading in the library. Sometimes I prowled the garden, or walked down to the cove. I would come back to find the house dark save for two lights, one outside Nell's room, the other shining from Seamus's quarters. What kind of farmer stayed up late? I wondered. On several occasions, searching the library shelves, I had noticed a book in a different place, or gone. I doubted Nora's dusting was the cause, and Vicky, like Matron, read romantic novels about lairds and nursemaids. That left only Seamus, but I couldn't picture him reading
Childe Harold
or
The Moonstone
.

One night I rediscovered the history book I had consulted about Skara Brae. Examining the illustrations, I came across a photograph of a group of standing stones named the Ring of Brogdar. “Legend has it,” read the caption, “that the Ring can grant wishes and cure minor ailments.” The next day I borrowed a map and, leaving Nell with Vicky, bicycled the eleven miles to the Ring. It stood on a narrow strip of moorland between two lochs. I walked the sheep path that circled the stones until I came to the tallest one, grey and patterned with lichen. I laid my hand on the stone—it was surprisingly warm—and made my wish. Please, please, please, let Mr. Sinclair return.

The next morning I awoke to a frenzy of bleating. When I stepped outside, the farmyard and surrounding fields were filled with sheep, crying anxiously as they waited to be sheared and dipped. Seamus was doing the shearing. He stood astride each sheep, bending down so that his checked shirt fell open almost to the waist, and ran the clippers over the animal, skillfully circling the legs, neck, and tail. The dirty grey wool fell, like a discarded garment, to the ground and the sheep emerged, half the size and pristine white. Before it could recover, the boys seized it and shoved it down a chute into a trough of pungent, murky dip. For a few seconds every part of it was submerged. Then it surfaced, blinking, the dip streaming off it. The last part of the ordeal, the branding, happily involved not an iron but a dab of red paint on the rump.

I stood watching, dumbstruck at the spectacle. I knew that the sheep were not permanently injured, indeed perhaps they were glad to be rid of the smelly coats they had worn all winter long, but the way Seamus seized each animal and forced it to do his bidding made it seem as if some primal struggle were being fought. I thought of the story of Jove and Callisto that I had translated for Miss Seftain. I would have watched all day if Vicky had not come out with mugs of tea.

On several occasions during those weeks I caught her eyeing me, and once when we met, taking each other by surprise outside the hay barn, I thought she might say something. Quickly I made a joke about the rooster sounding hoarse that morning. At the slightest prompting, I worried I would spill out my feelings for Mr. Sinclair. Then surely she would repeat the obvious facts, which I repeated to myself over and over as I brushed my hair and taught Nell the eight-times table and rode my bicycle with her down to the sea. I had written them out on a piece of paper, which I hid among my socks.

Mr. Sinclair
                                     
Me

Twice my age                                    Only 18

Banker                                              Au pair

Regarded & Beloved (many)            Regarded (Vicky) & Beloved (Nell)

Two homes                                       A room in one of them

Wealthy                                            Forty pounds of savings

Plenty of friends                               Few friends, no family

Beautiful shoes                                Cast-off clothes

Handsome, to some people              Plain to most

University                                        Exams still to sit

 

And in addition to all these was the item that I could not bear to write down, namely, that his life was full of women like Coco or, better still, like Jill, kind and talented and hard-working.

That Saturday at Vicky's urging—“You've been dull this week”—I bicycled to see Nora. The house was lit and everyone was sitting around the table, playing Monopoly. I squeezed in beside Todd, and he joked with me as usual, but something had changed. I no longer studied his unlined face with interest, or teased him about the holes in his sweater, and he no longer tried to get me on my own. The feeling that had no name was gone. How had that happened? But I added it to my litany of stern reminders: a single kiss, a single embrace meant nothing.

Day by day the fields of corn and barley grew more golden. If he was coming, then he must come soon. But the phone was silent. When Nell asked her, Vicky said only that the island was a long way from London. That night I sat in the library reading
Kidnapped
until the print swam into long dark snakes and all understanding of David Balfour's adventures fled. Abandoning the book, I stepped into the garden. The dew had fallen, and as I circled the house, I could smell the sweet, dense fragrance of the night stock blooming in the borders. A quarter-moon hung over the beech trees. As I passed the corner by the kitchen, I saw a square of light on the grass; I edged closer.

I had often glimpsed Seamus's room as Nell and I played in the garden, but I had never seen him there. Now he stood beside the fireplace, his elbows on the mantelpiece, his head buried in his hands. As I watched, I saw that his shoulders were shaking, almost—although this seemed impossible—as if he were crying. How odd, I thought, that we two, who had been enemies since our first minute together, should be the only ones awake for miles around, and each of us in the grip of despair. Somewhere nearby an owl screamed, the cry of the hunter.

T
he next day at lunch, as she ladled out soup, Vicky announced that Mr. Sinclair would be arriving that evening. Nell jumped to her feet, knocking over her water glass, and in the bustle of mopping-up and mild scolding, I was able to hide my own delight. The talk turned to the harvesting, which would begin tomorrow; several boys had been enlisted from the village. They would start on the oats to the west, Seamus said. All signs of his nocturnal gloom were gone and he joked with Angus and Syd about sharpening their scythes, though nowadays most of the work was done by tractor. When I asked about gleaning—my uncle had loved the story of Ruth and Naomi among the alien corn—he laughed and said, “Bring your basket, lassie.”

But that afternoon, when I walked to the cove with Nell, my delight dimmed. I had made no provision for my prayers being answered. The awkward questions that absence had allowed me to ignore began to surface. Mr. Sinclair was back, but for how long? His was the prerogative to come and go as he pleased without warning. He had the money, the freedom of a broad stage, the power to change my life from one day to the next. And I, what did I have to set against these assets? As Nell and I skipped stones, each bounce carried the answer: nothing, nothing. I resolved to keep my distance, a resolve that seemed in no way incompatible with pondering what to wear that evening.

It was Nell who spotted him as we let ourselves into the garden. He was sitting on the bench beneath the beech trees, dressed in a blue shirt and white trousers. In one hand he held a glass, in the other a London newspaper. She ran to greet him. When he had hugged and kissed her, he looked over at where I lingered beside the fountain.

“Gemma. Aren't you going to come and say hello?”

“How do you do?” I said in my best Claypoole voice. “I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

One arm still around Nell, he studied me carefully. “Did you not get my message?”

Had there been a note that had gone astray? “What message?”

“From the wing of one of the few birds I know, a seagull.”

So only the stupid ambiguous feather, no words committed to paper. “Yes, but it told me nothing. Nell, come and wash your hands before tea.”

Mr. Sinclair half rose, as if he might follow her, then he sank down again. And, although it was the last thing I wanted to do, I walked away.

T
hat night I stood at the window of my room, hoping to see him in the garden, waiting for me, but nothing moved across the dewy lawn. I did not have the courage to tiptoe downstairs and investigate the library. Enough, I said sternly to myself. I had my job, I was earning a living, saving money: What more could I hope for? Next summer, I vowed, whatever happened, I would look for a position in Edinburgh where I could study for my exams.

The harvesting began, and Mr. Sinclair, when he had no other engagements, joined Seamus and the other men. Vicky carried lunch to wherever they were working, and Nell and I went too, to picnic on the edge of the field among the poppies and thistles. After they'd eaten their sandwiches, the boys from the village sometimes played pig in the middle or leapfrog and allowed Nell to join in. While these games were in progress I could not help glancing occasionally at Mr. Sinclair where he sat beside the tractor with the other men. His skin had turned almost as dark as Seamus's and often he forgot to shave. Never once did I catch him looking my way.

Since my first week on the island there had seldom been two days together without rain. Now everyone remarked on the glorious weather, at first doubtfully—it couldn't last—and then, as day followed sunlit day, with the sense that perhaps we had earned it. By the end of Saturday one last field of barley, the largest and most golden, remained to be cut. On Sunday I drew my curtains to find the sky once again cloudless, but the blue had shifted slightly, from cerulean to azure, as if, far away, a veil had fallen. When I came down to breakfast, Seamus was in the kitchen, wearing his work clothes, haranguing Vicky.

“We need to get the barley in,” he was saying. “The storm will be here by suppertime.”

“Seamus, it's the Sabbath. We're not heathens.” She stood facing him, holding the kettle, her cheeks bright with reproach.

“I'll work alone. No one need know. The Lord gives us fine weather so we can grow crops and harvest them.” He swung round. “Ask Miss Hardy. She knows southern ways, people who work on Sunday and are none the worse for it.”

Here was my chance, finally, to get in his good books, but I hesitated to cross Vicky. “Maybe you should ask Mr. Sinclair,” I offered. “It's his barley.”

“Your precious Mr. Sinclair,” said Seamus. He stormed off towards the dining-room.

Why did he say
your
, I wondered, and had Vicky noticed? Quickly I asked if she needed help, and when she said no, headed out to tend the hens and calves.

I did not hear what transpired between the two men, but Seamus was in church, glowering in the pew nearest the door. He did not join in the hymn singing, and the minister was still saying the final amen as he clattered down the aisle. By the time we came out to the churchyard, he was gone. Meanwhile Mr. Sinclair, with not even a nod in our direction, drove off to visit the Laidlaws on the south island. Vicky, Nell, and I had lunch in the garden. Afterwards we bicycled down to the Sands of Evie. The whole sweep of water, out to the island of Rousay, was a brilliant turquoise, and the three of us took off our shoes and waded into the sea, shrieking at the cold. When we had finished paddling we played statues.