The Flight of Gemma Hardy (28 page)

The town was not quite deserted—a few teenagers loitered on street corners, a couple of dog walkers were patrolling—but to ask directions to the nearest church at this hour seemed suspicious. Stopping periodically to switch my suitcase to the other hand, I followed the main road into town. I passed more shops and a large hotel. In the morning, I thought, I would apply there for a job. There was no question now of going to Oban. I needed food and shelter as soon as possible. Glancing up a side street, I glimpsed a second hotel. I walked over to take a closer look. Just beyond the hotel, across the street, was a church set back on a grassy mound.

A man with a walking stick and a small white dog was coming up the hill. I waited for him to tap by and headed towards the church. Please, I thought. I climbed the broad steps, set down my suitcase, and with both hands clasped the metal ring. The latch engaged; the door yielded. I picked up my case, and stepped inside.

In the darkness I stood, counting, waiting for my pupils to expand. By the time I reached seventy the arched outlines of the windows were faintly visible and, below, the rows of pews. I could still have drawn a detailed plan of my uncle's church, and leaving my case by the door, I walked down the nave towards the altar. Steps, I thought, and here they were: one, two, three. Arms outstretched, I circled the altar, searching for the vestry. My knee knocked against a chair; my hand met a doorframe and then a switch.

A few seconds of light showed me the familiar vestments hanging on a hook, also a counter, a small sink, and a kettle. A half-open door revealed a toilet. Once I was sure I was alone, I risked having the light on for five minutes, long enough to make use of the plumbing. In the dark I returned to my suitcase, chose a pew near the door, took off my shoes, and lay down.

I
slept poorly. The church was cold, the pew narrow and, even with cushions, hard. Sometime in the night I put on another pullover and wrapped the newspaper I had bought in Thurso around my legs. As I had years ago at Yew House, I parsed every sound into would-be kidnappers, thieves, rapists, murderers. Or if not two-legged assailants, then four-footed ones who would nibble my fingers and chew my nose. And if there were no sounds my brain whirled with thoughts of what I would do tomorrow without food, or shelter, or almost any money. I had found some coins in the pocket of my trousers—enough for a loaf of bread and a pint of milk. But all these difficulties were infinitely preferable to dwelling on the loss of Mr. Sinclair, and of Nell.

I woke to the sound of the clock chiming; my watch showed seven o'clock. In the vestry I washed and brushed my teeth. Using the mirror of my compact, I checked my face and hair and straightened my collar. It was important to look neat when I presented myself at the hotels. Beside the kettle, I discovered the makings for tea. I made myself a cup and added several spoonfuls of sugar and dried milk. I sat drinking it in the pew farthest from the door. If anyone came in, I could hide the cup and pretend to be an early worshipper. Then I read my book until the clock struck nine.

Not wanting the encumbrance, I left my suitcase tucked under a pew. Unless someone washed the floors, which looked to be a rare event, I was confident it would not be found. Outside the day was bright and mild. Behind the church the streets of the town stretched up towards the hills; in front were the rooftops of the buildings that lined the main street. In other circumstances, I thought, this would be a pretty place. I hurried down the steps and across the road to the hotel.

The hall was deserted, but the sounds of cutlery and conversation led me to the dining-room, where a dozen people were breakfasting. I gazed yearningly at their plates until the waitress, a girl around my age, asked if she could help me. When I said I was looking for the manager she sent me back to the hall with instructions to ring the bell.

I did and a woman appeared, her broad face shining, her spectacles resting on the wide shelf of her chest. “Good morning,” she said. “Aren't we lucky with the weather?”

I said we were and that I was looking for a job. “I can clean, serve people. I've had a lot of experience preparing vegetables, washing-up, whatever you need.”

She nodded approvingly. “I'm sure you're very well qualified, dear, but the tourist season is nearly over. We're letting people go, not taking them on. If you want to leave your name and address, I can let you know if we need someone at Christmas.” As she spoke, she slipped on her spectacles to examine me more closely.

“I'll do anything. Wash windows, scrub floors. Feed the pigs.”

The woman smiled. “We don't have pigs, more's the pity. Here.” She produced a sheet of paper and a pen. “Write down your name and address. Do you have a phone?”

Hastily, mumbling that I would let her know, I turned to leave.

Back at the main road I headed away from the other hotel. Idiot. Even at Claypoole, when I had thought of myself as having almost nothing, I had had an address, and, I now recalled, I had offered references when I applied for jobs. I passed an electrical shop and a milk bar. Then a funeral director's and another church set back from the road. Just beyond the latter was a cul-de-sac of pebble-dashed bungalows: Newholme Avenue. I chose number seven because of the scarlet dahlias in the front garden. We were waiting for a phone. As for a reference, Miss Bryant would serve. Surely post was forwarded from Claypoole.

Fortified by my plan, I walked back to the other hotel I had seen the night before. The stout wooden door announced, as clearly as if it had spoken, that while Mr. Sinclair and his kind were welcome here, small insignificant people were not. I drew back my shoulders and turned the knob. The hall was larger and brighter but once again deserted. A murky picture of a stag at bay occupied one wall; next to it was a door labelled
LADIES
. Inside I washed my hands, relishing the soap and hot water. In the mirror I put on lipstick and combed my hair.

When I emerged a man in a suit was standing at the counter, thumbing pound notes out of his wallet. My heart jumped. His hands, his wallet, the slope of his shoulders were so much like those of Mr. Sinclair. Then his profile came into view, and the resemblance vanished. From behind the counter rose an unctuous voice. “Always a pleasure to see you, sir. We do hope you enjoyed your stay, sir. Haste ye back.”

Turning from the counter, the man caught sight of me, waiting. “Good morning.” He smiled. “Grand day.”

I smiled back, and he strolled out into his comfortable, prosperous life.

“Yes, miss?” said the man behind the counter, his voice quite different.

“I'm sorry to bother you,” I said. “I'm looking for a position as a chambermaid, or a cook's helper, or a waitress.”

In so far as he could, given the counter between us, he looked me up and down. I must have passed some test, for he produced a clipboard with a form and told me to go and fill it out in the bar. The questions should have been easy—name, address, age, education, experience, references—but each was freighted with complications. In my neatest writing I wrote, “Jean Harvey,” increased my age, claimed to have worked for two years at Claypoole, and listed Miss Bryant and Miss Seftain as references. Under
DATE WHEN AVAILABLE
I wrote, “Today.”

Back at the counter the man was bent over a sheaf of papers. The only sounds were the scratch of his pen, the sifting of paper against paper. I pretended that I was playing statues with Nell and Vicky. If I stood as still as possible then surely he would offer me a job. Three minutes passed, four, seven. Finally a woman in an apron bustled over.

“Harry, has number six left?” She held out an umbrella. “There's someone waiting to talk to you.”

“They were on their way right after breakfast,” he said, accepting the umbrella. “Thanks, Sheila. Yes, miss?”

“Miss Harvey. Jean Harvey. Here's the form. I hope I filled it out correctly.”

He took the clipboard and, without looking at my answers, set it on a shelf and returned to his papers. “Excuse me, sir.” I had not seen another hotel in town. “I was hoping for something starting immediately.”

“We never hire without checking references.” He turned a page.

I said that Miss Bryant of Claypoole School would vouch for me.

“Miss”—he reached for the clipboard—“Harvey, we're not taking on staff at the moment. We'll keep your application on file and notify you if we have a suitable position. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.”

I felt myself shrinking into the carpet. I had been reduced, like Mr. Sinclair, to lying, and my lies had accomplished nothing. Suddenly the man spoke again, quietly and viciously. I caught only the word
police
. In my despair I had forgotten the bus driver's suggestion. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

But at the police station a man in uniform said that no one had handed in a purse. He leaned over the counter, frowning, and asked the same awkward questions—name, age, address—until I thought he was going to produce a pair of handcuffs. I said I would check back later and hurried away.

For the rest of the day, as I went from shop to shop asking for work, the word
no
rang in my ears. I even approached people in the street: I asked a woman struggling with a pram if she needed a babysitter, a man with a border terrier if he needed someone to walk his dog, a window washer if he needed an assistant. But the answer was the same. At some point I went back to the co-op, where earlier a pleasant woman had said she'd hire me like a shot if it were up to her, and bought the biggest, cheapest loaf of bread, which left me with two shillings and threepence. Back at the church I counted the slices. Eighteen. If I had three now and three before bed it would last me until the day after tomorrow. I ate as slowly as possible.

I was finishing the third slice when the clock chimed; unthinkingly I checked my watch. Several times that day I had passed the jeweller's shop on the main street. Some of the watches in the window cost ten pounds, a few as much as twenty. Surely mine, which was almost new, would fetch five. That would be more than enough, I thought, to get to Oban if I hitchhiked and slept in churches. The shop was already closed for the day, but cheered by my plan, I decided to visit the fish-ladder. I had seen a sign for it beside the war memorial.

A ten-minute walk took me across the main road, past a park and a row of houses, to Loch Faskally. I had no memory of the placid loch nor of the massive dam, but as soon as I went down into the fish-ladder I recognised the series of ascending windows that lined one side, the water lit up behind them. A slim, freckled fish appeared in the lowest window, was swept back, and, a few minutes later, reappeared. Pressing my face to the glass, I said, “Swim harder.”

My uncle had used the salmon in a sermon. Being a good Christian, he had said, often feels like swimming against the current. Sometimes it seems we are all alone, that no one cares what we do, but we aren't alone. God cares. That I could remember his words was a consolation, but the words themselves were not. The salmon swam upstream because it had no choice. Virtue was its own reward. As the fish reached the next window, a rustling sound made me look down. A rat was nosing along the floor. Quickly I ran for the stairs.

D
espite cold, hunger, and the chiming of the church clock, I slept a little better on my second night. In the morning I went through my suitcase and chose a different blouse, a blue cardigan, and my black corduroy trousers. Thinking to lighten my load, I took my two precious photographs out of the frames I had bought for them in Kirkwall, and slipped them into my guide to Scottish birds. I set the frames on a shelf beside the hymnals, hoping someone else could use them. As for the meteorite, wrapped in a sock, I pretended that it did not exist. I stowed the suitcase under the pew. Then I took off my watch and polished it with the edge of my cardigan.

At the jewellery shop a girl stopped pushing a carpet sweeper. “Good morning,” she said. “Can I help you?”

Her smile was so eager that I longed to pretend to be a normal customer, to look at half-a-dozen watches and say that I needed to think about it. But such play-acting would not fill my purse. I asked if I might speak to the manager.

“Owner,” she said. “Mr. White's in the back. Let me fetch him.”

Surely, I thought, it was a good omen that the jeweller had the same name as the giver of the watch. One wall of the shop was covered with clocks, and as I listened to the soft cacophony of their ticking, I remembered the gleaming cogs and levers of the clock in St. Magnus Cathedral. How rapt the three of us had been when it struck the hour. A man appeared from a doorway behind the counter. At the sight of Mr. White's narrow, dark face, nothing like that of the affable doctor, my heart began its own uneven ticking. I said that I had a watch for sale.

“Miss”—little slivers of metal were embedded in the word—“surely you can see that I deal only in new merchandise.” He waved at the display cases.

“My watch is almost new. I've taken very good care of it.” I held it out to him.

Reluctantly he dangled the watch by its strap. “This is one of the cheapest watches on the market. Brand-new it costs five pounds.”

How foolish I had been to think that Dr. White would have bought me an expensive gift. “Can you give me half that?”

“I can't give you a penny. I don't deal in secondhand merchandise, except for antiques. Which this is not.” He set the watch down with a precise tap on the counter.

“A pound,” I pleaded.

Without another word he returned to his lair.

Throughout this exchange, the girl had been polishing a display case. Now she handed me the watch. “At least it tells the time,” she said brightly.

Outside rain was falling, but I walked along too dazed to hurry, or even to stay beneath the awnings of the shops. What was I to do? Not one person in Pitlochry wished me well, or knew my true name, or cared whether I lived or died. It had been a mistake to be lured here by the memory of my uncle. He could not help me now. If only I had stayed in Inverness, I would never have lost my purse. I must leave this awful place at once. I would carry my suitcase and the remains of my loaf and stand beside the road south. I would get a lift to Perth and make my way west to Oban. People could live for weeks without food.