The Flight of Gemma Hardy (32 page)

In a couple of minutes he returned, carrying my case. “Here you are.” He gazed at me earnestly. “I don't mean to pry, but the police have you listed as a missing person, which means that someone is suffering because of your absence. May I have your permission, Miss Hardy, to tell them that I've seen you and that you're all right?”

My brain seethed with thoughts I couldn't pursue. I had my possessions back. Mr. Sinclair was searching for me. My exams were only a few weeks away. This kind man would be disappointed if I refused him. Behind us the church bell began to chime.

“You can tell the police I'm all right,” I said. “But they shouldn't waste their time looking for me.”

“I understand.” He held out his hand and, when I raised mine, clasped it briefly in both of his. “Good luck,” he said. “Fight the good fight.”

I hurried down the street, my suitcase, heavier than I remembered, banging against my legs. Hannah was leaning against the car, eating an apple. “Have you been shopping?” she said.

“A friend was keeping it for me.”

“A friend? I thought you had no friends. Or none we're allowed to know about.” She stood up and hurled the apple core in the direction of the railway line. “What's going on? Are you thinking of leaving?”

“No,” I said. “Not really.”

“I note the hint of qualification.” She stepped forward and seized my shoulders. “Whatever you do, Jean”—she aimed her blue eyes and sharp chin at me—“don't disappear on us, like you did the last people you lived with.” She gave me a little shake. “You owe us more than that. Promise.”

“I promise.”

As we drove south, effortlessly covering the distance I had travelled so painfully, Hannah told me that the manager of the shop had offered her twice as much display space as last summer. “I'll have to come up with more designs, but I might actually make some money.”

I said great and wonderful. Then I remembered to ask about her sculptures, and she said she was working on a piece inspired by Mary, Queen of Scots. By the time we reached Weem, she seemed to have forgiven me.

At the MacGillvarys' I carried in my suitcase, braced for more questions, but the chorus of “Old MacDonald” was coming from the sitting-room. In my room I closed the door and lifted the case, green, scuffed, familiar, onto the bed. As I raised the lid, I held my breath. On top of my folded clothes lay a sheet of paper:

Dear Miss Hardy, we're here if you need us.

Followed by the minister's name, address, and phone number. Before I did anything else I copied the details into my notebook and folded the paper into my purse. Anything, I had learned, could be lost.

After all these months I had almost forgotten the contents of the case. Now each item came back to me freighted with memory. Here were my walking shoes, my new nightdress, the blouse I had been wearing the first evening I met Mr. Sinclair, the two skirts I'd worn to church so often. Safe between the pages of my guide to Scottish birds were my photographs: my uncle alone and with my mother at the Botanical Gardens. As I gazed at them, glad to be reunited, it occurred to me for the first time that I had no photograph of my father. Indeed I didn't even know his name.

I hung up my clothes and slipped the case under my bed, trying to ignore the heavy sock at the bottom. If I discovered the meteorite, I might have to throw it away.

T
he exams were fast approaching, and I needed every spare hour to study, but the return of some of my possessions had awakened a passionate longing. I could not stop thinking about my last night at Yew House and the box I'd barely glimpsed. One afternoon when Marian was giving lessons and Robin was taking a nap, I rang directory enquiries and asked for a Mr. Donaldson in Oban. When I said I had neither a first name nor an address, the operator gave me two numbers. I tried both and got two puzzled men; neither had ever been a teacher. Then I rang the operator again and asked for a Miss Donaldson. This time there was only one number. The woman who answered said she didn't think she had a brother.

The next day when I went into Aberfeldy the bus for Perth was standing outside the cinema. I went over and asked the driver how to get to Oban. He said I would have to go via Perth and wrote down the schedule. At supper that night I told Marian that I needed to visit a friend. Could she manage without me this weekend?

“Of course. You've been working so hard, Jean. Friday is no problem, and Robin can play quietly while I give lessons on Saturday.”

The only other person I had to tell was Archie—we always studied after school on Friday—and for once I could see him struggling not to question me: Who was this mysterious friend? By way of reassurance I said I'd like to translate the Catullus on Monday.

I borrowed an overnight bag from Marian, packed my Latin and algebra textbooks, and caught the first bus to Perth, and then another bus to Oban. Mindful of my last journey, I put half my money in my pocket with Marian's phone number and safety-pinned it shut, and I kept my bag closed at all times. As we wound past hills and lochs, I tried to make a plan. Oban was not, I thought, much bigger than Aberfeldy. I could enquire at the library, if there was one. Shops. Pubs. Surely in an hour or two I could canvass the town. Then, of course, even if I found his sister—her name, I suddenly recalled, was Isobel—there was still the task of finding Mr. Donaldson. He might be living in Cornwall, or Timbuctoo.

When I got off the bus the first thing I noticed was the smell of the sea; the next that a building resembling the Colosseum overlooked the town. Could the Romans have come this far north and built something so splendid? But at the first shop I went into, a bakery, a woman told me that McCaig's Tower was a nineteenth-century folly. She herself was from Mallaig and didn't know an Isobel Donaldson. In the sixth shop I tried, a butcher's, the man behind the counter wiped his hands on his bloodstained apron and said, “That will be Isobel Bailey, will it not?”

“That's right,” said the woman he'd just served. “She used to be a Donaldson.”

Twenty minutes later their directions brought me to a modest bungalow. Standing at the gate, staring at the grape hyacinth that lined the path to the front door, I was aware of how much I had to gain or lose. In Nell's company I had gradually learned to forgive the two huge errors of my life: not going skating with my uncle; writing a letter to Mr. Donaldson. But there was no reason for Isobel Bailey to forgive me, if indeed she was even at home. At last I walked up the path and rang the bell. My luck held. The door opened to reveal a white-haired woman, ramrod straight in her tweed skirt and blue pullover. Yes, she acknowledged stiffly, she was Isobel Bailey.

I introduced myself as Jean Harvey, a former pupil of Mr. Donaldson's. I was passing through Oban and had remembered him saying he came from this part of the world. “He was so helpful to me. I'd like to thank him.”

She neither smiled nor frowned but did something in between and asked if I had time for a cup of tea. She showed me to the living-room and went to put on the kettle. As I sat in one of the armchairs, I noticed an ashtray on the table. I pictured Mr. Donaldson clicking his yellow teeth.

Isobel returned with tea and shortbread. I accepted both and, in response to her questions, said I'd come from Aberfeldy and that the journey had been fine.

“Which of Henry's schools were you at?”

“Strathmuir. I left when I was ten. Does he live nearby?”

“In a sense.” Isobel's teaspoon clinked against her cup.

“Is he dead?” I whispered. Now I could never apologise, except to a stone in a churchyard.

“Henry might say yes but no, he's in an old-age home. Most of the time he doesn't know me, or even the nurses he sees every day.” She explained that he'd lived with her and her husband until, finally, they couldn't manage. “He didn't know the difference between day and night. We'd wake up at two in the morning and he'd be frying an egg, getting ready to go for a walk. They take good care of him at Bonnyview, and he doesn't seem to mind it. I'm sorry you've come all this way for nothing.”

“But he was such a good teacher, and he wasn't old.” Even as I spoke, I recalled how on some days Mr. Donaldson had been so vigilant, while on others he had simply stared out of the window.

“You're kind to say so,” said Isobel. “A slip of a lass like you, everyone over twenty-five must seem old. Do you not know what happened?”

When I shook my head, she set her tea-cup down decisively. “Henry is the only brother I have, but it's no secret that he didn't always act in his own best interests. He was just a wee bit too fond of his dram. That was how he came to your school, which, not to be rude”—she gave me a little smile—“was a step down for him. But he was making the best of it. He'd joined the village curling club, found a foursome for bridge.

“Then there was some muddle about a girl. He never would say exactly what happened. He was dismissed with no references and moved in with Findlay and me. We were glad to have him, but the whole thing preyed on him, especially when he'd had a drop to drink. I used to come into the kitchen and find him chatting away to himself.”

Isobel looked over at me, her eyes suddenly intent. “I'd swear on the graves of our parents that Henry was innocent. He regarded teaching as a sacred duty. He would never have laid a hand on one of his pupils. Or on any child. I used to hope that wretched girl would come to her senses and admit she'd made the whole thing up. Maybe he'd given her a bad mark and she wanted revenge? But whatever her reasons she ruined my brother's life. No one would give him a job. He picked up a bit of tutoring. Eventually even that was too much for him.”

“What an awful story,” I said. My voice came out high and squeaky.

“Yes,” said Isobel, suddenly matter-of-fact again. She helped herself to another piece of shortbread. “I can't help thinking he'd still be fine if he'd been able to go on teaching, but the doctor says that's daft. His brain is deteriorating. It's not to do with jobs, or moods. Our dad was going that way when he died of pneumonia.”

As she spoke, a black cat appeared around the corner of her armchair and came over to inspect me. “What beautiful eyes she has,” I said, offering my hand.

“He. Alfred was Henry's cat. Sometimes I take him with me to Bonnyview. He seems to cheer Henry up.”

“Could I visit him? For five minutes?”

“He won't have a clue who you are.”

“I'd just like to say thank you. You know how it is when you're young. You never thank anyone.” I tried not to sound desperate. Alfred, obligingly, offered his belly.

“Och, well, I suppose it can't do any harm. Visiting hours are from two to four. You've missed today, but you could pop in tomorrow. In fact, if I know you're going, Findlay and I might skip a Saturday and get caught up in the garden.”

“I'll definitely go.” With a final pat to Alfred, I stood up. “I don't suppose you have a picture of Mr. Donaldson. It's so long since I saw him.”

“Even if you remembered him perfectly you might not recognise him.” She left the room and returned with a framed photograph of herself, Mr. Donaldson, and a man I guessed was her husband, smartly dressed, standing in the sunlight beside an oak tree. “This was sports day at Henry's school in Edinburgh. His house won three cups, and all the parents were coming up to thank him. Remember this when you see him tomorrow.”

I promised I would. She told me how to find Bonnyview and wrote down the name and address. On the doorstep she said, “Even if Henry doesn't know you from Adam I'm glad you came. Especially because you were at that school where everything went wrong. Did you know the girl who accused him?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head, moving down the path. “She must have been in a different form.”

I asked about rooms in three small hotels and took one in the third and cheapest. Sitting on the bed with its cheap slippery sheets, trying to focus on my Latin textbook, I went over and over the conversation with Isobel. I had longed to tell her that I was the wretched girl but that the real culprit was my aunt. But tomorrow I would have the chance to tell Mr. Donaldson. I pictured him saying he forgave me, leading me to a small room, pointing to my box tucked away on a shelf. And then, as I pored over its contents, I would know, beyond doubt, that I had once been someone's daughter.

B
onnyview was a large red sandstone house that might, at first glance, have been mistaken for the home of a prosperous family. At second glance the bars at the windows, the lack of curtains, the high stone wall around the garden and the locked gate, all suggested an institution. I had arrived at one-thirty and, after peering through the gate and seeing no one, I resigned myself to leaning against the wall, holding the bunch of daffodils I had brought, my bag at my feet. No other visitors joined me, and I was still standing there alone when, at exactly two o'clock, a stout elderly man, wearing a uniform not unlike Archie's, opened the gate.

“You're very punctual,” he said. “Those may not be allowed.”

“The daffodils? Why not? I brought them for Mr. Donaldson.”

“Some of the patients eat them. They'll tell you inside if they're okay.”

As I walked up to the black door I felt as if I were ten years old again. On a small desk in the hall were a bell and a notice saying
VISITORS RING BELL
. It emitted a forlorn tinkle. While I waited I studied the pictures of boats that hung around the room. I was examining a schooner when I heard footsteps and turned to see a nurse with a broad, dimpled face approaching.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. Who are you here to see?”

“Henry Donaldson.”

After ascertaining that I didn't know where the lounge was, she told me to follow her. As I did, down first one corridor, then another, I confessed that I wasn't sure I would recognise Mr. Donaldson.