The Flight of Gemma Hardy (35 page)

“Just like Will owes my uncle thousands of pounds. Fathers aren't cheap.”

“Rubbish,” she said faintly.

I stared at her lips bright with lipstick, the rings rattling on her thin fingers. “Do you know anything about my parents? Where they lived? What my father's name was?”

“Gemma, I never liked you. I never liked your mother. I'm ill. Remembering your family history was not my favourite thing when—”

Before she could finish, Robin piped up again. “Don't speak to Jean that way. She came all this way to see you.”

“Hush,” I said. “May I go and look in the study now?”

“You may. Come back and tell me what you find. I'm going to close my eyes for a minute.” She leaned back in her chair and did so.

I gathered up Robin's toys, moved the radio back to the table, and leading him by the hand, stepped out of the room and across the corridor to my uncle's study. Here, to my huge relief, nothing had changed. His desk, the bookcases, the thick green curtains, the armchair beside the fire, even the ashes in the grate looked exactly the same. I asked Robin if he would draw me a picture of the room. “It belonged to someone I was very fond of,” I said.

I settled him in the window-seat and turned to search the desk for the second time. The sermon about no man being an island still lay on top, facedown. “We each begin as an island,” I read, “but we soon build bridges.” I slipped the pages into my notebook. I worked slowly down through the drawers of notes, sermons, and letters. If I had not discovered the box years before, it would be waiting for me now. Finally I had no choice but to open that last drawer. As Audrey had said, it was empty, or almost. In the bottom lay a faded magazine with a boat on the cover. I recognised the strange words as Icelandic. How had it come into my uncle's possession? I wondered as I turned the pages showing photographs of boats and ponies. And there, between a page of print and a picture of a box of herring, was a faded brown envelope addressed to Charles Hardy at Yew House. I drew out a piece of paper folded in three. My mother's name, my father's name, my Icelandic name, and the name of the hospital in Edinburgh where I had been born were written in meticulous black copperplate. A second piece of paper showed that my uncle had legally changed my name to Gemma Hardy.

“What happened?” said Robin, sliding off the window-seat and running to my side. “Did you get a splinter?”

“No,” I said, though I did feel as if something had pierced me. “I found what I was looking for.”

“Oh, good,” he said comfortably. “Jean, I need to go to the loo.”

When he agreed that he could wait for five minutes, I sat down in my uncle's chair, pressed my palms to the desk, and silently began to speak. I'm sorry, I said, that your life was so much harder than I knew and that there were so many things I didn't understand. I could never do what you did, marry someone I didn't love, but I admire you for paying your brother's debts. If there is an afterlife I hope you've met people who cherish you. Thank you for coming to Iceland and for taking me into your home.

Then I picked up his fountain pen, something he had used every day, and put that too into my bag, along with the magazine, the precious envelope, and the sermon. Hastily—Robin had repeated his request for the loo—I approached the bookshelves and retrieved
Birds of the World
.

When we emerged from the W.C., Audrey Marsden was waiting in the kitchen. So, unfortunately, was Louise. Beneath her watchful gaze, Audrey and I greeted each other. She looked younger than I remembered. Her hair, no longer pulled into a severe bun, fell in soft waves around her face, and instead of her pale twinsets and dowdy tweed skirts, she wore a vivid turquoise sweater and dark trousers. Vicky's theory about her sudden departure from the Orkneys seemed much more plausible. She offered cake and more tea and then asked what had become of me since I went away to school. “You were such a wee thing to send off alone on a long journey.”

“You made me a nice lunch. All my favourite things. The school was awful. They treated the working girls—that's what they called us—worse than servants, but there were a couple of good teachers. Then the school closed down and I went to the Orkneys as an au pair. Now I look after Robin near Aberfeldy.”

“The Orkneys,” said Louise. “Isn't that where you come from, Audrey?” She and Audrey were sitting at opposite ends of the table; Robin and I were together on the long side. Audrey gave a faint nod.

“You used to tell me stories about the islands,” I continued. “That was one reason I wanted to go there. I worked for someone who knew you at school, Vicky Sinclair. She said how much she admired you,” I embellished.

Almost despite herself Audrey looked pleased. “I'm amazed she remembers me,” she said. “I was eight or nine years older, and she lived in the back of beyond.”

“She runs into your mother in Kirkwall sometimes.”

“You have a mother?” said Louise. “I've never heard you mention her.” She was looking on in a jocular fashion, her interest piqued at the notion that her mother's housekeeper of so many years had secrets.

“We're not on good terms,” said Audrey. “More tea? How's the cake, young man?” Another lapwing, I thought, running broken-winged away from her nest.

“Nice,” said Robin, and then, seeing me mouth the words, added, “Thank you.”

“Vicky works for Mr. Sinclair of Blackbird Hall,” I persisted. “Did you know him?” It was the first time I had said his name to another person since Maes Howe. Just this once, I bargained.

Audrey straightened the turquoise cuffs of her pullover. “By sight. I'd have thought Vicky would be married by now. She was a lively girl.”

“You can never tell who's going to get married,” said Louise. “Mummy was convinced I was a hopeless case until Brian came along.” She raised her hand and I noticed the ring. As she continued to bring the conversation back to what she regarded as its proper focus, I caught Audrey's glance. If Louise left the room, I thought, there might be more to say. But Louise kept talking, and it was Audrey who at last stood up, saying she must check on my aunt.

“I'd like to say goodbye to her,” I said. “Robin and I need to go soon.”

“At your service.” Louise touched an imaginary cap.

But Audrey returned to report that my aunt was fast asleep. “Talking to you must have tired her,” she said.

“Yes,” said Louise. “What did she want to see you about?”

Her brown eyes quickened, and I was suddenly aware of my power. My aunt's story was like a smooth stone. If I threw it, it would break open the life of Yew House. “Just something about my parents,” I said. “I'm going to university in the autumn and I needed to get a couple of facts straight.”

“Are you talking about money?” Louise said sharply. “Because if so, you don't have any claim on Mummy. She did her best by you, but that's all past now.”

“No, I'll get a grant. Still you'd be surprised how many forms ask about your parents.”

Audrey started to say something about my present situation, but Louise was moving to pick up Robin's bag of toys. Quickly, not wanting her to see the book and the magazine, I stepped forward to retrieve it. Then on a page from my notebook I wrote down the MacGillvarys' address and phone number. “Here,” I said to Audrey, “if you ever need to reach me. Please thank my aunt for me. I'm glad I saw her again.”

We both hesitated, not knowing whether to shake hands or to embrace. Then I reached my arms around her. As I kissed her cheek, I smelled a familiar fragrance: my aunt's perfume. Looking again at her smart trousers and pullover, I wondered if those too came from my aunt. And why not? No one could possibly be paying her enough for all she was doing, and soon she would lose both her home and her job.

In the car Robin slumped against me, asleep before we reached the end of the drive. Louise remarked that Mummy was marvellous. Except for the occasional cough, you would never know she was ill, would you. No, I said, and then, it seemed a natural question, I asked if she remembered her father.

“Of course. It was awful when he died. One minute he was telling me to do my homework, the next he was gone. No one could believe it—a grown man going through the ice.” She braked for a crow in the road. “Most of my memories are from when I was small. He would carry me on his shoulders, make up songs and stories. Then you came, and Mummy started teaching me to ride.”

I was still thinking about this last sentence, and how it echoed my aunt's claim that my arrival had changed the household, as she began to talk about her wedding. “Veronica wants to design the dresses, make everything French, but I wrote to her last week that we might do things sooner. Just in case Mummy's cough gets worse. I don't need a French dress.”

We had passed no houses for miles, but now on the left was a whitewashed inn with a sign:
TRAVELLERS WELCOME
. Louise asked if I remembered going there for lunch. “It was the day we went to the fish-ladder in Pitlochry. You had a ginger beer and Will made you laugh so hard it came out of your nose.”

A moment ago I would have sworn that I had never set foot in the inn. Now I recalled the five of us sitting around a table, Veronica and me perched on the edge of our chairs. We had eaten sandwiches and bags of crisps, each with a little screw of blue paper containing salt. My aunt was right, I thought; I did know only part of the story.

chapter thirty

A
s we walked up the lane, Robin kept stopping to pick the daisies that grew on the grassy verges. I was happy to wait for him. Watching him bend over the flowers, I wondered if he would remember any part of this outing in a few months, any part of me a year hence. Probably not. From his point of view the visit had been dull, save for my aunt's wig slipping and the cake, and although he was fond of me, someone else could easily take my place. Someone else would. Smoke was rising from our neighbours' chimneys and I heard the sound of the radio in Mrs. Lewis's kitchen. If Marian hadn't cooked, I would offer to make scrambled eggs and baked beans for supper. That had been Nell's favourite meal. What was she doing on this April evening? It was quite possible that I would never see her again either.

“For Granny,” Robin said, brandishing a dishevelled posy, and began to run towards the house. Suddenly I remembered George. “Robin,” I called, “wait.” But after his long afternoon of being good, he kept running, impatient to see his beloved grandmother. The gate stood open and he trotted down the garden path. After a brief struggle with the doorknob, he was inside.

“Granny,” I heard him call, “we're back.”

I followed, picking up first one fallen daisy, then another. Perhaps after supper, I thought, I would do something outrageous, like go to the local pub and treat myself to a shandy. I was at the kitchen door when Robin started to scream. A few seconds later he barrelled into me, his cheeks scarlet. In one flailing hand he held a sheet of paper.

“I can't read,” he cried.

I knelt to put my arms around him. “Robin, the note is for me. Let me read it.” Finally—he hated to surrender any vestige of his grandmother—I pried the paper from his small fingers.

Saturday, 3:30

Jean,

Dr. Young thinks George needs emergency surgery. Gone to Perth Infirmary. Can you take care of Robin? I'll phone.

Marian

Robin cried for almost an hour. Marian, like his mother, was gone forever, and trying to persuade him to the contrary was like throwing a glass of water onto a burning building. Only when I had shown him her piano and her bed and her wardrobe full of clothes and her Wellington boots did he calm down enough to help me make supper. I opened a tin of baked beans; together we broke eggs into a bowl. I was fishing out fragments of shell when the phone rang. Robin raced to the hall. He stood beside the ringing instrument, mute and imploring.

“Hello,” said a woman's voice. “Marian is phoning from Perth. Will you accept the charges?”

“What charges?” In my confusion I forgot Vicky's lesson about how to make a phone call without money.

“Do you want to talk to Marian MacGillvary?” said the operator.

“Yes, of course.” The air on the line changed. Before Marian could say anything I said, “You have to talk to Robin. Tell him that you're all right and you'll be back soon.” I knelt down and held the receiver to his ear. Faintly I heard Marian say she had gone to Perth to take care of his grandfather. She would see him tomorrow, or the day after. He must help me and be a good boy. Robin nodded, solemnly, not realising that she couldn't see him. “Say goodbye,” I said, and he did.

I reclaimed the phone, and asked about George. Marian reported that he was still in surgery. They had had to call the doctor in from the golf course. She was staying in a bed-and-breakfast near the hospital. “I'm sorry to land you with Robin but I'm in no state to drive back and forth. I want to be here when George wakes up.”

Her voice broke on the “when.” She promised to call again tomorrow and was gone. As I replaced the phone, I recalled the Latin phrase
annus mirabilis
; today was my
dies mirabilis
, day of wonders. I had seen my aunt. I had learned that she too had a secret sorrow. I had two pieces of paper that proved I was Gemma Hardy. And as Jean Harvey I was in sole charge of a small boy and a large house.

Together Robin and I finished making supper and ate. He took a bath and I read to him about parliamentary reform. Then, using cushions from the sofa, I made a bed for him on the floor of my room. While he snored softly I sat at my desk, copying the details of my birth certificate into my notebook. Here was the time and place of my birth, 3:37
A.M
. on 18 April 1948. My mother's maiden name: Agnes Hardy. My father's name: Einar Arinbjornsson; his occupation: fisherman. For their address they gave Yew House. The certificate was copied from the registry of births, marriages, and deaths in Edinburgh. The idea of these details, safe in some office, was profoundly reassuring. So too was the discovery, when I opened
Birds of the World
, that the lyre-bird and the puffin and the fairy-wren were still there, enjoying their habitat.

T
he next morning Marian dialed directly. As she reported that George was awake and had said her name, I heard the soft click of coins dropping into the phone. She did not mention coming home but told me that I would find housekeeping money in the top drawer of her dresser. When I looked beneath her neatly folded underwear, there was more than two hundred pounds, mostly in the one- and five-pound notes her pupils paid her.

As the day progressed, I learned what Marian's life had been like before I arrived. My timetable for Sunday read:

9–10 Algebra + trigonometry

10–11 Latin

11–12:30 French

12:30–1:30 Walk + lunch

1:30–2:30 French

2:30–4:00 English

Tea

4:30–6:30 History

Supper

King Lear
+
Great Tradition

By the time I put Robin to bed I had managed a few algebra problems and twenty minutes of French, but when I opened
King Lear
, I was so tired that I could not keep Edgar and Edmund straight. After half an hour I closed the book in despair. I would never get the results I needed unless I studied hard this last week. On Monday afternoon, when I usually attended classes at the school, Robin and I walked into Aberfeldy to post my passport application. Then we went to Honeysuckle Cottage. At the sight of my face, Hannah fetched some clay and set Robin up on a sheet of plastic on the kitchen floor. Could he make us each a present? Under Emily's scrutiny, he set to work.

Hannah already knew about George. Now I told her that Marian was staying in Perth. My exams started next week, and these last days of study were crucial. And what if Marian was still away next week? How could I sit the exams and take care of Robin? At the sound of his name he shot me an anxious stare. Quickly I asked what he was making.

“A cat,” he said, grinning at Emily.

“People will rally round,” said Hannah. “Robin can help me in the pottery. And won't some of the neighbours mind him?”

“But what about the exams?” I repeated. Hannah still didn't seem to understand how demanding Robin was, how much I needed to study.

“Marian will be back. Here,” she said to Robin, “let me show you how to make a vase out of snakes.” Kneeling beside him, she began to roll out a coil of clay.

We had been back at the house for an hour when there was a knock at the door and a voice called, “Hello.” Hannah must have telephoned Archie as soon as we left.

F
or the next four days he came every afternoon after his deliveries. He played with Robin, helped me study, and, to my surprise, took over the cooking. This last he approached like a chemistry experiment, measuring ingredients and timing each stage precisely. “Is this finely chopped?” he would ask. “What does
thickened
mean?” After supper, when Robin was safely in bed, we sat at opposite ends of the kitchen table, both reading. Sometimes Archie quizzed me on that night's subject. His French was hopeless, but he read over the essays I had written in history and English and made suggestions. At nine-thirty he would close his book, get to his feet, and bid me good night. Once he praised my Horace translation, another time he wished me sweet dreams, but for the most part our conversation seldom strayed beyond the immediate demands: Robin, groceries, news of George, my studies.

On Friday evening the three of us were in the kitchen when a car drove up the lane. Often, at the sound of visitors, Robin still vanished beneath the table. Now he was running for the door. A minute later he reappeared in the arms of his grandmother.

I had not known that a few days could so greatly change a person who had money and a bed. Marian's skirt hung in folds, her hair, unwashed, clung to her head, and her cheeks had a bruised look. She greeted Archie and me quietly. Still carrying Robin, she went upstairs to unpack. Half an hour later they joined us for supper. While Robin told her about the wigwam he had built with the Lewis children, she toyed with Archie's vegetable pie.

Finally I said, “How is George?”

“This was delicious.” She set down her knife and fork. “The doctor says he should be ready to come home in a fortnight, but he won't be able to manage stairs. I thought we could turn the dining-room into a bedroom for him? It's warm and near the loo. We usually eat in here anyway.” She clasped her hands, looking from me to Archie.

“What does Dr. Grady think?” Archie said cautiously.

“He hasn't seen George since the operation, but I expect he'll say what he always says: that it's a lot for me to cope with. What he doesn't understand is that George hates being in hospital. The nurses are very nice but there's no privacy. And they only allow visitors for a couple of hours a day.”

“Still,” Archie persisted, “George is a big man. What if you need to lift him?”

“The district nurse will help with all that,” said Marian firmly.

Soon afterwards she went upstairs with Robin and didn't return. Over the washing-up, Archie talked about Ovid's exile to the Black Sea. While there he had written a curse poem called
The Ibis
. Who did he curse? I asked. Did it work? But Archie didn't know. When he put on his jacket and gathered up his books, I followed him outside. The night was clear and moonless, and I at once wished that I too had brought a jacket. As we leaned against his van, looking across the valley at the lights of Aberfeldy, I tried not to shiver.

“Marian looks awful,” I said.

“Does she? I thought she was just a little tired.”

“I'm worried she won't understand that I can't take care of Robin next week. All she can think about is George.”

“No,” said Archie, his stiff green jacket creaking. “She knows how important your exams are. Speak to her tomorrow, when she's had a good night's sleep.”

Somewhere above us on Weem Rock a bird was crying, a lonely, ravenous sound. Just for a moment I thought of the madwoman at her barred window. “But whatever she says,” I said, “if I'm in the house, then I can't just shut the door of my room and ignore Robin needing something.”

“And,” Archie said, creaking again, “you're a better person because of that. What about going to the library? They have tables.”

“It's closed on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” I did not list the other problems: the librarian's love of gossip, the lack of a bathroom.

He began to pace up and down the lane, receding into the darkness and reappearing; above us the bird continued to scream. After half-a-dozen turns he stopped a few yards away. “We need your fairy godmothers,” he said. “I'll ask Hannah and Pauline if you can use their study. It's farther to walk than the library but you'd be safe from interruptions.”

“That would be perfect,” I said. “If you're sure they wouldn't mind.”

“Hannah will phone. If I don't see you again, good luck on Monday.”

“Thanks,” I called over my shoulder. I was already hurrying down the path, longing to be warm again.

A
rchie was right. When I spoke to Marian the next day she got out the calendar on which she noted her pupils' lessons and made me write down the dates of my exams. “You must take whatever time you need,” she said. “You've more than earned it.” Then Hannah phoned and offered me refuge. The next two weeks flew by as I immersed myself in each subject and, as soon as those exams were past, moved on to the next. I saw Archie only once as I was walking to town, and he gave me a lift in his van. He asked me how English and algebra had gone and listened to my worries about French and history. “Thanks to you,” I said, “Latin is under control.”

He said nothing, but the muscles in front of his ears flexed in the way they did when he was pleased.

Latin was the last exam, and, when the teacher told us to turn over the questions, it was as if the sentences themselves were opening doors, inviting me in. I wrote without stopping until the final bell and put down my pen almost sadly. When would I get to translate Virgil again? Once I stepped out of the school, though, I felt elated. I called goodbye to Margaret and Joan, who were both complaining how hard the exam had been, and ran most of the way back to Weem.

Marian's car was gone and the house was empty. I wandered from room to room wanting something to happen, some outburst of merriment and pleasure. I turned on the radio. I played scales on the piano. I tried on Marian's perfume. I took a sip of the sherry she kept for company. But I could not settle to anything. Finally I decided to walk up the hill to St. David's Well. Perhaps the local deity would calm me.

Beneath the trees the light was green and sombre; last year's leaves crackled underfoot. Several times I thought I heard another footstep and halted, waiting to see who might appear, but there was only silence. At the well the water was lower than usual. As I dipped my hand in it and touched my forehead, I caught a glimpse of something shiny among the dead leaves on the bottom. Someone had thrown in a sixpence. I would have done the same, but as usual, my pockets were empty. Kneeling there, I realised that despite my vow, I was missing Mr. Sinclair. He would have insisted on a celebration, whether that meant singing to the seals or dancing around the library. I knew I had done well, except perhaps in French, and that my new friends would share my delight when the results came, but there was no one to whom I could confess my present satisfaction.