The Flight of Gemma Hardy (7 page)

Walking back to the kitchen, I asked Drummond why she didn't report the girls.

“What for?” she said, eyebrows raised.

“For taking off your clothes, tickling you.”

“It's all in fun.” She swung the empty bucket. “They didn't hurt me.”

“But”—I did not know how to voice the shame that must surely accompany such an attack—“they held you down. They took off your bra.”

“Look,” said Drummond, “there's a rabbit. My foster parents kept rabbits. Did yours keep anything?”

“No,” I said.

The rabbit twitched its nose and hopped away. If only I had a friend, I thought, just one, the school would not be so bad. We would hide in the library and build secret huts and visit the pigs. Among the girls I had met so far there seemed no possibilities, but perhaps next term another working girl, close to my age, would join the school. Clinging to this prospect, I followed Drummond across the bridge. Only much later did I understand that my arrival at Claypoole had coincided with the great tide of changes sweeping postwar Britain: attitudes to children were shifting; the British Empire was dwindling; working girls were already hard to come by.

chapter eight

E
very weekday at Claypoole began with assembly in the library. While the teachers sat along one wall, the girls lined up by class to sing a hymn, listen to a lesson, say the Lord's Prayer, and hear any announcements. Miss Bryant presided over the occasion from a dais at the front; at the back, beneath a portrait of Lord Minto, the music teacher, or one of her senior pupils, played the piano. The whole affair took less than ten minutes, except for those unfortunate days when Mr. Waugh strode in just as we said amen and delivered an impromptu sermon. Afterwards, if his duties permitted, he would visit a class. I had been at the school for a fortnight when he flung open the door of Primary 7.

Scripture, like arithmetic, was a subject where I felt confident. I knew the Gospels thoroughly and was acquainted with Genesis and Job. On the day of Mr. Waugh's visit we were studying the parable of the talents. A master, going on a journey, gives ten talents to one servant, five to another, and one to a third. The first two servants invest and multiply their talents; the third buries his single coin for safekeeping. When the master returns he praises the first two and, to my fury, scolds the third and takes away his talent. My uncle had claimed that the parable was not about money but about the gifts we'd each been given—whether for recognising a willow-warbler, or baking a Victoria sponge—and about how not using them was a sin. Still I argued that the third servant was just following instructions, protecting his master's property; the other servants, with more talents, could afford to take risks. My uncle had quoted me in his sermon.

We stood while Mr. Waugh offered another lengthy prayer. Then he asked a girl in the second row to read the parable. As Kendall stumbled through the verses, I watched the veins in his nose swell and the buttons of his jacket grow alarmingly taut.

“Mrs. Harris,” he said, “this girl reads like a five-year-old.”

“Yes, sir. Elocution isn't part of the curriculum. I'll make sure she practises.”

I was smugly registering that she had made an excuse when Mr. Waugh asked for another reader. I raised my hand.

“Sir,” said Mrs. Harris quickly, “she's a working girl.”

“She can't be worse than the last one. I will stop her after a verse or two if she's hopeless. Stand up, girl.”

I stood, and in my best voice read the parable. Mr. Waugh's buttons relaxed. When I finished he said, “Competent. Sit down,” and began to expound on the importance of servants—and weren't all children servants?—doing what was asked of them promptly and cheerfully. I raised my hand again and, when he inclined his head, repeated the arguments I had offered my uncle about the third servant.

“Come here, working girl.”

I approached, my head almost level with the buckle of his overworked belt.

“Face your classmates.”

I did and found fourteen pairs of eyes fixed on me. No, thirteen. The girl who had watched me sympathetically when I wore the label
DUNCE
was studying her Bible.

“Here, girls, you see what it is like to receive no education. The mind, without guidance, cannot grasp the principles of right and wrong. This girl cannot receive the truth even when it is offered. Doubtless her parents were illiterate, perhaps even criminals, and—”

“That's not true. My parents were both very educated and my uncle was a minister like—”

Mr. Waugh seized my shoulders and shook me until my teeth chattered. When at last he stopped, I sank to the floor. Standing over me, he proclaimed that although young and small I was already filled with sin. “Can you tell me which sin?” he said.

“Ignorance,” called out one classmate. “Pride,” called another.

“Ignorance is not a sin and can be forgiven, but pride is one of the worst. Anything else?”

“Blasphemy, sir,” said Balfour. I recognised her smarmy tone.

Mr. Waugh clapped his hands. “Exactly. When you argue with a minister, you are arguing with God's representative. What could be more blasphemous? Jesus tells his listeners what the story means, but this girl is deaf to His explanation. Any other sins?”

While I stared at the floorboards, a few girls made suggestions, which Mr. Waugh repudiated. Then he announced, triumphantly, one final sin: lying. My uncle was not a minister, or if he was, he had never held such views. Of all sins lying was the worst, for it was the foundation of the devil's house. The working girl was a liar. As he uttered this last sentence, something hard pressed against my ribs: the toe of his shoe.

“Mrs. Harris,” said a small, breathless voice. “I need to get my inhaler.”

“Sir, excuse me. MacIntyre, go with Goodall to make sure she's all right.”

The girls stepped past me, and in doing so forced Mr. Waugh to step back. Perhaps it occurred to him that a large minister trampling a small girl was not a pretty spectacle. He told me to get up, and go and wash my face.

For the rest of that morning I stood at the front of the room, a sign saying
LIAR
around my neck. At one point my knees shook so hard that a couple of girls in the front row started to giggle, but the girl with the brown eyes came up to ask Mrs. Harris a question about the composition. As she passed me she smiled, and on the way back to her desk—“You already know that, Goodall”—she smiled again. She walked, I noticed, with a slight limp.

T
hat night in bed I gave way to despair. After all that had happened since I left Yew House, I was still only ten years old, still less than five feet tall. My journey south had shown me how conspicuous I was as a child travelling alone. And now I was utterly friendless. Even my memories of my uncle, without the familiar landscapes to frame them, were less vivid. I recalled again that last afternoon when he had invited me to go skating. “Fancy a spin on the ice?” he had said. But I had stayed behind to build a fort with Veronica. A sob escaped me.

“Shut up,” a voice hissed.

“Stow it,” said someone else. A floorboard creaked menacingly.

I shut up.

The next morning at assembly I was made to stand before the entire school while Miss Bryant asked God to help me improve. Now everyone, I thought, even the girls I hadn't met, believed me to be a liar. Any last hope I had of making friends was doomed. But later that day one of the prefects, a plump girl who often played the piano at morning assembly, smiled at me in the corridor, and at lunch Cook gave me an extra portion of shepherd's pie and settled me near her at the kitchen table. As I ate, I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke—she smoked a pack a day—and suddenly I remembered I was not utterly friendless. On Sunday, when we had our precious free hour, I would make use of the notepad and envelopes Mr. Donaldson had given me.

Claypoole School

Minto

The Borders

Sunday, 15 March 1959

Dear Mr. Donaldson,

This is a terrible place. I am sorry I didn't listen to you and fail my exams although the school would have taken me anyway. All they wanted was another scullery maid. I spend most of my time peeling potatoes. We are like servants, only worse, and the teachers are sure we're stupid. Most of the other working girls talk like Betty, the maid at Yew House, and they are stupid. They're older than me and a couple can't even read.

I would run away if I had a home to run to, or any money, but even if I could make my way to Yew House, my aunt would send me back. Please will you come and get me as soon as possible.

Yours very sincerely,

Gemma Hardy

Only as I sealed the envelope did I realise that I had no way to post it. I could not put it in the box in the hall, and we did not pass a pillar-box on our way to church. The older girls went to the village on Saturday afternoons, but they were strangers. For several days I kept the letter in my arithmetic book. Then it occurred to me that I could ask Mr. Milne to post it. He always winked at me as he dropped off groceries in the kitchen. Surely it would be no trouble to slip an envelope into one of the many pockets of his dungarees. The next day I waited for him to leave the kitchen.

“Mr. Milne dropped this,” I said, holding up a piece of paper.

“Well, don't just stand there,” said Cook. “Run and give it to him.”

He was halfway up the back steps when I called his name. “Did Cook forget something?” he said.

Framed by the dark yews that lined the steps, his grey eyebrows drawn together, he looked more like a fierce goblin than a friendly gnome, but this was my one chance. “I'm Hardy, the new working girl,” I reminded him. “You met me at the station last month.”

He gave a brief nod; I plunged on. “Would you post this letter? It's my uncle's birthday tomorrow and I missed the collection.”

Mr. Milne's eyebrows parted. “Give it here,” he said. “I'll make sure it goes in the two o'clock post.” Just as I had hoped, he put the letter in the top pocket of his dungarees.

That night I fell asleep picturing Mr. Donaldson reading the letter over breakfast, clicking his yellow teeth and making a plan. But I knew the ways of adults; I was patient in my imagining. It was already Thursday. Even if he got the letter in time, he wouldn't come this Saturday. But the next, I calculated, nine days away, for sure.

As if sensing my imminent departure, Claypoole began to show its better side. Our dormitory was less frigid. Daffodils and pussy willow lined the school drive, and our Sunday walk to and from church became a pleasure. Mrs. Harris made a joke in geography about temperate climes. In only a fortnight, Ross told me, the regular pupils would go home for Easter and we working girls would spring-clean the school and tidy up the garden. We were crossing the playing fields as she spoke, on our way to clean the gym.

“Look,” I said, pointing with the mop I was carrying. “There's a magpie.”

“What's a magpie?”

“That black and white bird with the long tail. They eat the eggs of other birds.”

“A bird? I thought from the way you spoke you'd found half a crown.”

A week ago her sarcasm might have silenced me; now I didn't care. “And that”—I waved my mop again—“is an oyster-catcher. They usually live by the sea.” Ross remarked that the bird's orange legs made it look like Miss Gibson, the French teacher.

T
he following Wednesday at assembly Miss Bryant said, “Form Five will leave for lacrosse at two o'clock today. Hardy, come to my study after first period.”

I hung my head to hide my delight. Mr. Donaldson had written; perhaps he was already on his way. Fortunately the first period was arithmetic, and even in my distracted state, I was able to solve the problems. As soon as the bell rang I asked to be excused. Several times I had swept the corridor outside Miss Bryant's study. Now, as I stood before her white door, the brass doorknob shone so brightly that I could see my tiny curved self in its sphere. I knocked boldly; a voice bade me enter. Inside a beautiful blue carpet led to a mahogany desk. With luck I would never see Miss Bryant again. Still, after a hasty glance, I did not dare to look at her directly.

For several seconds she studied me in unblinking silence. “So,” she said, “you have an uncle called Mr. Donaldson. Your aunt was surprised to hear that.”

She picked up an envelope from a pile of papers. It looked like my letter but so, I reminded myself, would any letter of Mr. Donaldson's. “Mr. Milne,” she went on, “gave me this last week.”

“But he said he'd put it in the two o'clock post.” In my indignation I at last looked up; I saw her eyes narrow, her lips, thin and full, tighten.

“Mr. Milne has worked for me long enough to know that pupils don't always act in their own best interests. Why else would you try to send a letter secretly? You are not the first working girl to find the rules hard.”

I understood then her mastery of the situation. For five days she had allowed my hopes of rescue to grow, knowing that my disappointment would be all the greater.

She handed me the letter. “Read it.”

My mouth was suddenly so dry that my lips stuck to my teeth. Sounding like Kendall, I stammered out my sentences. When I had finished, Miss Bryant rose from behind her desk. Noiseless on the thick carpet, she circled the room.

“You think Claypoole doesn't care about exams,” she said softly. “You are wrong. You wouldn't be here, none of the working girls would be, if our examining board had not judged you teachable. Perhaps in your case they made a mistake. Exams do not capture the moral life. When I spoke to your aunt I told her you might be too tough a nut for us to crack. Would you like to know what she said?”

She cocked her head, as if I had a choice. “She said, ‘Miss Bryant, under no circumstances can I have that girl back. My children aren't safe under the same roof. If she can't stay at Claypoole, she must go to an orphanage.' These are strong words, and I take them seriously. You are small for your age, but you are a rebel. Even now”—she continued her steady circling—“I can feel you arguing with me. You forget that you don't know everything, or indeed much of anything. Your letter could have harmed Mr. Milne. Certainly it has harmed Mr. Donaldson. Your aunt has talked to the headmaster of the school, and Mr. Donaldson will be let go at the end of term. Doubtless much of your relationship with him is imaginary, but it is up to teachers to contain the imaginations of their pupils. Apparently there were problems at his last school. It will not be easy for him to find another position.”

I pictured Mr. Donaldson's expression when I had appeared at his door and knew she spoke the truth. “Please, Miss Bryant,” I said, “none of this is Mr. Donaldson's fault. He didn't even get my letter.”

Miss Bryant paused in her orbit near my left elbow. “Did I ask you to speak?”