The Flight of Gemma Hardy

by Margot Livesey

  The Flight of Gemma Hardy

  A Novel

  Margot Livesey

  www.harpercollins.com

  Dedication

  For Roger Sylvester, 1922–2008

  Home is the sailor, home from the sea

  And the hunter home from the hill.

  —“REQUIEM,” ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

  Epigraph

  Contents

  Dedication

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part II

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part III

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Part IV

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Part V

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Margot Livesy

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  PART I

  chapter one

  We did not go for a walk on the first day of the year. The Christmas snow had melted, and rain had been falling since dawn, darkening the shrubbery and muddying the grass, but that would not have stopped my aunt from dispatching us. She believed in the benefits of fresh air for children in all weather. Later, I understood, she also enjoyed the peace and quiet of our absence. No, the cause of our not walking was my cousin Will, who claimed his cold was too severe to leave the sitting-room sofa, but not so bad that he couldn’t play cards. His sister Louise, he insisted, must stay behind for a game of racing demon.

  I overheard these negotiations from the corridor where I loitered, holding my aunt’s black shoes, freshly polished, one in each hand.

  “In that case,” said my aunt, “Veronica and Gemma can walk to the farm to collect the eggs.”

  “Oh, must I, Mum?” said Veronica. “She’s such a—”

  The door to my uncle’s study was only a few feet away, across the corridor. Hastily I opened it, stepped inside, and shut out whatever came next. Not long ago this room had been the centre of the house, a place brightened by my uncle’s energy, made tranquil by his concentration as he worked on his sermons, but last February, skating alone on the river at dusk, he had fallen through the ice, and now I was the only one who spent any time here, or who seemed to miss him. Just inside the door was a pyramid of cardboard boxes, the remains of my aunt’s several recent purchases. But beyond the boxes the room was as he had left it. His pen still lay on the desk beside the sermon he’d been preparing. At the top of the page he had written: “Sunday, 16 February A.D. 1958. No man is an island.” A pile of books still sat on the floor next to his chair; the dead coals of his last fire crumbled in the grate. To my childish fancy, the room mourned him in a way that no member of his family did, certainly not my aunt, who dined out two or three times a week, played bridge for small sums of money, and since the season started, rode to hounds whenever she could. At breakfast that morning, she had said I must no longer call her Aunt but ma’am, like Betty the housemaid.

  Setting the shoes on the floor and trying not to imagine how Veronica had finished her sentence—such a copycat? such a moron?—I read over my uncle’s opening paragraph. “We each begin as an island, but we soon build bridges. Even the most solitary person has, perhaps without knowing it, a causeway, a cable, a line of stepping-stones, connecting him or her to others, allowing for the possibility of communication and affection.” As I read the familiar phrases I pictured myself as a small, verdant island in a grey sea; when the tide went out, a line of rocks surfaced, joining me to another island, or the mainland. The image bore no relation to my present life—neither my aunt nor my cousins wanted any connection with me—but I cherished the hope that one day my uncle’s words would prove true. Someone would appear at the other end of the causeway.

  I stepped over to the bookcase and pulled down one of my favourite books: Birds of the World. Each page showed a bird in its natural habitat—a puffin with its fat, gaudy beak, peering out of a burrow, a lyre-bird spreading its tail beneath a leafy tree—accompanied by a description. Usually I read curled in the armchair beside the fire, conjuring an imaginary warmth from the cold embers, but today, not wanting to reveal my presence by turning on the light, I settled myself on the window-seat. Pulling the heavy green curtain around me, I flew away into the pictures.

  Long before Veronica’s remark, even before my uncle’s death, I would have said that the only thing I shared with my oldest cousin was an address: Yew House, Strathmuir, Perthshire, Scotland. At fourteen, Will was a thick-necked, thick-thighed boy who for the most part ignored me. Sometimes, when he came upon me in the corridor or the kitchen, an expression of such frank surprise erupted across his face that I could only assume he had forgotten who I was and was trying to guess. A servant? Too small. A burglar? Too noisy. A guest? Too badly dressed. I had seen the same expression on my uncle’s face when he watched Will play football, as if he were wondering how this hulking ruffian could be his son. But their blue eyes and long-lobed ears left no doubt of their kinship. My uncle had once shown me a photograph of himself with his brother, Ian, who had died in his early twenties, and my mother, Agnes, who had died in her late twenties. “Thank goodness she was spared the Hardy ears,” he had said.

  With Louise and Veronica, however, I had a history of affection. Until last summer the three of us had attended the village school, walking the mile back and forth together. Although Louise was two years older, I had often helped her with her arithmetic homework. I had also endeared myself by giving her my turns on Ginger, the family pony, an act of pure self-interest that she took as a favour. But in July my aunt had announced that her daughters, like their brother, would go to school in the nearby town of Perth. Suddenly they had other friends, and I walked to school alone. Meanwhile the dreaded Ginger had been sold, and Louise now had her own horse. She had tried to convert me to her equine cult by lending me Black Beauty and National Velvet. So long as I was reading I understood her enthusiasm, but as soon as I was in the presence of an actual horse, all teeth and hooves and dusty hair, I was once again baffled.

  As for Veronica, who was only six months my senior, she and I had been good friends until she too developed alien passions. Now she was no longer interested in playing pirates, or staging battles between the Romans and the Scots. All her attention was focused on fashion. She spent hours studying her mother’s magazines and going through her wardrobe. She refused to wear green with blue, brown with black. Any violation of her aesthetic caused her deep distress. When my aunt bought a suit she didn’t approve of, Veronica retired to bed for two days; my appearance, in her sister’s cast-offs, was a kind of torture. Her father had teased her about these preoccupations in a way that held them in check. Without him, she too had become a fanatic.

  Despite these changes I had, until the previous week, believed that Louise and
Veronica were my friends, but the events of Christmas Eve had forced me to reconsider. For as long as I could remember, the three of us had spent that afternoon running in and out of each other’s bedrooms, getting ready for the party given by the owners of the local distillery. Last year I had drunk too much of the children’s punch and won a game that involved passing an orange from person to person without using your hands; I had been looking forward to defending my victory. But on the morning of the twenty-fourth, when I had asked Louise if I could borrow her blue dress again, my aunt had paused in buttering her toast.

  “What do you need a dress for, Gemma?”

  “It’s the Buchanans’ party tonight. Don’t you remember, Aunt?”

  I jumped up to retrieve the invitation from the mantelpiece where it had stood for several weeks and held it out to her. “Yes,” said my aunt, “and who is this addressed to? The Hardy family. That means Will and the girls and me.” She reached for the marmalade. “You’ll stay here and help Mrs. Marsden. You can start by doing the washing-up.”

  “Anyway I won’t lend you the dress,” Louise added. “You’d just spill something on it.”

  If she had sounded angry I would have argued, but like her mother, she spoke as if I were barely worth the air that carried her words. Without further ado the two of them turned to talking about where they would ride that day. Abandoning my toast, I marched out of the room.

  Mrs. Marsden, the housekeeper, was the only member of the household whose behaviour towards me had not changed after my uncle’s death. She continued to treat me with the same briskness she had always shown. She had arrived in the village the year after I did and rented the cottage on the far side of the paddock. Then my aunt had an operation—she can’t have any more babies, Louise announced cheerfully—and during her convalescence Mrs. Marsden had become a fixture at Yew House. She had grown up in the Orkneys and could, sometimes, be lured into telling stories about the Second World War, or seals and mermaids. Helping her, I told myself, was infinitely preferable to being a pariah at the party.

  But as I watched Louise and Veronica trying on dresses, ironing, and doing their hair, I had felt increasingly left out. Although Mrs. Marsden’s own wardrobe consisted of drab skirts and twinsets, she was regarded as an excellent judge of fashion, and the two girls ran in and out of the kitchen, asking, Which necklace? The blue shoes or the black? When I momentarily forgot myself and seconded her in urging the blue, Louise did not even glance in my direction, and I saw her nudge Veronica when she thanked me. Suddenly I was no good even for praise. By the time they came in to display themselves one final time, I was peeling chestnuts for the stuffing and determined not to utter another word, but that didn’t stop me from staring.

  In the last year Louise, as visitors often remarked, had blossomed. She carried her new breasts around like a pair of deities seeking rightful homage. Privately I called them Lares and Penates, after the Roman household gods. Veronica was, like me, still flat as a board, but her lips were full and her hair was thick and wavy. In their finery, with their glittering necklaces and handbags, the two sisters could have been on their way to the Lord Mayor’s Ball. That Louise could scarcely walk in her high heels, that Veronica had applied so much of her mother’s rouge that she seemed to have a fever, only heightened the transformation.

  “You both look very nice,” pronounced Mrs. Marsden. “The green is most becoming, Louise. Veronica, your hair is lovely.”

  I was reaching for another chestnut as my aunt sailed in, wearing blue velvet, her golden hair piled high. “My gorgeous girls,” she said, putting an arm around each. She was still praising them when Will appeared. At once she released her daughters. “My dashing young man.”

  None of them seemed to notice that my uncle was missing. The previous year, when I wasn’t passing oranges and playing games, I had watched him as he danced. Later, from memory, I had drawn a picture of him, looking like a Highland chieftain in his kilt and sporran; it had stood on his bookshelf until my aunt threw it on the fire. Now he was gone, and all they could think about was their fancy clothes. In my fury the knife slipped from the chestnut into my finger. My gasp drew a flurry of attention.

  “Hold your hand above your head,” ordered Mrs. Marsden.

  “Move the chestnuts,” said my aunt.

  “Bloody idiot,” said Will, snickering at the double meaning.

  His sisters made noises of disgust until my aunt hushed them. “Let the dogs out last thing,” she told me. “And be sure to leave the porch light on.”

  Heels clicking, skirts swishing, they disappeared down the corridor. Mrs. Marsden bandaged my finger and said she would finish the chestnuts. She must have felt sorry for me, because she told a story about an Italian prisoner of war who had been brought to the Orkneys in 1942 and fallen in love with a local girl. He couldn’t speak English, so he courted her by singing arias. After the war he was sent back to Naples. “We all thought we’d seen the last of him,” said Mrs. Marsden. “But a year later Fiona heard a familiar voice. She looked out of her bedroom window and there he was, kneeling in the road, singing and holding a ring.”

  By seven-thirty everything that could be prepared for the next day’s dinner was ready. Mrs. Marsden untied her apron with a flourish and wished me Merry Christmas.

  “Where are you going?” I said stupidly.

  “Home. I have to get ready for tomorrow.”

  “Can’t you stay?” I imitated Veronica, opening my eyes wide and clasping my hands. “We can play cards, or watch television. You could have a drink.”

  Mrs. Marsden stopped buttoning her coat at my second suggestion—she did not have a television—but at my third she continued. On several occasions I had overheard my aunt complaining to her that a newly purchased bottle of gin or sherry was almost empty. Once Mrs. Marsden had rashly retaliated by mentioning Will. Now she told me not to talk nonsense and picked up her handbag. With a creak of the door she was gone.

  Alone I tried to settle to patience at the kitchen table, but I could not keep my attention on the cards. When Will’s rowdy friends came over, Yew House seemed small, but now the empty rooms stretched around me, too many to count. And the dogs, the affable but dull William and Wallace, were no help. I put the cards away, let them out, and then shut them in the cloakroom. Taking advantage of my solitude, I made a hot water bottle and climbed the stairs to bed. Through the window on the stairs I saw the first snowflakes falling.

  Until last summer my bedroom had been next to Louise’s. Then, on the pretext of redecorating, my aunt had moved me to the maid’s room under the eaves. In the warm months I had enjoyed my eyrie, sitting for hours looking out at the treetops and daydreaming. But in winter the ice on the inside of the windowpane thickened by the day. “Heat rises,” my aunt said when I asked for an electric fire. I had learned to undress, pull on my pyjamas, and jump into bed at top speed. There my teeth chattered until the sheets grew warm and I could lose myself in the pages of a book. Even this pleasure was often curtailed by my aunt’s command to turn off the light. I would lie in the darkness, listening to the noises from below: Louise and Veronica talking, Will playing his radio.

  On Christmas Eve I had tried to enjoy the luxury of reading undisturbed, but the house was full of other, more sinister sounds: rustling, gnawing, pitter-pattering. That weekend the newspaper had reported the abduction of a girl from her home in Kinross. Even in the murky photograph it was obvious that she was the opposite of me, fair-haired, rosy-cheeked, the sort of child anyone would want. Still, a villain might make a mistake, especially in the dark, and William and Wallace were notoriously friendly.

  Picturing my bedside lamp like a beacon signalling my solitude, I set my book aside and switched it off. At the first sign of an intruder I would run down the backstairs and hide behind the curtains in my uncle’s study. The idea of being trapped in my small room made my stomach ache. In the darkness, the noises at first grew even louder, but after a while, when there was no breaking glass, no
footsteps, I forgot to listen for my kidnapper and turned to more realistic fears. I knew from my uncle that in Scotland one could go to university at seventeen, and I had come to think of this as the age at which I would, magically, become an adult. But how was I going to endure the next seven years, and how, when I left Yew House, would I earn my living? In Veronica’s comics girls ran away from home and discovered long-lost relatives and unexpected talents. I had none of the former and doubted the existence of the latter. I was good with numbers, could recognise most common birds by flight and song, was capable of passionate attachments and of daydreams so vivid that my immediate surroundings vanished, but I was hopeless at sports and had crooked handwriting; I could not act, or play an instrument, or cook, or sew. The fires I laid smoked. I could swim but had twice failed my life-saving exam. Lying there on Christmas Eve, clinging to my hot water bottle, I had understood more urgently than ever before that I was alone in the world.

  Finally I had climbed out of bed and made my way downstairs. In the sitting-room the Christmas tree drooped beneath its burden of balls and tinsel. Around the base lay a pile of gifts. I knelt down and read the labels. Present after present was addressed to Will, or Louise, or Veronica. Near the bottom I came upon a single, hard, rectangular package: To Gemma from her cousins.

  The next day I had feigned a cold and remained in bed, coming down only to watch the Queen on television. Why should I play audience while my cousins opened their many gifts, and pretend gratitude for whatever dreary book my aunt had bought me? Even in this thought I gave myself too much importance. When I finally opened the package on Boxing Day I found a book about horses; Louise had received two copies for her birthday.

  Now, a week later, alone in my uncle’s study, I listened to the leaves of the holly tree scratch against the window and turned the pages of Birds of the World. Each picture suggested a place I might someday visit—a steamy forest filled with tropical flowers—or reminded me of one I dimly remembered—a snowy landscape with matching white birds. I imagined myself wrapped in furs rather than the curtain, padding across the ice towards an albatross or a snow eagle. Suddenly the study door was flung open. Will appeared, loutish in his brown sweater and corduroy trousers. His game of cards with Louise must have ended. He didn’t notice me in my hiding place as he shambled over to his father’s desk and sat down.