The Flight of Gemma Hardy

by Margot Livesey

  “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.

  Despite 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.

  I had come and gone so often from the church that when the door didn’t open, I thought the latch was sticking. I turned the ring again; again there was some obstacle. Only on the fourth attempt did I understand. The door was locked. I was on one side of it and my suitcase was on the other.

  Not caring who saw me, I knocked on the door and, when there was no answer, pounded with the flat of my hand. A few flakes of faded red paint fell to the ground. A woman passing in the road below called out, “It’s Friday. No service until Sunday.”

  “But a church ought to be open at all times. It’s a place of sanctuary.”

  The woman turned off the road and, a shopping bag in one hand, a black umbrella in the other, approached the steps. She looked vaguely familiar, but after my day spent wandering the streets of the town many people did. It did not occur to me that I too, in my navy blue coat, might be a recognisable figure.

  From beneath her umbrella the woman studied me. “You’re the girl who was asking for work at the co-op,” she said. “You gave your address as Seven Newholme Avenue. Are you Shona Ross’s niece? Why are you trying to break into the church?”

  “I left my scarf.”

  Before she could ask further questions, I hurried down the stairs and slipped past her back to the road. My only thought was to escape before she too threatened to call the police. Dodging a milk van, I darted across the main road and down under the railway bridge. My flight brought me to the park I had seen the day before. The grass was already sodden and in the distance a couple of football nets hung limply, but nearby a low building with a bench under the eaves offered refuge. I sat down. Was it possible that only a week ago I had woken in my luxurious bed, eaten a lavish breakfast, taught Nell her lessons, walked with her to the village, then Mr. Sinclair and I—

  I stood up and did twelve jumping-jacks. As I turned to sit down again, I noticed in one corner of the bench a br
own paper bag. Opening it, I discovered a roll filled with some kind of meat paste, only one bite taken. The bread was a little dry but the paste was still moist. I devoured it. Alert to new possibilities, I approached the rubbish bin at the far end of the building. Two half-eaten bags of crisps and a chocolate biscuit rewarded my efforts. I rinsed my hands at the outdoor tap and sat down to eat my booty. Then I took out one of my few remaining possessions: my notebook. On a clean page I wrote:

  1. Get back suitcase.

  2. Leave Pitlochry.

  3. Go to Oban.

  4. Find Mr. Donaldson’s sister.

  It was a short list but each item was Herculean. After my various crimes—using a false name and address, sleeping in a place of worship—I did not dare go to the police again. As for the minister of the church, all I could picture was Mr. Waugh towering over me, shaking me with red-faced fury. I closed the notebook and put it carefully away in my bag. Would I never see my beloved keepsakes again?

  All at once I remembered that the vestry had a back door. I jumped up and hurried back the way I had come. Rain had emptied the streets and I saw no one as I trotted up the hill and around to the rear of the church. Water spouted from a leaky gutter. Dodging the spray, I reached for the doorknob. It turned in my hand.

  For a moment I simply stood there.

  Inside I tiptoed over to the vestry door and peered into the church. When I was sure that nothing moved among the pews, I returned to use the W.C., suddenly a matter of urgency, and fill the kettle. I let the tea-bag steep for a little longer than usual and added an extra spoon of sugar. As I sat in my pew, sipping the hot, sweet liquid, I pictured the dry clothes I would put on: socks, jeans, my green sweater. Then I would wait for the rain to ease before I started hitchhiking. I got out my notebook and ticked off the first item on my list. And soon, I thought, item two would be accomplished: leave Pitlochry. I set the cup on the shelf beside a hymnal and reached down.

  My hand met emptiness.

  I went up and down every pew—even the ones at the front, even the ones on the other side of the nave where I had never sat—but my suitcase was gone. I checked the piles of hymnals, the window-sills, the font, the pulpit, the organ. Suddenly I noticed—despair had blinded me—that the floor was damp in places. Someone had come, at last, to wash it. I sank down in the nearest pew and buried my head in my hands. How stupid I had been not to take the case to the jeweller’s. And only to have Mr. White sneer at my watch. I pictured the stern policeman looking at my photographs.

  Twenty minutes later I was standing beside a lay-by just south of the town, holding out my hand. I stopped counting after eighty-three cars. Some vehicles, I noticed, even sped up at the sight of me. Several came so close that I had to jump back to escape being splashed. I was of no more consequence to them, I thought, than the nearby litter bin. I wanted only to flee this awful place, and even that seemed impossible. Finally a red lorry pulled over a few yards ahead. The door opened and a man called out, “Where are you going?”

  “Oban.”

  “I can get you started. I’m on my way to York.”

  I scrambled up into the warm fug of the cab and, exclaiming my thanks, settled into the threadbare seat. My companion smiled at me and I saw that, like Ross, he had a chipped tooth. He did not look like a kidnapper, or a rapist. We introduced ourselves; his name was Grant.

  “Why are you going to Oban with no luggage?” he said. “You’re not running away, are you? I don’t want any trouble.”

  “I’m eighteen,” I said. “I’m too old to run away.”

  “But Oban’s not a day trip, even if you get a lift in a sports car.”

  “My suitcase was stolen.”

  “Stolen? Who would steal from a lassie like you? Did you tell the police? You should only take lifts from lorry drivers. That way you know who a person works for. We may not be the speediest vehicles on the road but we get there in the end.”

  “Festina lente,” I murmured. “I’ll talk to the police when I get to Oban. They’re all connected nowadays.”

  “More’s the pity.” He embarked on a story about how he’d been pulled over in Aberdeen for carrying too much weight and later, when he’d been stopped in Glasgow, the police had known about it. I did my best to listen but, despite my wet clothes, I had begun to feel as if my face might burst into flames. I pressed my palm to the cold window and then my cheek. Something twisted in my stomach. The lie I had told the man on the bus was coming true.

  “Och aye,” said Grant. “The Glasgow police are—”

  “I’m sorry. I’m going to be sick.”

  “Bloody hell. Hang on.”

  He pulled over. Still holding my bag, I scrambled out of the cab. I had taken only a couple of steps before I doubled over. Everything I had eaten at the recreation ground flew out of my mouth. Presently I heard Grant’s voice.

  “I need to be on my way. Are you well enough to come along?”

  My body answered for me.

  “You’re in Ballinluig,” he said. “You can maybe get a cup of tea at the garage. Here’s a little something. Good luck, Jean.” He handed me two coins and was gone.

  When I was well enough to stand upright again, I put the half-crowns carefully away in my pocket. I was on the edge of a village of a few dozen houses. I saw signs for the garage Grant had mentioned, and a shop. At the former a man in greasy overalls told me that I couldn’t shelter there. “Damned Gypsies,” I heard him say under his breath. In the shop a woman kept her arms tightly folded. No, she didn’t serve tea. No, I couldn’t wait there. When I stepped back into the road the houses on the other side tilted alarmingly. I leaned on the window-sill and put my head between my knees.

  Behind me the shop bell rang. “I told you, you can’t stop here.”

  I felt too ill to get another lift and yet this village was the worst place to be stranded. There was no church, no library, not even a bus shelter where I could wait to recover my strength. The feeling of being on fire was gone; instead my teeth were chattering. One house had a rowan tree outside like the one at Yew House and I knocked on the door. The curtains at the window twitched but no one answered. At the next house a woman said she was sorry and closed the door before I had uttered a word.

  Back in the road I leaned against a parked car and waited for someone else to shout at me. The rain had closed in and the hilltops were shrouded in mist. My mind was as grey and empty as the sky. Everything I wanted—love, a slice of toast, a warm bed, a job, my suitcase—was far, far out of reach. I was gazing vacantly in the direction of the main road when I noticed a flash of colour: a red telephone box. One evening at Blackbird Hall Vicky had reported that someone phoning Mr. Sinclair had reversed the charges; it was a way, she explained, to make a phone call with no money. I knew the number, I thought. I could phone. Explain that I was in this place called Ballinluig, ill, penniless. And then Mr. Sinclair would rescue me. One of the passing cars would suddenly be his. I would be warm, dry, safe. I bent over, wrapping my arms around myself, trying to stop shivering. I heard Mr. Sinclair repeating the number over and over, as if he knew my plight and was urging me to phone.

  Suddenly there was a different voice, the voice that had led me to Miriam years ago, that had warned me about the causeway. I had not heard the young man since I left Claypoole. Now he was saying something about cows.

  “Go to the cows, Gemma. The cows will help you.”

  When the bout of shivering passed, I raised my head and looked around. On the far side of the main road was a field of brown and white cows and a smaller road winding away into the countryside. Perhaps the cows would have some kind of shelter where I could rest. My own species had proved hopeless. Why not try another?

  chapter twenty-six

  What I saw first was not her face but three hollows, one at the base of her neck, one above each collarbone. Each could have held a small egg, a robin’s perhaps.

  “You’re awake,” she said. “Can you sit up and drink some lemon barley w
ater?”

  With her help I managed both. She turned my pillow and another part of her came into view: two hands, large for a woman, no rings. I sank back against the pillow, so relieved to be in a bed that I did not care where it was, or how I’d got there. But as the woman kept talking, I grasped that her name was Hannah. Her brother, a postman, had found me lying near the road. When he couldn’t rouse me, he had brought me here, to the house she shared with her friend, Pauline, in the town of Aberfeldy. At the unfamiliar name I at last raised my eyes. Hannah’s face was long and pale save for a smudge of colour high on each cheek. The grey-blue of her eyes matched her faded shirt. Her straight brown hair hung untidily down her back.

  “We searched your bag,” she said. “I’m sorry, but we were looking for a name and address. Is there someone I can telephone to let them know you’re safe?”

  “No. When did your brother find me?” I felt so weak that I would not have been surprised to hear that I had been in bed for a month, but Hannah said that Archie had shown up with me yesterday afternoon. They had called the doctor.

  “He said you were suffering from exhaustion as much as anything else.” Her forehead wrinkled. “Are you sure there’s no one we can notify? Family? Friends? A teacher?”

  Her anxious tone made me want to reel off the names of people to contact, but each, for different reasons, was forbidden. “I’m sorry if I’m being a nuisance,” I said. “I’ll leave as soon as I can.” Even as I spoke, I sank lower in the bed.

  “Goodness, you’re not going anywhere at the moment. Pauline and I never use this room. We just don’t want anyone worrying about you. Let’s see if you can eat some toast.”

  Her footsteps descended four stairs, paused, descended more stairs. Alone, I took in that I was lying in a single bed in a modest room. A desk and a chair stood in one corner, an armchair in the other. On the pale blue walls hung several paintings. As I gazed at them, the bright swirls of colour became familiar flowers: sweet peas, delphiniums, nasturtiums. Nothing in the room was new but everything was well cared for. I was relieved to think I had found refuge with people who did not have much money; they seemed more likely to be kind, less likely to have any connection with Mr. Sinclair.