The Flight of Gemma Hardy

by Margot Livesey

  The next day Mr. Donaldson asked me to stay after school. This time there was no wool-gathering. As soon as the other girls left the room, he waved me over to his desk. “Your aunt is a very stubborn woman,” he said. “I don’t know if she spoke about my visit”—I shook my head—“but she did not give a fig for my opinions and told me so. I can see that your position in her household is not easy.”

  He eased his gold ring up and down his finger and announced that he was going to say something I might find strange. “I want you to fail the exams.”

  “But why?” I said. “Why would I fail an exam on purpose?”

  “Because Claypoole School is not a good place for you. I am sure Dr. Shearer recommended it in good faith, but I have heard that the scholarship girls are little better than scullery maids. I know you want to get away from your aunt, and I promise I’ll try to find another school, but you must fail the exams.”

  I listened dumbfounded. Doing well at school was one of the few touchstones of my life, something that connected me with my uncle, and that my aunt could not take away. I might be small and plain and clumsy but I could get 98 percent in arithmetic. The idea of deliberately failing made no sense. Before I could say any of this we both heard the clatter of the janitor’s broom in the corridor.

  At once Mr. Donaldson was on his feet. “Do your worst, Gemma. And, please, keep this conversation to yourself. Your aunt could make my life very difficult.”

  On the way home I stopped at the church. My uncle was buried in Edinburgh, but sometimes I came to the graveyard and sat on the oldest grave—the inscription so blurred by moss and weather as to be unreadable—to consult him. I set down my satchel and stared up at the steeple.

  “Please, Uncle, tell me what to do. Being at Yew House without you is awful, but Mr. Donaldson says I have to fail the exams.”

  In the branches of the larch trees the sparrows shrilled, protesting the oncoming night; in the street a car sputtered. I listened and listened, but my uncle said nothing.

  During the next week Mr. Donaldson was even more absent-minded than usual. As for my aunt, she didn’t mention his visit save to say that Miss Gregg, the Primary 3 teacher, had agreed to supervise me. I had run into teachers in the village often enough to know that they could be different outside the classroom. Now I discovered that, like their pupils, they could change as soon as the last bell rang. Miss Gregg, who was a martinet in class, behaved as if staying behind in the empty school was a treat. We would go from classroom to classroom, searching for the warmest one. Once we had settled, she would produce her knitting. She had learned to knit only last year, and the clicking of her needles was frequently interrupted by exclamations of “Drat” or “Botheration” as the blue scarf grew and shrank.

  I did not follow Mr. Donaldson’s advice. I could not. The idea of writing the wrong answer when I knew the right one was like stepping in front of a speeding car. Besides, Dr. Shearer had known my uncle and was fond of me. Why should I ignore his advice and follow that of a stranger? Since Mr. Donaldson’s visit to Yew House I had overheard some of the older girls talking about him in the playground. One claimed he had been a spy during the war, another that he had crashed his car while drunk and that was why he didn’t drive.

  The first exam was scripture and the first question was “How did the three wise men find Jesus?” Before I could stop myself I had written, “A star led them to Bethlehem.” For a moment I stared at my neatly written sentence—do your worst, Gemma—then I hurried on to the next question.

  Each exam took an hour, and by the time I finished, it was nearly dark. Miss Gregg, who lived in the lane behind the school, would always ask if I was all right walking home, and I would assure her that I was. Which was true as long as I was in the village, but then came the moment when I passed the last streetlight and the darkness thickened. Even the cows were of little help. I would walk resolutely, trying not to examine the shadows too closely. Sometimes I sang the songs my uncle had taught me—“I love to go a-wandering,” “Clementine,” “John Brown’s Body.” Sometimes I daydreamed about Claypoole School. I would have friends, join clubs, start to learn French and Latin, chemistry and biology. I pictured other girls like myself who had no parents and needed to make their own way in the world.

  The road that led past Yew House was little travelled even in daylight, and often I walked the whole way home without seeing a single vehicle. The evening after the history exam I was nearing the cows when I heard the noise of an engine. I stepped onto the verge and, glad of this brief companionship, waved cheerfully at the headlights. The car came to a halt a few yards ahead. As I hurried over, the passenger door opened. The burly figure of a man, cap pulled low, cigarette glowing, leaned towards me.

  “Get in, lassie. It’s a cold night. I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

  Although his face was shadowy, his voice was hoarsely familiar—we must have spoken in the village or on one of my walks—but I could not summon a name. I heard a faint tapping sound and guessed he was patting the passenger seat. Still something made me hesitate.

  “Are you going to visit my aunt?” I said.

  “Yes. Where does she live?”

  I was thinking his answer was odd when, from the field, Celeste, or perhaps Marie Antoinette, mooed. “I’ll walk,” I said. “Thank you.”

  As I stepped back, the strange man grabbed my sleeve. I did not stop to think. I jerked free and began to run back towards the village. Now that the kidnapper was here, I was not as frightened as I had been lying in bed, imagining him. The man seemed stupid. The road was too narrow to turn around and I did not think he would get out of his car. I stopped at the gate into the field, ready to climb over at the first sign of pursuit. Presently the sound of the engine changed and the lights began to move away.

  The kitchen was empty when I arrived home and it did not occur to me to tell either my aunt or Mrs. Marsden about the man. Only later, eating baked beans on toast alone at the kitchen table, did I wonder what would have happened if I had got into the car.

  chapter five

  Miss Gregg sent off my exams with a note stating that she had supervised me. I probably wouldn’t hear for a while, she warned, but barely a week passed before my aunt called me into the sitting-room and handed me a second letter. In return for working in the kitchens and helping with housework my fees at Claypoole School would be waived. They had recently lost a working pupil. Could I come as soon as possible?

  “I passed,” I said jubilantly. “I was worried about geography.”

  “So,” said my aunt, “you’ll leave on Saturday.”

  “Saturday!” In my daydreams I had left Yew House over and over, but the idea of actually doing so, at such short notice, was startling. I had no friends but that did not mean I did not have attachments. I wanted to say goodbye to the fort and the cows. I wanted to visit my uncle’s church and tell him what was happening. “That’s only four days away.”

  “I can count,” said my aunt. “They say as soon as possible and you don’t have much to pack. Bring down your washing for Betty to do in the morning.”

  In a daze I climbed the stairs. Even my icy garret, now that departure loomed, seemed dear. When I returned to the kitchen, my arms full of clothes, Mrs. Marsden gave me a rare smile. “So you’re off to the Borders. I hear it’s a lovely part of the country.”

  “I don’t want to go,” I said, and, before she could ask why, I poured out the thoughts that had filled me since my departure became a reality. How I did not want to be farther from my uncle, how the valley was my home.

  Mrs. Marsden listened, a tin of salmon in one hand, a tin opener in the other. “Everyone wants a home,” she said when I finished, “but Yew House can’t be yours. Your aunt hates you. Better to face that now and start to make your own way in the world. Remember what you said about preferring an orphanage. At the school you’ll be just like everyone else. Now put those clothes in the basket and come and wash the leeks.”

&nbs
p; I did her bidding, but in bed that night I could not stop thinking about her claim. I had never thought to add up all the things my aunt disliked about me and put them into that one small word: hate. It was not just, as she often said, that I was plain and clumsy and prone to daydreaming. She hated me and nothing was going to change that. With this revelation came another. If I was going far away, to a place where my uncle had never been, I must take some part of him with me. Bob Carruthers had come for dinner and I could hear him and my aunt laughing in the sitting-room. Although his baby was due any day, he seemed to spend more time than ever in her company. I slipped out of bed and made my way downstairs to my uncle’s study. By the light of his reading lamp, I surveyed the room I might, after Saturday, never see again. I would have liked to put everything—the desk, his chair, the green curtains, his books—in my suitcase. I stepped over to the bookcase and pulled out Birds of the World. But as soon as I felt its heft, I knew there was no chance of smuggling it into my luggage. After a quick look at the lyre-bird, I returned it to the shelf. What I needed, I thought, was a photograph of my uncle. The half-dozen pictures on the mantelpiece were spoiled by the presence of my aunt and cousins, but off to one side was a small one of him as a newly ordained minister. With his tidy hair and solemn gaze he did not look much like himself, but it was better than nothing. I was heading for the door when it occurred to me that Betty, who was in charge of packing my clothes, might report my theft. I put it back to retrieve on Friday night and stepped into the corridor. At the same moment my aunt, in the sitting-room, squealed.

  “Oh, Bob, I never—”

  In the abrupt silence that followed I saw that I was not alone. Will was standing at the bottom of the stairs. Before I could decide whether to advance or retreat, another squeal propelled him down the corridor, and through the sitting-room door.

  “What are you doing to my mother?” I heard him cry. “Don’t you know she’s a widow?”

  Quickly I ran to the stairs and climbed them two at a time, as quietly as possible. From my room I heard the front door slam, a car start, and then my aunt and Will, their voices raised. The next morning, passing her in the corridor, I noticed that my aunt’s cheeks were glazed with make-up.

  On Friday night I put a torch by my bed and banged my head twelve times against the pillow but there was no need. The prospect of departure kept me awake long past my usual hour. In the last few days I had visited the fort, the river, and the church. That morning at school Mr. Donaldson had announced that today was Gemma Hardy’s last day and presented me with a copy of Robinson Crusoe inscribed To Gemma, from her classmates and teacher. With all good wishes for her future. February 1959.

  At the end of the afternoon he had again asked me to stay behind. He stood over my desk, waiting until the last girl had left the room. Then in a low voice, quite unlike his normal teacherly tones, he said, “As I have no choice but to wish you luck at Claypoole, let me give you some advice. Try not to be noticed. You will be one of many girls. There is no reason why you should put yourself forward. If there is anything I can do, please know that I consider myself your friend.”

  He handed me a brown paper bag. My surprise at the contents—a pad of writing paper and half-a-dozen envelopes already stamped and addressed to him—must have been obvious. Hastily he explained that I didn’t need to write; he just wanted to be sure that I could. “Of course I’ll write,” I had said. “If you like,” he had said, and busied himself with his briefcase.

  It was almost midnight when I crept out of bed and tiptoed downstairs. The prospect of departure filled my mind with new thoughts. For the first time I wondered what had happened to my parents’ possessions. I remembered my uncle describing how my parents’ neighbour had shown me a photograph of him and my mother. Where had it gone? My aunt always claimed that I owned nothing, but this photograph, if it still existed, was mine. Perhaps other things too? I pictured the day I arrived at Yew House. Surely my uncle had unloaded something—a trunk? a large suitcase?—from the boot of the car. And surely whatever it was must have come from my parents’ house.

  I had never seen anyone but my uncle open the drawers of his desk. Now, with apologies to him, I set down the torch and slid open the top drawer; it was full of sermons. The next contained correspondence. The next, bills. At last, in the bottom right-hand drawer, was a cardboard box with my name printed on the lid. Inside, lying on top of a pile of papers, was a photograph of a man and a woman, my uncle and my mother. On the back were the words Botanical Gardens, Edinburgh. May 1941. I sat down and stared at my mother in her summer dress, my uncle in his black trousers and white shirt. They were sitting side by side on a grassy slope, laughing, with a bank of azaleas behind them. I had known my mother was dead for all of my conscious life, and in the last year I had gradually come to terms with my uncle being in the same strange state. But, looking at their bright smiles, it seemed unimaginable that they were not nearby, laughing, talking, playing backgammon.

  The sound of the holly leaves scratching at the window brought me back to myself. I set the photograph beside the one of my uncle and closed the box. There was no time now to investigate the rest of its contents and no space for it in my suitcase; if I carried it openly, my aunt would accuse me of stealing. My mind skidded over the alternatives. The box was small enough to fit on the top shelf of the sewing-room or at the back of the boot cupboard, but when would I ever return to Yew House? Mrs. Marsden’s cottage was only a few hundred yards away but she was tied to my aunt in ways that made her unreliable. As for burying the box in the garden, I had no confidence that I could dig a hole deep enough, let alone ensure that the contents remained dry.

  Only one solution presented itself. I tiptoed to the cloakroom, pulled on my Wellingtons and a coat of Louise’s, and let myself out of the house. I had never before been out this late and the air smelled of dampness and animals. In the cloudy sky the almost full moon looked ready, at any moment, to burst into the open; in the nearby woods an owl hooted, fell silent, hooted again. Clutching the box, I half walked, half ran down the road to the village.

  Mr. Donaldson rented rooms in a house near the church. I even knew which window was his because once, in the autumn, I had seen him sitting there, smoking and listening to the wireless. I had no thought of what I would do if he was asleep but luck was with me. A crack of light shone through the curtains and, when I tapped on the window, his startled face appeared. Two minutes later the door opened and he stepped out, wearing his shabby coat. Putting a finger to his lips, he led me into the street and the shadowy interval between two lights.

  “Are you mad?” he whispered, glaring at me. “If anyone saw you here I could be in serious trouble.”

  I had expected anger; children weren’t allowed out this late. Now, bewilderingly, I recognised fear. “I’ll tell them it’s all my fault,” I said, and explained about the box. “Will you keep it for me? I don’t have a safe place.”

  “Are you sure it belongs to you?”

  “Look, it has my name on the lid. Please.”

  For a few more seconds he continued to glare. Then, wearily, he unfolded his arms and reached for the box. “I’m not the ideal person to keep anything safe for anyone but I’ll do my best. If things go arse over tip I have a sister, Isobel. She lives in the town of Oban.”

  He padded back towards the house. A moment later the light that had welcomed me went out. I ran back to Yew House as fast as my Wellingtons would permit.

  PART II

  chapter six

  The sky was still dark when my aunt’s sharp knock hurled me into the new day. Downstairs, to my surprise, Veronica was seated at the kitchen table. We ate porridge and toast and talked as we had used to do, about teachers and girls at school and whether a ponytail was better than pigtails. With no one to braid my hair I had been forced to adopt the former, which, Veronica claimed, didn’t suit me. She produced a brush and comb and, as a parting gift, made me two neat braids. She was lecturing me about my eyelashes—
“They’re so pale”—when my aunt called from the hall that it was time to leave.

  “Goodbye, Gemma,” she said, flinging her arms around my neck. “I hope you have a happy life.”

  “I hope you do too,” I said, and kissed her cheek.

  Pretending to fetch my scarf, I went upstairs one last time, and slipped the photographs into the old handbag of Louise’s I had been given for the journey. In the hall Mrs. Marsden was waiting with a paper bag. “You’ll need some lunch,” she said, and, before I could thank her or hug her, retreated to the kitchen. Betty had already put my suitcase in the boot of the car and, liking the idea of departing in state, I climbed into the front seat only to have my aunt order me into the back. As we headed down the drive, she explained that I would change trains in Edinburgh and be met in Hawick by the school van. The sky was lightening and in the frosty field I could make out Celeste and Marie Antoinette huddled near the gate. I pressed my face to the window and waved.

  In the village we stopped beside the post office and Mr. Carruthers, his cap pulled low, his scarf pulled high, got into the front seat. For a moment I wondered if he could have been the man who accosted me, but when he greeted me—“So, Gemma, you’re off to see the wide world”—I knew that, whatever his crimes, he had not tried to drag me into a smoky car. For the remainder of the journey I caught only stray phrases of his and my aunt’s conversation as we headed past the fort, past the curling pond, past the boundaries of my familiar world.

  At Perth station I ran ahead of my aunt to the ticket office, and stood waiting as she asked for one child to Hawick.

  “One way, or return? First or second class?”

  “One way, second class,” she said, sounding pleased about both choices.