The Flight of Gemma Hardy

by Margot Livesey

  “Second class, single, child,” corrected the clerk.

  “No, adult. I’m eighteen. I could get married.”

  “You could indeed, ducky”—the clerk’s bald head bobbed in the overhead light—“but why not save yourself six pounds? You can still get married at sixteen or seventeen.”

  Reluctantly I agreed to be a child one last time.

  I had been looking forward to the journey north: the prospect of new landscapes, and new people. What I had not anticipated was the sense, even as I headed into the future, of revisiting my life so far. The first station we came to was Galashiels, and I studied the sullen, grey houses. Perhaps one of them had sheltered Miriam. Our friendship was still the only evidence I had, since my uncle died, that I could be loved. And what about Mr. Goodall? Was he still living there, even greyer and grubbier? Beyond Galashiels the countryside grew desolate, populated only by scruffy sheep and dark twisted trees. I thought of Ross’s story of running away, and sleeping in a sheepfold. How lonely she must have been. Then houses began to appear, at first singly, soon in streets; the train slowed. We had reached Edinburgh. One by one I lifted down my suitcases. As I stood waiting for the crowd to disperse, I saw that the platform where I had embarked, years ago, was just across the forecourt. I dragged my suitcases over. Two boys in jeans and jackets were sitting on the bench, sharing a cigarette.

  “Would you mind standing up for a moment?” I asked.

  “What’s this?” said the nearest boy. “Station inspection?” He leaned back, blowing smoke in my direction.

  “Please,” I said. “Just for a second.”

  “Come on, Brian,” said the other, getting to his feet. “Do what she says.”

  As he spoke, his lips stretched over slightly prominent teeth; I had a flash of recognition. “Did you once want to work in a fish shop?”

  “I don’t know if I wanted to, but I do, down in Leith. How did you guess?” He cocked his head. “Do I look like a fish?”

  “Not really. Seven years ago on this platform you carried my suitcase.”

  “It’s possible,” he said. “I get this train most days.”

  He tugged the other boy to his feet, and there, I pointed them out, were the words—FLY AWAY—carved into the wood. The boys peered, nonplussed. I thanked them and started to walk away, dragging my cases.

  “If I used to carry your luggage,” said the fish boy, coming up beside me, “I’d better not stop now.” He took the cases out of my hands and asked where I was going. When I told him, he remarked that he had never been that far north. “You’ll have to come back in seven years and tell me what it’s like.”

  “I will.”

  “Okay. Same place, same time.” He smiled down at me and then, as a train whistled nearby, turned and loped away.

  But not everything had remained the same. The train to Thurso was a modern one with seats in rows instead of compartments, and when we reached the Forth Rail Bridge I saw that, after seventy years of solitude, it had a companion: not far away a slender suspension bridge now carried cars high above the water. Once we were back on land, passing fields and farms, I reached for my book and came upon Miss Bryant’s envelope. Inside, folded in a sheet of paper, was a ten-pound note. I must have made some sound because the woman across the aisle looked over. “Someone’s fond of you,” she said.

  “Actually I think someone’s glad to see the back of me.”

  “Well, with enemies like that who needs friends?”

  While she returned to her magazine, I examined the sheet of paper, wondering if it contained a final blessing, or curse, but there was only an address in Coldstream with a phone number. Once again I glimpsed the way in which departure ripped the veil from ordinary life, revealing things that were normally kept hidden. Why else had the young man appeared last night, and Mrs. Milne this morning? We passed through Perth, and a few minutes later I saw the familiar line of hills and the circular wood above the village. For a moment I longed to be back at Yew House, climbing the fort with my uncle, walking by the river. Then the hills were gone and I was travelling, untrammelled, towards the future. I opened my book.

  By the time we reached Thurso, it was past seven in the evening and the train was almost empty. One of the few remaining passengers, a bearlike man who worked for the forestry commission, helped me carry my suitcases to the bed-and-breakfast. An unsmiling landlady showed me to a surprisingly cosy room and said she had my supper waiting. I had had grand thoughts of how I would spend my first night of freedom—a pub, a conversation with a tall, dark stranger—but after a watery steak and kidney pie, bed seemed the only possibility. I fell asleep amazed at how silent the night was without my fellow working girls.

  In the morning I explored the town, stopping often to gaze in the shop windows that lined the main street. After my years of privation the most ordinary goods—a rake, a tea-cup, a pork chop—were like the relics of a lost civilisation. At noon I retrieved my luggage and took a taxi to the ferry terminal. The St. Ola was waiting; the man who sold the tickets carried my suitcases up the gangway. I joined the other passengers on deck to watch the cars being winched aboard one by one; they looked oddly small and helpless, dangling above the water. Then the foghorn sounded, and in a swirl of engine fumes, beneath windy skies, we pulled away from the dock. The other passengers retired below; I clung to my place at the rail. Never again, I vowed, would I live in a place where I couldn’t see the sea. Or at least bicycle to it. As we rounded the harbour wall a shaft of light broke through the clouds, pointing the way to my destination.

  I have no idea how long I stood there before a voice said, “So what brings you to the Orkneys?”

  I turned to discover a man in a duffle coat, leaning against the rail a few yards away. “How do you know I don’t live there?” I said.

  “I’ve lived in Kirkwall all my life. No native would stand out here, getting blown to bits, when they could be downstairs having a nice cup of tea.”

  “You are.”

  “Och, well”—his eyebrows disappeared beneath his woolen hat—“I’m a freak. I lost my boat last year. I miss the water.”

  His slight build gave him a boyish look, but from the dark shadow on his jaw and the lines around his mouth, I guessed him to be thirty at least, perhaps even forty. A pair of binoculars hung from his neck and a small, clear drip from the end of his nose. “How?” I said. “Were you shipwrecked?”

  “No, God forbid. It’s a long story. The short version is money and sibling rivalry.”

  “Like Cain and Abel?”

  “Maybe.” He sounded doubtful. “It’s a wee while since I was in the Sunday school.” He buried his face, briefly, in a capacious white handkerchief and then said it was my turn to answer his questions. I told him I was going to Blackbird Hall.

  “Ah, you’re looking after Mr. Sinclair’s niece.” His face brightened as he understood how I fitted into his world. “She’s a little rascal, by all accounts.”

  “Who’s Mr. Sinclair? The woman I spoke to, Vicky Sinclair, didn’t use the word ‘niece.’ ”

  “Mr. Sinclair is the owner of Blackbird Hall. Nowadays he mostly lives in London, making money hand over fist. Vicky is his housekeeper. They’re distant cousins.”

  So this was who had done the authorising, I thought. “Does he ever come here?”

  “In the summer. You’ll like Vicky. She’s a grand lass. Did she mention her brother?”

  “Just that they work on the farm together.”

  My companion’s eyes darkened. “He’s good with the cattle, Seamus, I’ll grant him that, but hard as a horseshoe. I ran into him last month, walking around the Stones. He couldn’t even be bothered to raise his hat. They say he never got over being a Bevin Boy, but plenty of people were in the war and didn’t lose their manners.”

  What were the Stones, I wondered, and what was a Bevin Boy? I asked about the former, and the man said could he buy me a cup of tea. I told him I’d prefer ginger beer and followed him into the
cabin. When we were settled with our drinks by the window, he said that the main island of the Orkneys had several remarkable Stone Age sites, including a chambered tomb and a ring of standing stones. There was even a Stone Age village, which had been buried for centuries and emerged after a tremendous storm.

  “Like Pompeii.” I had loved translating Pliny’s account of the eruption.

  Again he seemed doubtful. “But I’m forgetting my manners,” he said. “I’m Alec Johnson.”

  I gave my name and asked if I could borrow his binoculars. At first, as I fiddled with the focus, I saw only a blur of water. Then a cormorant flew by and I could count each dull brown feather. As dusk came on, Mr. Johnson drank his tea and read the newspaper; I alternated between gazing directly at the sea and gazing through the lenses. Almost too soon the lights of Stromness appeared, stretching along the harbour and up the hill.

  “You must come back in daylight to see the town,” said Mr. Johnson. “It’s a pretty place. People here aren’t fussy about appearances,” he added, “but I’m going to run a comb through my hair. Good luck, Miss Hardy.”

  You’re wearing a hat, I wanted to say. Then I understood that I was the one who needed to use a comb. I had left my Alice band at Claypoole, and the mirror in the ladies’ room showed my hair wild as a scarecrow’s. By the time I emerged and manoeuvred my suitcases down the gangway, the last car was being winched ashore and most of the other passengers had disappeared. No one stepped forward to greet me, and surveying the poorly lit harbour, I saw no one waiting. I had not thought to ask Miss Sinclair what I should do if her brother wasn’t there. I set my luggage beside a stack of lobster traps and circled the nearest streetlight, trying to keep warm, trying not to worry that I had misunderstood the arrangements. Opposite the harbour I spotted a hotel. I was about to start lugging my suitcases over—surely it would have a telephone—when I saw headlights approaching. The vehicle, a Land Rover, came to an abrupt halt; a man climbed out. Even in the darkness his scowl was unmistakable.

  “Gemma Hardy,” he said flatly, each syllable a stone dropped into a deep well.

  I admitted that I was.

  “You’re nothing but a wean.”

  “I’m eighteen,” I said. “You’re confusing size and age.”

  “No. I’m not.” His scowl sharpened, and for a moment I thought he might simply turn and walk away. “Well, this is Vicky’s mess,” he said at last. “Come on.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked, but he had already seized my suitcases. Without a word he shoved them into the back, got into the driver’s seat, and started the engine. I was still closing the passenger door when the vehicle jerked forward. We drove past a row of houses. Soon the last streetlight was gone. Wind whistled through chinks in the floor and around the ill-fitting door. I sat on my hands for warmth.

  “How far is it?” I asked.

  Nothing.

  Remembering my conversation with Mr. Johnson, I tried again. “What’s a Bevin Boy?”

  “For God’s sake, shut your trap.”

  Hard as a horseshoe, I thought.

  Later I would learn that the drive took less than an hour, but on that first evening it seemed longer than all the rest of my journey put together. Bitterly I recalled Miss Seftain’s comment about how dependent an au pair was on her employers. I was marooned, as surely as Robinson Crusoe. We passed the lights of a few isolated cottages, one or two other cars, but mostly dark fields. With no warning, Seamus turned off the narrow road onto a narrow track. We bumped along until a metal gate barred our way.

  “What are you waiting for?” he demanded. “Open the gate.”

  I got out to do his bidding. As I struggled with the bolt, I felt his scornful glare, stronger than the headlights. I was small, I was useless, I was not what they had paid for. Finally the bolt relented and, stumbling in the mud, aware that my new shoes would never be the same, I pushed open the gate. The Land Rover roared through, drenching me.

  I stood there, wiping ineffectually at the damp patches on my coat. Then I walked towards the passenger door with deliberate slowness. I was almost there when Seamus’s door flung open. “For God’s sake,” he yelled, “close the gate.”

  “Close it yourself,” I said.

  He did.

  When we were once again jolting along, the night seemed even darker. At last we pulled onto a gravel drive. A house loomed white in the headlights. We stopped. I climbed out, walked over to the only door I could see, and rang the bell. I just wanted to get the whole thing over with. Let Miss Sinclair dismiss me. I would return to Stromness, sleep on a bench in the harbour, and take the first ferry back to Thurso. The door opened. A woman, almost as tall as Seamus, was looking down at me.

  “Gemma,” she said. “I was beginning to worry something had happened.”

  “Are you Miss Sinclair?”

  “Vicky. Why do you have mud all over you?”

  “Your brother, if that’s who he is, splashed me when I was opening the gate.”

  Vicky spread her hands and I saw that they were covered with flour. As I was to learn, she seldom apologised for Seamus—it would have been an endless task—but she did apologise for not coming to meet me. “One of us has to be here for Nell, even when she’s hiding in her room. Come in.” She stepped back, and I crossed the threshold of Blackbird Hall.

  On that first evening I barely noticed the hall, with its grand piano and comfortable armchairs; what caught my attention were the trousers, very like my own, that Vicky wore beneath her flowery apron. As she led the way to the kitchen she asked, How was the crossing? Was I hungry? Had I seen the Old Man of Hoy? Oh, no, of course it was dark. Would I like a bath? Supper? She was as talkative as her brother was taciturn, and her voice was as warm as it had been on the phone.

  “Let me just wash my hands,” she said, “and I’ll show you your room.”

  In the kitchen I smelled a fragrance I had not encountered since Yew House. “You’re making bread,” I said. The weight of my despair rose an inch.

  “In your honour.” She smiled, and I saw that I was guilty of what I had accused Seamus of: confusing size and age. She was much younger than her brother. Indeed that evening, with her glowing cheeks and thick brown hair falling to her shoulders, she looked barely older than the prefects at Claypoole. Later she told me she was twenty-seven.

  Like Mr. Johnson, she offered tea, and this time I accepted. I didn’t care for the bitter liquid but I knew that enjoying it was a badge of adulthood. Under Vicky’s direction I moved the kettle to the centre of the hob, warmed the pot, and measured out the tea-leaves. With two spoonfuls of sugar, the result was drinkable. Meanwhile she punched down the dough and asked what the Borders were like. I told her about the soft, rounded hills, the remains of volcanoes—volcanoes in Scotland, she exclaimed—and the green fields. I described the abbeys the regular girls had visited on school trips, and Sir Walter Scott’s house.

  “We have all his novels in the library,” she said. “I’ve never read a sentence. Maybe because our English teacher was always going on about Ivanhoe.”

  “You have a library?”

  “Next to the dining-room. There’s a good collection of history books—that was what old Mr. Sinclair liked—and almost every Victorian novel you can think of. Let me show you your room.”

  We climbed a broad carpeted stair, each stair rod gleaming. I was still determined to leave in the morning, but at the sight of my corner room, my despair rose another inch. A fire glowed in the grate, and the curtains were drawn snug across the four windows. Against one wall stood a large bed with a flowered quilt. Vicky turned on the lamp on the bedside table and another on the desk. Looking around, I caught sight of myself in the mirror on the wardrobe, and then of my suitcases next to the chest of drawers. In front of the fire were two armchairs and a low table.

  “The bathroom is next door,” said Vicky. “I hope you’ll be comfortable.”

  “It’s the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen.”


  “I’m glad you like it.” But the little crease that appeared between her eyebrows suggested something other than gladness. Worrying that, once again, I had betrayed my age, I asked where Nell slept.

  “Next door, but she’s been hiding all day.” Vicky wandered over to the dressing-table and fidgeted with the lace mat. “I should tell you that she’s not over the moon about your arrival.”

  Why did that phrase “should tell” always herald unpleasantness? Was there no imperative towards happiness? “On the phone,” I said, “you described her as leading her last teacher a merry dance.”

  “If only it had been an eightsome reel or a Gay Gordons.” Vicky shook her head. “Poor Miss Cameron. She taught school in Thurso for thirty years before she came here. Seamus said she was husband-hunting, but who would come to the Orkneys to do that?” She described Miss Cameron’s efficiency and Nell’s awfulness: spilling things on her books, running away. Then in December the two were out for a walk when they spotted a fern they’d been looking for, for their scrapbook, on a ledge beside the sea. Nell climbed down to pick it and claimed to be stuck. Miss Cameron, despite her fear of heights, went to rescue her. As soon as she reached the ledge, Nell scarpered. Fortunately Seamus had heard Miss Cameron’s cries. She left the next day.

  “And since then,” Vicky said, “Nell’s been running wild. I’m too busy with the farm and the house to mind her. It was obvious you were just a slip of a girl—Mr. Sinclair laughed when I read him your letter over the phone—but he thought you’d be a friend for Nell. For all her naughtiness she’s lonely.”

  “I’m eighteen,” I said for the third time that day. “I’m just small for my age.”

  “You must be tired, after your long journey.”

  She spoke soothingly, as if my lie were irrelevant, and suddenly I felt exhausted all over again. I said I would take a bath, and she offered to bring up supper on a tray. In the doorway she paused. “Maybe keep your door locked. It’s more than twenty years since Seamus came back from the war but he still sometimes sleepwalks.”