The Flight of Gemma Hardy

by Margot Livesey

  “My wedding.”

  “Your wedding?”

  Was no one but Nell pleased about my marriage? I turned to leave, thinking perhaps Vicky could alter the green dress; if not, I would wear my church clothes. Hugh wouldn’t mind. Over and over he had said there would be no fuss. But the girl was still speaking.

  “Congratulations,” she said. “Do you have a favourite colour? A favourite style? You’re either a small or a petite. Let me show you some possibilities.”

  For the next hour Deirdre brought a stream of dresses to the changing room and praised or rejected them as I tried them on. She had never met Mr. Sinclair but, being Kirkwall born and bred, she knew the name. Finally we settled on a dress the colour of the sea on a sunny day with tiny pink rosebuds around the neck, cuffs, and hem. Then she urged new underwear, new tights and shoes. I refused to buy a handbag but succumbed to a nightdress. When everything was packed in boxes and bags, including Vicky’s tights, the bill came to fifty-three pounds. Deirdre walked me to the door of the shop.

  “I hope you get the good weather,” she said. “And I hope you’ll be very, very happy.”

  As I walked down the winding street, people kept smiling at me—first two middle-aged women, then a woman with a baby, then a grizzled man in a tweed cap and anorak, then two girls my own age. When a boy on a tricycle beamed at me, I finally understood it was because of my own broad smile.

  The last days of my unmarried life passed as slowly as a snail creeping along a wall, as swiftly as a gannet diving into the sea. Every morning I gave Nell lessons; in the afternoons, when it was fine, we visited our favourite haunts. With Vicky’s help I drew up a timetable for the week of my honeymoon: piano lessons were arranged, visits to two families with children Nell’s age. Meanwhile Hugh worked long hours at his desk and paid several visits to Kirkwall. In the evenings we sat in the library or sometimes walked across the fields down to the cove. In moving to London I was breaking my vow to always live beside the sea, and I tried to store up the sights and sounds and smells of the ocean. One evening as we walked along the shore, I asked why he kept his door locked. Months ago Vicky had confessed that she’d cautioned me about locking mine, not out of the fear of Seamus sleepwalking but because Nell had ransacked Miss Cameron’s room.

  Hugh bent to examine a starfish, its pale pink arms curled stiffly in a strand of seaweed, and I thought perhaps he would dodge my question. But when he had put it back in the water he said, “I’m afraid you have an anxious husband.”

  “Fiancé,” I corrected. I had only a few days to use the word.

  “Fiancé,” he said, kissing my hand. Then he told me he’d been looking into finding a tutor to help me prepare for my exams—“you’ll have to decide what subjects you want to study”—and, in the excitement of discussing my choices, I forgot to ask what he could possibly be anxious about.

  From the weddings at my uncle’s church I had memories of flowers and organ music, white dresses and throngs of guests. My own wedding promised to have none of these, although Vicky had presented me with a shell brooch she’d made to match my dress. She and Nell would attend, and Hugh, I assumed, would invite the Laidlaws and some of his island friends, but I was content to leave the arrangements to him. In a few days I would be his next of kin and he would be mine. Later I would go to university and later still, much later, we would have children who would play on the Sands of Evie as Nell and I had done. An enormous sun dwarfed the few dark stars of worry. My dress hung in the wardrobe, my new underwear waited. I packed my smaller suitcase with clothes for Edinburgh. On top I put my precious photographs of my uncle and my mother, and my bird book. Everything else I packed for Vicky to bring when she brought Nell to London. Already my room was beginning to look as if no one lived there.

  On my last evening at Blackbird Hall I went over Nell’s lessons one more time, laying out the books and marking the tasks for each day. Then—Hugh was busy in his study; Nell was in bed; Vicky was at her choir meeting—I wandered outside. I had already said goodbye to the calves but I decided to visit them one more time. They loped over at the sight of me, and I offered my hand to each in turn. Herman rasped my hand with his long purple tongue and Petula nuzzled me with her whole head. “Be good,” I admonished. “Don’t bully the other cows.”

  As I turned to leave, the clouds in the west shifted and the windows of Blackbird Hall gave back the last flare of the sun. For a moment it looked as if the house were on fire, each window scarlet and dazzling. Red sky at night, I thought, shepherd’s delight. Then a lamb bleated in the next field. Not shepherd, I thought, sailor. Maybe we would get the fine day Deirdre had wished us. I pictured us walking arm in arm down the main street in Kirkwall, then on a plane, seeing the island spread out below.

  I was crossing the farmyard on my way back to the house when I heard voices coming from one of the buildings. Keeping to the shadow of the granary, I crept closer. With each step, the conversation grew louder not only with proximity but with anger. At last I edged around the corner and there, standing in the wide doorway of the hay barn, facing each other like boxers between rounds, were Seamus and Hugh.

  “I’m telling you once and for all,” said Seamus, “if you go ahead with this charade I’ll no longer—”

  “No longer what?” I said, stepping forward. “Why are you threatening Hugh?”

  Seamus did not even glance in my direction. “Damn and blast you both,” he said and strode off towards the tractor shed. A few seconds later we heard the growl of the Land Rover.

  “Gemma, I’ve been looking for you.” Hugh hurried over, breathing hard, his colour high.

  “What’s wrong with Seamus? Why is he so upset?”

  “He wants a new bull, and I had to tell him we can’t afford it this year. Let’s go and have a drink in the library.” He took a step towards the house, but I stood firm.

  “What’s ‘this charade’?” I said. “Surely he was talking about us?”

  His eyes darted towards the shed, as if to make sure that Seamus really was gone; then once again he met my gaze. “I’m sorry you had to hear that,” he said. “He’s got it into his head that I chose our wedding over his bull. I was trying to tell him that the former has nothing to do with the latter. The farm hasn’t had a good year, what with the ferry strike and the storm ruining the barley. Come.” Again he motioned towards the house.

  “You don’t think you should try to find him? Make another attempt to explain?”

  “No, he’ll drink and be furious for a few hours. Then he’ll come round. He knows the economics as well as I do. Are you all packed and ready?”

  Not waiting for an answer, he tucked my hand firmly into the crook of his arm and led the way indoors. From the trolley of bottles and decanters in the library he poured me a modest glass of wine, and for himself what he called a wee goldie, and we raised our glasses.

  “Here’s to a hundred years of happiness,” he said fiercely. “We won’t let anyone spoil our life together.”

  “A hundred years,” I echoed.

  He caught my grimace—wine still tasted bitter—and teased me about preferring Ribena. I was telling him what I remembered of Edinburgh, asking if we could visit the castle tomorrow, when we heard the first distant rumble of thunder. And then, even as we were exclaiming, came a flash and another peal much closer. A heavy-footed giant was stalking the heavens.

  “It’s a celestial celebration of our nuptials,” I said. “Like in Shakespeare. Let’s go outside.”

  “Gemma, the storm is almost overhead. We could be struck by lightning. When you’re as old as I am, you can go out in thunderstorms.”

  I was laughing, pulling him towards the window, when the room filled with dazzling light and, almost simultaneously, a huge bang shook the house. For a few seconds the shelves of books shone on the inside of my eyelids. I couldn’t move or think. The storm was suddenly not just a brilliant spectacle but a terrifying threat. Then Hugh drew me down behind a chair.

 
“We’re quite safe,” he said. “It struck something, but not the house.”

  The thunder growled, circling the chimney pots, but his arms were around me, and neither god nor electrical storm could separate us. Briefly I wondered if the storm had woken Nell; if so, I knew she would lie there, counting the intervals between lightning and thunder with keen satisfaction. The next peal was farther away, and the next still farther. At last we stood up and went over to the window.

  “What’s that?” said Hugh.

  The flames I had seen earlier, reflected in the windows of the house, were flickering high up in the garden. After a few seconds we both understood. The green beech tree, the one that had survived the gale unscathed, had been struck.

  “We have to save it,” I said, heading for the door.

  But Hugh stopped me. “Gemma, there’s nothing to be done. The fire is too high up. If the tree is damaged we’ll plant another. In fact, whatever happens, we should plant a tree to mark our marriage.”

  “A silver birch,” I suggested, and he agreed.

  The next morning I did not open the curtains on that side of my room; I preferred not to see the wounded tree, the second wounded tree, on my wedding day. I had breakfast with Nell in the kitchen, a hasty bowl of cornflakes, and then took her upstairs to braid her hair and help her dress. Once she was ready she sat cross-legged on my bed to watch my own preparations. When I pulled on the dress, she gasped and said I looked like a princess. It was true; in the mirror I barely recognised myself. The dress made me seem taller, and more graceful. I remembered how my uncle had described my mother on her wedding day: radiant. I put on my raincoat. Downstairs Vicky, in a purple tweed suit, was waiting for Nell, and Hugh, in a pinstriped suit, for me. He had a white rose in his buttonhole, and I wished I had thought to pick some flowers to carry, but it was too late now. The red sky of the previous evening had lied; rain was streaming down. Hugh held an umbrella over me as we walked to the car. Seamus’s Land Rover was, as usual, parked alongside the tractor shed.

  On the way to Kirkwall, above the beat of the windscreen wipers, and the noise of the engine, I asked what would happen at the registry office. I was suddenly worried that we should have rehearsed.

  “It can’t be too complicated,” said Hugh. He was driving fast, leaning forward occasionally to wipe the windscreen. “Look at all the people who are married. I thought we’d have lobster for supper. Do you like lobster? And of course champagne?”

  “I’ve never tried either.”

  “Oh, Gemma, there are so many things I want to introduce you to. Tonight we’ll have a bottle of the best champagne.”

  The registry office was in an old building off the high street, behind a jeweller’s shop. The vestibule smelled of the electric fire that glowed beside the secretary’s desk. She greeted us pleasantly and said she would let Mr. Muir, the registrar, know we were here. A moment later a man of about Hugh’s age emerged from the inner office. His upright bearing and triangular moustache made me wonder if he too had fought in the war. He wished us good morning and shook Hugh’s hand, then mine.

  “Do you have any witnesses?” he asked. “Guests?”

  “Could you provide witnesses? In this weather our guests could be another half-hour.”

  “No,” I exclaimed. “Nell would never forgive us if she missed our wedding.” Turning to Mr. Muir, I asked if we could wait a few minutes.

  “Of course,” he said. “We’ve no one else coming, and it’s a dreich day.”

  He retreated to his office, the secretary returned to her typing, and Hugh began to measure out the small hall with his impatient stride. “The old women of Hoy say it’s bad luck to delay a wedding,” he said. “Please, Gemma, let’s go ahead.”

  For five more minutes I stood firm. Then, reluctantly, I took off my coat, and we summoned Mr. Muir; the secretary and a woman from the next office would be our witnesses. Mr. Muir had just begun to speak—“Good morning. We are gathered here”—when the door opened. Seamus barged into the room, followed by Vicky and Nell. I turned to give Nell a quick smile. When I turned back, Seamus, in his battered jacket and muddy trousers, was standing in front of us, beside Mr. Muir. Like Miriam’s father years ago he carried with him the smell of the farmyard.

  “If I can’t have what I want,” he said, his eyes fixed on Mr. Sinclair, “I don’t see why you should have what you want.”

  I felt Mr. Sinclair—the name “Hugh” had fled—grip my hand. “Keep going,” he said to Mr. Muir.

  Seamus turned his metallic eyes on me. “Do you know who you’re marrying?”

  “Hugh Sinclair of Blackbird Hall.”

  Seamus put his hand on his chest and gave a little bow. “At your service. It suits him now to be laird of the manor, but there was a time when it didn’t, and I was the one who answered to the name Hugh Sinclair.”

  I knew I shouldn’t ask and also that not asking would make no difference. Seamus was the giant striding towards us now. “What do you mean?”

  “Gemma, I’ll explain everything later. Keep going.”

  He might not have spoken; Seamus stared at me steadily. Vicky cleared her throat. From her raised eyebrows and parted lips I guessed that she was not entirely surprised at the turn events had taken. All along she had harboured some secret dread about our marriage, beyond mere disapproval of the differences in age and class. I let go of Mr. Sinclair’s arm and stepped back so that I could study the two men, him in his suit and Seamus in his farming clothes, side by side. I saw then what should have been obvious from my second meeting with Mr. Sinclair. Seamus was a little heavier, his hair was lighter and finer, but especially now that Mr. Sinclair was tanned from the harvesting, their colouring was very similar. They were of an age and a height, they had the same square shoulders, the same low foreheads; they were distant cousins, but they might have been brothers.

  “Keep going,” Mr. Sinclair said again to Mr. Muir.

  But before the registrar could answer I spoke up. “If we can be married today,” I said, “then we can be married tomorrow. Tell me what he means.”

  “This is most irregular,” said Mr. Muir. “Mr. Sinclair, with all due respect, I think we should reschedule. Please consult me when you’re ready.”

  Without further ado, he turned on his heel and retreated to his inner office. The secretary, who had come out from behind her desk to be our witness, returned to her seat and lit a cigarette.

  “Are you married?” Nell asked. “Does this mean you’re married?”

  In the vestibule, awkwardly crowded by our little party, Seamus and Mr. Sinclair faced each other, each in the grip of emotions that had existed long before my arrival at Blackbird Hall but that my presence there had sharply exacerbated.

  “Will you tell her,” Seamus said, “or will I?”

  Mr. Sinclair flung down his own gauntlet. “Where were you the night Alison died?”

  At the end of weddings in my uncle’s church the organist had played “Here Comes the Bride,” and the church bells had pealed joyfully. Now from a nearby church came a single melancholy stroke. Mr. Sinclair kept tight hold of my hand.

  Seamus closed his eyes. “I was waiting outside her flat,” he said. “We’d quarrelled the night before, and I was hoping she’d step out to buy wine, or cigarettes. You know what she was like when she argued; she’d hurl any stone that came to hand. I’d hurled a few myself.” He opened his eyes but not to look at us. “I was going to tell her I was ready to give up the farm, and move to Glasgow. I could work as a builder, or a joiner. The streetlights had just come on when at last she appeared, in her red jacket, and turned towards the river. We’d often walked that way together.”

  And now he turned to Mr. Sinclair, his gaze no longer fierce but stricken. “I’ve thought ten thousand times about what happened next. We were passing a pub and I stopped for a quick dram. I hoped the whisky would help me mind my tongue. I was less than five minutes, I swear, but by the time I reached the river she was already rolling down
her sleeve—”

  I pulled free of Mr. Sinclair, reached for Nell’s hand and, before she could hear more about her mother, led her out into the rain. Neither of us had an umbrella, but at least she still had her coat. In an instant my new dress and shoes were soaked.

  “Where are we going?” said Nell. “It’s pouring.”

  I spotted a newsagent across the road and we ran towards it. Inside, the small shop smelled of paraffin. I bought us each a Mars bar and asked the woman behind the counter if we could wait there for the rain to pass.

  “You’ll be here all day,” she said, “but be my guests.”

  “I didn’t see you get married,” Nell said.

  “We decided to wait for a few days. Did you understand what Seamus was saying about your mum?”

  She took a bite of her Mars bar and looked up at me with her small brown eyes. “Sort of.”

  “Your mother made a mistake—she took too much medicine—but she never meant to leave you.”

  Nell took another bite. In my haste that morning I had braided her hair too loosely; already one plait was unravelling. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “You can’t even get married.”

  Her fist landed in my stomach with surprising force. I was doubled over when the shop bell clanged behind her.

  By the time I had straightened up, retrieved her Mars bar from the floor, and told the shopkeeper I was fine, Nell had found Vicky on the other side of the road. From the doorway I watched the two of them hurrying along beneath a black umbrella.

  Mr. Sinclair’s car was still outside the registry office. I walked over, not bothering to hurry, opened the door, and got in. I sat Claypoole fashion with my hands folded in my lap, my feet, icy in my wet shoes, neatly together. Not everyone who was fond of me died, but everyone came to harm. The door opened. He handed me my coat, then he walked around the car, got in, and closed the door. Awkwardly, in the confined space, I pulled on the coat. We sat not talking, not looking at each other, while the windows misted up around us. I had no idea what he was thinking, or even what I was.