Holding the newspaper as a shield, I searched my life as if it were one of Nell’s puzzles where the aim was to find the six parrots hidden in a tree. Was there someone I had overlooked who would take me in? To my surprise the first person that came into view was Miss Bryant. I pictured myself knocking on her door, then I pictured her dismay at the sight of me, followed by—and this was oddly distressing to contemplate—her helplessness. She no longer had jobs at her command, hotels asking for working girls. She would have no choice but to take me in herself, or send me away.
Who else? I thought. Dr. White had always been kind, but I was not sure he would smile if I appeared, unexpectedly, at his surgery. With Ross I had long lost contact. Matron, in the Lake District, was too far away. As for Miss Seftain, with her sister in Dunblane, she herself was a guest on sufferance. Besides, how could I explain, after my last letter, why I was fleeing my marriage? The secret was not mine to tell.
And even if I could, in veiled terms, hint at my reasons, I had only to remember Mr. Sinclair’s voice as he talked on and on outside my door the night before—love, a mistake, years ago—to know that she would never understand. There was no obstacle to the marriage that had not, unbeknownst to me, been there all along.
“That’s mine.”
Two boys were playing hopscotch on the pavement. The lanky, dark-haired one reminded me of Nell. If she was following the timetable I had left she would—I checked my watch—be sitting at the kitchen table reading while Vicky made lunch. I had given her a story for each day we were apart. Today’s was about a goat who lies to his master and gets his sons into trouble; I imagined Nell giggling at the goat’s bad behaviour. Then I recalled our parting of the day before. I could not afford to think of Nell any more than of Mr. Sinclair. Quickly I returned to the newspaper. A blurry photograph of the Thurso school football team stared out at me. As I read down the list of matches—Inverness, Aberdeen, Wick, Ullapool—I remembered my dream of the previous afternoon. Mr. Donaldson, he was the hidden parrot. Years too late I could apologise for the wrong I had done him, and retrieve my box. At long last I could read the papers my parents had left me.
Other passengers began to seat themselves on the wall; the bus arrived. The conductor helped me lift my suitcase onto the rack behind the driver. As we drove out of town, I thought, just for a moment, of crying, “Stop! Stop!” I could still get off and go and wait by the ferry until Mr. Sinclair arrived the next day. But no, a man who would sell his sister, who would ask another man to go down a mine for him, who would lie and take advantage of his wealth—that was not the man I wanted to marry.
The bus was draughty and the seats hard, but in Inverness, I got out reluctantly; it too had become my home. The bus station was larger than the one in Thurso, with several buses lined up and groups of travellers waiting. Two men, their clothes ragged, their faces seamed with dirt, occupied a bench. I glimpsed sheets of newspaper sticking out between the buttons of the younger man’s coat. “Want a seat?” he called. “Plenty of room for a bonnie lass.” Hastily I turned away.
I had thought I might stay in Inverness, but now I decided to press on. There was still one bus going south that day, to Pitlochry. Hearing the woman in the ticket office say the name, I suddenly remembered I had been there once with my uncle and cousins to see the hydroelectric dam. We had visited the fish-ladder and watched the salmon swimming upstream to lay their eggs.
I bought a ham-and-cheese roll, a Kit Kat, and a bottle of Lucozade, and boarded another bus. It was almost full but I had two seats to myself. I set my bag beside me, drew my coat close, and, lulled by the motion and the bare moors of the Cairngorms, soon fell asleep. I woke when the bus stopped at a small village and a man smelling of onions stepped into the seat beside me. Silently he waited for me to move my handbag and sat down. In sidelong glances I saw that beneath his cap his glasses had been mended with black tape and his jacket was worn and patched. I fell back into an uneven doze.
I could not have said how many miles or minutes passed before I became aware that my new companion was leaning against me more than the lurching of the bus warranted. Something warm rested on my thigh. Opening my eyes, I discovered the man’s threadbare cuff resting on the edge of my coat; his hand had slipped beneath. Meanwhile he was looking straight ahead, as if the hand and whatever it was doing had nothing to do with him.
“Excuse me,” I said loudly, scrambling to my feet, “I think I’m going to be sick.”
He had no choice but to let me step into the aisle. I moved forward to the only remaining empty seat, right behind the driver, where a chill draught kept me alert for the remainder of the journey. Dusk was falling as we entered Pitlochry, but I spotted bed-and-breakfast signs outside several houses. Surely one of them would have room for me. I would leave my suitcase, find something to eat, wash off the grime of the bus and the man’s hand, sleep, and have a good breakfast. Then I could plan my journey to Oban. Perhaps the landlady would have an atlas.
The bus turned off the main road and pulled up beside the railway station. I climbed down and, not looking to see where the man went, I headed back to the main road towards the bed-and-breakfasts. I was walking past a row of shops when I caught, at first faintly, and within a few steps overwhelmingly, the smell of fish and chips. Suddenly I was so hungry that even a few minutes’ delay seemed intolerable.
The man behind the counter wore a blue-and-white-striped apron; a white hat rested, comically, on his large ears. “What can I do for you?” he said. I asked for a large chips. Deftly he filled a grease-proof paper bag, wrapped the whole in newspaper leaving the top open, and held it towards me. “Salt and vinegar are on the counter. You’re welcome to eat here.” He was still speaking as I seized a chip. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?” he said approvingly.
“Starving. This is the best chip I’ve ever eaten.”
“Och, it’s not every day a customer says that. That’ll be ninepence, please.”
Still chewing, I reached into my handbag. My fingers found the newspaper I had bought in Inverness, a handkerchief, a brush and comb, a compact, a notebook and pen, the Kit Kat wrapper. Carefully I carried my bag over to the counter, and took out each article. My purse was here; it was just hiding, lost at the bottom. I had opened it half-a-dozen times that day as I paid for taxis, bought tickets and food. When the handbag was empty I shook it over the counter. A single hair clip fell out.
“Ninepence,” the man repeated, his jolliness fading.
“I’m sorry. I can’t find my purse.”
“That’s handy.”
“I must have left it on the bus. I’ll go and get it right now.”
Leaving the chips, seizing my suitcase, I hurried back the way I had come. The bus was approaching and I stepped into the headlights, waving my free hand. It stopped. Beyond the glare of the lights, the driver pointed to the NOT IN SERVICE sign. I set down my case and put my hands together. Reluctantly he opened the door. “I’m going to the garage. There are no more buses tonight.”
“Please,” I said. “I lost my purse.”
At once he pulled over and beckoned me aboard. I searched beneath what I thought was the seat where I had first sat. I searched behind and in front of the seat I had occupied for the rest of the journey. The driver fetched a torch and shone it back and forth over the dirty floor.
“It must be here,” I kept saying as the beam caught matchsticks, sweet wrappers, a cigarette end, a pink comb.
He picked up the last. “Are you sure this is where you lost it?”
“I had it when I got on. I paid for my ticket. Then I got off, and it was gone.”
But even as I spoke, I understood what must have happened. The man who had put his hand on my leg had put his hand somewhere else. Or perhaps the purse had fallen out when I jumped up, pretending to feel sick, and he had pocketed it. All day I had been careless about closing my handbag, behaving as if I were still on the Orkneys.
“Maybe you dropped it and someone picked it up?�
�� the driver persisted. “You were the first one off. If you’re lucky, they’ll take it to the police station in the morning. Is there anything in it to prove it’s yours?”
“The bus tickets,” I said faintly.
“Well, off you go home now. Call at the station in the morning.” He switched off the torch and returned to his seat.
At Claypoole I had seldom seen money, and at Blackbird Hall weeks had passed without my needing more than sixpence for the church collection. Now I was in the world where I was going to need money every day and I had none. I picked up my suitcase and climbed down into the street. The bus, my last link with my old life, drove away, and I forced myself to walk back to the fish-and-chips shop. There were still no other customers. The man was listening to the radio; I recognised one of Vicky’s favourite programmes.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I lost my purse on the bus. I don’t have any money.”
His lips tightened and I braced myself for an outburst. Then he seemed to take in my raincoat, my suitcase, my bedraggled hair. He added a couple of chips to the bag and held it out. “Come back and pay when you can.”
“I will,” I promised fervently.
For a few minutes sitting at the counter, eating the chips one by one, I almost forgot my troubles but soon the bag was empty. I waved my thanks to the man, now occupied with other customers, and once more picked up my suitcase. At the street corner I set it down and stopped to think. It was nearly nine o’clock, dark and chilly. Where could I sleep? Recalling the men in Inverness, I thought I could look for a bench at the railway station, but that seemed too public; besides, there were laws against loitering. A park would be safer. I was wondering how to find one when, nearby, a bell chimed the hour. At once that seemed like the answer. My uncle had always left the door of his church open. In the sixteenth century, he’d told me, a person could seek sanctuary for thirty-seven days.
The town was not quite deserted—a few teenagers loitered on street corners, a couple of dog walkers were patrolling—but to ask directions to the nearest church at this hour seemed suspicious. Stopping periodically to switch my suitcase to the other hand, I followed the main road into town. I passed more shops and a large hotel. In the morning, I thought, I would apply there for a job. There was no question now of going to Oban. I needed food and shelter as soon as possible. Glancing up a side street, I glimpsed a second hotel. I walked over to take a closer look. Just beyond the hotel, across the street, was a church set back on a grassy mound.
A man with a walking stick and a small white dog was coming up the hill. I waited for him to tap by and headed towards the church. Please, I thought. I climbed the broad steps, set down my suitcase, and with both hands clasped the metal ring. The latch engaged; the door yielded. I picked up my case, and stepped inside.
In the darkness I stood, counting, waiting for my pupils to expand. By the time I reached seventy the arched outlines of the windows were faintly visible and, below, the rows of pews. I could still have drawn a detailed plan of my uncle’s church, and leaving my case by the door, I walked down the nave towards the altar. Steps, I thought, and here they were: one, two, three. Arms outstretched, I circled the altar, searching for the vestry. My knee knocked against a chair; my hand met a doorframe and then a switch.
A few seconds of light showed me the familiar vestments hanging on a hook, also a counter, a small sink, and a kettle. A half-open door revealed a toilet. Once I was sure I was alone, I risked having the light on for five minutes, long enough to make use of the plumbing. In the dark I returned to my suitcase, chose a pew near the door, took off my shoes, and lay down.
I slept poorly. The church was cold, the pew narrow and, even with cushions, hard. Sometime in the night I put on another pullover and wrapped the newspaper I had bought in Thurso around my legs. As I had years ago at Yew House, I parsed every sound into would-be kidnappers, thieves, rapists, murderers. Or if not two-legged assailants, then four-footed ones who would nibble my fingers and chew my nose. And if there were no sounds my brain whirled with thoughts of what I would do tomorrow without food, or shelter, or almost any money. I had found some coins in the pocket of my trousers—enough for a loaf of bread and a pint of milk. But all these difficulties were infinitely preferable to dwelling on the loss of Mr. Sinclair, and of Nell.
I woke to the sound of the clock chiming; my watch showed seven o’clock. In the vestry I washed and brushed my teeth. Using the mirror of my compact, I checked my face and hair and straightened my collar. It was important to look neat when I presented myself at the hotels. Beside the kettle, I discovered the makings for tea. I made myself a cup and added several spoonfuls of sugar and dried milk. I sat drinking it in the pew farthest from the door. If anyone came in, I could hide the cup and pretend to be an early worshipper. Then I read my book until the clock struck nine.
Not wanting the encumbrance, I left my suitcase tucked under a pew. Unless someone washed the floors, which looked to be a rare event, I was confident it would not be found. Outside the day was bright and mild. Behind the church the streets of the town stretched up towards the hills; in front were the rooftops of the buildings that lined the main street. In other circumstances, I thought, this would be a pretty place. I hurried down the steps and across the road to the hotel.
The hall was deserted, but the sounds of cutlery and conversation led me to the dining-room, where a dozen people were breakfasting. I gazed yearningly at their plates until the waitress, a girl around my age, asked if she could help me. When I said I was looking for the manager she sent me back to the hall with instructions to ring the bell.
I did and a woman appeared, her broad face shining, her spectacles resting on the wide shelf of her chest. “Good morning,” she said. “Aren’t we lucky with the weather?”
I said we were and that I was looking for a job. “I can clean, serve people. I’ve had a lot of experience preparing vegetables, washing-up, whatever you need.”
She nodded approvingly. “I’m sure you’re very well qualified, dear, but the tourist season is nearly over. We’re letting people go, not taking them on. If you want to leave your name and address, I can let you know if we need someone at Christmas.” As she spoke, she slipped on her spectacles to examine me more closely.
“I’ll do anything. Wash windows, scrub floors. Feed the pigs.”
The woman smiled. “We don’t have pigs, more’s the pity. Here.” She produced a sheet of paper and a pen. “Write down your name and address. Do you have a phone?”
Hastily, mumbling that I would let her know, I turned to leave.
Back at the main road I headed away from the other hotel. Idiot. Even at Claypoole, when I had thought of myself as having almost nothing, I had had an address, and, I now recalled, I had offered references when I applied for jobs. I passed an electrical shop and a milk bar. Then a funeral director’s and another church set back from the road. Just beyond the latter was a cul-de-sac of pebble-dashed bungalows: Newholme Avenue. I chose number seven because of the scarlet dahlias in the front garden. We were waiting for a phone. As for a reference, Miss Bryant would serve. Surely post was forwarded from Claypoole.
Fortified by my plan, I walked back to the other hotel I had seen the night before. The stout wooden door announced, as clearly as if it had spoken, that while Mr. Sinclair and his kind were welcome here, small insignificant people were not. I drew back my shoulders and turned the knob. The hall was larger and brighter but once again deserted. A murky picture of a stag at bay occupied one wall; next to it was a door labelled LADIES. Inside I washed my hands, relishing the soap and hot water. In the mirror I put on lipstick and combed my hair.
When I emerged a man in a suit was standing at the counter, thumbing pound notes out of his wallet. My heart jumped. His hands, his wallet, the slope of his shoulders were so much like those of Mr. Sinclair. Then his profile came into view, and the resemblance vanished. From behind the counter rose an unctuous voice. “Always a pleasure to see you, sir. We do h
ope you enjoyed your stay, sir. Haste ye back.”
Turning from the counter, the man caught sight of me, waiting. “Good morning.” He smiled. “Grand day.”
I smiled back, and he strolled out into his comfortable, prosperous life.
“Yes, miss?” said the man behind the counter, his voice quite different.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “I’m looking for a position as a chambermaid, or a cook’s helper, or a waitress.”
In so far as he could, given the counter between us, he looked me up and down. I must have passed some test, for he produced a clipboard with a form and told me to go and fill it out in the bar. The questions should have been easy—name, address, age, education, experience, references—but each was freighted with complications. In my neatest writing I wrote, “Jean Harvey,” increased my age, claimed to have worked for two years at Claypoole, and listed Miss Bryant and Miss Seftain as references. Under DATE WHEN AVAILABLE I wrote, “Today.”
Back at the counter the man was bent over a sheaf of papers. The only sounds were the scratch of his pen, the sifting of paper against paper. I pretended that I was playing statues with Nell and Vicky. If I stood as still as possible then surely he would offer me a job. Three minutes passed, four, seven. Finally a woman in an apron bustled over.
“Harry, has number six left?” She held out an umbrella. “There’s someone waiting to talk to you.”
“They were on their way right after breakfast,” he said, accepting the umbrella. “Thanks, Sheila. Yes, miss?”
“Miss Harvey. Jean Harvey. Here’s the form. I hope I filled it out correctly.”
He took the clipboard and, without looking at my answers, set it on a shelf and returned to his papers. “Excuse me, sir.” I had not seen another hotel in town. “I was hoping for something starting immediately.”
The Flight of Gemma Hardy Page 27
