The Flight of Gemma Hardy

by Margot Livesey

  “Not pleased,” I said. “Relieved. And”—another idea rushed in—“that was why you had my uncle buried in Edinburgh, rather than here, in his parish.”

  “Charles always said you had brains. Yes, I wanted to be able to visit Ian, and having Charles there made it easier. With him and my parents dead, no one else knew. I’ve thought of telling Will, but he’s already furious with me for being ill.”

  As if to demonstrate, she began to cough, a dry hacking that shook the rug across her knees. Robin looked up; he had abandoned his cars for his colouring book. I hovered over her, offering water. Finally she managed a few sips and the cough subsided.

  “Why did you tell me?” I said.

  She spread her thin hands. “The doctor claims I’ll be well by midsummer, which is balderdash. It began to weigh on me that I’d kick the bucket and no one would know. With everyone else I have something to lose. But you can’t possibly think worse of me than you already do.”

  It did not occur to me to contradict her.

  “I’m sure you don’t remember when you first came here,” she went on. “I would try to read to you and play with you. But you pushed me aside and howled for your uncle. Eventually I stopped trying.”

  “I was three years old,” I said. “I missed my father.”

  “I know, but your crying made me feel as if you knew that I had never loved your uncle, as if you were determined to give him the love I couldn’t.”

  So Miriam was right; she had been jealous. “I thought you always hated me.”

  “Not always,” she said judiciously. “I did try to make you welcome. Your uncle never betrayed for a second that Will wasn’t his. But nothing I did made a difference, and after Charles’s death, you turned into a little monster, hitting your cousins, breaking their toys.”

  She yawned, as if the mere memory of my bad behaviour fatigued her. I bit back my retort. Mindful that I might not have another chance, I said I had something I wanted to tell her. Did she remember Mr. Donaldson, the schoolteacher?

  “From Edinburgh?” My aunt raised her eyebrows. “Poked his nose in where he shouldn’t have.”

  Briefly I described my visit to Oban, what I’d learned about Mr. Donaldson’s life after he left the village. “You ruined him. People believed whatever you said about him and he couldn’t get a job again.”

  She gave an imperious sniff. “He ruined himself. If he’d been any kind of a decent teacher he’d have found work. I couldn’t have you in the house, upsetting Will, quarrelling with Louise and Veronica, making us feel like bad people. That’s the thing about you, Gemma. When you came in a few minutes ago I thought you’d grown up, but you’re still the same. After all these years you can’t accept you might not know the whole story.”

  Suddenly Robin was standing in front of my aunt, holding his colouring book. “You’re calling Jean the wrong name, and your hair is funny.”

  Following his gaze, I saw that my aunt’s abundant golden coils were no longer her own.

  “Rude child,” she said calmly and reached to straighten her wig.

  She was nicer, I thought, than she used to be. I drew Robin to me and asked again about my birth certificate.

  “I could have sworn Charles kept the papers to do with you in the bottom drawer of his desk, but Audrey said it was empty. When we finish talking, look for yourself. Perhaps you’ll have better luck. But don’t get your hopes up about anything else. After your father died, Charles tried to find out if there was any money from the house, the boat, but writing to people who barely had two words of English—well, it was hopeless. By any normal reckoning you owe me thousands of pounds for your board and keep.”

  “Just like Will owes my uncle thousands of pounds. Fathers aren’t cheap.”

  “Rubbish,” she said faintly.

  I stared at her lips bright with lipstick, the rings rattling on her thin fingers. “Do you know anything about my parents? Where they lived? What my father’s name was?”

  “Gemma, I never liked you. I never liked your mother. I’m ill. Remembering your family history was not my favourite thing when—”

  Before she could finish, Robin piped up again. “Don’t speak to Jean that way. She came all this way to see you.”

  “Hush,” I said. “May I go and look in the study now?”

  “You may. Come back and tell me what you find. I’m going to close my eyes for a minute.” She leaned back in her chair and did so.

  I gathered up Robin’s toys, moved the radio back to the table, and leading him by the hand, stepped out of the room and across the corridor to my uncle’s study. Here, to my huge relief, nothing had changed. His desk, the bookcases, the thick green curtains, the armchair beside the fire, even the ashes in the grate looked exactly the same. I asked Robin if he would draw me a picture of the room. “It belonged to someone I was very fond of,” I said.

  I settled him in the window-seat and turned to search the desk for the second time. The sermon about no man being an island still lay on top, facedown. “We each begin as an island,” I read, “but we soon build bridges.” I slipped the pages into my notebook. I worked slowly down through the drawers of notes, sermons, and letters. If I had not discovered the box years before, it would be waiting for me now. Finally I had no choice but to open that last drawer. As Audrey had said, it was empty, or almost. In the bottom lay a faded magazine with a boat on the cover. I recognised the strange words as Icelandic. How had it come into my uncle’s possession? I wondered as I turned the pages showing photographs of boats and ponies. And there, between a page of print and a picture of a box of herring, was a faded brown envelope addressed to Charles Hardy at Yew House. I drew out a piece of paper folded in three. My mother’s name, my father’s name, my Icelandic name, and the name of the hospital in Edinburgh where I had been born were written in meticulous black copperplate. A second piece of paper showed that my uncle had legally changed my name to Gemma Hardy.

  “What happened?” said Robin, sliding off the window-seat and running to my side. “Did you get a splinter?”

  “No,” I said, though I did feel as if something had pierced me. “I found what I was looking for.”

  “Oh, good,” he said comfortably. “Jean, I need to go to the loo.”

  When he agreed that he could wait for five minutes, I sat down in my uncle’s chair, pressed my palms to the desk, and silently began to speak. I’m sorry, I said, that your life was so much harder than I knew and that there were so many things I didn’t understand. I could never do what you did, marry someone I didn’t love, but I admire you for paying your brother’s debts. If there is an afterlife I hope you’ve met people who cherish you. Thank you for coming to Iceland and for taking me into your home.

  Then I picked up his fountain pen, something he had used every day, and put that too into my bag, along with the magazine, the precious envelope, and the sermon. Hastily—Robin had repeated his request for the loo—I approached the bookshelves and retrieved Birds of the World.

  When we emerged from the W.C., Audrey Marsden was waiting in the kitchen. So, unfortunately, was Louise. Beneath her watchful gaze, Audrey and I greeted each other. She looked younger than I remembered. Her hair, no longer pulled into a severe bun, fell in soft waves around her face, and instead of her pale twinsets and dowdy tweed skirts, she wore a vivid turquoise sweater and dark trousers. Vicky’s theory about her sudden departure from the Orkneys seemed much more plausible. She offered cake and more tea and then asked what had become of me since I went away to school. “You were such a wee thing to send off alone on a long journey.”

  “You made me a nice lunch. All my favourite things. The school was awful. They treated the working girls—that’s what they called us—worse than servants, but there were a couple of good teachers. Then the school closed down and I went to the Orkneys as an au pair. Now I look after Robin near Aberfeldy.”

  “The Orkneys,” said Louise. “Isn’t that where you come from, Audrey?” She and Audrey were sitting
at opposite ends of the table; Robin and I were together on the long side. Audrey gave a faint nod.

  “You used to tell me stories about the islands,” I continued. “That was one reason I wanted to go there. I worked for someone who knew you at school, Vicky Sinclair. She said how much she admired you,” I embellished.

  Almost despite herself Audrey looked pleased. “I’m amazed she remembers me,” she said. “I was eight or nine years older, and she lived in the back of beyond.”

  “She runs into your mother in Kirkwall sometimes.”

  “You have a mother?” said Louise. “I’ve never heard you mention her.” She was looking on in a jocular fashion, her interest piqued at the notion that her mother’s housekeeper of so many years had secrets.

  “We’re not on good terms,” said Audrey. “More tea? How’s the cake, young man?” Another lapwing, I thought, running broken-winged away from her nest.

  “Nice,” said Robin, and then, seeing me mouth the words, added, “Thank you.”

  “Vicky works for Mr. Sinclair of Blackbird Hall,” I persisted. “Did you know him?” It was the first time I had said his name to another person since Maes Howe. Just this once, I bargained.

  Audrey straightened the turquoise cuffs of her pullover. “By sight. I’d have thought Vicky would be married by now. She was a lively girl.”

  “You can never tell who’s going to get married,” said Louise. “Mummy was convinced I was a hopeless case until Brian came along.” She raised her hand and I noticed the ring. As she continued to bring the conversation back to what she regarded as its proper focus, I caught Audrey’s glance. If Louise left the room, I thought, there might be more to say. But Louise kept talking, and it was Audrey who at last stood up, saying she must check on my aunt.

  “I’d like to say goodbye to her,” I said. “Robin and I need to go soon.”

  “At your service.” Louise touched an imaginary cap.

  But Audrey returned to report that my aunt was fast asleep. “Talking to you must have tired her,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Louise. “What did she want to see you about?”

  Her brown eyes quickened, and I was suddenly aware of my power. My aunt’s story was like a smooth stone. If I threw it, it would break open the life of Yew House. “Just something about my parents,” I said. “I’m going to university in the autumn and I needed to get a couple of facts straight.”

  “Are you talking about money?” Louise said sharply. “Because if so, you don’t have any claim on Mummy. She did her best by you, but that’s all past now.”

  “No, I’ll get a grant. Still you’d be surprised how many forms ask about your parents.”

  Audrey started to say something about my present situation, but Louise was moving to pick up Robin’s bag of toys. Quickly, not wanting her to see the book and the magazine, I stepped forward to retrieve it. Then on a page from my notebook I wrote down the MacGillvarys’ address and phone number. “Here,” I said to Audrey, “if you ever need to reach me. Please thank my aunt for me. I’m glad I saw her again.”

  We both hesitated, not knowing whether to shake hands or to embrace. Then I reached my arms around her. As I kissed her cheek, I smelled a familiar fragrance: my aunt’s perfume. Looking again at her smart trousers and pullover, I wondered if those too came from my aunt. And why not? No one could possibly be paying her enough for all she was doing, and soon she would lose both her home and her job.

  In the car Robin slumped against me, asleep before we reached the end of the drive. Louise remarked that Mummy was marvellous. Except for the occasional cough, you would never know she was ill, would you. No, I said, and then, it seemed a natural question, I asked if she remembered her father.

  “Of course. It was awful when he died. One minute he was telling me to do my homework, the next he was gone. No one could believe it—a grown man going through the ice.” She braked for a crow in the road. “Most of my memories are from when I was small. He would carry me on his shoulders, make up songs and stories. Then you came, and Mummy started teaching me to ride.”

  I was still thinking about this last sentence, and how it echoed my aunt’s claim that my arrival had changed the household, as she began to talk about her wedding. “Veronica wants to design the dresses, make everything French, but I wrote to her last week that we might do things sooner. Just in case Mummy’s cough gets worse. I don’t need a French dress.”

  We had passed no houses for miles, but now on the left was a whitewashed inn with a sign: TRAVELLERS WELCOME. Louise asked if I remembered going there for lunch. “It was the day we went to the fish-ladder in Pitlochry. You had a ginger beer and Will made you laugh so hard it came out of your nose.”

  A moment ago I would have sworn that I had never set foot in the inn. Now I recalled the five of us sitting around a table, Veronica and me perched on the edge of our chairs. We had eaten sandwiches and bags of crisps, each with a little screw of blue paper containing salt. My aunt was right, I thought; I did know only part of the story.

  chapter thirty

  As we walked up the lane, Robin kept stopping to pick the daisies that grew on the grassy verges. I was happy to wait for him. Watching him bend over the flowers, I wondered if he would remember any part of this outing in a few months, any part of me a year hence. Probably not. From his point of view the visit had been dull, save for my aunt’s wig slipping and the cake, and although he was fond of me, someone else could easily take my place. Someone else would. Smoke was rising from our neighbours’ chimneys and I heard the sound of the radio in Mrs. Lewis’s kitchen. If Marian hadn’t cooked, I would offer to make scrambled eggs and baked beans for supper. That had been Nell’s favourite meal. What was she doing on this April evening? It was quite possible that I would never see her again either.

  “For Granny,” Robin said, brandishing a dishevelled posy, and began to run towards the house. Suddenly I remembered George. “Robin,” I called, “wait.” But after his long afternoon of being good, he kept running, impatient to see his beloved grandmother. The gate stood open and he trotted down the garden path. After a brief struggle with the doorknob, he was inside.

  “Granny,” I heard him call, “we’re back.”

  I followed, picking up first one fallen daisy, then another. Perhaps after supper, I thought, I would do something outrageous, like go to the local pub and treat myself to a shandy. I was at the kitchen door when Robin started to scream. A few seconds later he barrelled into me, his cheeks scarlet. In one flailing hand he held a sheet of paper.

  “I can’t read,” he cried.

  I knelt to put my arms around him. “Robin, the note is for me. Let me read it.” Finally—he hated to surrender any vestige of his grandmother—I pried the paper from his small fingers.

  Saturday, 3:30

  Jean,

  Dr. Young thinks George needs emergency surgery. Gone to Perth Infirmary. Can you take care of Robin? I’ll phone.

  Marian

  Robin cried for almost an hour. Marian, like his mother, was gone forever, and trying to persuade him to the contrary was like throwing a glass of water onto a burning building. Only when I had shown him her piano and her bed and her wardrobe full of clothes and her Wellington boots did he calm down enough to help me make supper. I opened a tin of baked beans; together we broke eggs into a bowl. I was fishing out fragments of shell when the phone rang. Robin raced to the hall. He stood beside the ringing instrument, mute and imploring.

  “Hello,” said a woman’s voice. “Marian is phoning from Perth. Will you accept the charges?”

  “What charges?” In my confusion I forgot Vicky’s lesson about how to make a phone call without money.

  “Do you want to talk to Marian MacGillvary?” said the operator.

  “Yes, of course.” The air on the line changed. Before Marian could say anything I said, “You have to talk to Robin. Tell him that you’re all right and you’ll be back soon.” I knelt down and held the receiver to his ear. Faintly I hear
d Marian say she had gone to Perth to take care of his grandfather. She would see him tomorrow, or the day after. He must help me and be a good boy. Robin nodded, solemnly, not realising that she couldn’t see him. “Say goodbye,” I said, and he did.

  I reclaimed the phone, and asked about George. Marian reported that he was still in surgery. They had had to call the doctor in from the golf course. She was staying in a bed-and-breakfast near the hospital. “I’m sorry to land you with Robin but I’m in no state to drive back and forth. I want to be here when George wakes up.”

  Her voice broke on the “when.” She promised to call again tomorrow and was gone. As I replaced the phone, I recalled the Latin phrase annus mirabilis; today was my dies mirabilis, day of wonders. I had seen my aunt. I had learned that she too had a secret sorrow. I had two pieces of paper that proved I was Gemma Hardy. And as Jean Harvey I was in sole charge of a small boy and a large house.

  Together Robin and I finished making supper and ate. He took a bath and I read to him about parliamentary reform. Then, using cushions from the sofa, I made a bed for him on the floor of my room. While he snored softly I sat at my desk, copying the details of my birth certificate into my notebook. Here was the time and place of my birth, 3:37 A.M. on 18 April 1948. My mother’s maiden name: Agnes Hardy. My father’s name: Einar Arinbjornsson; his occupation: fisherman. For their address they gave Yew House. The certificate was copied from the registry of births, marriages, and deaths in Edinburgh. The idea of these details, safe in some office, was profoundly reassuring. So too was the discovery, when I opened Birds of the World, that the lyre-bird and the puffin and the fairy-wren were still there, enjoying their habitat.

  The next morning Marian dialed directly. As she reported that George was awake and had said her name, I heard the soft click of coins dropping into the phone. She did not mention coming home but told me that I would find housekeeping money in the top drawer of her dresser. When I looked beneath her neatly folded underwear, there was more than two hundred pounds, mostly in the one- and five-pound notes her pupils paid her.