The Flight of Gemma Hardy

by Margot Livesey

  As the day progressed, I learned what Marian’s life had been like before I arrived. My timetable for Sunday read:

  9–10 Algebra + trigonometry

  10–11 Latin

  11–12:30 French

  12:30–1:30 Walk + lunch

  1:30–2:30 French

  2:30–4:00 English

  Tea

  4:30–6:30 History

  Supper

  King Lear + Great Tradition

  By the time I put Robin to bed I had managed a few algebra problems and twenty minutes of French, but when I opened King Lear, I was so tired that I could not keep Edgar and Edmund straight. After half an hour I closed the book in despair. I would never get the results I needed unless I studied hard this last week. On Monday afternoon, when I usually attended classes at the school, Robin and I walked into Aberfeldy to post my passport application. Then we went to Honeysuckle Cottage. At the sight of my face, Hannah fetched some clay and set Robin up on a sheet of plastic on the kitchen floor. Could he make us each a present? Under Emily’s scrutiny, he set to work.

  Hannah already knew about George. Now I told her that Marian was staying in Perth. My exams started next week, and these last days of study were crucial. And what if Marian was still away next week? How could I sit the exams and take care of Robin? At the sound of his name he shot me an anxious stare. Quickly I asked what he was making.

  “A cat,” he said, grinning at Emily.

  “People will rally round,” said Hannah. “Robin can help me in the pottery. And won’t some of the neighbours mind him?”

  “But what about the exams?” I repeated. Hannah still didn’t seem to understand how demanding Robin was, how much I needed to study.

  “Marian will be back. Here,” she said to Robin, “let me show you how to make a vase out of snakes.” Kneeling beside him, she began to roll out a coil of clay.

  We had been back at the house for an hour when there was a knock at the door and a voice called, “Hello.” Hannah must have telephoned Archie as soon as we left.

  For the next four days he came every afternoon after his deliveries. He played with Robin, helped me study, and, to my surprise, took over the cooking. This last he approached like a chemistry experiment, measuring ingredients and timing each stage precisely. “Is this finely chopped?” he would ask. “What does thickened mean?” After supper, when Robin was safely in bed, we sat at opposite ends of the kitchen table, both reading. Sometimes Archie quizzed me on that night’s subject. His French was hopeless, but he read over the essays I had written in history and English and made suggestions. At nine-thirty he would close his book, get to his feet, and bid me good night. Once he praised my Horace translation, another time he wished me sweet dreams, but for the most part our conversation seldom strayed beyond the immediate demands: Robin, groceries, news of George, my studies.

  On Friday evening the three of us were in the kitchen when a car drove up the lane. Often, at the sound of visitors, Robin still vanished beneath the table. Now he was running for the door. A minute later he reappeared in the arms of his grandmother.

  I had not known that a few days could so greatly change a person who had money and a bed. Marian’s skirt hung in folds, her hair, unwashed, clung to her head, and her cheeks had a bruised look. She greeted Archie and me quietly. Still carrying Robin, she went upstairs to unpack. Half an hour later they joined us for supper. While Robin told her about the wigwam he had built with the Lewis children, she toyed with Archie’s vegetable pie.

  Finally I said, “How is George?”

  “This was delicious.” She set down her knife and fork. “The doctor says he should be ready to come home in a fortnight, but he won’t be able to manage stairs. I thought we could turn the dining-room into a bedroom for him? It’s warm and near the loo. We usually eat in here anyway.” She clasped her hands, looking from me to Archie.

  “What does Dr. Grady think?” Archie said cautiously.

  “He hasn’t seen George since the operation, but I expect he’ll say what he always says: that it’s a lot for me to cope with. What he doesn’t understand is that George hates being in hospital. The nurses are very nice but there’s no privacy. And they only allow visitors for a couple of hours a day.”

  “Still,” Archie persisted, “George is a big man. What if you need to lift him?”

  “The district nurse will help with all that,” said Marian firmly.

  Soon afterwards she went upstairs with Robin and didn’t return. Over the washing-up, Archie talked about Ovid’s exile to the Black Sea. While there he had written a curse poem called The Ibis. Who did he curse? I asked. Did it work? But Archie didn’t know. When he put on his jacket and gathered up his books, I followed him outside. The night was clear and moonless, and I at once wished that I too had brought a jacket. As we leaned against his van, looking across the valley at the lights of Aberfeldy, I tried not to shiver.

  “Marian looks awful,” I said.

  “Does she? I thought she was just a little tired.”

  “I’m worried she won’t understand that I can’t take care of Robin next week. All she can think about is George.”

  “No,” said Archie, his stiff green jacket creaking. “She knows how important your exams are. Speak to her tomorrow, when she’s had a good night’s sleep.”

  Somewhere above us on Weem Rock a bird was crying, a lonely, ravenous sound. Just for a moment I thought of the madwoman at her barred window. “But whatever she says,” I said, “if I’m in the house, then I can’t just shut the door of my room and ignore Robin needing something.”

  “And,” Archie said, creaking again, “you’re a better person because of that. What about going to the library? They have tables.”

  “It’s closed on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” I did not list the other problems: the librarian’s love of gossip, the lack of a bathroom.

  He began to pace up and down the lane, receding into the darkness and reappearing; above us the bird continued to scream. After half-a-dozen turns he stopped a few yards away. “We need your fairy godmothers,” he said. “I’ll ask Hannah and Pauline if you can use their study. It’s farther to walk than the library but you’d be safe from interruptions.”

  “That would be perfect,” I said. “If you’re sure they wouldn’t mind.”

  “Hannah will phone. If I don’t see you again, good luck on Monday.”

  “Thanks,” I called over my shoulder. I was already hurrying down the path, longing to be warm again.

  Archie was right. When I spoke to Marian the next day she got out the calendar on which she noted her pupils’ lessons and made me write down the dates of my exams. “You must take whatever time you need,” she said. “You’ve more than earned it.” Then Hannah phoned and offered me refuge. The next two weeks flew by as I immersed myself in each subject and, as soon as those exams were past, moved on to the next. I saw Archie only once as I was walking to town, and he gave me a lift in his van. He asked me how English and algebra had gone and listened to my worries about French and history. “Thanks to you,” I said, “Latin is under control.”

  He said nothing, but the muscles in front of his ears flexed in the way they did when he was pleased.

  Latin was the last exam, and, when the teacher told us to turn over the questions, it was as if the sentences themselves were opening doors, inviting me in. I wrote without stopping until the final bell and put down my pen almost sadly. When would I get to translate Virgil again? Once I stepped out of the school, though, I felt elated. I called goodbye to Margaret and Joan, who were both complaining how hard the exam had been, and ran most of the way back to Weem.

  Marian’s car was gone and the house was empty. I wandered from room to room wanting something to happen, some outburst of merriment and pleasure. I turned on the radio. I played scales on the piano. I tried on Marian’s perfume. I took a sip of the sherry she kept for company. But I could not settle to anything. Finally I decided to walk up the hill to St. David’s Well. Pe
rhaps the local deity would calm me.

  Beneath the trees the light was green and sombre; last year’s leaves crackled underfoot. Several times I thought I heard another footstep and halted, waiting to see who might appear, but there was only silence. At the well the water was lower than usual. As I dipped my hand in it and touched my forehead, I caught a glimpse of something shiny among the dead leaves on the bottom. Someone had thrown in a sixpence. I would have done the same, but as usual, my pockets were empty. Kneeling there, I realised that despite my vow, I was missing Mr. Sinclair. He would have insisted on a celebration, whether that meant singing to the seals or dancing around the library. I knew I had done well, except perhaps in French, and that my new friends would share my delight when the results came, but there was no one to whom I could confess my present satisfaction.

  I was looking for some offering for the spring—a pretty pebble, or a few flowers—when again I heard footsteps and this time a voice saying, “No, bad dog.” A tall woman with a crest of hair like Miss Seftain’s and two brindled terriers, each straining at the lead, came into view. The dogs lunged towards me, but she held them in check.

  “Good afternoon,” she called. “They’re quite friendly. Baxter, heel.”

  She walked past, still talking to the dogs, and headed down the far side of the rock towards Castle Menzies. I gathered some forget-me-nots and laid the small blue flowers on a rock by the well. Staring into the pool, I said, “Please let me find a way to go to Iceland.”

  I was turning to follow the woman—I had never been to Castle Menzies and the ruin was at least a destination—when I heard the sound of another approach. Archie appeared through the trees. He raised his crook in greeting. “Here you are,” he said, not seeming at all surprised. I wondered if he had stopped by the house. “How was Latin?”

  “All right. There was that passage from Virgil we did a few weeks ago, and then a short piece by Tacitus and one of Horace’s poems about farmers and bees. I was glad you’d made me time myself.”

  “So you’re done?”

  “Yes.” All I could not say made me curt. “Someone threw sixpence in the well.”

  “People have been doing that for years, though I’ve always wondered what a naiad would do with money. My theory is that Gypsies started the custom. Periodically they come along and clean it out.”

  I saw him notice the forget-me-nots but he did not comment. “In Bath,” I volunteered, “people used to throw coins and jewellery into the hot spring.”

  “And votive statues, too,” he said. He stabbed his crook into the mud and, leaving it, upright but listing, came forward to dip his hand in the water and touch his fingers to his forehead, the same gesture I had made.

  “I’m glad to find you alone,” he said. His eyes were very clear, and high on each cheek was a flush of colour; Hannah blushed in the same way. Hidden in one of the beech trees, a blackbird began to scold. “We share so many interests, Jean. The Everyman Library claims that books are the ideal companions, but you’ve taught me that the ideal is sharing books with a kindred spirit. I know you’re younger than me, but I’ve seen how mature you are in your dealings with Marian and Robin. You don’t shirk your responsibilities. I’d like to celebrate your exams results by inviting you to go to Iceland as—”

  “Archie,” I burst out, “I’d love to go to Iceland.”

  In my excitement I did not catch the end of the sentence. I was still debating whether to ask what he’d said when he stepped forward and kissed me on the forehead.

  chapter thirty-one

  As I followed Archie back to the village—the path was too narrow to walk side by side—I saw how white his neck was above his collar. I hadn’t noticed at the well, but he must have been to the barber recently. Marian’s car was parked outside the MacGillvarys’ and I asked if he would come in for tea. He said he was sorry. He’d promised to help Hannah load the kiln. “Thank you, Jean,” he said, smiling at me. “I’m so happy.” Before I could thank him in turn, he headed down the lane. Watching him disappear, I thought that the naiad had answered my request with miraculous speed.

  In the kitchen Robin was playing pirates; Marian was at the stove. “How did the exam go?” she said.

  “All right. I really enjoyed translating the Virgil.”

  “That’s a good sign. When I enjoy playing I always play better. George walked round the ward today.”

  The three of us ate bangers and mash as if nothing had changed. I was longing to talk about Iceland, to say that Archie and I were at last going to visit, but any mention of travel would only upset Robin. Afterwards, as I gave him his bath, I read to him from The Little Mermaid. It was the first time in months I’d read to him from one of his books rather than one of mine. The picture at the front showed a ship with white sails bobbing on a blue sea; nearby a mermaid was combing her hair. “Pretty,” said Robin. He was sailing his own ship, pushing it up one side of the bath and down the other. But as I read about the little mermaid’s willingness to sacrifice almost everything for her prince, to walk on knives and give up her underwater garden, Robin’s ship sailed more and more slowly. Finally, with a decisive shove, he sank it.

  “Stop,” he said. “We’ll have bad dreams.” Ever since the morning we had both reported dreaming of foxes he had regarded our dreams as communal.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Finish your bath and I’ll read you something else so we have good dreams.”

  In bed, after only a page of The Wind in the Willows, his eyes closed. I tiptoed away to brush my teeth. It was just past eight, not yet fully dark, but suddenly I could not wait for the day to be over. All I wanted was to think of Iceland, to imagine seeing the landscape my mother had loved, with its volcanoes and glaciers and wild ponies. And perhaps, in some small village, I would find my grandparents.

  The next morning, without an exam looming, was like a holiday. “No lessons today,” I said to Robin. Instead we went out to the garden. With Marian spending most of her time at the hospital, it had been neglected. Now I showed him several common weeds, and we set to work. As Robin pulled out the groundsel and I dug up dandelions, I told him how at school I had had a friend, Miriam, who grew beautiful blue flowers. “What happened to her?” he said. I was trying to think how to answer when Marian appeared on the edge of the lawn.

  “George is coming home,” she announced jubilantly. “An ambulance will bring him after lunch. And Jean, Hannah phoned to ask you to supper. I said you’d let her know if you couldn’t.”

  Exams had interrupted my weekly suppers with Hannah and Pauline and I was glad to think they’d noticed. They would understand my pleasure in going to Iceland—I pictured Pauline bobbing, Hannah’s long smile—and advise me how to contribute to the trip. While Marian went to buy groceries, I hoovered George’s room and picked sweet peas for the bedside table. Remembering my own convalescence, I got Robin to help me clean the windows. We were polishing the last pane when Marian returned.

  “Jean, you’re a wonder,” she said. “I don’t know how I’d manage without you.”

  “Robin helped me,” I said, storing up her words of praise against the blame I feared was coming.

  Pauline answered the door wearing a green dress I had never seen before. She was still kissing me on both cheeks when Hannah appeared; she too was smartly dressed in black trousers. “Congratulations,” she exclaimed, hugging me so hard my feet left the ground. Was it possible that somehow, perhaps through the headmaster, they knew the results of my exams?

  “We couldn’t be happier,” Pauline added.

  By now they had whisked me into the kitchen, where the table was set with Hannah’s plates and flowers and wine-glasses. I was taking all this in, and my hosts’ greetings, as Hannah remarked that Archie would be here any minute. He had gone to get wine.

  “But—” I stared down at my faded corduroy trousers, my scuffed shoes.

  “I know,” she said. “It’s all wrong, the groom providing the wine at the celebratory dinner. Pa
uline thought I’d pick up a bottle and I thought she would. Your future sisters-in-law are enthusiastic hosts but inept.”

  Emily bounded over, and as I bent to bury my face in her warm fur, I knew, as clearly as if he were speaking them now, the words I had missed at the well. Archie’s proposal to visit Iceland had been linked to another proposal; I had, unwittingly, accepted both. But to admit my error in the midst of Hannah and Pauline’s festivities, to voluntarily cast myself out of this glowing circle, was more than I could manage. “Good dog,” I murmured to Emily and asked how I could help.

  “Light the candles,” said Hannah, handing me a box of matches. “So tell us, did Archie propose on bended knee?”

  Before I could answer, there was the sound of a van pulling up outside. The door opened and my second fiancé stepped into the room, a bottle of wine in each hand. He too was smartly dressed, in a grey suit with a pale blue shirt and a red tie.

  “Jean,” he said, “you’re already here. I could have given you a lift.”

  “It’s a lovely evening. I needed the walk.” I bent to light the candles; the wicks caught at once. “They sent George home from the hospital today.”

  “Oh, I had no idea.” Pauline bobbed. “How does he look?”

  As Archie uncorked the wine, I described George’s return. How his hair had turned from pewter to snow and how thin he’d grown but that he’d managed to walk from the garden gate to the house with two canes. “He’s different,” I said. “He stopped in the garden to admire the laburnum. And he said hello to Robin and me.”