The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [117]
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