The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [122]
“Miss”—little slivers of metal were embedded in the word—“surely you can see that I deal only in new merchandise.” He waved at the display cases.
“My watch is almost new. I’ve taken very good care of it.” I held it out to him.
Reluctantly he dangled the watch by its strap. “This is one of the cheapest watches on the market. Brand-new it costs five pounds.”
How foolish I had been to think that Dr. White would have bought me an expensive gift. “Can you give me half that?”
“I can’t give you a penny. I don’t deal in secondhand merchandise, except for antiques. Which this is not.” He set the watch down with a precise tap on the counter.
“A pound,” I pleaded.
Without another word he returned to his lair.
Throughout this exchange, the girl had been polishing a display case. Now she handed me the watch. “At least it tells the time,” she said brightly.
Outside rain was falling, but I walked along too dazed to hurry, or even to stay beneath the awnings of the shops. What was I to do? Not one person in Pitlochry wished me well, or knew my true name, or cared whether I lived or died. It had been a mistake to be lured here by the memory of my uncle. He could not help me now. If only I had stayed in Inverness, I would never have lost my purse. I must leave this awful place at once. I would carry my suitcase and the remains of my loaf and stand beside the road south. I would get a lift to Perth and make my way west to Oban. People could live for weeks without food.
I had come and gone so often from the church that when the door didn’t open, I thought the latch was sticking. I turned the ring again; again there was some obstacle. Only on the fourth attempt did I understand. The door was locked. I was on one side of it and my suitcase was on the other.
Not caring who saw me, I knocked on the door and, when there was no answer, pounded with the flat of my hand. A few flakes of faded red paint fell to the ground. A woman passing in the road below called out, “It’s Friday. No service until Sunday.”
“But a church ought to be open at all times. It’s a place of sanctuary.”
The woman turned off the road and, a shopping bag in one hand, a black umbrella in the other, approached the steps. She looked vaguely familiar, but after my day spent wandering the streets of the town many people did. It did not occur to me that I too, in my navy blue coat, might be a recognisable figure.
From beneath her umbrella the woman studied me. “You’re the girl who was asking for work at the co-op,” she said. “You gave your address as Seven Newholme Avenue. Are you Shona Ross’s niece? Why are you trying to break into the church?”
“I left my scarf.”
Before she could ask further questions, I hurried down the stairs and slipped past her back to the road. My only thought was to escape before she too threatened to call the police. Dodging a milk van, I darted across the main road and down under the railway bridge. My flight brought me to the park I had seen the day before. The grass was already sodden and in the distance a couple of football nets hung limply, but nearby a low building with a bench under the eaves offered refuge. I sat down. Was it possible that only a week ago I had woken in my luxurious bed, eaten a lavish breakfast, taught Nell her lessons, walked with her to the village, then Mr. Sinclair and I—
I stood up and did twelve jumping-jacks. As I turned to sit down again, I noticed in one corner of the bench a brown paper bag. Opening it, I discovered a roll filled with some kind of meat paste, only one bite taken. The bread was a little dry but the paste was still moist. I devoured it. Alert to new possibilities, I approached the rubbish bin at the far end of the building. Two half-eaten bags of crisps and a chocolate biscuit rewarded my efforts. I rinsed my hands at the outdoor tap and sat down to eat my booty. Then I took out one of my few remaining possessions: my notebook. On a clean page I wrote:
1. Get back suitcase.