The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [125]
“We searched your bag,” she said. “I’m sorry, but we were looking for a name and address. Is there someone I can telephone to let them know you’re safe?”
“No. When did your brother find me?” I felt so weak that I would not have been surprised to hear that I had been in bed for a month, but Hannah said that Archie had shown up with me yesterday afternoon. They had called the doctor.
“He said you were suffering from exhaustion as much as anything else.” Her forehead wrinkled. “Are you sure there’s no one we can notify? Family? Friends? A teacher?”
Her anxious tone made me want to reel off the names of people to contact, but each, for different reasons, was forbidden. “I’m sorry if I’m being a nuisance,” I said. “I’ll leave as soon as I can.” Even as I spoke, I sank lower in the bed.
“Goodness, you’re not going anywhere at the moment. Pauline and I never use this room. We just don’t want anyone worrying about you. Let’s see if you can eat some toast.”
Her footsteps descended four stairs, paused, descended more stairs. Alone, I took in that I was lying in a single bed in a modest room. A desk and a chair stood in one corner, an armchair in the other. On the pale blue walls hung several paintings. As I gazed at them, the bright swirls of colour became familiar flowers: sweet peas, delphiniums, nasturtiums. Nothing in the room was new but everything was well cared for. I was relieved to think I had found refuge with people who did not have much money; they seemed more likely to be kind, less likely to have any connection with Mr. Sinclair.
Footsteps ascended—already I was getting to know Hannah’s heavy tread—the door opened and she reappeared, carrying a plate of toast and a glass of milk. “I forgot to ask your name,” she said, setting them on the bedside table.
In the first moments of consciousness I might easily have forgotten my new identity. Now I announced myself as Jean Harvey. While I ate, taking the small bites Hannah urged, she sat in the armchair. She asked if I had been to Aberfeldy before and when I said no she told me that the town was on the river Tay, ten miles west of the main road between Perth and Pitlochry. After all my travels I had ended up less than thirty miles from Yew House.
“We moved here four years ago,” she went on. “You could have knocked me down with a feather when I read the solicitor’s letter. I’d never even spoken to my cousin, just Christmas cards, and here he was leaving me Honeysuckle Cottage. He thought it would be good for my work.” She gestured towards the paintings. “And it is. We turned the garden shed into a pottery.”
“I like the delphiniums,” I offered shyly.
“Juvenilia,” said Hannah, pushing back her hair. “But there is something that interests me about the blue. The nasturtiums look like they might be about to eat you.”
I asked if Pauline was an artist too, and Hannah said no; she worked at the local chemist’s. When the toast was gone, she helped me out of bed and across the landing to the bathroom. I stared in amazement at the circles round my eyes, my thin cheeks. I could have been twenty. Even thirty. What would Mr. Sinclair think if he could see me now? I turned on the hot tap and my face disappeared in a cloud of steam.
For the rest of the day I dozed and looked out of the window at a row of fir trees tossing in the wind. Soon after five I heard voices in the room below, then quick, light feet on the stairs and a tap at the door. If Hannah was an angular heron, the woman who entered was a plump wren. Her hair was curly, her cheeks pink, her figure a neat hour-glass.
“I’m Pauline. How are you feeling?”
“Better, as long as I don’t try to do anything.”
“That’s your body’s way of making sure you stay in bed. You were so ill that you lost consciousness. But you’re young. You’ll be up doing the Highland fling in no time. Can you tell me what happened? Can we telephone your family?