The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [128]
“Did you commit some crime, or unkindness, that led to your present situation?”
Turning to face her, I dropped to my knees. “I swear I didn’t. I did do things I’m not proud of, but nothing criminal. As for unkindness—” Mr. Sinclair’s face appeared before me. “There are people who might claim I’d been unkind, but whatever I did, I believed was necessary.” While I delivered my speech, the cats had sauntered over and were arching against me, purring. They forgave me, but did Hannah?
“For goodness sake, get up.” She half-rose, as if to help me. “That’s what we told Archie. Pauline and I both see how considerate you are. Whatever you’ve done, you’re not a bad person.”
On the stove the porridge began to bubble. I jumped to my feet and seized the saucepan.
“But our neighbours,” Hannah continued, “are asking about the girl who nearly died in a ditch. Yesterday a woman came into the chemist’s and said she’d heard that you’d lost your memory and didn’t even know your own name. Someone else claimed you’d run away from school and asked if we’d notified the police. So you need to come up with a story about your origins and stick to it. You can try it out on us.”
She went off to the pottery, her mind seemingly set at ease. My own was in disarray. Alone at the kitchen table I gave myself a lecture. Why on earth would Hannah and Pauline want to take me in? They had been more than kind, nursing me back to health, dressing me—Pauline was almost my size—and feeding me. I must make a plan, before they asked me to leave. But first I needed to invent a history that was plausible and not too interesting, something people would gossip about one day and forget the next. Oddly this did not feel like lying, any more than calling myself Jean Harvey did.
As I chopped vegetables for soup, I gave myself a dead mother and a father who lived in Edinburgh and had recently remarried. I would hint at a difficult stepmother, a second family. But how had I come to be wandering the roads of Perthshire with no possessions? Perhaps I’d been going to stay with an aunt in Pitlochry. Then I remembered the woman who had accosted me outside the church. Pitlochry was too close, too small. Questions might follow. Who was my aunt? Where did she live? Between one carrot and the next I moved her to Inverness.
So then what happened? I had been on the bus and something I’d eaten had disagreed with me. I had had to get off in a hurry at Ballinluig, and in my confusion had forgotten my luggage. I’d phoned the bus company but no one had seen my suitcase.
Over lunch, after Hannah had praised the soup, I rehearsed the story. “Not bad,” she said. “But why aren’t you going to see your aunt, now that you’re fit again?”
“I can’t bear to leave you and Pauline and Aberfeldy.”
She shook her head. “You can do better than that.”
“My aunt just lost her job—she’s a hairdresser—and she’s going to have to move into a smaller flat. She doesn’t have room for me.”
“That might work. Let’s try it out on Pauline this evening.”
I did.
“Your poor aunt,” said Pauline. “And what does your father do?”
“A teacher?”
“No. And he’s not a postman either.” Pauline frowned. “I see him working in a big shop in Edinburgh. Maybe Jenners?”
That was the name of the department store, I recalled, that I had visited so long ago with my aunt and of which the shop in Kirkwall had reminded me. I had a sudden vision of myself in the middle of a lofty hall, transfixed by the sights and sounds and perfumes. Yes, that would be a perfect place for my imaginary father to work.
The following day I accompanied Hannah into town. She pointed out the library, the butcher’s, the chemist’s where Pauline worked, and the bank. In the main street she stopped every few yards to greet someone and introduce me. “This is Jean Harvey. She’s staying with us while she finds her feet.” Then I would smile and say that I was much better, thanks to Hannah’s cooking.
When we got home I said, “No one asked me anything. Why did I need a story?”
“Jean, we live in a polite town. They’re not going to pester you to your face,