The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [129]
That was exactly what happened. The following day the woman at the newsagent remarked that I must miss the big city. And the day after that the butcher said how lucky I was that Archie had found me. “A young lass couldn’t ask to meet a nicer family than the Watsons.”
In the days that followed I gave up all thought of leaving. I took on more of the household duties: I filled and raked the stove, walked Emily up the hill, carried bags of clay to the pottery, cleaned and shopped. I even ventured to make supper, which Hannah, whose job this normally was, particularly appreciated. I still wanted to go to Oban, to find Mr. Donaldson, but the days were getting shorter and colder, and I dreaded travelling without money. If I could stay in my blue room through the winter and get a job, then I could save money for the spring. One day, when I was helping Hannah wedge the clay, I confided that I was keeping an eye on the help-wanted advertisements in the window of the newsagent.
“That’s a good idea,” said Hannah. “What are your skills?”
I pushed down on the cool, damp clay. “Mathematics, teaching small children, feeding hens and calves, cleaning. I can polish a floor until it shines like a skating rink. And my cooking is coming along.”
“Indeed it is. And you forgot reading; you’re a great reader. Pauline sees people all day long. She can ask around if anyone needs help.”
Outside the window a female blackbird was fluttering disconsolately above the empty bird table. “That would be super,” I said.
On Saturday, when I ran into Archie outside the greengrocer’s, I explained that I was looking for a job. “If you hear of anything on your rounds,” I said, “housework, babysitting, teaching, will you let me know?”
Archie took his cigarette out of his mouth. “I will,” he said.
He was on his way to the library and I fell in beside him. As we crossed the square I asked how long he had been a postman.
“Six years.”
“What were you before that?”
“How old do you think I am?” For a moment he almost smiled. “I was a student. I studied classics, not a subject that leads to a host of jobs.”
“But why a postman? Wouldn’t you rather work in a bookshop, or a library?”
“No. I like being out of doors, seeing the sky, having time to think. I’m not a great one for people, all that chitchat about weather and health and whose dog did his business in the street. I’d rather follow my own thoughts.”
“You make it sound like they’re something separate from you,” I said.
“Don’t you ever have that feeling? Some thoughts you know where they come from, but others could have come from Mars. Or Kirkwall.”
At the mention of the familiar town I startled. Had I let something slip while I was unconscious? But no, Archie wore his usual intelligent frown; it was just the first example that came to mind. We had reached the library, and without waiting for an answer, he stubbed out his cigarette and swung through the door. I was tempted to follow him; to say yes, I did know what it was like to have uninvited thoughts show up in my brain. Did he have any suggestions as to how to get them to leave? But already he would be absorbed in his beloved books.
The following Thursday I found myself, as I hardly ever did, having lunch alone with Pauline. She had come home unexpectedly, and Hannah had stayed out in the pottery to work on a set of bowls. After praising the Scotch broth, Pauline said that Archie had stopped in at the chemist’s that morning. He’d heard of a job that might suit me. I sat up straight, ignoring my soup, while she explained that a woman who lived in the village of Weem needed help with her grandson.
“It sounds perfect,” Pauline said. “Archie says she’ll pay you twenty pounds a month and board and lodging.”
But I don’t need lodging, I wanted to say. “How far away