The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [13]
As we turned through the gateway, I saw Mr. Donaldson glance at the lion on each gatepost. At the top of the drive we both paused. “Very posh,” he said, staring at the clean, curtained windows of Yew House. I had agreed to his request to talk to my aunt unthinkingly—obeying teachers was second nature—but now I worried he might spoil my plans. As I led the way to the back door, I tried to warn him.
“Mr. Donaldson, I hope you won’t upset my aunt. She doesn’t care for me, but it’s not her fault. She never cared for my mother either.”
He looked down at me, his yellow teeth glinting. “I’m not good at being tactful,” he said, “but I hope your aunt will be upset by what I am about to tell her.”
In the kitchen Mrs. Marsden was rolling out pastry. “You’re late,” she said. “Did you get kept in after school?” And then, catching sight of my companion, “Henry.”
“Good afternoon.” He doffed his cap. “I’m here to see the dragon.”
“Lucky you,” said Mrs. Marsden, and I understood that they knew each other in some unexpected way. “She’s in the sitting-room. Let me tell her you’re here.”
As Mrs. Marsden left the room, Mr. Donaldson turned to me. “This concerns you, Gemma, but I think it would be best if you weren’t present.”
I wanted to argue, but the habit of the classroom was too strong. I ran up the stairs to my icy room and tried to do my homework and ignore the sounds, mostly my aunt’s shrill voice, from below. Usually Veronica, or occasionally Louise, would call me to supper, but that evening no one came. When I finally tiptoed downstairs I found a plate waiting for me on the kitchen table.
The next day Mr. Donaldson asked me to stay after school. This time there was no wool-gathering. As soon as the other girls left the room, he waved me over to his desk. “Your aunt is a very stubborn woman,” he said. “I don’t know if she spoke about my visit”—I shook my head—“but she did not give a fig for my opinions and told me so. I can see that your position in her household is not easy.”
He eased his gold ring up and down his finger and announced that he was going to say something I might find strange. “I want you to fail the exams.”
“But why?” I said. “Why would I fail an exam on purpose?”
“Because Claypoole School is not a good place for you. I am sure Dr. Shearer recommended it in good faith, but I have heard that the scholarship girls are little better than scullery maids. I know you want to get away from your aunt, and I promise I’ll try to find another school, but you must fail the exams.”
I listened dumbfounded. Doing well at school was one of the few touchstones of my life, something that connected me with my uncle, and that my aunt could not take away. I might be small and plain and clumsy but I could get 98 percent in arithmetic. The idea of deliberately failing made no sense. Before I could say any of this we both heard the clatter of the janitor’s broom in the corridor.
At once Mr. Donaldson was on his feet. “Do your worst, Gemma. And, please, keep this conversation to yourself. Your aunt could make my life very difficult.”
On the way home I stopped at the church. My uncle was buried in Edinburgh, but sometimes I came to the graveyard and sat on the oldest grave—the inscription so blurred by moss and weather as to be unreadable—to consult him. I set down my satchel and stared up at the steeple.
“Please, Uncle, tell me what to do. Being at Yew House without you is awful, but Mr. Donaldson says I have to fail the exams.”
In the branches of the larch trees the sparrows shrilled, protesting the oncoming night; in the street a car sputtered. I listened and listened, but my uncle said nothing.
During the next week Mr. Donaldson was even more absent-minded than usual. As for my aunt, she didn’t mention his visit save to say that Miss Gregg, the Primary 3 teacher, had agreed to supervise me. I had run into teachers in the village often enough to know that they could be different outside the classroom. Now I discovered that, like their pupils, they could change