The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [131]
But when I turned up the track between the churches, the house looked neither gloomy nor nameless. The windows shone, and in the garden chrysanthemums and dahlias bloomed. My knock was answered by a woman with pale yellow hair and a gentle smile, so different from the woman of my imaginings that I asked for Mrs. MacGillvary.
“You must be Jean.” She smiled again and held out her hand. “I’m Marian.”
She ushered me into a sitting-room. “Robin just woke up,” she said. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be back in a minute.”
At one end of the room, near the French windows, stood a grand piano, the gleaming lid ajar. I played middle C and then, as the note hung in the air, wondered if I should have asked permission. Quickly I moved over to the bookcase. I recognised a collected works of Shakespeare that had been in the library at Claypoole. Then my eyes fell on a novel titled He Knew He Was Right; I was examining the frontispiece when the door opened. Marian reappeared with a small boy in her arms, his face hidden in the crook of her neck.
“He’ll be raring to go in a minute,” she said. “Do you have much experience with children, Jean?”
I had been so busy with my gothic imaginings that I had failed to consider what questions Marian might ask. Now, with no time to invent, I said that my last position had been as an au pair to an eight-year-old girl. I could teach reading, writing, arithmetic, history, geography, Latin . . .
“Wonderful,” said Marian. “You’ll appreciate George’s books. But Robin is not quite at that stage. What he needs is someone who’ll play with him and teach him his letters and numbers. I want him to be ready for school next year. You’ll find”—she smoothed his hair—“that he’s very sensitive. He gets upset when he feels rushed, or when someone is cross.”
She was assuming, I realised, that the job was mine. To my surprise, I felt a gust of relief at the prospect of clear duties, and a bed that depended on work, not favour. As Marian spoke, Robin at last raised his head. His eyes were as round and blue as one of Hannah’s bowls.
“Hello, Robin,” I said. “I’m Jean.” I lifted my hand in a little wave. After a moment he waved back.
The following morning, when Hannah dropped me and my borrowed suitcase off, there was a note on the door: Gone shopping. Make yourself at home. On the kitchen table was a cup, a box of tea-bags, and a plate of biscuits. Why would anyone run away from a mother like this? I wondered. But Marian was not my mother, and as I sat at the table, surveying the geraniums on the window-sill, the cheerful plates on the settle, I could not help wondering what I was doing here, babysitting a little boy, with no chance to find Mr. Donaldson, or to study for university. My life had not merely come to a standstill; it was in reverse.
A dull thud interrupted my thoughts. I had forgotten about Mr. MacGillvary. Worried that he would suddenly lurch into the kitchen, I jumped to my feet. A second thud drove me out to the garden. Wanting to appear busy, I began to deadhead the roses. I was on the second flower-bed when a car drew up. Robin waved from the passenger seat, and Marian, as soon as she got out, apologised for not being home to welcome me. Together we carried in the groceries. She settled Robin with his toy cars on the kitchen floor and said she would show me around.