The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [14]
I did not follow Mr. Donaldson’s advice. I could not. The idea of writing the wrong answer when I knew the right one was like stepping in front of a speeding car. Besides, Dr. Shearer had known my uncle and was fond of me. Why should I ignore his advice and follow that of a stranger? Since Mr. Donaldson’s visit to Yew House I had overheard some of the older girls talking about him in the playground. One claimed he had been a spy during the war, another that he had crashed his car while drunk and that was why he didn’t drive.
The first exam was scripture and the first question was “How did the three wise men find Jesus?” Before I could stop myself I had written, “A star led them to Bethlehem.” For a moment I stared at my neatly written sentence—do your worst, Gemma—then I hurried on to the next question.
Each exam took an hour, and by the time I finished, it was nearly dark. Miss Gregg, who lived in the lane behind the school, would always ask if I was all right walking home, and I would assure her that I was. Which was true as long as I was in the village, but then came the moment when I passed the last streetlight and the darkness thickened. Even the cows were of little help. I would walk resolutely, trying not to examine the shadows too closely. Sometimes I sang the songs my uncle had taught me—“I love to go a-wandering,” “Clementine,” “John Brown’s Body.” Sometimes I daydreamed about Claypoole School. I would have friends, join clubs, start to learn French and Latin, chemistry and biology. I pictured other girls like myself who had no parents and needed to make their own way in the world.
The road that led past Yew House was little travelled even in daylight, and often I walked the whole way home without seeing a single vehicle. The evening after the history exam I was nearing the cows when I heard the noise of an engine. I stepped onto the verge and, glad of this brief companionship, waved cheerfully at the headlights. The car came to a halt a few yards ahead. As I hurried over, the passenger door opened. The burly figure of a man, cap pulled low, cigarette glowing, leaned towards me.
“Get in, lassie. It’s a cold night. I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”
Although his face was shadowy, his voice was hoarsely familiar—we must have spoken in the village or on one of my walks—but I could not summon a name. I heard a faint tapping sound and guessed he was patting the passenger seat. Still something made me hesitate.
“Are you going to visit my aunt?” I said.
“Yes. Where does she live?”
I was thinking his answer was odd when, from the field, Celeste, or perhaps Marie Antoinette, mooed. “I’ll walk,” I said. “Thank you.”
As I stepped back, the strange man grabbed my sleeve. I did not stop to think. I jerked free and began to run back towards the village. Now that the kidnapper was here, I was not as frightened as I had been lying in bed, imagining him. The man seemed stupid. The road was too narrow to turn around and I did not think he would get out of his car. I stopped at the gate into the field, ready to climb over at the first sign of pursuit. Presently the sound of the engine changed and the lights began to move away.
The kitchen was empty when I arrived home and it did not occur to me to tell either my aunt or Mrs. Marsden about the man. Only later, eating baked beans on toast alone at the kitchen table, did I wonder what would have happened if I had got into the car.
chapter five
Miss Gregg sent off my exams with a note stating that she had supervised me. I probably wouldn’t hear for a while, she warned, but barely a week passed before my aunt called me into the sitting-room