The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [140]
Snowdrops gave way to catkins, catkins to pussy willow; aconites sprang up in the garden, and crocuses, scilla, and forsythia soon followed. The geese began to fly north. On my walks I saw oystercatchers and lapwings. Soon the swallows would return. I studied. I took care of Robin. I visited Pauline and Hannah. I ignored the voices that came from George’s room. When Archie invited me for a walk, or once a drink, I found a reason, usually Robin, to refuse.
I was doing a good job, I thought, of keeping everything on an even keel when one Saturday afternoon Hannah invited me to accompany her to Pitlochry. My dread of the town had receded, and I accepted with alacrity. We loaded the car with fruit bowls and drove out of Aberfeldy past the caravan site and the distillery. In the village of Strathtay, Hannah showed me the house where Archie had rooms. A few miles farther on, we had just passed a field of cows when she pointed to an oak tree beside the road. “That’s where Archie found you.”
The tree, with its broad trunk and still dead leaves, was gone in an instant, but I felt an odd twinge at seeing the place where I had almost died.
The shop that sold Hannah’s pottery turned out to be opposite Newholme Avenue, the site of my false address. I helped her to carry in the bowls and said I’d go for a walk while she talked to the manager. As I passed the milk bar and the electrical shop, I was struck by the difference having money made. I could stroll into any one of these establishments and, even if I didn’t make a purchase, be treated politely. I turned up the road to the church. I was gazing across the grassy knoll at the faded red door when I heard a tapping sound. The elderly man with the little white dog was approaching.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you by any chance know where the minister lives?”
“Och, aye, lassie. See the house with the black gate.” He raised his walking stick to clarify my destination.
Before I could reconsider, I walked over, opened the gate, and knocked on the door. Almost immediately it was flung open by a freckle-faced girl only a little older than Nell. When I asked for the minister, she called over her shoulder, “Dad. Someone wants you,” and ran off down the corridor.
A man of about thirty, fair skinned, slender, the opposite of Mr. Waugh, appeared. His half-moon glasses were perched on the end of his nose and in one hand he held a pen. “Good afternoon,” he said with a kindly smile. “Would you like to come in?”
“Last October I sought sanctuary in your church and someone took my suitcase.”
“Oh,” he said, removing his glasses altogether. “You’re the girl who slept in the church. I’m sorry that you didn’t knock on my door then.”
“I didn’t think of it. Or if I did, I was afraid you’d be angry.”
His eyes crinkled. “My dear, almost everyone, including my wife, would tell you that my sermons are dull as ditch water, but I’ve never turned away anyone in need. I’m glad to meet you at last. Can I offer you a cup of tea?”
He reminded me so piercingly of my uncle that I could barely speak. “Someone’s waiting for me,” I managed.
“Well, let me get your suitcase. I have it tucked away in my study.”
As he headed down the corridor, I thought how much of my suffering—the gloomy church, the hotel managers, the odious jeweller, the meat paste—had been unnecessary. All I had had to do was knock on this door.
In a couple of minutes he returned, carrying my case. “Here you are.” He gazed at me earnestly. “I don’t mean to pry, but the police have you listed as a missing person, which means that someone is suffering because of your absence. May I have your permission, Miss Hardy, to tell them that I’ve seen you and that you’re all right?”
My brain seethed with thoughts I couldn’t pursue. I had my possessions back. Mr. Sinclair was searching for me.