The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [141]
“You can tell the police I’m all right,” I said. “But they shouldn’t waste their time looking for me.”
“I understand.” He held out his hand and, when I raised mine, clasped it briefly in both of his. “Good luck,” he said. “Fight the good fight.”
I hurried down the street, my suitcase, heavier than I remembered, banging against my legs. Hannah was leaning against the car, eating an apple. “Have you been shopping?” she said.
“A friend was keeping it for me.”
“A friend? I thought you had no friends. Or none we’re allowed to know about.” She stood up and hurled the apple core in the direction of the railway line. “What’s going on? Are you thinking of leaving?”
“No,” I said. “Not really.”
“I note the hint of qualification.” She stepped forward and seized my shoulders. “Whatever you do, Jean”—she aimed her blue eyes and sharp chin at me—“don’t disappear on us, like you did the last people you lived with.” She gave me a little shake. “You owe us more than that. Promise.”
“I promise.”
As we drove south, effortlessly covering the distance I had travelled so painfully, Hannah told me that the manager of the shop had offered her twice as much display space as last summer. “I’ll have to come up with more designs, but I might actually make some money.”
I said great and wonderful. Then I remembered to ask about her sculptures, and she said she was working on a piece inspired by Mary, Queen of Scots. By the time we reached Weem, she seemed to have forgiven me.
At the MacGillvarys’ I carried in my suitcase, braced for more questions, but the chorus of “Old MacDonald” was coming from the sitting-room. In my room I closed the door and lifted the case, green, scuffed, familiar, onto the bed. As I raised the lid, I held my breath. On top of my folded clothes lay a sheet of paper:
Dear Miss Hardy, we’re here if you need us.
Followed by the minister’s name, address, and phone number. Before I did anything else I copied the details into my notebook and folded the paper into my purse. Anything, I had learned, could be lost.
After all these months I had almost forgotten the contents of the case. Now each item came back to me freighted with memory. Here were my walking shoes, my new nightdress, the blouse I had been wearing the first evening I met Mr. Sinclair, the two skirts I’d worn to church so often. Safe between the pages of my guide to Scottish birds were my photographs: my uncle alone and with my mother at the Botanical Gardens. As I gazed at them, glad to be reunited, it occurred to me for the first time that I had no photograph of my father. Indeed I didn’t even know his name.
I hung up my clothes and slipped the case under my bed, trying to ignore the heavy sock at the bottom. If I discovered the meteorite, I might have to throw it away.
The exams were fast approaching, and I needed every spare hour to study, but the return of some of my possessions had awakened a passionate longing. I could not stop thinking about my last night at Yew House and the box I’d barely glimpsed. One afternoon when Marian was giving lessons and Robin was taking a nap, I rang directory enquiries and asked for a Mr. Donaldson in Oban. When I said I had neither a first name nor an address, the operator gave me two numbers. I tried both and got two puzzled men; neither had ever been a teacher. Then I rang the operator again and asked for a Miss Donaldson. This time there was only one number. The woman who answered said she didn’t think she had a brother.
The next day when I went into Aberfeldy the bus for Perth was standing outside the cinema. I went over and asked the driver how to get to Oban. He said I would have to go via Perth and wrote down the schedule. At supper that night I told Marian that I needed to visit a friend. Could she manage without me this weekend?
“Of course. You’ve been working so hard, Jean. Friday is no problem, and Robin can play quietly while I give lessons on Saturday.”
The only other