The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [142]
I borrowed an overnight bag from Marian, packed my Latin and algebra textbooks, and caught the first bus to Perth, and then another bus to Oban. Mindful of my last journey, I put half my money in my pocket with Marian’s phone number and safety-pinned it shut, and I kept my bag closed at all times. As we wound past hills and lochs, I tried to make a plan. Oban was not, I thought, much bigger than Aberfeldy. I could enquire at the library, if there was one. Shops. Pubs. Surely in an hour or two I could canvass the town. Then, of course, even if I found his sister—her name, I suddenly recalled, was Isobel—there was still the task of finding Mr. Donaldson. He might be living in Cornwall, or Timbuctoo.
When I got off the bus the first thing I noticed was the smell of the sea; the next that a building resembling the Colosseum overlooked the town. Could the Romans have come this far north and built something so splendid? But at the first shop I went into, a bakery, a woman told me that McCaig’s Tower was a nineteenth-century folly. She herself was from Mallaig and didn’t know an Isobel Donaldson. In the sixth shop I tried, a butcher’s, the man behind the counter wiped his hands on his bloodstained apron and said, “That will be Isobel Bailey, will it not?”
“That’s right,” said the woman he’d just served. “She used to be a Donaldson.”
Twenty minutes later their directions brought me to a modest bungalow. Standing at the gate, staring at the grape hyacinth that lined the path to the front door, I was aware of how much I had to gain or lose. In Nell’s company I had gradually learned to forgive the two huge errors of my life: not going skating with my uncle; writing a letter to Mr. Donaldson. But there was no reason for Isobel Bailey to forgive me, if indeed she was even at home. At last I walked up the path and rang the bell. My luck held. The door opened to reveal a white-haired woman, ramrod straight in her tweed skirt and blue pullover. Yes, she acknowledged stiffly, she was Isobel Bailey.
I introduced myself as Jean Harvey, a former pupil of Mr. Donaldson’s. I was passing through Oban and had remembered him saying he came from this part of the world. “He was so helpful to me. I’d like to thank him.”
She neither smiled nor frowned but did something in between and asked if I had time for a cup of tea. She showed me to the living-room and went to put on the kettle. As I sat in one of the armchairs, I noticed an ashtray on the table. I pictured Mr. Donaldson clicking his yellow teeth.
Isobel returned with tea and shortbread. I accepted both and, in response to her questions, said I’d come from Aberfeldy and that the journey had been fine.
“Which of Henry’s schools were you at?”
“Strathmuir. I left when I was ten. Does he live nearby?”
“In a sense.” Isobel’s teaspoon clinked against her cup.
“Is he dead?” I whispered. Now I could never apologise, except to a stone in a churchyard.
“Henry might say yes but no, he’s in an old-age home. Most of the time he doesn’t know me, or even the nurses he sees every day.” She explained that he’d lived with her and her husband until, finally, they couldn’t manage. “He didn’t know the difference between day and night. We’d wake up at two in the morning and he’d be frying an egg, getting ready to go for a walk. They take good care of him at Bonnyview, and he doesn’t seem to mind it. I’m sorry you’ve come all this way for nothing.”
“But he was such a good teacher, and he wasn’t old.” Even as I spoke, I recalled how on some days Mr. Donaldson had been so vigilant, while on others he had simply stared out of the window.
“You’re kind to say so,” said Isobel. “A slip of a lass like you, everyone over twenty-five must seem old. Do you not know what happened?”
When I shook my head, she set her tea-cup down decisively. “Henry is the only brother I have, but