The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [143]
“Then there was some muddle about a girl. He never would say exactly what happened. He was dismissed with no references and moved in with Findlay and me. We were glad to have him, but the whole thing preyed on him, especially when he’d had a drop to drink. I used to come into the kitchen and find him chatting away to himself.”
Isobel looked over at me, her eyes suddenly intent. “I’d swear on the graves of our parents that Henry was innocent. He regarded teaching as a sacred duty. He would never have laid a hand on one of his pupils. Or on any child. I used to hope that wretched girl would come to her senses and admit she’d made the whole thing up. Maybe he’d given her a bad mark and she wanted revenge? But whatever her reasons she ruined my brother’s life. No one would give him a job. He picked up a bit of tutoring. Eventually even that was too much for him.”
“What an awful story,” I said. My voice came out high and squeaky.
“Yes,” said Isobel, suddenly matter-of-fact again. She helped herself to another piece of shortbread. “I can’t help thinking he’d still be fine if he’d been able to go on teaching, but the doctor says that’s daft. His brain is deteriorating. It’s not to do with jobs, or moods. Our dad was going that way when he died of pneumonia.”
As she spoke, a black cat appeared around the corner of her armchair and came over to inspect me. “What beautiful eyes she has,” I said, offering my hand.
“He. Alfred was Henry’s cat. Sometimes I take him with me to Bonnyview. He seems to cheer Henry up.”
“Could I visit him? For five minutes?”
“He won’t have a clue who you are.”
“I’d just like to say thank you. You know how it is when you’re young. You never thank anyone.” I tried not to sound desperate. Alfred, obligingly, offered his belly.
“Och, well, I suppose it can’t do any harm. Visiting hours are from two to four. You’ve missed today, but you could pop in tomorrow. In fact, if I know you’re going, Findlay and I might skip a Saturday and get caught up in the garden.”
“I’ll definitely go.” With a final pat to Alfred, I stood up. “I don’t suppose you have a picture of Mr. Donaldson. It’s so long since I saw him.”
“Even if you remembered him perfectly you might not recognise him.” She left the room and returned with a framed photograph of herself, Mr. Donaldson, and a man I guessed was her husband, smartly dressed, standing in the sunlight beside an oak tree. “This was sports day at Henry’s school in Edinburgh. His house won three cups, and all the parents were coming up to thank him. Remember this when you see him tomorrow.”
I promised I would. She told me how to find Bonnyview and wrote down the name and address. On the doorstep she said, “Even if Henry doesn’t know you from Adam I’m glad you came. Especially because you were at that school where everything went wrong. Did you know the girl who accused him?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head, moving down the path. “She must have been in a different form.”
I asked about rooms in three small hotels and took one in the third and cheapest. Sitting on the bed with its cheap slippery sheets, trying to focus on my Latin textbook, I went over and over the conversation with Isobel. I had longed to tell her that I was the wretched girl but that the real culprit was my aunt. But tomorrow I would have the chance to tell Mr. Donaldson. I pictured him saying he forgave me, leading me to a small room, pointing to my box tucked away on a shelf. And then, as I pored over its contents, I would know, beyond doubt, that I had once been someone’s daughter.
Bonnyview was a large red sandstone house that might, at first glance, have been mistaken for the home of a prosperous family. At second glance the bars at the windows, the lack of curtains, the high stone