The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [148]
“Gemma?” I heard Marian say. “I’m afraid there’s—”
“Wait,” I called. Knocking over my chair, I ran to the hall.
“Hold on,” said Marian into the receiver and then to me, “A woman is asking for Gemma.”
As she retreated to the kitchen, I said, “Hello. Who is this?”
“Who is this?”
From the first syllable I recognised my aunt, her voice hoarse, as if she were about to cough. “Aunt,” I said. “This is Gemma.”
“That woman didn’t seem to know who you are.”
“Did you find my birth certificate?”
“I want to talk to you. I’ll be expecting you this Saturday.”
“I work,” I said. “How would I even get to Yew House?”
“I’ll send someone to fetch you. Be ready at two o’clock.” And she was gone before I could protest, or ask if the same person would bring me back.
I stood in the hall until my heart slowed. In the kitchen Marian and Robin were finishing their tomato soup and debating what Robin should plant in his garden this year. Did he remember the nice big radishes he had grown last year? Yes, but he didn’t like the taste of them. I ate my soup quietly until there was a lull in the conversation.
“That was my aunt,” I said. “She always calls me Gemma after my mother. I’m going to visit her on Saturday afternoon.”
“What a pretty name,” said Marian.
For several months I had contrived not to notice that Aberfeldy was less than thirty miles from Yew House; they were long country miles, over the hills, and no one, in my hearing, had mentioned Strathmuir. Now every night my dreams carried me back there, and during the day stray memories ambushed me: my aunt, in her gown, sweeping off to the party on Christmas Eve, my aunt driving past as I walked to and from school, my aunt siding with Will when he hit me over the head with Birds of the World, my aunt at Perth station telling me to be good. But I was not, I reminded myself, returning to that life. No one could shut me in the sewing-room. Louise and Will had surely left home, and Veronica, if she was still there, was too self-absorbed to be anyone’s enemy.
Still, adult reason could not entirely quell childhood fears. On Saturday morning I woke at six and wrote a note to Marian: If I don’t return this evening please tell Archie to contact Mrs. Hardy at Yew House, near Strathmuir, Perthshire. Tell him to come and get me at once. Once again I safety-pinned money and Marian’s phone number into my pocket. There was a phone box in the village, I remembered, not far from the school.
I was eating my cornflakes when Marian came into the kitchen, her hair unbrushed, her cardigan unbuttoned. “Jean,” she said, “I hate to ask but I need a favour. George had a bad night. I just spoke to Dr. Grady and he’s coming this afternoon. Is there any chance you could take Robin with you to see your aunt? He gets so upset on these occasions.”
I started to refuse. Then I took in the shadows under her eyes, the lines bracketing her mouth, and suddenly it seemed like a good idea. Robin’s presence would protect me not just from kidnapping but also from what I dreaded still more: being changed back into my younger self. “Of course,” I said. “I hope he won’t be bored.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much.” One line of worry disappeared from her forehead as she hurried from the room.
Robin, when I announced our plan, was less enthusiastic. “Must I?” he said. Grudgingly, he helped me gather up some cars and colouring books. At five to two we went outside to wait for the mysterious chauffeur, and at five past two a black car turned into the lane and came to a halt. A woman climbed out, wavy brown hair reaching to her shoulders, a blue sweater reaching to midthigh, jeans tucked into boots. As she started towards me, I recognised Louise, still carrying her Lares and Penates proudly before her.
“Gemma?”
“How do you do.” I stepped forward with outstretched hand.
“Not too bad.” She gave me a hearty shake, as if we were business acquaintances. “You’ve grown, and you’re prettier than I expected. Remember how we used to tease you by singing, ‘Skinny ma linka long legs, big banana feet’? You