The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [15]
“I passed,” I said jubilantly. “I was worried about geography.”
“So,” said my aunt, “you’ll leave on Saturday.”
“Saturday!” In my daydreams I had left Yew House over and over, but the idea of actually doing so, at such short notice, was startling. I had no friends but that did not mean I did not have attachments. I wanted to say goodbye to the fort and the cows. I wanted to visit my uncle’s church and tell him what was happening. “That’s only four days away.”
“I can count,” said my aunt. “They say as soon as possible and you don’t have much to pack. Bring down your washing for Betty to do in the morning.”
In a daze I climbed the stairs. Even my icy garret, now that departure loomed, seemed dear. When I returned to the kitchen, my arms full of clothes, Mrs. Marsden gave me a rare smile. “So you’re off to the Borders. I hear it’s a lovely part of the country.”
“I don’t want to go,” I said, and, before she could ask why, I poured out the thoughts that had filled me since my departure became a reality. How I did not want to be farther from my uncle, how the valley was my home.
Mrs. Marsden listened, a tin of salmon in one hand, a tin opener in the other. “Everyone wants a home,” she said when I finished, “but Yew House can’t be yours. Your aunt hates you. Better to face that now and start to make your own way in the world. Remember what you said about preferring an orphanage. At the school you’ll be just like everyone else. Now put those clothes in the basket and come and wash the leeks.”
I did her bidding, but in bed that night I could not stop thinking about her claim. I had never thought to add up all the things my aunt disliked about me and put them into that one small word: hate. It was not just, as she often said, that I was plain and clumsy and prone to daydreaming. She hated me and nothing was going to change that. With this revelation came another. If I was going far away, to a place where my uncle had never been, I must take some part of him with me. Bob Carruthers had come for dinner and I could hear him and my aunt laughing in the sitting-room. Although his baby was due any day, he seemed to spend more time than ever in her company. I slipped out of bed and made my way downstairs to my uncle’s study. By the light of his reading lamp, I surveyed the room I might, after Saturday, never see again. I would have liked to put everything—the desk, his chair, the green curtains, his books—in my suitcase. I stepped over to the bookcase and pulled out Birds of the World. But as soon as I felt its heft, I knew there was no chance of smuggling it into my luggage. After a quick look at the lyre-bird, I returned it to the shelf. What I needed, I thought, was a photograph of my uncle. The half-dozen pictures on the mantelpiece were spoiled by the presence of my aunt and cousins, but off to one side was a small one of him as a newly ordained minister. With his tidy hair and solemn gaze he did not look much like himself, but it was better than nothing. I was heading for the door when it occurred to me that Betty, who was in charge of packing my clothes, might report my theft. I put it back to retrieve on Friday night and stepped into the corridor. At the same moment my aunt, in the sitting-room, squealed.
“Oh, Bob, I never—”
In the abrupt silence that followed I saw that I was not alone. Will was standing at the bottom of the stairs. Before I could decide whether to advance or retreat, another squeal propelled him down the corridor, and through the sitting-room door.
“What are you doing to my mother?” I heard him cry. “Don’t you know she’s a widow?”
Quickly I ran to the stairs and climbed them two at a time, as quietly as possible. From my room I heard the front door slam, a car start, and then my aunt and Will, their voices raised. The next morning, passing her in the corridor, I noticed that my aunt’s cheeks