The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [158]
“And,” Archie said, creaking again, “you’re a better person because of that. What about going to the library? They have tables.”
“It’s closed on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” I did not list the other problems: the librarian’s love of gossip, the lack of a bathroom.
He began to pace up and down the lane, receding into the darkness and reappearing; above us the bird continued to scream. After half-a-dozen turns he stopped a few yards away. “We need your fairy godmothers,” he said. “I’ll ask Hannah and Pauline if you can use their study. It’s farther to walk than the library but you’d be safe from interruptions.”
“That would be perfect,” I said. “If you’re sure they wouldn’t mind.”
“Hannah will phone. If I don’t see you again, good luck on Monday.”
“Thanks,” I called over my shoulder. I was already hurrying down the path, longing to be warm again.
Archie was right. When I spoke to Marian the next day she got out the calendar on which she noted her pupils’ lessons and made me write down the dates of my exams. “You must take whatever time you need,” she said. “You’ve more than earned it.” Then Hannah phoned and offered me refuge. The next two weeks flew by as I immersed myself in each subject and, as soon as those exams were past, moved on to the next. I saw Archie only once as I was walking to town, and he gave me a lift in his van. He asked me how English and algebra had gone and listened to my worries about French and history. “Thanks to you,” I said, “Latin is under control.”
He said nothing, but the muscles in front of his ears flexed in the way they did when he was pleased.
Latin was the last exam, and, when the teacher told us to turn over the questions, it was as if the sentences themselves were opening doors, inviting me in. I wrote without stopping until the final bell and put down my pen almost sadly. When would I get to translate Virgil again? Once I stepped out of the school, though, I felt elated. I called goodbye to Margaret and Joan, who were both complaining how hard the exam had been, and ran most of the way back to Weem.
Marian’s car was gone and the house was empty. I wandered from room to room wanting something to happen, some outburst of merriment and pleasure. I turned on the radio. I played scales on the piano. I tried on Marian’s perfume. I took a sip of the sherry she kept for company. But I could not settle to anything. Finally I decided to walk up the hill to St. David’s Well. Perhaps the local deity would calm me.
Beneath the trees the light was green and sombre; last year’s leaves crackled underfoot. Several times I thought I heard another footstep and halted, waiting to see who might appear, but there was only silence. At the well the water was lower than usual. As I dipped my hand in it and touched my forehead, I caught a glimpse of something shiny among the dead leaves on the bottom. Someone had thrown in a sixpence. I would have done the same, but as usual, my pockets were empty. Kneeling there, I realised that despite my vow, I was missing Mr. Sinclair. He would have insisted on a celebration, whether that meant singing to the seals or dancing around the library. I knew I had done well, except perhaps in French, and that my new friends would share my delight when the results came, but there was no one to whom I could confess my present satisfaction.
I was looking for some offering for the spring—a pretty pebble, or a few flowers—when again I heard footsteps and this time a voice saying, “No, bad dog.” A tall woman with a crest of hair like Miss Seftain’s and two brindled terriers, each straining at the lead, came into view. The dogs lunged towards me, but she held them in check.
“Good afternoon,” she called. “They’re quite friendly. Baxter, heel.”
She walked past, still talking to the dogs, and headed down the far side of the rock towards Castle Menzies. I gathered