The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [17]
Mr. Donaldson rented rooms in a house near the church. I even knew which window was his because once, in the autumn, I had seen him sitting there, smoking and listening to the wireless. I had no thought of what I would do if he was asleep but luck was with me. A crack of light shone through the curtains and, when I tapped on the window, his startled face appeared. Two minutes later the door opened and he stepped out, wearing his shabby coat. Putting a finger to his lips, he led me into the street and the shadowy interval between two lights.
“Are you mad?” he whispered, glaring at me. “If anyone saw you here I could be in serious trouble.”
I had expected anger; children weren’t allowed out this late. Now, bewilderingly, I recognised fear. “I’ll tell them it’s all my fault,” I said, and explained about the box. “Will you keep it for me? I don’t have a safe place.”
“Are you sure it belongs to you?”
“Look, it has my name on the lid. Please.”
For a few more seconds he continued to glare. Then, wearily, he unfolded his arms and reached for the box. “I’m not the ideal person to keep anything safe for anyone but I’ll do my best. If things go arse over tip I have a sister, Isobel. She lives in the town of Oban.”
He padded back towards the house. A moment later the light that had welcomed me went out. I ran back to Yew House as fast as my Wellingtons would permit.
PART II
chapter six
The sky was still dark when my aunt’s sharp knock hurled me into the new day. Downstairs, to my surprise, Veronica was seated at the kitchen table. We ate porridge and toast and talked as we had used to do, about teachers and girls at school and whether a ponytail was better than pigtails. With no one to braid my hair I had been forced to adopt the former, which, Veronica claimed, didn’t suit me. She produced a brush and comb and, as a parting gift, made me two neat braids. She was lecturing me about my eyelashes—“They’re so pale”—when my aunt called from the hall that it was time to leave.
“Goodbye, Gemma,” she said, flinging her arms around my neck. “I hope you have a happy life.”
“I hope you do too,” I said, and kissed her cheek.
Pretending to fetch my scarf, I went upstairs one last time, and slipped the photographs into the old handbag of Louise’s I had been given for the journey. In the hall Mrs. Marsden was waiting with a paper bag. “You’ll need some lunch,” she said, and, before I could thank her or hug her, retreated to the kitchen. Betty had already put my suitcase in the boot of the car and, liking the idea of departing in state, I climbed into the front seat only to have my aunt order me into the back. As we headed down the drive, she explained that I would change trains in Edinburgh and be met in Hawick by the school van. The sky was lightening and in the frosty field I could make out Celeste and Marie Antoinette huddled near the gate. I pressed my face to the window and waved.
In the village we stopped beside the post office and Mr. Carruthers, his cap pulled low, his scarf pulled high, got into the front seat. For a moment I wondered if he could have been the man who accosted me, but when he greeted me—“So, Gemma, you’re off to see the wide world”—I knew that, whatever his crimes, he had not tried to drag me into a smoky car. For the remainder of the journey I caught only stray phrases of his and my aunt’s conversation as we headed past the fort, past the curling pond, past the boundaries of my familiar world.
At Perth station I ran ahead of my aunt to the ticket office, and stood waiting as she asked for one child to Hawick.
“One way, or return? First or second class?”
“One way, second class,” she said, sounding pleased about both choices.
The train was already at the platform and while Mr. Carruthers carried my suitcase to the guard’s van, she stared down at me. Against her blue coat her golden hair shone; dark crumbs of make-up dotted the creases around her eyes. Perhaps Veronica had lectured