The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [22]
“Here’s the new girl,” said Ross.
“I’m Gemma.” Despite my weariness, I longed to make a good impression.
A couple of the girls grunted and one—she had olive skin and sharp features—approached. “So this is what they got instead of Montrose. A little rat.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” said Ross. “I doubt she’ll last the year.”
The girl gave my left pigtail a fierce tug and drifted back to the card-players.
Ross steered me to the bed by the door, the noisiest and draughtiest in the room. My school uniform was already lying there: a dark green tunic several sizes too large, a light green shirt clearly too small, a brown belt, and brown knee socks. Veronica would have gnashed her teeth at the sight of such ugly garments. The colours reflected the school crest: a brown acorn and a green oak leaf. The motto, predictably, was that small things lead to large ones.
While I unpacked into the small chest of drawers at the foot of my bed, Ross explained that Sunday was the easiest day of the week for working pupils. Serving breakfast was followed by church, followed by lunch, followed by cleaning the classrooms. Supper was an hour earlier so that we had a free hour before bed. I laid out my pyjamas and dressing-gown. Ross fingered the latter, a cast-off of Louise’s made of nice, thick flannel. “Watch out for Findlayson,” she said. “She’ll have this off you in the bat of a pig’s eye.”
She picked up the dressing-gown and led me back downstairs. In the bathroom I washed my face and hands with cold water and bitter yellow soap, and brushed my teeth. At the next basin Ross did the same, spitting out the toothpaste with gusto. Back upstairs the Elm Room was already dark. The school matron turned off the light at nine-thirty on the dot; only in case of fire or flood were we allowed to turn it on again. I undressed, glad to be shielded from the girls’ scrutiny, and climbed into the narrow, lumpy bed.
Gone were the owls and the wind in the trees, my cousins’ chatter and my aunt’s laughter. The girl in the next bed was already snoring. Someone else was laughing, or perhaps crying. I heard floorboards creaking, and a muffled gasp. The thought that had come to me as I waited for the train in Edinburgh returned even more acutely; not one person in this room, or indeed within a hundred miles, wished me well. But on Monday there would be lessons. I would meet the teachers and the regular girls and start to make friends.
When the only sounds around me were sighs and snores, I climbed out of bed and, carrying my suitcase, tiptoed down the stairs. Locking myself in one of the toilets, I used my penknife to make a slit in the lining of the case and slipped my precious photographs into hiding.
chapter seven
I woke to the clang of a bell and the groans of the other working girls dragged from sleep. Rain was drumming on the roof, and in a bucket beside my bed, water pinged steadily. The uniform, as I had guessed, was a disaster. The buttons of the shirt gaped and the sleeves stopped several inches short of my wrists. Meanwhile the tunic slipped off my shoulders and hung well below my knees. The socks drooped. The tie was absurd. Only the cardigan fitted.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” chortled the sharp-featured Findlayson.
Smith, the stout girl of last night’s washing-up, giggled.
After the sparse breakfast Ross had predicted, the entire school walked to the village church under the supervision of the prefects. The Bryants drove in a sleek black car; the teachers followed in assorted vehicles. The rain was heavy, and before we reached the bend in the drive, my coat was soaked and my hair dripping. Everyone else had a raincoat with a hood. The girl next to me,