The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [23]
My uncle had given lively sermons, often drawing on recent events, and led the hymn singing in his pleasant tenor voice. His successor, Mr. Cockburn, had been inferior in every way, but his sermons had been brief, his singing passable. Now, as the organ started to play, a large man, his surplice like a tent, mounted the pulpit. Mr. Waugh did not even pretend to sing the first hymn. As soon as it ended he shouted, “Let us pray,” and proceeded to yell requests at the heavens.
The sermon too was delivered at full volume. The text was the commandment to honour thy mother and father, and Mr. Waugh explained what one should do if they weren’t available, namely, honour one’s minister, one’s teachers, and grown-ups in general. And how should one do this? Why, by working hard, doing as one was told, never speaking out of turn, being clean and neat. On my left Ross dozed; on my right Gilchrist fidgeted; overhead the church clock chimed. Mr. Waugh began his sermon soon after ten-thirty and was still going strong at eleven-fifteen. My feet went from cold to numb. Standing for the closing hymn I stumbled and, save for my companions, would have fallen.
Outside it was still raining. Almost trotting, Ross led us working girls back to the school. We were passing the lodge when the Bryants’ car swept by, spraying us with water. In the kitchen a woman wearing a yellow raincoat, whom I’d spotted near the front of the church, was waiting to address us.
“Girls,” said Mrs. Bryant, with a broad smile, “one of our governors is coming to lunch. Cook has made something delicious, and I want everyone to put her best foot forward. Clean aprons all round.” Clipboard in hand, she continued to issue instructions. “And you, new girl,” she concluded, “get a uniform that fits and stop slamming the plates on the table.”
Mrs. Bryant, I soon learned, had perfected the art of using a single expression—a smile—to convey a whole range of emotions: rage, disapproval, anger, boredom, sarcasm. Only when she was with her sister-in-law did her face relax into a kind of vacancy, which perhaps signalled genuine pleasure.
Lunch passed, mercifully, without incident. For the rest of the day I swept corridors of which I could not see the end, and mopped floors, which looked just as dirty when I finished. My only brief respite was dusting the library. Later I would overhear parents who were being shown around exclaim over this book-lined room with its tall windows, but working girls weren’t allowed to use it. When Ross discovered me reading The Thirty-Nine Steps she moved me to scrubbing bathrooms. Still I clung to the idea that tomorrow lessons would begin, and, thanks to Mrs. Bryant, Matron issued me a new uniform.
The sole adult living among the dormitories, Matron had no eyebrows—she drew them on each morning—and almost no capacity for surprise. Only utter mayhem could make her look up from the romances she read incessantly, and almost nothing could make her finish a sentence. “I don’t see what . . . ,” she said, surveying my drooping tunic. “But if Mrs. Bryant . . .”
She led me to a wardrobe filled with tunics and intimated that I should choose the two that fit me best and were in the best repair. Then she produced two shirts only a little too large. As for the socks, I would have to use garters. Finally she handed me an Alice band.
On Monday morning Ross detailed Findlayson to take me to Primary 7. She led me to a classroom on the lower floor, knocked once, and, with a quick grin, ran off down the corridor. “Come in,” said a voice. I stepped inside to see the teacher at her desk,