The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [28]
I shut up.
The next morning at assembly I was made to stand before the entire school while Miss Bryant asked God to help me improve. Now everyone, I thought, even the girls I hadn’t met, believed me to be a liar. Any last hope I had of making friends was doomed. But later that day one of the prefects, a plump girl who often played the piano at morning assembly, smiled at me in the corridor, and at lunch Cook gave me an extra portion of shepherd’s pie and settled me near her at the kitchen table. As I ate, I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke—she smoked a pack a day—and suddenly I remembered I was not utterly friendless. On Sunday, when we had our precious free hour, I would make use of the notepad and envelopes Mr. Donaldson had given me.
Claypoole School
Minto
The Borders
Sunday, 15 March 1959
Dear Mr. Donaldson,
This is a terrible place. I am sorry I didn’t listen to you and fail my exams although the school would have taken me anyway. All they wanted was another scullery maid. I spend most of my time peeling potatoes. We are like servants, only worse, and the teachers are sure we’re stupid. Most of the other working girls talk like Betty, the maid at Yew House, and they are stupid. They’re older than me and a couple can’t even read.
I would run away if I had a home to run to, or any money, but even if I could make my way to Yew House, my aunt would send me back. Please will you come and get me as soon as possible.
Yours very sincerely,
Gemma Hardy
Only as I sealed the envelope did I realise that I had no way to post it. I could not put it in the box in the hall, and we did not pass a pillar-box on our way to church. The older girls went to the village on Saturday afternoons, but they were strangers. For several days I kept the letter in my arithmetic book. Then it occurred to me that I could ask Mr. Milne to post it. He always winked at me as he dropped off groceries in the kitchen. Surely it would be no trouble to slip an envelope into one of the many pockets of his dungarees. The next day I waited for him to leave the kitchen.
“Mr. Milne dropped this,” I said, holding up a piece of paper.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” said Cook. “Run and give it to him.”
He was halfway up the back steps when I called his name. “Did Cook forget something?” he said.
Framed by the dark yews that lined the steps, his grey eyebrows drawn together, he looked more like a fierce goblin than a friendly gnome, but this was my one chance. “I’m Hardy, the new working girl,” I reminded him. “You met me at the station last month.”
He gave a brief nod; I plunged on. “Would you post this letter? It’s my uncle’s birthday tomorrow and I missed the collection.”
Mr. Milne’s eyebrows parted. “Give it here,” he said. “I’ll make sure it goes in the two o’clock post.” Just as I had hoped, he put the letter in the top pocket of his dungarees.
That night I fell asleep picturing Mr. Donaldson reading the letter over breakfast, clicking his yellow teeth and making a plan. But I knew the ways of adults; I was patient in my imagining. It was already Thursday. Even if he got the letter in time, he wouldn’t come this Saturday. But the next, I calculated, nine days away, for sure.
As if sensing my imminent departure, Claypoole began to show its better side. Our dormitory was less frigid. Daffodils and pussy willow lined the school drive, and our Sunday walk to and from church became a pleasure. Mrs. Harris made a joke in geography about temperate climes. In only a fortnight, Ross told me, the regular pupils would go home for Easter and we working girls would spring-clean the school and tidy up the garden. We were crossing the playing fields as she spoke, on our way to clean the gym.
“Look,” I said, pointing with the mop I was carrying. “There’s a magpie.”
“What’s a magpie?”
“That black and white bird with the long tail. They eat the eggs of other birds.”
“A bird? I thought from the way you spoke you’d found half a crown.”
A week ago her sarcasm might have silenced me; now I didn’t care. “And that”—I waved my mop