The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [42]
Miss Bryant raised her voice to match. “Your daughter has never been a hypochondriac, but for the last week she’s been so breathless she can’t get out of bed. Matron and Dr. White both think she’d be better off in hospital.”
“I don’t hold with hospitals.”
Their footsteps moved across the hall, and whatever came next was inaudible. When I risked a glance over my shoulder, I saw that there had been another witness to the conversation. Ross had followed Miss Bryant into the hall and stood by the standard lamp, watching me. I moved on to the next stretch of wainscoting. Don’t speak, I shouted in my head. Don’t say a word. I dusted, I polished, I straightened the magazines on the table by the armchairs. At last she walked away. Only then did I feel free to send my message: Miriam, I’ll come tonight. I promise.
In bed while I waited for everyone to fall asleep, I had the awful thought that Miriam’s grey, smelly father had already taken her away. But, however faulty my message-sending, I was convinced I would know if she were gone. She was still here, but tomorrow, unless she improved dramatically, she would be sent to the hospital. Around me girls snored and sighed. Findlayson got up to use the bathroom; so did Drummond. I tried to decide if it was better to leave during one of the surges of noise that periodically passed through the room or while all was still. Suddenly I sensed someone beside my bed. I opened my eyes, ready to scream. In the gloom I made out a young man wearing a white shirt and dark trousers.
“Miriam needs you,” he said. “Go to her now.”
I did not hesitate. I rearranged my pillow to look like a body, placed my rolled-up cardigan where my head ought to be, and tiptoed to the door. Without stopping, I made my way to the sickroom. The bedside light was on; there was no sign of Matron. Miriam was propped up in bed, her face pale and gleaming. At the sight of me she started to smile. Suddenly her mouth wrenched open, and her eyes flared. The giant hand was holding her tight.
I ran to the bed. “Miriam, what can I do? Do you have your inhaler?”
She glanced down and I saw it lying beside her. “Can’t talk,” she whispered.
“What can I do?” I repeated. Her forehead was beaded with sweat. Gently I patted it with the sleeve of my pyjamas. I remembered a scene from Anne of Green Gables when someone with croup was put in a tent of steam. I looked around the room, hoping for a kettle. Meanwhile Miriam gathered her strength to push back the hand one more time. And one more. I had never thought of breathing as something that required willpower. What would happen if she fell asleep?
“Story,” she whispered, her voice even smaller than before.
I began a tale about two brothers, both fishermen; the good brother likes the seals and shares his catch with them; the bad brother hates them. Suddenly I realised Miriam hadn’t taken the next breath. Her eyes were glaring, her body arching, her hand fumbling with the inhaler. Quickly I took it from her, raised it to her mouth, and pushed the button as I had seen her do. She lay back, eyes closed. “Go on,” she murmured.
“And then the bad brother . . .”
After only a few more sentences her breathing jammed again. I ran to the doorway of the room. “Matron,” I called. “Help. Help.”
I had barely time to hide behind the curtains before Matron, in a dark dressing-gown, was bending over Miriam, saying, “There, there, Goodall.”
Soon she had Miriam settled in a tent of steam just like I had read about. She left the room and I heard her dialing the phone, begging the doctor to come at once, saying “ambulance” and “hospital.” Then I heard her hurrying down the corridor and guessed she had gone to fetch Miss Bryant. I slipped out of my hiding place and knelt beside Miriam.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” I said. “I tried, but Ross stopped me. Tonight the man from the library fetched me, the one you talked to about convoys and ice cream. He’s watching over you. They’ll make you better in hospital and when you come back