The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [43]
Beneath the towel Miriam made a gasping sound.
The next morning, as we washed the silverware, Smith remarked that an ambulance had come in the night and taken Goodall to the hospital in Hawick. “One of the prefects said she nearly died,” she added cheerfully.
The handful of knives I was drying fell to the floor.
“Dropping a knife is bad luck,” said Smith, nudging one with her foot. “You’ve enough here to last a year.”
She can’t die, I thought. Adults were the ones who had accidents, or fell ill and died, not children. Yet even as I argued, I remembered the small graves in my uncle’s churchyard: beloved sons and daughters gone to join their Redeemer. Somehow I survived my morning classes. Serving lunch, I deliberately touched a roasting pan. “Clumsy,” said Cook and sent me to the infirmary. Once again I offered Matron my notebook: Please tell me how Goodall is.
“She’s very . . . I’m afraid all we can . . .”
All we can what? I wrote.
“Pray,” Matron said, holding up her hands.
The following morning in assembly Miss Bryant said the same thing. “Girls, today I ask you to pray for Miriam Goodall, who is very ill in Hawick Hospital.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed partly to God, partly to the young man. I promised to be good, to tidy my drawers, never to lie, not to hate anyone—even Mr. Milne, even Miss Bryant—if only they would make Miriam better. I pictured her lungs, bean-shaped like the picture I’d seen in a biology book, growing and growing.
In class Mrs. Harris reprimanded me for not getting out my books. In the kitchen Cook chivvied me to finish the potatoes. Meanwhile the rest of the school, the rest of the world, seemed oblivious to Miriam’s fate. The weather had turned warm, and on the terraces the roses were in bloom; the regular pupils wore pretty green and white gingham dresses. My only solace was visiting the blackbirds. My guess of four weeks was proving surprisingly accurate. Even as I watched, one of the fledglings struggled to sit on the rim of the nest.
“Little buggers are growing up fast,” said Ross. She had sneaked up behind me.
I started back to the kitchen but she grabbed my arm.
“I’ll bet you a shilling,” she said, “you never see her again.”
chapter twelve
The night was much milder than the one on which I had taken my box to Mr. Donaldson, but gone were the high white clouds that had lit my journey from Yew House to the village; instead the sky pressed down, indistinguishable from the land. At the top of the stairs I stood counting, waiting for my eyes to adjust. When, at fifty, I could still barely see the driveway I almost gave up. To walk so far, alone, in such darkness, seemed impossible. Then I remembered Ross’s taunt and set out across the grass. Hawick was only seven miles away. The Romans had marched through Britain at four miles an hour; I could be there in two hours. Perhaps even less, since running, I soon realised, was the best way to stay ahead of fear.
I slipped on the damp grass and fell once, then again. As soon as I passed the bend and was out of sight of the school I kept to the road. In the lodge all the lights were off. Nevertheless I tiptoed by on the far side, giving a wide berth to Mr. Milne’s van. If he came after me I planned to take to the fields, where my speed was an advantage. Then I was safely past and heading downhill on a road I had not travelled since my first day at Claypoole. The animals in the fields were strangers; the trees had no names.
At the bottom I turned left and followed the line of willows. Soon I was crossing the river and entering the village of Denholm. Only a few houses still showed lights, but someone could easily look out of an unlit house and see me. I ran from one pool of shadow to the next, dreading to hear a voice shout, “Stop,” but no one called after me; no dog barked. About half a mile beyond the village I heard my first vehicle. I climbed into the ditch and stayed there until the lorry was safely past. It left the silence even more absolute, the darkness even denser. Breathe, I kept