The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [44]
I had given no thought as to how I would find the hospital. In my mind all I had to do was get to Hawick and there it would be. But as I got closer I began to worry that I would have to search the town, street by street. I had no map, and even if anyone were around—a milkman, say—I would not dare ask for directions. Just past the first houses, though, a sign saying HOSPITAL pointed straight ahead. A few streets later, a second sign pointed to the right. I saw a low stone building with two wings.
Cautiously I approached the front door and, after peering through the lowest pane of glass, stepped into the empty hallway. I had been to a hospital only once before, when my aunt had had her mysterious operation, and I recognised the same mixture of smells that did not go together. Faintly, I was not sure from what direction, I heard women’s voices. At the end of the hall one arrow pointed to GERIATRIC, MATERNITY, and WOMEN, another to ORTHOPAEDIC, MEN, and CHILDREN. I headed towards CHILDREN, stopping every few yards to listen until I reached an opaque glass door. Holding my breath, I gently pushed it open.
Four doors lined the broad hall; one, ajar, spilled a wedge of light. Beyond I glimpsed the ward, with two rows of beds stretching into darkness. I tiptoed past the lit door and approached the nearest bed; the curtains were drawn around it. When I peered between them I saw Miriam by the glow of the bedside light, propped up against several pillows. She wore a faded pink nightdress, unbuttoned at the neck; her pale face seemed even larger. At the sight of me her eyes showed pleasure but no surprise. Perhaps my messages had reached her. I stepped inside the curtains, longing to hear her exclaim over my presence. After my dangerous journey I could feel the blood running through my veins, my lungs effortlessly filling and emptying. It took me a moment to fit myself back inside my skin, to sit down calmly on the edge of the bed and reach for her hand.
“You’re cold,” I whispered. I slipped off my shoes, and taking care not to jostle her, I climbed under the covers. My first thought was that she smelled different; her flowery fragrance had been banished by something medicinal. In a low voice I told her how worried I had been, that I had walked through the night to take care of her.
“I saw your father yesterday,” I said. “Is the hospital making you better?”
“They’re trying. Daddy came and yelled at them this afternoon.”
“Ross said you were going to die.”
Miriam sighed. “I might. My head feels very strange.”
“You can’t,” I said. “I need you.” Even as I spoke, the awful truth came to me: everyone I had ever loved had died.
“Well, if I can’t, I won’t,” she said. “Tell me a selkie story.”
Whispering so quietly that it was almost like talking to myself, I began, “Once upon a time in a village by the sea a woman named Margaret lived in a house covered with shells. Her parents were dead but she loved her shells and she loved the sea. She was old enough to be married but . . .”
Despite the urgency, and the danger of discovery, I found myself growing drowsy. I yawned, I buried my head against Miriam’s shoulder. I had not spoken for several minutes when she patted my arm.
“I have to tell you something,” she said, her voice a tiny thread. “Make friends with Miss Seftain. She’ll teach you Latin. You’ll like that. And when you get older she’ll help you to stop being a working girl. Keep telling the story. I’m going to try to sleep.”
“So Angus followed Margaret into the shell house,” I went on, “and the parlour was full of people he had never seen before. They all had beautiful brown eyes, like yours, and they all wore beautiful long dark coats . . .”
As the intervals between Miriam’s breaths grew longer, so did the intervals between my words until we were both silent.
chapter thirteen
I woke to a pair of blue eyes a few inches from mine. Above the eyes perched a white hat slightly askew; below, plump lips parted to reveal a few crumbs of toast. When she saw I was awake, the