The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [46]
“You were hungry,” said Sister Cullen. “Now I’d like to ask you a few questions. It’s still too early to phone the school.”
As she spoke I realised that Miriam’s death had propelled me back into the world of ordinary speech. Gently Sister Cullen asked me my age and circumstances, and I told her about being an orphan, about getting a scholarship to Claypoole only to spend most of my time cooking and cleaning. I told her how Miss Bryant had put me in Primary 7 not as a reward for my scholastic accomplishments but to conceal the age of her youngest working girl. I told her how Miriam had befriended me.
“And you her,” said the sister.
I had never thought to wonder why Miriam had approached me. Now, as I gazed at Sister Cullen’s pristine hat, I understood for the first time that Miriam, even with all the advantages of being a regular pupil, had, like me, no friends.
“So,” Sister Cullen said, leaning forward, “you can’t go back to your aunt’s. And, I’m no expert on these matters, but I doubt there are many boarding schools that would take you for free. I fear your only option is to make the best of Claypoole. Perhaps Dr. White will have some ideas.”
“He might be angry with me,” I said and confessed my refusal to speak.
Sister Cullen shook her head. “You’re a very determined person, aren’t you?”
I had not thought of myself that way, but I stored up the idea to examine later. “Why did Miriam die?” I said. “I thought no one died of asthma.”
“Believe me, I would have done anything I could to prevent it. Asthma is very hard to cure.” She stood up from her desk and, approaching the poster, pointed to the lungs. When someone has asthma, she explained, the tubes that go from the face to the lungs and the smaller ones, actually inside the lungs, become inflamed and constricted. “Perhaps if Miriam had been in a sanatorium when she first developed asthma; if someone had made sure that she had the best possible diet, plenty of rest, and cheerful company . . . Well, who knows? But Dr. White took good care of her, and here at the hospital we did everything we could. When I went off duty yesterday, we thought her condition had stabilised. No one had any idea she would die in the night.”
I stared at the dark red lungs as I asked the crucial question. “Do you think it was my fault?”
“Your fault?”
I meant, was I a monster? Did I hurt everyone I loved? Instead I repeated Miriam’s remark that being upset made her asthma worse.
“You’re asking did the shock of your visit trigger an attack? No, that would have happened anyway. I’m sure your presence made it easier. Didn’t you see her face when you said goodbye? She looked as if she’d been smiling, and that was because of you. It would have been awful for her to be alone, or with strangers.”
Then she announced that for today she was going to keep me at the hospital. I could make myself useful by reading to some of the younger children on the ward. One of her nurses, she added, had a daughter my size and would lend me some clean clothes.
I did not hear what Sister Cullen said to Miss Bryant, but I pictured a glacier meeting a rock; the rock stands firm but the glacier just keeps going. Nor did I hear what must have been a wrenching phone call to Mr. Goodall. I was helping a little girl eat her porridge when he strode into the ward, still wearing his brown suit, and, ignoring the nurse hurrying towards him, pushed his way between the curtains surrounding the now empty bed. A second later he emerged and lurched towards Sister Cullen’s office.
“You told me she was getting better. How could you let this happen? First you kill her mother, now her.”
There was a pause—presumably Sister Cullen replied—then a single word rang through the ward.
“Murderers!”
Half an hour later I saw Sister Cullen, her hand resting on his arm, ushering him down the corridor.
That afternoon I was reading Peter Rabbit to a boy with a broken leg when another man in a suit appeared. At the sight of Dr. White, my voice faltered. After my weeks of silence,