The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [56]
I had never made a phone call before. It was, I understood, a reliable way of doing what I had attempted with Miriam—talking to a person at a distance—but nothing had prepared me for the experience of holding a piece of black plastic to my ear and hearing a woman, nearly three hundred miles away, say in a light sing-song voice, “Good evening. Blackbird Hall.”
“This is Gemma Hardy,” I said. Across the room Miss Bryant frowned and mouthed something I couldn’t decipher. “I’d like the job, please. I’m used to loneliness and I know about birds. I can teach Nell sums and writing, and Latin when she’s older.”
“You can teach her if you can catch her,” said Miss Sinclair. “She led her last teacher a merry dance.”
She promised to mail a postal order for my fare the next day and asked if I could come the following week. If I left Hawick on Monday, she explained, I could catch the Tuesday ferry. She would book me a room at a bed-and-breakfast near the station in Thurso. “My brother will meet the ferry,” she said. “See you soon.”
I replaced the receiver and reported the conversation to Miss Bryant. She shook her head. “I hope we’ve made the right choice, Hardy,” she said. “I’ve never sent a girl so far away. I can’t help wondering why they didn’t get someone local. There are two good-sized towns on the Orkneys.”
I had not thought of this before and I did not care to think of it now; no local girl, I was sure, knew Latin as well as I did. I curtseyed and left the room. Two days later a postal order for twenty pounds arrived. As she handed me four five-pound notes Miss Bryant said she had asked Matron to help me sort out my wardrobe.
For nearly seven years I had sported more or less ill-fitting versions of the school uniform. In the holidays I had worn cast-off skirts and blouses and then, as fashions changed, pullovers and trousers. Now, with Matron’s help, I went through the overflowing lost-property box and chose various garments, which we laundered and repaired: a nice blue skirt, and a plaid one, several blouses and T-shirts, a cardigan, four pullovers, three pairs of trousers, and a blue pinafore that made me feel awkward but that she claimed was becoming. She insisted that I take the warmest coat that fitted me, an almost new anorak, and several pairs of shoes. To carry all this she presented me with a second suitcase and then, her parting gift, a green paisley dress that had belonged to one of the prefects. Matron was the only other person who was unequivocally happy about Claypoole closing. She showed me a photograph of a woman and three windswept children on a mountaintop.
“My daughter,” she said. “In the Lake District.”
When I wasn’t organising my clothes I made my modest round of farewells. Miss Seftain gave me a copy of Ovid’s Metamorphoses and a cardigan. Dr. White shook my hand and gave me a watch. “So you’ll be able to scold your pupil when she’s late. Sister Cullen wishes you godspeed.” On Sunday Miss Bryant invited me to sit in the dining-room for my last meal, but I declined. After years of eating perched on an upturned milk crate, I had no desire to sit at a table and be ignored. That night’s pudding was the detested tapioca, but in the kitchen, Cook produced a trifle in my honour. Ignoring the washing-up, we clustered around the table to devour the sweet fruit and custard.
“So why the special pud?” said Findlayson. She and I were the last of the original working girls.
“Hardy’s leaving,” said Cook. “We’re wishing her bon voyage.”
“But not,” said Findlayson smugly, “au revoir.”
An hour later, as I was about to climb into bed, I felt her watching me from across the room. Peeling back the sheets, I found two slices of bread and jam. I set them on the floor for the mice to enjoy and resigned myself to sleeping between the blankets. But the incident had cast me into a wakeful state; my mind travelled back to my last night at Yew House. As soon as I had saved enough money, I vowed, I would search for Mr. Donaldson. Meanwhile it came to me that I wanted a