The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [58]
“It seems right, your leaving early. You were never really a Claypoole girl, not even a Claypoole working girl. For some reason—Christ knows why—you think you’re so much better than the rest of us. After that business with the cripple, Miss Bryant tried to get rid of you, but no one else would have you. We’re all glad to see the back of you.”
While he continued to list my shortcomings, I gathered my thoughts. When at last he spluttered to a close, I drew myself up to my full height. “May no one ever give you a job,” I said. “And may you have to take care of your wife for a hundred years.”
Before he could respond I picked up the larger of the suitcases and dragged it into the station. By the time I returned for the second case, the van was gone. Standing in the queue at the ticket office, I found myself gulping cold air. My mouth burned as if each word I’d spoken had been a fiery nugget. My curse wasn’t written on a lead tablet and offered to Sulis, but I hoped it would nonetheless prove effective. When I reached the window, I asked for a second-class single to Thurso.
“Second class, single, child,” corrected the clerk.
“No, adult. I’m eighteen. I could get married.”
“You could indeed, ducky”—the clerk’s bald head bobbed in the overhead light—“but why not save yourself six pounds? You can still get married at sixteen or seventeen.”
Reluctantly I agreed to be a child one last time.
I had been looking forward to the journey north: the prospect of new landscapes, and new people. What I had not anticipated was the sense, even as I headed into the future, of revisiting my life so far. The first station we came to was Galashiels, and I studied the sullen, grey houses. Perhaps one of them had sheltered Miriam. Our friendship was still the only evidence I had, since my uncle died, that I could be loved. And what about Mr. Goodall? Was he still living there, even greyer and grubbier? Beyond Galashiels the countryside grew desolate, populated only by scruffy sheep and dark twisted trees. I thought of Ross’s story of running away, and sleeping in a sheepfold. How lonely she must have been. Then houses began to appear, at first singly, soon in streets; the train slowed. We had reached Edinburgh. One by one I lifted down my suitcases. As I stood waiting for the crowd to disperse, I saw that the platform where I had embarked, years ago, was just across the forecourt. I dragged my suitcases over. Two boys in jeans and jackets were sitting on the bench, sharing a cigarette.
“Would you mind standing up for a moment?” I asked.
“What’s this?” said the nearest boy. “Station inspection?” He leaned back, blowing smoke in my direction.
“Please,” I said. “Just for a second.”
“Come on, Brian,” said the other, getting to his feet. “Do what she says.”
As he spoke, his lips stretched over slightly prominent teeth; I had a flash of recognition. “Did you once want to work in a fish shop?”
“I don’t know if I wanted to, but I do, down in Leith. How did you guess?” He cocked his head. “Do I look like a fish?”
“Not really. Seven years ago on this platform you carried my suitcase.”
“It’s possible,” he said. “I get this train most days.”
He tugged the other boy to his feet, and there, I pointed them out, were the words—FLY AWAY—carved into the wood. The boys peered, nonplussed. I thanked them and started to walk away, dragging my cases.
“If I used to carry your luggage,” said the fish boy, coming up beside me, “I’d better not stop now.” He took the cases out of my hands and asked where I was going. When I told him, he remarked that he had never been that far north. “You’ll have to come back in seven years and tell me what it’s like.”
“I will.”
“Okay. Same place, same time.” He smiled down at me and then, as a train whistled nearby, turned and loped away.
But not everything had remained the same. The train to Thurso was a modern one with seats in rows instead of compartments, and when we reached the Forth Rail