The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [63]
Following Vicky’s example, I dressed in trousers and a sweater. Then, eager for my first glimpse of the island by daylight, I drew the curtains at my four windows. On one side I had a view across the lawn to two beech trees, the bare branches crowded with the rooks I had heard. A swing hung from the taller tree and a bench stood between them. The other windows gave a view over the vegetable garden to the farm buildings and, beyond them, the fields. The whole of the garden was surrounded by a wall twice my height. Of the sea there was no sign.
Downstairs my cautious “Hello” was met by silence. Vicky had pointed out the dining-room the previous evening. The long table had been laid for two; a plate with several crusts marked, I guessed, the passage of my pupil. As I ate cornflakes and toast, I scanned the island newspaper. I was reading about the number of stray dogs found in the last week—six—and the number of licences issued to move pigs—seventeen—when I had the sudden sensation of being observed. I looked up, but the windows were empty. From nearby came a muffled giggle. In almost noticing Nell, I thought, I was doing exactly what she wanted. I decided then, as I ate a second slice of toast, on my strategy. I would not pursue her. I would explore the house and the farm, I would visit the sea, I would help Vicky and do whatever was asked of me. Eventually, I thought, like a hedgehog or a fox, my charge would emerge from her hiding place.
Just as I finished eating, Vicky appeared. She asked how I had slept, seemed pleased by my answer, and offered to show me around. Downstairs, besides the dining-room and the kitchen, were a library, a drawing-room, a billiard room, and a study. These last three were closed for the winter, but I was welcome to use the library. Seamus—she waved vaguely—occupied a room beyond the cloakroom, where he could have his dogs. I did not think to question how he could sleepwalk the length of the house. As for Vicky, she’d been using my room in order to be close to Nell but had now returned to her quarters beside the kitchen.
Upstairs we could hear music from behind Nell’s door—she had her own radio and record player, Vicky explained—but she did not answer our knock. With a little shrug Vicky moved on to the schoolroom. The bright, spacious room was stocked with books, maps, notebooks, paint boxes, and crayons; there were even a blackboard and an easel. “This is perfect,” I exclaimed. The rest of the corridor housed the guest rooms, each with its bed neatly made. At the far end, a tall oak door led to Mr. Sinclair’s quarters.
“I keep it locked so Nell won’t go poking around,” Vicky said lightly, and I understood that I was not to poke around either.
We put on Wellington boots and jackets and headed outside. Vicky led the way around the cream-coloured house and across the lawn to a fountain. “It used to make a lovely sound,” she said, “but it hasn’t worked in years.” The bowl was half full of murky water, and the dolphin in the centre was covered with lichen. We continued to the farmyard. She pointed out several barns, a granary, three henhouses, a duck house, a stable, a shed where tractors and machinery were stored, a byre for milking, and a dairy. As I followed her, I asked questions. Why were some of the hens so small? They were bantams. Why were there fragments of seashells everywhere? The hens ate them to harden the shells of their eggs. Why didn’t they have pigs? Seamus couldn’t be bothered, and she got too fond of them. How many cats were there? One for each rat.
In the dusty henhouse she showed me how to slip my hand under a hen to retrieve the eggs. “Do it quickly,” she said, “so they don’t have time to peck.”
On my second attempt I retrieved two warm eggs from a drowsy red hen.
Then she told me that lunch was served in the kitchen at twelve-thirty and pointed out the path across the fields to the sea. There weren’t many beaches on this side of