The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [65]
Now one section of the Castle Rock eluded me. I tried piece after piece to no avail. “Oh, fiddlesticks,” I said and flung myself down in an armchair.
“Miss Cameron said fiddlesticks is swearing,” said a voice.
“I thought fiddlesticks was the opposite of swearing. That it meant you were trying not to swear.” I was careful not to turn towards the door.
“Why did you say it?”
“Because I can’t find a piece of the jigsaw.”
“Jigsaws are stupid.”
“Is that like saying ducks are stupid because they can’t add? Or do you mean doing them is stupid?”
Suddenly she was standing in front of me, wearing a ragged blue pullover and dark brown trousers. “I’m Nell. And this”—she pointed to the black and white collie shadowing her heels—“is Tinker.”
The dog growled and its hackles rose in one smooth motion.
“I’m Miss Hardy, but you can call me Gemma. Maybe you’d like to help with the puzzle? If I can get the edge sorted I’ll be on my way.”
Hands on hips, Nell narrowed her eyes. “Okay,” she said. “Just for a minute.”
Tinker settled down before the fire and I showed her the picture of the castle on the lid of the box and what I’d done so far. She seized an unlikely-looking piece of edge, and slipped it into place. “There.”
“Well done. Now if we can do the corner by the battlements. Have you ever been to Edinburgh Castle?”
“My mum has.” She reached for another piece, and I saw that her nails were ragged and filthy.
At Claypoole visiting parents had sometimes brought their younger children, and I had watched, bewildered, while the teachers exclaimed over them. Why was being small and inept considered praiseworthy? Size was simply an accident of inheritance, or age. As for being helpless, that was something to fix as soon as possible. The first tenuous strand of sympathy between Nell and me was my recognition that she was not the kind of child people exclaim over. She was thin, all elbows and knees, and she walked in an ungainly way with one foot sticking out. Her skin was sallow and her brown eyes were a little small. Her hair straggled to her waist. She was completely aware that in her case being a child carried few advantages; if she could have grown up tomorrow she would have. She reminded me of my younger self.
We worked on the puzzle for half an hour, during which she fired questions at me. I told her about Claypoole, and that I preferred seals to dogs.
“Seals,” she said. “What is the point of seals?”
“They have beautiful whiskers and there are wonderful stories about them, rescuing sailors and helping people. What is the point of Tinker?”
“He protects me.” She bit her thumb. “He herds sheep.”
“Why do you need protection?”
“The blue piece goes here.”
Presently I announced that I was going to get elevenses. Would she like some?
“No, thanks.” She curled up in one of the armchairs by the fire. “I’m only here because of the rain.”
Five minutes later, when I returned from the kitchen, carrying a tray with two glasses of squash and a plate of biscuits, the puzzle was scattered across the floor.
The following day was equally stormy. In the library I lit the fire and tried to settle down with Ivanhoe, but I was too discouraged to read. Remembering Nell’s small, skeptical eyes, I could easily imagine her continuing to shun me. In which case, I thought, Vicky would have no choice but to let me go, and I would have no choice but to seek another job. What could I do to lure her into my company? I thought of slipping a note under her door—Come out. Let’s make a truce—but I doubted she could read. She seemed immune to the appeal of the farmyard and to the smells of Vicky’s cooking. She had yet to appear at a meal, though often when I came down to breakfast it was clear she had been there