The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [66]
Now I set Ivanhoe aside, put on my outdoor clothes, and headed to the farmyard in search of Vicky. I found her in the dairy. “What a day,” she said. “At least we don’t have to worry about the milk going off.”
Her nose and cheeks were red with cold and her breath hung in clouds over the milk she was skimming. When I offered to help, she said I could rinse the churn. With my back to her, running the tap, I described what had happened the day before. “Do you have any idea how I can get Nell to come to lessons? Is there anything she likes?”
“Besides being a hooligan and listening to pop music? I couldn’t entirely say. She is curious about you. Last night I caught her raiding the larder, and she said she likes that you’re small and wear trousers. Shall I ask Mr. Sinclair the next time he phones?”
“No. Please don’t.” In my alarm the churn clattered against the sink. I set it on the floor and turned to face her. “What will he think of a teacher who hasn’t given a single lesson?”
“You can never guess what Mr. Sinclair will think.” She poured a ladle of cream slowly into the butter maker. “I won’t say a word, but if he asks, I can’t lie. I expect he’ll visit when the weather gets warmer. He often appears out of the blue.”
As I retraced my steps across the rainy farmyard, I understood that the snowdrops in the hall, the gleaming grand piano, the rooms with their beds made and fireplaces stacked with peat, were all just in case Mr. Sinclair decided to visit. The house was always waiting for him. In the library my book lay on the table; the fire burned evenly. I went over to one of the windows and pressed my hand to the cold glass. My uncle had told me that the Romans made glass out of sand. The next day I had lit a fire in the sandpit, hoping to produce a pane, or even a few droplets, and ended up with a mess of blackened sand. Now, watching the rain smash down, I wondered if I would ever have a home again.
As if my thoughts had summoned him, my uncle appeared—not, of course, on the windswept grass but in my brain. He had faced the same problem of an intractable child when he came to Iceland. I pictured him, whether from my memories or his stories I couldn’t say, rolling coloured balls over the rough ground. I had knelt behind a wall, watching, and then I had come over to roll a ball too. And he had talked, telling stories in a language that I didn’t understand but in which the underlying message was clear: this man wished me well.
The library was, as Vicky had said, mostly stocked with histories and old novels, but upstairs in the schoolroom I found what I needed: Pippi Longstocking. When I was Nell’s age I had loved the story of the adventurous girl who slept with her feet on the pillow and could lift a horse over her head. I carried it down to the library, left the door ajar, and began to read aloud. I stopped after twenty minutes, when Pippi was making pancakes.
“Go on.”
“Only if you come and sit down.”
“And Tinker?”
“And Tinker.”
Nell sauntered in and perched on the chair opposite. Tinker took up his position on the floor beside her. “You didn’t say please,” she said. Her trousers were splattered with mud.
“I forgot,” I said. “Please. Can you read?”
“None of your beeswax.” She drummed her heels on the rug; Tinker flicked open one yellow eye and closed it again. “Go on. What happens next?”
“I’ll make a bargain with you,” I said slowly, improvising. “I’ll read to you for an hour every afternoon, anything you want. In exchange you’ll do lessons every morning.”
“Except Sunday. How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“How do I know you’ll keep yours? I’ll swear on Tinker’s head. If I don’t read to you one afternoon then you don’t have to do lessons the next day.”
She leaned forwards so that her hair swept the rug. I watched uncertainly, wondering if I should offer further bribes. Then a small hand emerged through the curtain