The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [70]
When I got up to leave, Todd followed me outside. While he rolled a cigarette, I asked him about university. What was it like? Was everyone very brainy? Did he spend every minute studying? Fine, no, no. As I launched into my fourth question, Todd said, “Shut up,” and, leaning forward, pressed his mouth against mine. After a moment, several moments, he stepped back. “Watch yourself,” he said, and disappeared inside. Dazed, delighted, I retrieved my bike and set off towards home. Perhaps it was to make those feelings last a little longer that I did not turn on my light but relied on the faint glimmer of the sky to reveal the strip of macadam that led back to Blackbird Hall.
Until his kiss Todd had simply been Nora’s older brother, nice enough looking, good on the accordion, refilling his glass with home brew once too often. His main virtue had been his attendance at university. Now I remembered his occasional glances, his soulful singing. I longed to see him again, to ask more questions; my life had suddenly expanded. I rounded a corner to find the road blocked by a car. Beside it knelt a figure, a man. I stopped and dismounted.
“Hello,” I said. “Can I help?”
Something clattered to the road. “Damn. I didn’t see you.”
He had the island accent mixed with something else. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Bicycles are very stealthy. I need to get a bell.”
“Stealthy.” He snorted. “You need a light.”
“You mean I need to use it.” I had bought a new battery for my light in Kirkwall the week before. Now, pleased by my foresight, I unclipped it and knelt beside him, aiming the beam while he wound up the jack and struggled with the nuts and then lowered the jack and struggled some more.
“You’re kind not to comment that I clearly have no idea what I’m doing,” he said. “I haven’t changed a tyre in years.”
“I’ve never changed one, though I did manage to mend my first puncture the other day.” From the safety of the darkness beyond the torch, I glimpsed brown hair and a smear on one cheek, oil or mud perhaps. I could tell by his voice that he was older—a man, not a boy.
“It isn’t rocket science. Where are you heading on your stealthy bicycle?”
“Blackbird Hall. It’s not far from here.”
“I’ve heard of it. There’s a farmer there who breeds cattle.”
“Who has less manners than his cows.”
“I see you have opinions,” he said, slipping the wheel into place. “Are you part of the household?”
“I’m the au pair.” Vicky had used the word nanny in her advertisement but that brought to mind someone with a bosom, stern and grey-haired.
“Au pair?”
“It means you’re a member of the family with special duties. Here.” I reached for the nut he’d dropped.
“Actually,” he said, “it means a mutual exchange of services. Au pair—on the level.”
“I don’t teach French yet.” I was explaining that my pupil was only eight when the wrench slipped and the man swore: “Bugger it!” I dropped the torch. The light shone upon two gleaming brown shoes, shoes so beautiful that I pictured them in a shop window in Edinburgh, costing more than I earned in a year. “Are you all right?” I said.
“I banged my hand.”
I retrieved the torch and he stretched his left hand into the beam. In the light his index finger was already swelling, slightly crooked. “Broken,” he pronounced.
“Oh, no. We should get a doctor.”
“In this time and place I doubt that’s an option. Don’t worry. It’s not fatal, just a useful reminder of stupidity.” He finished the nuts and then held the light while he instructed me how to lower the jack and extricate it from the car. I could hear him trying to curb his impatience as I fumbled with the levers, but soon the jack and the punctured tyre were in the boot