The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [71]
“Farewell, stealthy cyclist,” he said. “Thank you for your illumination.”
He drove off into the darkness and I continued on my bike, pleased by my two adventures.
The next morning passed predictably, breakfast, hens, lessons, but the house seemed noisier than usual. The Hoover roared back and forth outside the schoolroom and the phone rang several times. It was only when I went to make our picnic—I had promised Nell we could go to the Sands of Evie—that I learned that Mr. Sinclair had arrived the night before.
“Imagine,” said Vicky, “I was already asleep when I heard this commotion. I came out in my dressing-gown and there he was, saying he was starving.”
I thought at once of the man I’d met the night before, but surely he would have said if he too were bound for Blackbird Hall. “Will he be at lunch?” I asked.
“He’s off in Kirkwall. He wants to see you and Nell this evening. I told him how well you’re doing with her. From now on you’ll have your meals in the kitchen, unless, of course, he asks you to join him.” Her tone suggested that this was unlikely.
The Sands of Evie was a long shallow beach overlooking Eynhallow Sound. Vicky had told me that sometimes on summer evenings you could hear the seals singing on the neighbouring islands; so far we had seen only the occasional dark head in the distance. On our last visit Nell and I had built a hut out of driftwood, but today all that remained of our efforts was a scattered pile of planks and branches. We sat on a rock, eating our sandwiches and discussing how to rebuild it. Then Nell began to speculate about what gifts her uncle might have brought. “I asked for roller skates,” she said, “and some records and a new collar for Tinker.” Since Nell had started lessons, Tinker spent his days with Seamus, but she still fed him every evening.
“A collar is nice,” I said absently. I would braid her hair, I thought, and have her read a page from her favourite book, Percy, the Bad Chick. My excitement was tinged with apprehension. I had done well with Nell and I deserved praise, but praise might not be forthcoming. Mr. Sinclair, like Miss Bryant, controlled my world; what if he was equally tyrannical?
Nell said something else, which I missed. Then she announced she was going to pee and headed towards the long grass that bordered the beach. I wandered down to the water’s edge and began to search the damp sand for cowries, the little curled pink shells that the Vikings had used as currency. I had found one on our last visit. When I gave it to Nell her small eyes had kindled. “I’ll put it in a secret place,” she had said, “and keep it forever.” Now my search took me farther and farther along the beach. I was nearing the far end before I realised that Nell hadn’t returned. Perhaps she had discovered a bird’s nest, I thought, or a rare flower. I walked back, calling her name. Only the waves and the gulls answered me. What if something had happened: an accident, or something more sinister? I looked up and down the long line of grass and rushes that bounded the beach, but whatever footprints she’d left were mixed with the footprints we had made on our way down. My heart clamoured in my ears. I pictured men, dark cars. Running as best I could, the sand slipping under my feet, I retrieved our jackets and knapsack, and ran back to the field where we had left our bicycles. At once my fears vanished. Hers was gone; mine had two flat tyres.
As I pushed my bicycle back along the narrow, hilly road I understood that Nell was angry with me, but understanding did not stop me from getting hot and cross. By the time I reached Blackbird Hall all I wanted was to shake her and explain that I might lose my job if she didn’t do me credit. Her bicycle was in the shed, but I knocked at the door of her room in vain. Vicky, shelling peas in the kitchen, hadn’t seen her.
With less than half an hour until my meeting with Mr. Sinclair, I gave up on Nell and set to work on my own appearance. I had taken to wearing trousers most days, except Sundays. Now I