The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [73]
“How stiffly she gives the dictionary definition. Now you’ve taken umbrage. What I’m asking is, how do you come to be wandering this part of the planet?”
Still looking into the fireplace, I gave a clipped, three-sentence version of my life: dead parents, dead uncle, school.
“Thank you, Miss Hardy, for that generous, voluble—”
Before he could finish, the door was flung open and Nell hurled herself across the room. “Uncle Hugh, Uncle Hugh,” she cried. Mr. Sinclair’s drink went flying, the tumbler bouncing harmlessly on the hearthrug. He kissed her forehead, called her a ragamuffin, and set her down. Her hair was tangled, her shirt dirty, her jeans torn at one knee. She could scarcely have done me less credit.
“So what is this I hear about you running away and tormenting Gemma?”
“Did you remember my skates?”
“Has no one taught you your pleases and thank-yous? If you look in the hall you’ll find a box with your name.”
She was out of the room in a flash. “She reminds me so much of her mother,” he said with a rueful smile.
While Nell carried in her box and knelt at her uncle’s feet to unwrap its contents, I fetched a cloth and mopped up the whisky. She did get her skates and several records and two books, which she brought to show me: an illustrated encyclopedia and an atlas.
“These are beautiful,” I exclaimed, and then, trying to sound more teacherly, added that they would be very useful.
“I always liked those kinds of books,” Mr. Sinclair said. “Facts and pictures.”
Nell was threading the laces of her skates when I stood up and announced that it was time for supper. “Where are you going?” said Mr. Sinclair. “Are you slipping off for a beer in the village? Oh, I’m sorry. We will not mention that again.”
Trying to hide my embarrassment, I said it was lucky for him I had been in the village. “You might have hurt more than your finger, wielding spanners in the dark. Nell has supper at six-thirty and I need to prepare tomorrow’s lessons.”
“All right, all right.” He raised his hands. “I bow to the disciplinarian.”
To my relief Nell allowed me to lead her from the room. As she ate scrambled eggs she could not stop chattering about her gifts. I had last skated in the corridors of Yew House, but I promised to give her a lesson tomorrow. Surely, like bicycling, the skill would come back. Only when she was safely in bed and I was sitting beside her, reading a bedtime story, did I remark that it had been a long walk back from the beach. “Why didn’t you tell me you were cross with me?”
“You wouldn’t have listened.” She studied the wallpaper next to her bed. Following her gaze, I saw several neatly drawn cats stalking among the forget-me-nots and daisies.
“You could have tried,” I said. “Like you do in arithmetic when you try three times.”
“Arithmetic is different,” she said, still gazing at the flowers. “Six sevens are forty-two.”
“Very good,” I said and kissed her cheek.
In bed that night I listened not for the sea but for Mr. Sinclair’s comings and goings. Even though the guest rooms still stood empty, the house felt different: inhabited in a new way, pulsing with life.
chapter eighteen
As I stepped out of my room the smell of bacon greeted me. At the kitchen table, Nell and I begged shamelessly for extra rashers. The doorbell, which had grown rusty since my arrival, rang just as we finished eating and then every hour or two for the rest of the day. Farmers and neighbours stopped by to greet Mr. Sinclair; members of the local council wanted to discuss a right of way; the golf course committee wanted to plan the summer tournament; the church needed repairs. The kettle was always on the stove, and Vicky was always making cups of tea and arranging plates of shortbread. The cowman’s wife came over in the morning to assist her, and Nora stayed on in the evening to serve supper. Mr. Sinclair either had guests or was one. During the day, when he wasn’t otherwise occupied, he worked with Seamus. One morning, glancing out of the