The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [81]
“Look at the little bird,” Coco said. Several birds had discovered the crusts Nell had thrown on the grass.
“It’s a pied wagtail,” I said. “They eat all kinds of insects and in winter their faces get much whiter.”
“A wagtail,” Coco exclaimed. “What does it mean that all these birds associated with you-know-what are so small. Little willy wagtail? Little cock robin?”
I knew there was something behind her words that I didn’t understand; still, I had to correct her. “Things are often different for birds,” I said. “Look how beautiful the male peacock is with his huge tail, and the male mallard is gorgeous with his green head and white necklace. The females don’t need to be flashy to attract attention.”
But Coco had no interest in learning more about birds, or at least not from me; she was already turning back to the houses. “Perhaps we’ll find a necklace,” she said. “Or a chalice, whatever that is. Wouldn’t that be super?”
I was about to explain that a chalice was a metal drinking cup, and also that any finds belonged to the government, but before I could speak, I felt Mr. Sinclair’s gaze again. He gave me a little nod and allowed Coco to take his arm. She made a show of tottering over the short grass and then bent to remove her sandals. Her toenails were the same scarlet as her fingernails. While Nell and I sat with our sketchbooks to draw the village, she climbed down into one of the houses and insisted on trying a Stone Age bed. Knees to her chest she could barely fit on even the larger of the slabs.
“I feel like a sacrificial maiden,” she said.
“Not exactly a maiden,” called Jill from the next house. She was bending over the dresser, examining how the stones fitted together. It was easy to picture her in a white coat, splinting a dog’s leg.
“Come and join me,” called Coco, waving at Mr. Sinclair.
His shoulders gave a little twitch and he clambered down to perch on the stone shelf. “Maybe this was the seat reserved for the wise elders,” he said, “which meant anyone over twenty-five. So tell me”—he turned to Nell—“what Gemma’s taught you about the village.”
“The houses are all the same,” she said in her best explaining voice. “Each has two beds, and a fireplace and a dresser where people kept food and necklaces. In the book we read, it said that one of the houses had a place for limpets. Some of them have chairs. They think the village used to be farther from the sea. Gemma says they’ll find out more when they dig more.”
“And how old are the houses?”
“At first they said Iron Age but now they think neo . . . neo.”
“Neolithic,” I said. “New Stone Age.”
A few feet away Coco was twisting and turning on her stone bed in a way that seemed designed to draw attention to her long tanned legs. Mr. Sinclair summoned Nell to show him her picture. She said she needed five more minutes. While I watched, she sketched in Coco and her uncle. She gave him a club and a beard, and Coco an off-the-shoulder bearskin and thick eyelashes. At their feet she drew a little tangled heap. “What’s that?” I said.
“Coco’s shoes,” she whispered.
After Nell had shown her drawing to Mr. Sinclair and he had praised her depiction of him and the houses—“though you didn’t do Coco justice”—I led her down to the beach. We played hopscotch on the damp sand until we heard Vicky calling.
On the drive home Nell said, “Does Coco want to marry Uncle Hugh?”
“She’s certainly setting her cap at him,” said Vicky.
“So then”—I couldn’t see Nell’s face but I could hear the pleasure in her voice—“I’d have an aunt as well as an uncle.”
“Of a kind,” said Vicky. We exchanged glances in the mirror.
That night, when Nell was at last asleep, and the sounds of revelry from the dining-room reminded me of a pack of hounds in full cry, I sneaked out of the house,