The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [83]
But Mr. Sinclair was not to be deterred. He began to give Giles’s version of the break-up. He had uttered only a few sentences when Coco sat up.
“Do you know what Giles says about you? That you ruined the Mercer deal.” I couldn’t follow the story she poured out: something about one chain of shops buying another, and about how Mr. Sinclair, at the crucial moment, had revealed something that jeopardised the sale.
“You shouldn’t believe everything Giles says,” Mr. Sinclair said. He spoke softly, but I knew he was angry.
“I don’t, and nor should you.”
“Touché.” He bent towards her.
Don’t, I thought. Please don’t.
I had never been able to send a message to anyone, not even Miriam, so surely it was only coincidence that at that moment Jill appeared in the doorway, calling her sister’s name.
chapter twenty
The next day was a proper island day, the wind coming straight from the northeast, buffeting the rain against the windows. I was on my way to feed the calves when Jill appeared in the cloakroom to ask if she could accompany me; Nell had told her about our pets. They were old enough now to require feeding only twice a day, and we had moved them from the barn to the nearest field. As Jill and I trudged through the mud of the farmyard, I caught sight of Seamus coming out of the granary, a sack over his shoulder; since the arrival of the guests, he had been even more absent than usual. Now, without seeming to notice us, he headed towards the byre.
Petula and Herman were huddled in a corner of the field next to the drinking trough. At the sound of their names they began to struggle towards the gate, their slender legs sinking into the mud with each step.
“This is ridiculous,” Jill said as we watched Herman pull a hind leg free. “They should be in the barn until the storm passes.”
“Seamus won’t like it.” I wiped the rain from my face. “He already thinks I mollycoddle them.”
“No farmer wants to lose his livestock. Besides, this isn’t mollycoddling. Calves survive bad weather because they have their mothers to shelter them. Come on. You take one. I’ll take the other.”
In a moment she had opened the gate, ploughed through the mud, and looped her tartan scarf around Herman’s neck. I managed to loop my own scarf around Petula. Together we led them back across the farmyard. Inside the barn Jill called out for Seamus and, when there was no answer, chose the nearest empty stall. We fed the calves and I asked if I should fetch a towel to dry them.
“They’ll be fine,” said Jill. “Just get them a bucket of water. What you need to watch out for in calves this age is scouring. If you see excrement on their hindquarters, call a vet at once.”
She bent to stroke them one last time and joined me in the doorway. We both hesitated, daunted by the rain overhead and the puddles underfoot.
“Good grief,” she said. “And this is July. I wouldn’t like to be here in winter.”
“I only arrived in February,” I offered. “Vicky says in December it’s dark by three.”
“I’d hate that. At Skara Brae yesterday I kept thinking about the families who lived there—how bleak it must have been during a storm, the waves pounding on the shore.”
“But the sea was their main source of food,” I said, quoting the island history book. “And maybe people then were more like bears and could hibernate.”
“Bears hibernate because there’s nothing to eat,” Jill said thoughtfully. “Perhaps there did used to be a human equivalent, a way to slow down the body. Forgive my asking, but why aren’t you at university? You seem very bright.”
Briefly, trying to conceal my pleasure, I explained about Claypoole closing and how I had needed a job. I hoped to take my exams next year, I added.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Jill said with an energetic nod. “You should be studying alongside Nell. Come on, let’s make a dash for it.”
Holding on to our hats, we waded out into the rain.
While Nell and I did lessons, the guests lounged away the morning: reading, chatting, playing billiards. The sounds of their conversation made Nell fidgety,