The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [87]
“He’d leave without saying goodbye to his only relative?”
“I couldn’t rightly—the milk.”
Before I could seize the pan, milk gushed over the sides; the kitchen filled with a burning smell. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said.
“Not to worry,” said Vicky. “There’s plenty more in the larder. Mr. Sinclair’s business is Mr. Sinclair’s business. He pays you and me to be companions to Nell so he won’t have to think about her.”
She was warning me, I knew, from further questions, but as I poured fresh milk, I could not help asking, “Is it true he might go bankrupt?”
A little cracking sound meant one less egg to market. “Heavens,” said Vicky, setting the broken egg aside. “I hope not. I do know that the farm doesn’t make a penny, even though the cattle bring a good price. But it didn’t under old Mr. Sinclair either, and he knew the land like his own garden. Tell Nell she’ll hear from her uncle soon. She can always talk to him on the phone.”
“Of course,” I said. “She’ll like that.”
Later, long after Nell and Vicky were both in bed, I walked down the track to the gate. In the west the sky was still light and the bats were out, uttering their high-pitched cries. From the fields came the lonely, fluting call of the curlews. The beauty of the evening only made me lonelier. And what was I lonely for? I asked as I climbed on the gate and gazed down the road along which any car must come. I was used to being alone and I had more friends here than I had had at any time since my uncle died. But I remembered how Mr. Sinclair had talked to me when the bee stung my hand, and how later he had asked my views about God, as if my answer mattered. In those moments I had felt seen by him, and I wanted, I thought as a bat swooped by, to go on being seen.
The next morning, when I stepped out of my room, the familiar fragrance of bacon greeted me. Not daring to think what it might portend, I hurried down the stairs. There, in the kitchen, was Mr. Sinclair at the stove, wearing one of Vicky’s flowery aprons.
“You’re just in time,” he declared. “What will it be? The full British breakfast? The more ladylike Orcadian?”
“What’s the full British?”
“Bacon, eggs, mushrooms, toast. Oh, and fried tomatoes.”
“Yes, please. Shall I make the toast? And one for Nell too.”
“Two full British coming up.” He waved the spatula for emphasis. “How would you feel about cancelling lessons today?”
“I’d want a good reason,” I said, sawing at the loaf. “We already missed a day going to Skara Brae.”
“What a Tartar you are. As your employer”—he began to crack eggs, one-handed, into the frying pan—“I am proposing that Vicky take Nell to Kirkwall to buy some clothes.”
I said, truthfully, that I’d been meaning to ask about Nell’s wardrobe. She’d grown in the last few months and almost everything she owned was too small. Then I remembered Coco’s claim. If he was on the edge of financial ruin he shouldn’t be squandering money on clothes, but it was not my place to say so. Instead I said that sometimes Nell and Vicky quarrelled. Maybe I should go along to arbitrate.
“No.” He sliced a tomato and put the two halves facedown in the pan. “I have other plans for you. We’ll explain to Nell.”
At the sound of her name Nell appeared and was delighted at the unexpected treats of a cooked breakfast and her uncle’s company. Watching her skipping around as she set the table, I scarcely recognised the cross, pinch-faced girl who, only a few months ago, had thrown the jigsaw puzzle to the floor. Her cheeks held some colour; her hair was neatly brushed. Even her eyes seemed larger and brighter. I buttered the toast and we sat down to eat. According to Mr. Sinclair, the eggs were a little overcooked, but Nell said they were perfect and I thought, but didn’t say, that it was the best breakfast I’d eaten since the day of Miriam’s death. We were mopping our plates when Vicky appeared, wearing one of her Sunday skirts. “Heavens,” she said. “Look at my kitchen.”
Mr. Sinclair told