The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [89]
His voice faltered as he described how determined his sister had been after her fall. “She learned to walk, to drive, to climb stairs. My father kept saying she had the Sinclair backbone. What we didn’t realise was that all her efforts were aimed at riding again. She insisted they keep her horse. Seamus rode him for her, and she’d have him trot by the house so that she could watch. Then, when I was visiting at Easter, she asked me to saddle Mercury. We had a furious row.”
He braked and I glimpsed the white flick of a rabbit’s tail as it dashed across the road.
“The next day I happened to look out of the window, and there she was on Mercury. Seamus was holding the reins. Even from a distance I could see they were arguing. Suddenly Alison broke free and started cantering across the field. I dashed downstairs. By the time I got there Seamus was carrying her back to the house. A month later she moved to Glasgow.”
He fell silent. When it seemed that he was not going to speak again, I reported what Vicky had said: Alison’s heart had failed.
Mr. Sinclair let out a soft sigh. “My father had some old friends in Glasgow. The coroner was kind. She became addicted to painkillers, then to other things as well. A pretty girl with money, she could get whatever she wanted.” He waved, as if the walls that lined the road were stocked with mysterious substances. “My disapproval just made her secretive. Nell was alone with her when she died. We don’t really know what happened.”
“What about Nell’s father?”
“The birth certificate says father unknown. I suspect that was true, even for Alison.”
“So you’re Nell’s only relative?”
“Yes, we’re the last of the Sinclairs, though if you go back far enough Vicky and Seamus are distant cousins. Now perhaps you can understand why I’m not keen on piano lessons. I didn’t care for Alison’s musician friends, drinking too much and hoping to get lucky.”
We passed a sign for the village of Birsay. Nearby stood a red sandstone ruin, several storeys high. “Not every pianist drinks,” I said, though my only evidence was the music teacher at Claypoole, who had played even “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow” in a restrained fashion. “With winter coming,” I persisted, “Nell needs indoor hobbies.” He wasn’t, I noted gladly, suggesting that either she or I leave Blackbird Hall.
“She can collect stamps. Make papier-mâché animals. Learn to cook. Practise cartwheels. Here we are. The Brough of Birsay.”
He pulled onto the verge and pointed to an island a few hundred yards offshore. From this angle, with its sheer cliffs and smooth, grassy top, it resembled a lopsided cake with a single candle, a lighthouse just visible in the centre. At the side nearest Birsay the cliffs sloped down to the sea in a tumble of rocks and seaweed. A causeway, wide enough for a small cart, ran between the island and the mainland.
“We’re going to see the puffins,” Mr. Sinclair announced. “At least I hope so. Sometimes they’re shy.”
He slung the knapsack over his shoulder and led the way down the rocks and onto the causeway. I followed, trying to avoid trampling on the limpets and barnacles. Halfway across something caught my attention. A seal, drifting in the bay, was studying me with large dark eyes.
“Hello,” I said, waving. “I hope you catch a hundred delicious fish.”
“I don’t think you need worry about that,” said Mr. Sinclair. “I’ve never seen a thin seal.”
As we continued walking, the seal dove and reappeared a few steps later. In this fashion it accompanied us across the causeway, finally disappearing only when we reached the shore. We climbed up the rocky beach and found ourselves standing amid low ruined walls. The island had been the site of a church and a monastery, Mr. Sinclair explained, and perhaps a farm.
“The Vikings had a settlement