The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [95]
On several occasions during those weeks I caught her eyeing me, and once when we met, taking each other by surprise outside the hay barn, I thought she might say something. Quickly I made a joke about the rooster sounding hoarse that morning. At the slightest prompting, I worried I would spill out my feelings for Mr. Sinclair. Then surely she would repeat the obvious facts, which I repeated to myself over and over as I brushed my hair and taught Nell the eight-times table and rode my bicycle with her down to the sea. I had written them out on a piece of paper, which I hid among my socks.
Mr. Sinclair Me
Twice my age Only 18
Banker Au pair
Regarded & Beloved (many) Regarded (Vicky) & Beloved (Nell)
Two homes A room in one of them
Wealthy Forty pounds of savings
Plenty of friends Few friends, no family
Beautiful shoes Cast-off clothes
Handsome, to some people Plain to most
University Exams still to sit
And in addition to all these was the item that I could not bear to write down, namely, that his life was full of women like Coco or, better still, like Jill, kind and talented and hard-working.
That Saturday at Vicky’s urging—“You’ve been dull this week”—I bicycled to see Nora. The house was lit and everyone was sitting around the table, playing Monopoly. I squeezed in beside Todd, and he joked with me as usual, but something had changed. I no longer studied his unlined face with interest, or teased him about the holes in his sweater, and he no longer tried to get me on my own. The feeling that had no name was gone. How had that happened? But I added it to my litany of stern reminders: a single kiss, a single embrace meant nothing.
Day by day the fields of corn and barley grew more golden. If he was coming, then he must come soon. But the phone was silent. When Nell asked her, Vicky said only that the island was a long way from London. That night I sat in the library reading Kidnapped until the print swam into long dark snakes and all understanding of David Balfour’s adventures fled. Abandoning the book, I stepped into the garden. The dew had fallen, and as I circled the house, I could smell the sweet, dense fragrance of the night stock blooming in the borders. A quarter-moon hung over the beech trees. As I passed the corner by the kitchen, I saw a square of light on the grass; I edged closer.
I had often glimpsed Seamus’s room as Nell and I played in the garden, but I had never seen him there. Now he stood beside the fireplace, his elbows on the mantelpiece, his head buried in his hands. As I watched, I saw that his shoulders were shaking, almost—although this seemed impossible—as if he were crying. How odd, I thought, that we two, who had been enemies since our first minute together, should be the only ones awake for miles around, and each of us in the grip of despair. Somewhere nearby an owl screamed, the cry of the hunter.
The next day at lunch, as she ladled out soup, Vicky announced that Mr. Sinclair would be arriving that evening. Nell jumped to her feet, knocking over her water glass, and in the bustle of mopping-up and mild scolding, I was able to hide my own delight. The talk turned to the harvesting, which would begin tomorrow; several boys had been enlisted from the village. They would start on the oats to the west, Seamus said. All signs of his nocturnal gloom were gone and he joked with Angus and Syd about sharpening their scythes, though nowadays most of the work was done by tractor. When I asked about gleaning—my uncle had loved the story of Ruth and Naomi among the alien corn—he laughed and said, “Bring your basket, lassie.”
But that afternoon, when I walked to the cove with Nell, my delight dimmed. I had made no provision for my prayers being answered. The awkward questions that absence had allowed me to ignore began to surface.