The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [96]
It was Nell who spotted him as we let ourselves into the garden. He was sitting on the bench beneath the beech trees, dressed in a blue shirt and white trousers. In one hand he held a glass, in the other a London newspaper. She ran to greet him. When he had hugged and kissed her, he looked over at where I lingered beside the fountain.
“Gemma. Aren’t you going to come and say hello?”
“How do you do?” I said in my best Claypoole voice. “I hope you had a pleasant journey.”
One arm still around Nell, he studied me carefully. “Did you not get my message?”
Had there been a note that had gone astray? “What message?”
“From the wing of one of the few birds I know, a seagull.”
So only the stupid ambiguous feather, no words committed to paper. “Yes, but it told me nothing. Nell, come and wash your hands before tea.”
Mr. Sinclair half rose, as if he might follow her, then he sank down again. And, although it was the last thing I wanted to do, I walked away.
That night I stood at the window of my room, hoping to see him in the garden, waiting for me, but nothing moved across the dewy lawn. I did not have the courage to tiptoe downstairs and investigate the library. Enough, I said sternly to myself. I had my job, I was earning a living, saving money: What more could I hope for? Next summer, I vowed, whatever happened, I would look for a position in Edinburgh where I could study for my exams.
The harvesting began, and Mr. Sinclair, when he had no other engagements, joined Seamus and the other men. Vicky carried lunch to wherever they were working, and Nell and I went too, to picnic on the edge of the field among the poppies and thistles. After they’d eaten their sandwiches, the boys from the village sometimes played pig in the middle or leapfrog and allowed Nell to join in. While these games were in progress I could not help glancing occasionally at Mr. Sinclair where he sat beside the tractor with the other men. His skin had turned almost as dark as Seamus’s and often he forgot to shave. Never once did I catch him looking my way.
Since my first week on the island there had seldom been two days together without rain. Now everyone remarked on the glorious weather, at first doubtfully—it couldn’t last—and then, as day followed sunlit day, with the sense that perhaps we had earned it. By the end of Saturday one last field of barley, the largest and most golden, remained to be cut. On Sunday I drew my curtains to find the sky once again cloudless, but the blue had shifted slightly, from cerulean to azure, as if, far away, a veil had fallen. When I came down to breakfast, Seamus was in the kitchen, wearing his work clothes, haranguing Vicky.
“We need to get the barley in,” he was saying. “The storm will be here by suppertime.”
“Seamus, it’s the Sabbath. We’re not heathens.” She stood facing him, holding the kettle, her cheeks bright with reproach.
“I’ll work alone. No one need know. The Lord gives us fine weather so we can grow crops and harvest them.” He swung round. “Ask Miss Hardy. She knows southern ways, people who work on Sunday and are none the worse for it.”
Here was my chance, finally, to get in his good books, but I hesitated to cross Vicky. “Maybe you should ask Mr. Sinclair,” I offered. “It’s his barley.”
“Your precious Mr. Sinclair,” said Seamus. He stormed off towards the dining-room.
Why did he say your, I wondered, and had Vicky noticed? Quickly I asked if she needed help, and when she said no, headed out to tend the hens and calves.
I did not hear what transpired between the two men, but Seamus was in church, glowering in the pew nearest the door. He