The Flight of Gemma Hardy_ A Novel - Margot Livesey [97]
The ride back was mostly uphill, and by the time we reached the house we were plucking at our shirts and flailing our arms to keep the midges at bay. As I put the bikes away, I was struck by the stillness. Save for the insects nothing moved.
“The weather’s about to break,” said Vicky, and the lowering sky did look as if it might rupture at any moment.
Indoors Nell could not settle to reading, or drawing, or draughts. Finally I suggested she play the piano in the hall. I had shown her the few scales Miriam had taught me and she enjoyed practising them and trying to figure out her favourite songs. She was working on “Mrs. Brown, You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter,” and I was urging her to play more slowly when the first fat raindrops fell. Within minutes the wind rushed in like a pack of wild animals. We both jumped up to stand by the window. I stared into the swirling rain and said silently, I will forget Mr. Sinclair. I will forget Mr. Sinclair. A man who would lie about his finances to test a woman was not worth a moment’s thought or affection.
“I love storms,” sighed Nell. “When I grow up I’d like to be a weatherman.”
“Weatherwoman,” I was saying when a loud crack made us both jump.
“What was that?” said Nell. “What happened?”
But all we could see was rain and more rain.
In half an hour the storm had passed, sweeping on to the Brough of Birsay, and out to sea. On my way to feed the calves, I made a detour through the garden. The gnats were gone, and everything smelled sweetly of damp earth. Beneath the beech trees lay a dark mass: the branch from which the swing had hung. The white ropes were tangled among the copper leaves, and as I approached it looked, in the gathering dusk, as if the branch were being kept prisoner. Raising my eyes to the grey trunk, I discovered a gleaming scar.
The calves were once again barely able to pick their way through the mud, and when I tried to feed Herman the nipple kept slipping from his mouth. Petula refused even to take the bottle. Remembering Jill’s advice, I fetched a rope from the granary and led them one by one to an empty stall in the barn. Still they refused to eat. I tucked them into the warm straw and promised extra milk in the morning. Back at the house Vicky and Nell were playing racing demon. They begged me to join their game and, in the flurry of slapping down cards, and then chivvying Nell to bed, I forgot to mention either the calves, or the tree.
The next morning Vicky told me that Seamus had gone to the barley straight from church and cut as much as he could with his scythe, but even that was probably ruined. “He’s beside himself,” she said, raising a hand to hide a yawn. I wondered if Seamus had kept her up late, venting his rage.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t think anyone could work harder than Seamus.” It was the one good thing I could say about him.
“Just stay out of his way. Do you want some porridge?”
I had every intention of following her advice, but when I went to feed the calves, the stall was once again empty. Seamus had returned them to the field. Herman stood near the gate, his head hanging low, shuddering every few seconds. Petula had lain down in the mud. Both, I saw, were suffering from the scouring Jill had warned me of, their hindquarters caked in excrement. I ran to fetch Vicky and we dragged them back to the stall. While she tried to coax them to eat, I spread straw and filled the water bucket. They sank down, trembling, refusing the bottle.
“We need to get