The Flight of Gemma Hardy Read Free Page A

my aunt towered over her son, and they both towered over me. “Wretched girl, stop making such a row.”
    â€œWill hit me.” For once—both my fall and Will’s blows had hurt—I didn’t care about telling tales.
    â€œShe was spying on me. I came in here to think about Daddy and she made fun of me. I tried to tell her how much she owed him. If it hadn’t been for him she’d still be wandering around on some iceberg, eating seal blubber. And she said she was glad he was dead.”
    At this, despite the pain, I jumped up, kicking and punching, trying to reach his eyes. “You liar. I never said anything like that. You are the one who forgets your father. You behave as if he never existed, as if he wouldn’t hate your muddy sports and your pathetic jokes about beer. You don’t care about anyone but your fat, stupid self.”
    A thread of snot dangled from Will’s nose and his eyes bulged. He shoved me hard, and I again fell to the floor.
    â€œYou poor boy,” said his mother. “I don’t know what your father was thinking when he brought such a minx into our home. Please, darling, don’t exert yourself further. I will take care of punishing Gemma.”
    She stepped out of the room and returned a moment later with Betty, the maid. “Lock her in the sewing-room,” she commanded. “She’ll stay there until she is sorry for her bad behaviour.”
    Betty was a hefty girl, and I was slight and unaccustomed to fighting, but at the news that I was to be shut in I struggled with all my might, kicking her ankles, even sinking my teeth into her hand. I had almost pulled free when Will, ignoring his mother’s remonstrations, joined in. The two of them dragged me from the study, down the corridor, and up the stairs. Gleefully they thrust me into the sewing-room, and slammed the door.
    The only sources of light in the small room were a single window, far above my head, and a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. The window, close to dusk on this overcast day, made little difference, and the light switch was outside, in the corridor. In the gloom the sewing-machine glinted, black and malevolent, and even the tall shelves, stacked with sheets and towels, had a threatening air. Mrs. Marsden always kept the door open when she sewed and still complained about the chill. I sat down and tried to calm myself by picturing the birds I had just been studying, but I could not summon even a modest fairy-wren. For five minutes, perhaps ten, I managed to pretend that I was sitting there by choice. Then my hand reached for the doorknob, and in an instant, I was on my feet, pounding on the door, crying for help.
    At last footsteps approached. “Be quiet,” said my aunt. “You won’t be allowed out until you prove you are sorry. To attack your cousin like that.”
    â€œIt was his fault. He hit me first.”
    The only answer was the sound of her footsteps retreating down the corridor. “Please, ma’am,” I cried. “Don’t go. I’ll be quiet. I’ll be good. I never meant to insult Will.”
    I am not sure what else I promised—in my desperation I was shameless—but nothing made a jot of difference. Her footsteps continued unfaltering, fainter and fainter, towards the stairs. I heard them no more. In the shelves, among the linens, something moved. A figure stood there, tall and gaunt. It stepped towards me.

chapter two
    T he story of my parents was, according to my uncle, a tale of heroism and true love; to my aunt, an example of stupidity and stubbornness. They had met in 1943 when my mother, Agnes, a WRNS, was posted to Iceland, and my father, a man who had grown up in the shadow of glaciers and geysers, was working on the new docks in Reykjavik. After only four months Agnes had returned to Scotland, but they had kept faith, sent letters, and made romantic arrangements that involved looking at the North