The Flight of Gemma Hardy by Margot Livesey

way, second class,” she said, sounding pleased about both choices.
    The train was already at the platform and while Mr. Carruthers carried my suitcase to the guard’s van, she stared down at me. Against her blue coat her golden hair shone; dark crumbs of make-up dotted the creases around her eyes. Perhaps Veronica had lectured her too about her eyelashes.
    â€œWell, Gemma, we’ve reached the parting of the ways. You’re an ugly child—my poor sister-in-law was a plain Jane—but I hope you’ll study hard at Claypoole and be a credit to me. You must—”
    â€œI’ll always try to be a credit to my uncle,” I broke in, “but you’ve treated me like a leper. If I win every prize in the school it won’t be because of you.”
    Without waiting for an answer, I turned and marched towards the train. Behind me I heard Mr. Carruthers cry, “The ungrateful brat,” and his footsteps in pursuit. Then came my aunt’s voice and two sets of steps walking away.
    I chose the first empty compartment I came to. As soon as the train pulled out of the station, I knelt on the bristly seat, switched on the little lights on either side of the mirror, and studied my reflection. With my hair pulled into braids, my face had a naked, startled look. My eyelashes were pale, Veronica was right, but my eyes were the same shade of grey as the feathers of the geese that flew over the fort, and my nose was small and straight. I might be plain but I did not think I was ugly. I would make friends at the school. I would try not to show off, or be a copycat. I would learn French and hockey and take piano lessons. I sat down in a corner seat and, lulled by the sight of the wintry fields and the sound of the wheels—one way, second class, one way, second class—fell asleep.
    I woke to the wheels making a different sound and the dull red struts of the Forth Rail Bridge flashing by. In one of his sermons my uncle had compared living a good life to the endless task of painting the bridge. As soon as the painters got all the way across, he explained, they had to begin again. Far below I glimpsed the choppy waters of the Firth of Forth flowing into the North Sea.
    In Edinburgh the guard carried my suitcase to a platform at the far end of the station and installed me on a bench. My train to Hawick left in an hour. “You’re a wee lassie,” he remarked, “to be travelling alone.”
    â€œI have my book and I have my lunch.” I held up each in turn, smiling, but the guard’s ruddy face did not smile back.
    â€œMy youngest daughter can give you three inches,” he said, “and I wouldn’t let her loiter about the station. Stay here and don’t speak to anyone not in uniform.”
    My aunt’s briskness and a sense of adventure had carried me through the last few hours. Now I was alone on the windy platform, and the thought came to me that no one within fifty miles knew my name, or my whereabouts. I too could disappear, blown away like the dry leaves I saw skimming down the tracks. Perhaps other people had had the same feeling. The bench was covered with initials. Among several hearts I made out the command FLY AWAY . If I had had my penknife to hand, rather than rolled into a pair of socks in my suitcase, I would have carved YES below. I stamped my feet for warmth and even that sound disappeared into the emptiness.
    But in a few hours everything would be different. And for now I opened the paper bag to discover my favourite egg and cress sandwiches, a bottle of Ribena, an apple, and two chocolate biscuits. I put these last in my pocket for later, and set to work on the sandwiches. I was dropping the crusts into the bag when I saw a note.
    Dear Gemma,
    The best of luck at your new school. Be good!
    I hope our paths cross again one day.
    Kind regards,
    Audrey Marsden
    Reading the words—she had printed them as if I couldn’t read cursive—I