Free The Flight of Gemma Hardy by Margot Livesey

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    â€œGirls,” said Mrs. Bryant, with a broad smile, “one of our governors is coming to lunch. Cook has made something delicious, and I want everyone to put her best foot forward. Clean aprons all round.” Clipboard in hand, she continued to issue instructions. “And you, new girl,” she concluded, “get a uniform that fits and stop slamming the plates on the table.”
    Mrs. Bryant, I soon learned, had perfected the art of using a single expression—a smile—to convey a whole range of emotions: rage, disapproval, anger, boredom, sarcasm. Only when she was with her sister-in-law did her face relax into a kind of vacancy, which perhaps signalled genuine pleasure.
    Lunch passed, mercifully, without incident. For the rest of the day I swept corridors of which I could not see the end, and mopped floors, which looked just as dirty when I finished. My only brief respite was dusting the library. Later I would overhear parents who were being shown around exclaim over this book-lined room with its tall windows, but working girls weren’t allowed to use it. When Ross discovered me reading The Thirty-Nine Steps she moved me to scrubbing bathrooms. Still I clung to the idea that tomorrow lessons would begin, and, thanks to Mrs. Bryant, Matron issued me a new uniform.
    The sole adult living among the dormitories, Matron had no eyebrows—she drew them on each morning—and almost no capacity for surprise. Only utter mayhem could make her look up from the romances she read incessantly, and almost nothing could make her finish a sentence. “I don’t see what . . . ,” she said, surveying my drooping tunic. “But if Mrs. Bryant . . .”
    She led me to a wardrobe filled with tunics and intimated that I should choose the two that fit me best and were in the best repair. Then she produced two shirts only a little too large. As for the socks, I would have to use garters. Finally she handed me an Alice band.
    O n Monday morning Ross detailed Findlayson to take me to Primary 7. She led me to a classroom on the lower floor, knocked once, and, with a quick grin, ran off down the corridor. “Come in,” said a voice. I stepped inside to see the teacher at her desk, writing. While I waited for her to acknowledge me I examined the rows of girls. Even beyond the uniform, they looked oddly similar. Each girl’s hair, I realised, irrespective of length, was scraped back, like my own, in an Alice band. Only at weekends were girls allowed to wear their hair as they wished.
    At last the teacher raised her head. “Who are you?”
    â€œI’m Gemma Hardy.”
    â€œAnd what class do you think you’re in?”
    â€œPrimary Seven.”
    â€œTwo doors down,” she said, and returned to her writing.
    Closing the door I saw the label, PRIMARY 6, and understood, yet again, that I must be on my guard at all times. At my knock the door of Primary 7 flew open. Beside the blackboard stood a woman wearing a black gown, holding a pointer. Like Mr. Milne, Mrs. Harris had neither neck nor waist; a small sphere, her head, was balanced on a larger sphere, her body. She asked the same question as the last teacher; once again I introduced myself.
    â€œHardy, you’re five minutes late.” Her voice was surprisingly high-pitched.
    â€œI went to the wrong classroom.”
    â€œI am not interested in excuses. Bring the late sign, Andrews.”
    A girl rose from the front row, went to a box in the corner, and returned carrying a piece of cardboard emblazoned with the word LATE . She slipped the string over my head and I was made to stand at the front of the room for the first period: arithmetic. My cheeks were burning but I did my best to focus on the sums Mrs. Harris was writing on the board. Several times I raised my hand to answer a question; she never looked in my direction. The bell rang for second period and she gestured to an empty desk in the