A Vow Of Silence

by Veronica Black

  ‘Sister Joan, please come in.’

  An inner door had swung silently open and the Prioress stood on the threshold, arms extended for the sexless embrace exchanged between sisters at arrival and departure.

  ‘Reverend Mother Ann.’

  First the bow and then the formal embrace. Two pairs of lips kissed the air at each side of the white veils.

  The Prioress of the Cornwall House was tall and slim, her features regular. It was impossible to calculate her age from her smooth skin and dark eyes set slanting above high cheekbones. A classically beautiful woman, Sister Joan thought, with a definite charm of manner that might or might not be calculated.

  ‘Come and sit down, Sister.’ The voice was warm, each word clearly enunciated. ‘I always have a cup of herb tea at this hour, so I hope you will join me?’

  The parlour must once have been the drawing-room when the Tarquin family had owned the house. The panelled walls had traces of gold paint still outlining the cornices. The floor of polished oak boasted two thin, exquisite Aubusson rugs, and the mullioned windows were diamond-paned. The few pieces of furniture obviously belonged to the house. Equally plainly they were valuable, two sofas covered with petit-point, two high-backed spool chairs, a multi-drawered cabinet against one wall inlaid with ivory, the table of walnut with a profusion of tiny plants carved about its edge. On one wall, between two of the windows, hung the photograph of the founder of the order. In one corner between high Adam fireplaces and another window stood a carved wooden statue of the Holy Virgin, untinted, pristine in its simplicity.

  ‘Shall we sit here?’ The Prioress indicated two low basket chairs, of later date than the other furnishings, drawn up by a matching coffee-table on which two mugs of smoked glass were set. Steam curled up from them both and the spicy scent teased Sister Joan’s nostrils.

  She sat down, tensing slightly as she felt the plump cushion at her back.

  ‘Did you have a comfortable journey, Sister Joan? It is a very long time since I was on a train. When my father was alive we travelled all over together, of course. Would you believe that I once learned how to race a camel?’

  Her dark eyes twinkled between their thick lashes.

  ‘A horse is the most I ever rose to,’ Sister Joan confessed.

  ‘But that is wonderful!’ The other looked delighted. ‘We have a horse. Not a very challenging mount but a very affectionate, stable mare. She needs exercise, so you may ride her to and from the schoolhouse every day.’

  ‘But that would be wonderful.’ Sister Joan unconsciously echoed the other’s phrase, then checked herself. ‘Is it allowed?’

  ‘There is nothing in our rules which forbids a sister from riding a horse, though only lay sisters are permitted to drive cars. You can use a side-saddle? Good. I do not believe in interpreting the rules too rigidly.’

  She looked gently amused as she spoke. Sister Joan sipped her herb tea silently.

  ‘Sister Felicia has probably told you that we have a number of elderly sisters here,’ the Prioress was continuing. ‘Three of them — Sisters Mary Concepta, Andrew and Gabrielle are in the infirmary most of the time. Of course their advice and wisdom is invaluable but they can no longer take an active role in the running of the convent. It puts more stress on the younger and more active among us. Fortunately we are a very happy little Community here. I will introduce you at suppertime. Now there must be questions you wish to ask me.’

  ‘Only about the school, Reverend Mother Anne. It’s a Primary School for children who live on the moor. I didn’t realise that people did live on the moor.’

  ‘Oh, there is the occasional isolated farm and the gypsies camp there regularly. The older children go by bus to the various Secondary Schools in the district, but many of the younger ones slip through the net. There is an excellent Primary School in Bodmin, but it is somewhat overcrowded. Mr Tarquin senior endowed the moorland school in an attempt to provide some basic education for those who can’t get into Bodmin, or whose schooling is frequently interrupted through family concerns. At sowing and harvest you will have very few pupils, I fear.’

  ‘It is not a State school then?’

  ‘No, a private concern, but the teacher must be qualified, of course. You are?’

  ‘I have a teaching diploma.’ She opened her bag and handed it over. ‘May I ask whom I am replacing?’

  ‘Sister Sophia used to undertake the teaching. She died six months ago and her successor is unfortunately not fully qualified though she will continue to assist you as and when you deem necessary.’

  ‘Are we to take turns on the mare?’ Sister Joan enquired.

  The Prioress laughed.

  ‘Sister David is terrified of any animal larger than a kitten,’ she said. ‘Were it left to her I’m afraid poor old Lilith would never get any exercise. No, when you require her at the school she will walk over as usual. She will be able to tell you much more about the routine and the pupils than I could. You will be able to ride over tomorrow after Mass to get your bearings.’

  She put down her cup and smiled again. Oddly enough it was when she smiled, revealing small and undoubtedly natural teeth, that one became aware that she was no longer a very young woman. The smile revealed tiny lines round nose and mouth, a faint darkening of the flesh beneath the fine, slanting eyes.

  ‘Now I must interview our new novice,’ she said, rising. ‘You travelled with her on the train. How did she strike you?’

  ‘As a very nice, eager, sincere girl,’ Sister Joan said promptly.

  ‘Untouched?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Reverend Mother?’

  ‘Would you judge her to be a virgin still?’

  ‘Well, one cannot tell merely from looking,’ Sister Joan said in bewilderment, ‘but, yes, I would have guessed she’s still a virgin.’

  ‘One sees so few truly chaste girls these days‚’ the Prioress said sadly. ‘So many women cram all the experience they can into a few years and then present their broken vessels to God. Such a sad waste, don’t you think?’

  ‘I really hadn’t given it much thought, Reverend Mother‚’ Sister Joan evaded.

  ‘Chastity is the greatest gift we can bring to Our Lady. I entered the religious life at a comparatively late age — twenty-five — but I am proud of the fact that no man had ever laid a finger on me.’

  Sister Joan bit back a hearty ‘Bully for you!’

  If the other expected some kind of reciprocal confidence she was doomed to disappointment. Past experiences were closed books.

  ‘Well then.’ The Prioress, having waited a moment, spoke brightly. ‘Sister David is to be your assistant, so it seems fitting that she should show you the way to your cell. We will meet again at supper which is at seven.’

  She tugged a plaited bell-cord against the wall and the outer door opened so quickly that it was obvious the bespectacled nun who entered had been waiting for the signal.

  ‘Sister David, this is Sister Joan who will be taking over at the school,’ the Prioress said.

  ‘Oh, that will be a great relief, Reverend Mother.’ Sister David gave a long sigh of pure pleasure. ‘Some of the pupils are so rough and disobedient that I cannot handle them.’

  ‘You mustn’t frighten Sister Joan away,’ the Prioress said, smilingly. ‘Sister David has always had difficulties with maintaining discipline, haven’t you, Sister?’

  ‘I wasn’t trained to deal with gypsies,’ Sister David said, a trace of sulkiness behind her glinting spectacles.

  ‘We must all learn to adapt, Sister David. Now run along and take Sister Joan with you.’ Sister Joan was not altogether happy about the ‘Run along’, which smacked of the sort of patronising way in which those in authority sometimes treated their nuns. Sister David, however, giggled as if in obedience to the twitching of a string.

  As they went through the antechamber and began to ascend a handsome staircase in the Jacobean style they passed Veronica standing shyly at the side of a plump, freckle-faced woman who
m Sister Joan took to be Sister Hilaria. A thin ribbon of purple on one sleeve showed that she too had been a Prioress at some time though she had been referred to as Sister instead of the Mother to which her previous position entitled her.

  Before she could ask she was set straight.

  ‘That is Mother Emmanuel. She always likes to introduce the new novices. Sister Hilaria is inclined to become rapt in prayer so Mother Emmanuel is a great help in this respect. Our cells are here in the north wing. The house is very logically set out. The chapel is in the other wing with some storerooms above. The dining and recreation rooms are above the public parlour in the main wing and the kitchen and infirmary are underneath our cells.’

  ‘I’m sure that I will find my way around quite easily,’ Sister Joan said soothingly as they reached the top of the staircase and the other paused for breath.

  ‘Oh, I am sure you will‚’ Sister David said fervently. ‘We are a very happy Community here, all pulling together in the hidden life of Nazareth so to speak. This is your cell.’

  Rather to Sister Joan’s relief the narrow slip of a room with one wall of hardboard to denote that it was only half of the original chamber was like every cell she had ever seen, its walls whitewashed, its floor covered with brown linoleum, a plain wooden cross dark against the whiteness, a narrow bed, a basin and ewer on the floor, a shelf for books, and hooks for her clothes behind a plastic curtain. Her suitcase stood on the floor. ‘I’ll leave you to wash your hands and unpack‚’ Sister David said. ‘I do hope you will be happy with us. Reverend Mother Ann is a splendid Superior, perfectly splendid.’

  Unusual certainly, Sister Joan thought, sitting down on the edge of the bed as the door closed softly behind the other nun. Never in her life, even before entering the religious life, had she met a nun whose nails were varnished pale pink and whose habit was scented with lavender.

  THREE

  Five years earlier, Sister Joan had entered the refectory of the convent where she had been accepted to do her novitiate and been faced by what had seemed like a sea of strange faces turned towards her. She had something of that same feeling this evening when, shepherded by Sister David who had come to collect her, she entered the huge chamber where the rest of the Community were already seated, the professed nuns at one long table with the Prioress at the head, the novices at a side table. Double doors at the far end of the room led, she assumed, into the recreation room.

  The whole of this upper floor must originally have been a ballroom in the days when balls were held. The polished floor and pale walls with darker panels where once mirrors had been, the ceiling with its central rosette from which a sparkling chandelier still hung, the long windows shrouded by dark velvet curtains, demanded girls in low-cut gowns, young men eager to sign dance cards, and a Strauss waltz tinkling in the background. Instead there was the Prioress, raising her well-modulated voice to say, ‘Sisters, let us give thanks to Our Lady that Sister Joan has come. She is to take over the teaching at the school, and Sister David, for one, is delighted to see her. Sit down.’

  Sister David went to what was apparently her usual place and Sister Joan took the chair remaining, tucking the long white napkin under her chin, crossing herself as a nun further down the table intoned the Grace.

  Sister Margaret was serving the food, her plump frame moving with swift lightness from serving-trolley to table. Sister Felicity stood at the lectern, preparing to read the notices. When she began Sister Joan was pleased to hear her clear voice. All too often the sister who read the notices mumbled so that one missed half of the information, or rushed through it, no doubt eager to get to her own supper. Sister Felicity read at a measured pace with emphasis in the right places.

  ‘Mr Grant Tarquin has given permission for the Solstice Festival to be held in the north meadow as was done last year. He does request that we make sure we don’t allow the children to leave any litter around. Sister Clare from our Amsterdam House has been appointed as Prioress in place of Mother Grete who has been called to the Mission Fields in Sudan. In view of the political situation in central Africa your prayers are particularly sought. As Sister Joan will be working full-time at the school she is excused garden duty but Sister David is reminded that when she is not required to assist at the school she must take her turn at the weeding.’

  Sister Joan, scooping up excellent vegetable stew, wondered if there was something wrong with her hearing. She could have sworn that Sister Felicity had spoken of the Solstice Festival. Nobody else seemed to have noticed anything amiss. Apart from the Prioress only nine sisters were ranged down both sides of the main table. The three oldest nuns would eat in the infirmary, she supposed. The necessity of keeping her eyes on her plate made it quite impossible to study each individual face. Lifting them briefly she was surprised to see a place laid opposite her with nobody sitting in the chair.

  Her swift upward look had been noted. As Sister Felicity came to the end of the notices the Prioress said,

  ‘I can see that Sister Joan has noticed our empty place. Can you guess for whom it is intended, Sister?’

  ‘No, Reverend Mother Ann.’

  Plates of toasted cheese were being handed down the table.

  ‘It does not occur to you that one day Our Blessed Lady may wish to share our meal?’

  Sister Joan forgot about custody of the eyes and frankly stared.

  ‘She has visited other convents‚’ the Prioress said. ‘You will remember how when Saint Teresa of Spain was delayed by a rapture her place was taken by the Blessed Virgin Who came to take her place at evening prayers. You will remember how Saint Catherine Laboure was interviewed by the Blessed Mother in the chapel of her convent in the Rue du Bac. We cannot claim to harbour any potential saints here, but who knows whom Our Lady will deign to honour.’

  Sister Joan had a sudden, irreverent picture of the Holy Virgin chewing a slice of cheese on toast and sternly forbade herself to grin. Some comment was evidently required however. She said, trying to sound calm and sweet,

  ‘Those are wonderful stories, Reverend Mother Ann.’

  ‘More than stories, Sister Joan.’ The voice was gently reproachful. ‘Of course it may never happen, but we lay a place as a symbol that She will always be welcome among us.’ Silence descended. The toasted cheese was succeeded by baked apples and cups of weak coffee. The food was good anyway, Sister Joan thought with relief. She had never believed that badly cooked, inadequate meals heightened one’s religious impulses.

  There was a concerted rustle as the Community rose for the short prayer after a meal. The four novices were being shepherded away by Sister Hilaria. She was the Novice Mistress who got lost in prayer and had to be helped out by Mother Emmanuel, Sister Joan reminded herself. Presumably she had eaten sufficient to earth herself since Mother Emmanuel was heading towards the recreation room. The two lay sisters had begun to clear away.

  ‘Shall we go to recreation?’ Sister David said, popping up at her side like a short-sighted rabbit appearing out of a hat. With her twitchy nose and slightly protruding teeth she did indeed look faintly rabbit-like.

  The double doors at the end of the room had been opened and led, Sister Joan had guessed, into another huge apartment with chairs set ready in a semicircle and a long table piled with work baskets.

  ‘I understand that you worked at embroidered objects before,’ the Prioress said from her place in the centre of the semicircle.

  ‘Yes, Reverend Mother Ann.’

  Tapestries that would cover kneeling-mats and pew cushions, flower pictures to be sold at Christmas bazaars, now and then a stole or a cope for a newly ordained priest.

  ‘Tonight you are excused from working during recreation,’ the Prioress said. ‘If you wish to spend part of this period in exploration of the House or quiet prayers in the chapel you are free to excuse yourself.’

  ‘Thank you, Reverend Mother.’

  For the moment she was content to sit at the end of the arc of chairs, her gaze turned towards th
e other nuns, now settling themselves with their knitting and sewing. The Prioress was not working. Her hands with their pink varnished nails were folded in the lap of her purple habit; her dark eyes surveyed the sisters with unremitting sweetness. At her left loomed the large, freckled face and hands of Mother Emmanuel knitting with a ball of violent green wool what looked like a scarf for the neck of some hapless priest. At her other side Sister David was darning a pair of black cotton stockings. Sister Joan had feared that Sister David might prove to be limpet-like, but she had obviously done her an injustice.

  ‘The rest of us had better introduce ourselves,’ the Prioress said, when all were seated. ‘Now whom have you not yet met? Ah, Sister Dorothy is our librarian.’ Sister Dorothy looked as if she had been created for the task of librarian, with her rimless spectacles and slightly hunched posture. As the Prioress paused encouragingly she said,

  ‘We have an excellent library here, Sister Joan. Much of it belonged to the Tarquin family and was sold with the house. Each sister is permitted to choose one book per week to keep in her cell and read in her leisure time.’

  In Sister Joan’s experience leisure time didn’t total up to more than a twenty-minute period in any one week, but the thought of borrowing a book, of dipping into it at odd moments was attractive.

  ‘Sister Martha is our chief gardener,’ the Prioress was continuing, nodding towards a thin delicate-looking nun who ducked her head shyly, mumbling something. ‘Sister Lucy is our choirmistress and sacristan.’

  Sister Lucy was young and pretty. Sister Joan, catching her triangular smile, was reminded of a sleek little cat who might or might not scratch when stroked.

  ‘Sister Perpetua is our infirmarian and Sister Katherine is in charge of the linen.’

  It was impossible to distinguish neatly between these veiled heads and identical habits. Nuns en masse had as little individuality as an army. Only in personal conversations away from other listening ears might the individual woman under the habit emerge.