The Sisters Mortland

by Sally Beauman

  On the chest of drawers opposite the bed is a sealed wooden box some eight inches square; it contains Joe’s ashes. Joe was six feet three: When I collected it, its size cut me to the heart, and its weight, its weightiness, appalled me. I must take those ashes back to Wykenfield. I’ll do what I should have done weeks ago, and I’ll do it soon, I promise myself. A son’s last task: I’ll bury them in the fields or the woods he loved, or perhaps the gardens at the Abbey where he tended the vegetables. Docks and nettles—those gardens had reverted to docks and nettles; he mentioned that in one of his letters to me, the letters I used to skim, the letters I now know by heart—too late, of course.

  I close my eyes, and at last alone, at last quiet, I watch the last day of that last summer at the Abbey. I’m still not clean, but I’m cleaner than I’ve been in weeks. My mind feels washed and translucid. I’ve nearly reached the white place that’s the other side of exhaustion.

  Frankie’s final question circles in my mind; the helicopter circles overhead. Memory is random, cruel, slippery, and deceitful.

  I stand and move across to the desk in the window. I take a blank sheet of paper and pick up a pen. I think: What did happen that last day, Dan? Were there no clues? What happened? Tell me what happened.

  part vi

  The Empress, Reversed

  Wyken Abbey, home to our School of Cookery, is situated in one of the most beautiful, tranquil, and unspoilt areas of Suffolk. It is surrounded by apple orchards, ancient woodland, and a field system little changed since the Middle Ages. Although the nearby village of Wykenfield is small and may appear remote on maps, communications can be surprisingly good. There is a reliable train service from London to Ipswich and a branch line to Deepden; from there, a twice weekly bus serves our village.

  Most of the produce for the Abbey School of Cookery will be provided by our own beautiful gardens, which are extensive. We insist on the highest standards: all our vegetables, herbs, and fruit are grown organically, without artificial fertilizers or pesticides. All eggs and poultry will come from our own hens; meat will be supplied by local farmers, who rear their animals humanely.

  Wyken Abbey is a Grade II* listed building, associated with our family since the founding of the convent in 1257 by Isabella de Morlaix. It has had a colourful history and retains that atmosphere of calm recorded by the nuns who lived, prayed, and worked here for three centuries. The mediaeval refectory, cloisters, and Lady Chapel remain intact. They have been incorporated into the present house, which has a very relaxed family atmosphere. There are many romantic legends associated with the Abbey—even claims that it is haunted!

  All our courses (see on) are residential. Students will be accommodated within the historic convent buildings, and the emphasis will be on classic, traditional cooking. Every evening, the family and students will gather for dinner to eat the food prepared during the day. Our aim is to make these occasions happy, relaxed, and convivial.

  Good cooking is not about fussy presentation or display: that is the preserve of restaurants. It is about pure and honest ingredients, prepared with loving attention, with rigour, skill, and care. It is that art to which we aspire and that discipline we will endeavour to teach you.

  —Stella Mortland, Introduction to the Prospectus, The Abbey School of Cookery, August 1, 1967

  Winifride, this is the last letter I shall send you. You will not reply. Even if you did, after these long years of silence, I would not receive your message. I am dying: a tiresome task, but I am nearly done with it.

  It tires me to write; I will be brief. I have a final confession to make. I will not seek absolution from the priest who comes to us from Deepden, so this confession must be made to you, my dearest Sister. Long ago, at the time of my novitiate, you told me the love I felt for you was worldly and impure, a delusion of the Devil—and I believed you. You urged me to cast this wicked love from my heart, so I obeyed you, left you, and journeyed here. For years I told myself that your silence and my prayers would quench the flame of that love, given time. They have not done so.

  I am old now, and, lying here alone for long days and nights, I have come to believe we were wrong. Is any love truly wicked? My love for you, a mother’s for a child, a man’s for his friend or country: could not all loves be said to light a taper in our hearts, one which can illuminate our lives and guide us towards that eternal beacon of light which is the Love of God, in Heaven?

  One summer’s day long ago, you kissed me, and I returned that kiss: we were very young and no doubt foolish. When I think of that loving embrace now, I do not repent it. No doubt I shall shortly be called to account for this heresy.

  Beyond the walls here lies a small dark wood, Winifride. I think of it as a place of danger, but one where wisdom may be found, if sought for. Walking there, I have soberly considered the nature of love and the unexpected ways in which it may be revealed to us: I fear that when we encounter love, we do not always understand or recognize it. But if I was once blind, I am blind no longer. From first to last, you have brought me untold joy, dearest Sister; and now, at the end of my journey, I bless you for it.

  Isabella

  —The Letters of Isabella de Morlaix to Winifride of Ely, 1257–1301, edited and translated from the Latin, V. B. S. Taylor, 1913

  [ sixteen ]

  Waiting for Godard

  It’s that last day. It’s August 7, 1967. Bright morning.

  It hasn’t rained for a month; the harvest’s under way. Daniel, the Dan I used to be, wakes early in his bedroom at the Abbey. Eyes closed, sitting here at my Highbury desk, I watch him. He can hear the drone of the McIvers’ new combine harvester. It must be working near the house, in the fields he used to call Grandage, Pickstone, Nuns’, Wellhead, and Holyspring. It’s seven o’clock. I watch myself pad across to the window and draw back the curtains. The landscape unscrolls. My eyes rest on the familiar: the cloister, the elms, the wood, the church tower, and the lush green grass in the graveyard.… In a few weeks, I’ll be leaving for London. I’m on the edge of a new life, and that knowledge makes this panorama sweet. Its power is intense. I can love this place now, without reservation, because I know I’ll soon be escaping it.

  I’m already seeing this valley with the untruthful eye of nostalgia. I open the window wide and take in a breath of English air. It’s like breathing pure optimism.

  Anything’s possible. I’m twenty-two. I’m in love. I can’t wait to see Finn, can’t wait to speak to her—that’s my only imperative. As I wash, shave, and pull on jeans, I have no Roma sense of foreboding, not the slightest hint that this day will end with a fall. If I’ve inherited that gift of divination, as Gran still claims, then today it’s deserted me.

  I’m on my own. No assistance from the supernatural.

  I’m on my own and—I must take this into account—that Daniel is someone I scarcely recognize. Who was he? Who was I? That was the summer I was blinded by movies—I do know that. Movies had struck me down, like Paul on the road to Damascus. I was steeped in cinema then, obsessed with the grammar of film. I’d spent so much time at Cambridge watching movies, working my way religiously through Bergman, Vigo, and Kurosawa, through Truffaut, Antonioni, and Godard; so much time chain-smoking in wonderment in dark cinemas, so much time winding celluloid through ancient Film Society projectors, so many hours editing 16-mm student movies, that I saw life through a viewing screen. Time didn’t pass, it unreeled. I could wind it back or forward at will, I could shoot and edit it any which way I chose.

  I was in control of life’s narrative. It was easy to insert a celluloid strip in the editing guillotine. Slice and splice; remove just two frames, one incident, and you alter the sense. You could do it with life as well as film. So yesterday I seemed trapped in some L’Avventura nightmare, on an island of entropy, searching for someone who will not be found, whose disappearance will always remain inexplicable? Do an overnight reshoot, and today this story’s Technicolor: It’s clear to everyone, even me, that Finn still loves D
an. Give it a while, and in this screwball Rock and Doris version there’ll be Hollywood wedding bells.

  And if I disdain that approach, no problem: I can reshoot the European way. This time, in grainy black and white, with a jazz track, wit, insouciance, and sharp editing, Finn and I will still find each other—it just takes longer, that’s all. We have to screw the wrong people first. We have to riff, philosophize, and smoke umpteen packs of Gauloises. There’ll be misunderstandings and a brush with tragedy, we’ll have to age a bit, sure—this is not some La-la-land candyfloss confection, it’s an intelligent, bittersweet film. But it can still end with a kiss. I see it as a jeu d’esprit. This is my film and my future. I’m the director, the auteur, and I’ve decided: It ends with a long, slow beautiful panning shot; then, as I take my Finn in my arms, it’s freeze frame—the best way to end a love story, much better than a fade-out.

  There were so many possibilities here: I used to get drunk on them. I’d dream in long tracking shots, because that’s how a day looked, especially when stoned—a journeying, a great stretch of resonant meaningfulness. I’d think in jump cuts—the kind I learned from watching the films of my new god, Godard. How I worshipped his steely contempt for the steady tramp of traditional narrative progress. Well tutored by the nouvelle vague, how I despised the concept of causality. I despised it as much as religion. Watching Les Carabiniers for the fifty-fifth time, I’d sit in the dark and think: Right on, Jean-Luc—tell it like it is. Life is arbitrary; everything is random. There is no God, and there is no plot. Who needs those tired old lies?

  Yes, that’s how I saw things then. Now, in London, listening to that helicopter, things have changed. For a start, I no longer believe I’m in control of this film, this life of mine. Somehow, with the passing of years, I’ve been moved in front of the camera—when did that happen? I’m now just the poor actor, and the director—call him God, Fate, Allah, Eisenstein, or Clint Eastwood, it doesn’t matter—is an unpredictable son of a bitch. He could have anything planned for the next day’s shoot, and he likes to keep the script secret. He has a long memory, too, a nasty memory—nothing gets past this bastard.

  Look, I’ll say, why am I doing this? How come Dan is behaving this way? It’s out of character. These jump cuts make no sense. One minute I’m successful, I’m on top of the world, happy as a lark; the next it’s a close-up on Dan’s face, and it’s a close-up on—an expression of pure horror. Why? What’s going on? What have I done? What happened? This script is a mess. It’s arbitrary. It’s random.

  Random? But of course, replies the fascist in the director’s chair. On the other hand, remember the thirty-sixth frame of the second reel? Remember what you said then, what you did then? You thought it was unimportant? Wrong, saddo. In this movie, actions have consequences. Or they do sometimes; it depends on my mood.… And he yawns.

  Of course, I don’t remember that thirty-sixth frame. Reel two is one big blur. I’d thought it was safely cut, lying on some celestial editing room floor, about to be consigned to the garbage. Now, I’m going to have to find it again—and the prospect’s daunting. I’ll have to rewind, I’ll have to employ hindsight—and how much do I trust hindsight? About as much as I’d trust a cobra.

  All those spools of memory, coiling out of the cans, all that tangled toxic celluloid spillage: How do I decide which frames are missing, which are relevant? Ancient celluloid, like memory, is highly combustible; its chemical composition makes it liable to self-destruct.… Even so, I’ll try. I have a white sheet of paper. I’m in that white place now; this has to be done.

  I’ll be methodical, I decide. I’ll look at that last day frame by frame. I’ll examine who was where, when, and why. I’ll replay the dialogue, for which I’ll have perfect recall. Who said what to whom? When they said one thing but meant another, a common occurrence, it won’t escape my new patient, all-seeing eyes. Then, with this omniscient godlike gaze, maybe at last I’ll understand: I’ll see through walls, as Bella did. I’ll be released. I’ll be able to say: This is why Maisie jumped. This is what went wrong, that summer.

  That helicopter is still circling. I think: Here goes. I’m determined, but am I optimistic? Well now, reader—if anyone should ever read this, which won’t happen, which is impossible, because when it’s finished, I’m going to burn it… Well now, hypocrite lecteur, mon semblable, mon frère: Am I optimistic of success?

  Would you be?

  And cut. I’ve gone downstairs, and I’m in the cool of the Abbey kitchen; there’s the appetizing smell of bacon cooking. It’s supplied by Colonel Edwardes (Indian army, ret’d.); when his Heavy Hogs go to the abattoir, a flitch is always sent up to the Abbey. As I enter, a dreamy Stella smiles at me. She puts three more rashers in the pan and breaks a guinea-fowl egg into the sizzle of bacon fat. “Another beautiful day, Dan,” Gramps says as I join him and Finn at the breakfast table.

  I drop a kiss on Finn’s hair. It’s safe to do so: Stella has her back to us; Maisie, seated at the far end, is reading and doesn’t look up. Gramps is preoccupied: I could ravish Finn on the floor, and he’d notice nothing.

  Finn makes a wry face and swats at me. I sit opposite her. Finn and I have reached a state of truce. We’ve agreed that I will stop being suspicious and jealous of Lucas; Finn has sworn there’s no need. One Daniel believes her; the other Daniel smells some linguistic trickery. He’s waiting for Finn to explain that although she still feels love for him, it’s shrunk; the love’s now friendly, or sisterly. I keep that darker Daniel, Mr. Hyde to my Dr. Jekyll, well concealed. Finn’s face this morning has that expression that so hurts and angers me. She looks saturated, brimming over with sexual secrecy. There’s a blurry look to her features, as if she’s been dreaming of a lover all night. Her dark blue eyes are as blind as a kitten’s. Despite her reassurances, physical and verbal, I cannot believe that I’m the man who blinded her this way.

  “This summer will go into the record books,” Gramps says, fussing with the stacks of papers and brochures piled next to his plate. “Now, Dan, I need your opinion. Take a look at this wine list I’ve drawn up, and tell me what you think. It’s pretty comprehensive, at least I hope it is—but we need to cover every eventuality.”

  Eating bacon and eggs, I inspect the list. My ignorance of wine is impressive, and Gramps knows that, but he enjoys consultation. He likes to feel busy and he likes to feel useful—and this is the first opportunity he’s had in years. I hadn’t realized that Stella’s cookery school would require this kind of male expertise, male input. I thought food would be involved, period. Gramps has other ideas. In his mind, this enterprise is turning into an Edwardian house party. He’s reliving his pre–World War I youth. We’ve already migrated to Elde, and we’re still at the planning stage.

  I run my eye down lines of bewildering Bordeaux and Burgundies; I glance at the wine merchants’ catalogs. These have prices on them; his list does not. He’s looking at me so beseechingly that I can’t bear to cavil. “Amazing,” I say. “Out of sight.”

  Gramps lights up like a three-thousand-watt bulb. “I’m very glad you think so, Dan,” he says. “But what about some pudding wines? When these girls have been slaving away all day, a nice glass of Sauternes might be just the ticket, don’t you think? If they’ve made an apple pie, for instance—Humphrey says apples and Sauternes are a marriage made in heaven.”

  “Gramps, they won’t need Sauternes—really they won’t,” Finn says firmly. “It’s too expensive. They’ll be here learning to cook. We mustn’t spoil them.”

  “If children behave badly, we say they are spoiled. If food has gone off, we say it’s spoiled. We say that someone is spoiling for a fight. We also speak of the spoils of war,” Maisie interjects, looking up from her book. “The spoils of war are desirable—men fight to acquire them, anyway. Spoiled food is not desirable. Spoiled children are not desirable. English is a curious language, don’t you agree, Dan?”

  I agree. I quickly agree. There is a silence. Poor Maisie, she is gettin
g worse, I think: The degeneration is becoming more and more noticeable. Four years ago, there were hopes of progress; Stella began speaking of schools again, of the “special” schools that might cope with a child of Maisie’s intelligence, needs, and peculiarities. Remembering the earlier fraught and disastrous episodes at such establishments—none of which lasted more than three weeks because Maisie refused to eat, sleep, or speak—it was decided to wait. Now, once again, the topic of education is banned. When the holidays are over, it will be back to the old regime: Stella will teach English and French; various saintly helpers, including Dr. Marlow, Mrs. Marlow (an unused degree), and the rector (a doctorate in philosophy as well as divinity), will be drafted in to assist. History and geography will be dangled, religion, myth, metaphysics, and mathematics will be essayed. Maisie will soak up knowledge if the subject interests her. If it does not, she will ignore it—and when Maisie ignores something, be afraid, be very afraid… imagine a granite wall coming toward you at two hundred miles per hour: That’s our Maisie.

  Maisie has an IQ of 155. She likes lists. Sometimes, when I’ve felt too kind or too weak to escape, she’s recited them to me. There are the plant lists, the bird lists, and the mammal lists—with the emphasis on dwarf species. There’s the list of everyone executed during the French Revolution and the Reign of Terror, with full names, titles, and dates. There’s the list of endangered animals—that gets longer by the day. There’s the list of rivers of the world, organized alphabetically or, sometimes, according to length (that one’s truly terrifying). There’s the list of the body’s bones and muscles, all ten million of them. There’s the periodic table and the pure horror of prime numbers. There’s the list of Greek gods, goddesses, heroes, and prophetesses, with full details as to their countless offspring and complex incestuous connections, and, as of this month—it had to happen—there are the stars. Each star, by name, in each constellation, by name, in an appalling, mind-bending galaxy. You pray to die, listening to that one.