The Christmas Angel

by Marcia Willett

  Clem nods. ‘If we can show that it could work and it goes ahead then I shall stay and train for ordination. I don’t have to go away for two years this time, though. I can do a much shorter course while I’m still carrying on working here. Father Pascal and I have been talking it through with Bishop Freddie. He’s really excited about it. Well, they both are.’

  Janna watches him. She’s never seen him so animated, so alive – or so attractive. He wears an old, faded blue cotton shirt with its sleeves rolled up over his brown arms, and his silver-fair hair, damp with rain, is a striking contrast to his deeply tanned face.

  ‘What about you?’ he’s asking. ‘You’ll stay too, won’t you? The Sisters will need you more than ever.’

  She looks away from him, drawing little patterns on the table-top with her fingers, shaking her head evasively.

  ‘I don’t know yet. I’d like to know a bit more about it, see. I mean, it’s OK now because we’re like family. Even the guests are lovely and friendly and I feel I can manage. But this’ll be different, won’t it? Father Pascal says that it’ll have to be more businesslike than we are at the minute.’

  ‘Well, that’s true. But we shall have full-time staff to help rather than the way we go on now. I was thinking of you being with the Sisters rather than actually working in the retreat house itself. They’ll need continuity when they move into the Coach House; someone to be looking after them. Just like you do at the moment. Wouldn’t you be happy doing that?’

  ‘I’m thinking about it,’ she says defensively.

  It seems that only she and Sister Ruth are not completely in favour of this new plan and she feels almost guilty that she can’t enter wholeheartedly into the excitement. She looks out through the door into the damp orchard, fearful and confused. She doesn’t want to leave Chi-Meur but nor does she want to be too heavily relied upon. The Sisters seem to believe that she is part of their family now; committed to the future with them.

  Clem is watching her, but when she meets his eyes reluctantly she is immediately calmed by the understanding she sees there.

  ‘I wouldn’t be able to stay in the caravan,’ she blurts out. ‘They need the orchard for their private garden. Anyway, they’d like me to be in the Coach House so as to be close at hand as they all get older. ’Tis just … I feel happier out here.’

  He nods and they sit for a minute in silence. ‘The Coach House is going to be rejigged,’ he says tentatively, ‘so it’s possible that you might still be able to be a bit private. We need to look into that.’

  She crosses her arms, as if to defend herself from any persuasion. ‘It seems all wrong,’ she tells him, ‘for me and Sister Ruth to be on the same side. She’s never liked me much and I don’t get on with her anything like as well as I do with Sister Emily or Mother Magda.’

  ‘She’s frightened that they’ll all be swallowed up by the new venture. She can’t quite believe that their work will be carried forward and expanded and that they’ll still have a vital role to play. She’s terrified of being sidelined and undervalued. Her insecurity and fear make her aggressive.’

  Janna is puzzled. It’s never occurred to her that the sharp-tongued Sister Ruth is either insecure or fearful.

  ‘Promise me,’ Clem is saying, ‘that you won’t just disappear, Janna. Even if you feel you don’t want to be part of it, promise that you’ll say goodbye.’

  She stares at the table, unwilling to make such a promise, knowing her deep-down need to be free; shrinking from the prospect of saying goodbye to all these people whom she loves. She swallows and bites her lip, and then nods almost imperceptibly.

  ‘I’d never be able to explain it to Jakey,’ he says quietly. ‘D’you see how hard it would be for him – let alone all the rest of us – if you just vanished overnight? He loves you, Janna.’

  Her lips tremble as if she might cry but she shakes her head, denying it. ‘He’s got you,’ she muttered, ‘and Dossie and Pa and Mo …’

  ‘That’s irrelevant,’ he says impatiently. ‘Yes, he’s got all of us but that’s not the point. You are important to him, Janna. What would I say to him? If you go you must say goodbye to him.’

  ‘I love him, too,’ she protests. Tears stand in her eyes and she blinks them away. ‘You know I do. And that’s one of the problems. He comes here to see me, the dear of him, running through the orchard, calling out to me. And we sit here or outside on the grass, and we have silly picnics and stuff, and we laugh and sing songs.’ She leans towards him, across the table, the tears falling down her cheeks. ‘And how will that be in the Coach House? How will they cope with that? They won’t have it. Specially Sister Ruth won’t have it. I can tell you that now.’

  Clem is silent and Janna leans back and takes a deep breath.

  ‘Let me think about it,’ he says at last, ‘and, meanwhile, please promise that you won’t do a runner.’

  She wipes her cheeks with the backs of her hands. ‘’Tis time for the bus,’ she says. ‘Jakey’ll be getting wet,’ and Clem glances at his watch and gets up quickly with a muttered curse. He gives her one long last look, and hurries away through the orchard. She watches him go, trying to hold back the tears and wondering if it would be possible to lie to Clem.

  TRANSFIGURATION

  We have come before the throne of God

  To share in the inheritance of the saints in light.

  EVER SINCE WAKENING, the Canticle for the Festival of the Transfiguration of Our Lord has been running through Sister Emily’s head. It seems appropriate now that so many people are being transfigured with new hope. Clem is happier than any of them have yet seen him; Father Pascal is brimming with plans and ideas. Even Mother Magda – now that Bishop Freddie is so enthusiastic – has cast aside her habitual cloak of anxiety and is entering into this new climate of expectation with a positive determination. She has even written to Mr Brewster explaining why they will not be accepting his offer. Only Sister Ruth refuses to be swept along on the new transfiguring tide of excitement; Sister Ruth … and Janna.

  We have come before God’s holy mountain … the city of the living God …

  The words sing in her head as she goes about her tasks of dusting and polishing. Passing through the rooms lightly, like a little fragile-boned bird, Sister Emily flourishes her yellow duster and rubs industriously, and ponders on Janna. Father Pascal and Clem are worried about her too.

  ‘Janna’s inner angel has been packed about with fear,’ she said to Father Pascal. ‘Its light shines out – we can see it – but is obscured and fogged by her need to belong and her terror of commitment.’

  He smiled at the imagery: ‘Odd, isn’t it,’ he mused, ‘to be driven by two such conflicting forces.’

  He’d gone on to speak of genetics, of nature and nurture, and she said rather impatiently at the end: ‘Yes, yes, but we must hold on to her. If she leaves us now it will be disastrous for her.’

  He understood her. ‘But how can we make her stay? We can’t forbid her to go.’

  ‘I know,’ Sister Emily answered wretchedly, ‘but we can pray that her inner angel might have a chance of being unpacked at last.’

  Father Pascal smiled and nodded. ‘And what about Sister Ruth’s inner angel?’ he asked teasingly.

  She laughed with him. ‘Sister Ruth’s angel is not so deeply buried. In all the years since her profession her angel has had many shining moments, some longer than others, before the wrapping goes back on – but at least we know it’s a strong and healthy angel.’

  He hadn’t asked about her own angel – or his – but had gone away, still laughing, waving his hand.

  We have come before countless angels making festival …

  Still singing the canticle Sister Emily whisks onwards, unable to prevent an uprush of joy, even with her fear for Janna so much in her thoughts. After dreary days of rain, of thick soft cloud from the Atlantic rolling over the headlands and lapping at the windows, the sun is shining again.

  ‘I suppose,’ she said t
entatively to Mother Magda, ‘it would be impossible for Janna to remain in her caravan once we move into the Coach House.’

  The anxious little frown returned between the feathery brows. ‘Is it a problem?’ Mother asked. ‘Oh, yes, I see. How foolish of me. Yes, dear Janna must be feeling a little bit nervous at the prospect of living with us. And I know that Ruth isn’t keen on it either, though she’s been used to having a nurse or a carer in our wing when we’ve had problems with sick and elderly Sisters.’

  ‘Janna is neither a nurse nor a carer officially,’ Sister Emily pointed out, ‘though she’d make an excellent one. But we’ve agreed that she is necessary to us and we are necessary to her.’

  ‘I quite see that,’ Mother Magda answered gently, and Sister Emily felt relieved; not that she really doubted Mother’s great wisdom and insight, but it was good to be assured that they were all thinking – and praying – along the same lines.

  ‘But,’ Mother Magda went on, ‘we shall need the orchard for our private use. It is essential that we are able to retain some kind of privacy. You do agree?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sister Emily answered reluctantly. ‘I do agree, but we need some solution to Janna’s fear.’

  ‘We shall pray for it,’ Mother answered with that quiet, gentle spiritual certainty that springs from her own inner angel when she allows the veils of anxiety to be drawn back from it.

  We have come before God … we have come before Jesus …

  Peace flows into Sister Emily’s soul as she finishes dusting the library and opens a window wide to the blustery sunny day. She can see Clem mowing the grass and, beyond him, the flick of scarlet on the path to the beach: Janna escaping to the freedom of the cliffs. Yet this does not make her anxious now. The peace continues to hold her heart in quietude. She closes the door behind her and goes through the hall and along to the kitchen where breakfast has been cleared and lunch is already prepared: a special lunch for the Feast.

  Sister Emily smiles in anticipation, puts away the polish and prepares to wash out her duster.

  We are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken: so let us give thanks …

  Out on the cliff Janna wanders in the golden blowy air. Below the wall, adders are hatching: writhing gold bootlaces are side-winding away over the sandy grass. The mallows and the thrift have finished flowering but pale pink convolvuli climb amongst the granite stone, and there are bright red poppies growing amongst the rain-drenched barley on the wide headlands. The great gull-spaces of clear blue sky are empty but she can see the flocks wheeling down low over the sea: shining white against the bright green, then black against the brilliant dazzling surf. If she were to lie on the grass with her ear to the ground she would hear the booming echoes of the sea-tide surging and retreating in the secret hollow chambers far below.

  Walking quickly, with her face to the west, she tries to grapple with the problem of the future, but she is simply too tired to think clearly. She feels herself being drawn inexorably along on a great tide of change and just at present she has no strength to swim against it. Nevertheless, she has no intention of letting herself be carried away by it. When the moment comes she must harden her heart and fight for her freedom.

  A middle-aged couple come striding towards her, dressed in shorts and T-shirts and sunhats, and carrying rucksacks. They greet her cheerfully. ‘Glorious, isn’t it?’ they cry, gesturing to the sun, the sea, the dramatic stretch of coastline, and she nods and answers in return that yes, it is glorious; wonderful. They all beam approvingly at one another and pass on their separate ways. Beside a smooth grey boulder is the man whom she knows now is called Mr Caine and is supposed to be writing a book about the north Cornish coast. He sits staring out to sea, his mobile clamped to his ear, and she slips past him unnoticed.

  On the cliff above Trevone she looks down at the children playing on the beach, at their parents tucked behind gaily coloured windbreaks; at the surfers, crouched and swaying on their boards as they skim the long steep rollers that pour in between the headlands. She wonders if she might know any of them, whether they are the same group with whom she cadged a lift from Padstow that day last autumn when she first went to Chi-Meur.

  She stands watching them, seeing their cars and vans parked on the beach, with other surfers changing, drying themselves, talking. Suddenly she longs to be down there with them, idle and easy, following the surf – yet she knows that they won’t remember her. She always sat too loose to the people she met to make real friends; here one day, gone the next. Even with Nat, whom she loves, she guards her freedom. This is the first time she’s had anything like a real home and a family who truly love her: Father, Mother, Sisters: Clem and Jakey …

  Janna hesitates. She can go down the cliff path to the beach, chat to the surfers, make friends, cadge another lift, or she can return to her family. Suddenly it seems that she hears Sister Emily’s high clear voice in the blowing wind. She is singing the grace that she always chooses when it is her turn, emphasizing certain words in her own inimitable way:

  God bless to us our bread

  And give food to those who are hungry

  And a hunger for justice to those who are fed.

  God bless to us our bread.

  Today is a Feast Day and Sister Emily, as usual, is looking forward to her lunch. Janna draws a deep sighing breath. She hears Clem’s voice saying: ‘… please promise you won’t do a runner’ – and she turns away from the beach and the surfers, and begins to walk home.

  ‘You have got to be joking,’ Mr Caine is saying. ‘You mean she’s actually written to you saying, “Goodbye and thanks for all the fish”? Jesus! His Royal Highness will go ballistic when he hears this. And what’s a retreat house, anyway? … Bloody hell, Phil, how am I going to tell him? He thought it was in the bag … Yeah I know that’s what I get paid for. Thanks for that. There’s no possible doubt, I suppose? … Where are you now? London? Well, lucky you… Nah, I’m still stuck in this wilderness. I get away when I can, mind … I’d better do a bit of earwigging before I phone him; see what I can find out. It might not be absolutely cut and dried.’

  He sees the girl from the convent go whisking past and slips down a bit lower behind the boulder until she’s out of sight. He’ll go back down to the village and see if he can pick up any odds and ends. The old priest might be in the pub for a lunchtime pint; they’ve got quite matey now and he might get something out of him. He stares out to sea: he’s still got that bad feeling and he wishes he was anywhere but here.

  Dossie walks in the lane with the dogs; last outs before bed. She keeps her hand over her mobile phone in her pocket, hoping and waiting for a message from Rupert. Tomorrow he is away again for the weekend, checking out his properties on the south coast, and she is hoping that he might have time for a quick moment on his way. John the Baptist chugs along beside her, pausing briefly to check out a scent here and there, but Wolfie is far ahead on a rabbit’s trail and she follows him, her brain busy with ideas.

  Ever since Pa’s conversation about having B and B-ers again at The Court she’s been thinking of little else. Almost at once she could see the advantages: she knows that it might be some time before Rupert can be persuaded to change his way of living but he might, in future, look at properties to convert near at hand so that they can spend more time together. She’ll be able to keep her weekends and evenings free, instead of dashing about doing weddings and dinner parties, and one day, way ahead, perhaps he might live with her at The Court.

  She pauses in a gateway to give Jonno a breather before the long plod back, and stands looking out across the pale stubble of the new-cut fields. One small star is tangled in a long fleece of cloud and she can see a ghostly illumination running like pale fire along the black edge of the distant horizon. The moon’s bright curved rim appears above the long low hills and it seems as if she can feel the movement of the earth as it tilts towards it. Holding her breath, she watches as the moon rises: full and mysterious and magical. The deep silence is brok
en only by the querulous cry of an old ewe, the settling and stuttering of small birds in the hedges, and two owls calling.

  When her mobile vibrates with its double ring, her hand closes on it with shock. She stands for a few moments, still entranced, before taking it from her pocket and reading the message:

  Early picnic midday my place?

  She smiles with relief and anticipation, sends a reply and puts the mobile away. Calling to Wolfie, patting old Jonno’s head, she turns back towards home.

  That night Jakey sleeps restlessly. He’s spent the day with Pa and Mo, making a little house in the garden which he can have for his own during the summer holidays. It was once a wood store but the logs got damp so Pa keeps them in the barn instead and now the little lean-to shed is almost falling to pieces. He and Pa worked very hard, making it dry and tacking some felt on the sloping roof, and Mo found a little stool and an old card table to make it look like a proper house. John the Baptist was persuaded to come inside and lie down on an old blanket but Wolfie simply wouldn’t. He barked and got silly and dashed round in circles on the lawn.

  Jakey dreams fitfully: the house has grown much bigger and all his friends have come to tea but Wolfie stays outside barking and barking …

  He wakes suddenly, surprised at how bright it is and thinking it is morning, and then realizes that it is moonlight streaming into his bedroom. He climbs out of bed, a certainty in his heart, and goes to the window. She is there, as he knew she would be: Auntie Gabriel, standing amongst the trees across the drive. She is looking up at his window with her hands clasped as usual, though he can’t see the red satin heart that she holds. He can see her white dress, though, gleaming in the moonbeams that shaft down like tiger-stripes between the smooth boles of the trees.

  Jakey raises his hand and waves to her. She doesn’t return the wave, she never does because of holding the heart, but he knows that she is smiling at him. He sees that she bows her head a little, in acknowledgement, and he waves again. He wonders whether to go out to her but he knows that Daddy will be cross if he goes outside without telling him. He watches her hopefully, wishing that she would come inside, and then he gives one last wave with both hands to show that he loves her and climbs back into bed, clasps Stripey Bunny, and falls asleep.