The Christmas Angel

by Marcia Willett

  ‘The important thing,’ Janna is saying now, ‘is that we stop her opening that back door. But I see your point about needing to get out if there should be a fire in your wing. If the key is taken out and put somewhere safe it could be a real problem in an emergency. And, anyway, everyone would want to know why. ’Tis a pity she can reach the bolt.’

  She is aware of Sister Ruth’s dilemma and feels very sorry for her. She remembers the look almost of outrage on her face last night when she opened her door, and the shock that swiftly replaced it. It was a shock for Janna, too, to see Sister Ruth in an ancient plaid dressing gown and her hair free of its veil. Her hair was the biggest shock: thick and dark and curling round the well-shaped head. She looked much younger, more vulnerable without the veil, and Janna for the first time saw her simply as another woman, and a woman who was frightened and at a loss.

  She followed Janna quickly, gazing at Sister Nichola, who was now tucked up in bed and deeply asleep, listening to Janna’s story in disbelief.

  ‘But how often has Jakey seen her? Anything might have happened to her. She might have fallen or wandered into the lane. Thank goodness the evening was warm and dry.’

  ‘I think ’tis all to do with the full moon.’ Janna tried to reassure her. ‘Jakey says she comes when the moon shines. It probably wakes her, as it does him, and she gets up and goes down to the Lodge. Wasn’t there something about her being engaged to a local boy and they were planning to live there?’

  Sister Ruth nodded, her frightened eyes still fixed on the recumbent form. ‘It was so long ago but her memory plays tricks.’

  ‘She’ll sleep now. I’m sure of it. We’ll think about what can be done. Clem won’t talk about it and neither will I unless you say so.’

  Sister Ruth nodded again, biting her lips, and Janna knew that the nun wouldn’t get much sleep but would remain alert to the sound of a door opening and footsteps in the long passage.

  Now, looking at her unhappy, weary face, Janna feels another surge of compassion. She can’t forget the sight of that same face – vulnerable and younger-looking – with its short cap of dark curling hair.

  ‘’Twill be easier in the Coach House,’ she suggests gently. ‘You’ll all be upstairs, for a start, and you could put one of those children’s gates across the stairs at night. Everyone knows that she wanders so ’twould simply be a sensible precaution. And if she has a room between yours and mine at least there’d be two of us on watch.’

  Sister Ruth looks at her quickly, eyebrows lifted. ‘You’ll be staying then?’

  Janna takes a firmer grip on her mug. ‘Sounds like it, doesn’t it?’ she asks ruefully. ‘I don’t know what to do, to tell the truth.’

  She waits for some negative response but Sister Ruth remains silent. Outside the banties bicker in the warm sunshine and the old orchard is filled with soft golden light.

  ‘I love it here, see,’ Janna continues, moved to say more, to reveal something of herself – albeit reluctantly – to the woman who sits opposite at the little table. ‘I feel a bit independent. People can come and see me and I don’t feel we’re disturbing anyone else. I’ve never lived in a place that’s really private like this. It’s been quite special.’

  Another little silence. Sister Ruth stirs, staring down into the mug.

  ‘But those rooms in the Coach House – your rooms – wouldn’t there be privacy there?’

  Janna shrugs. ‘Sort of. They’re really lovely and I’d be lucky to have them but ’tisn’t the same. When Jakey comes we sing and play and make a bit of noise and nobody can hear us. ’Twouldn’t be quite like that, would it?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Sister Ruth says with an obvious effort, ‘perhaps we might like to hear you and Jakey singing.’

  Janna laughs. ‘Come off it,’ she says cheerfully. ‘You know we drive you mad. Both of us.’

  To her amazement, Sister Ruth raises her eyes and smiles at her. ‘I deserved that,’ she answers honestly, ‘and it’s quite true. I am uneasy with children. I don’t know how to behave with them, and I have no experience of them. No younger siblings, no nephews and nieces. I was brought up to be seen and not heard. Actually, Jakey is a good little boy and I was very touched when you told me about Auntie Gabriel and how he wanted her to go inside and have some tea to warm her up. It’s a wonder that he didn’t recognize Sister Nichola.’

  ‘She was standing among the shadows of the trees and he wouldn’t be expecting any of the Sisters about at night. And she was always in that cream-coloured dressing gown and a shawl and no veil.’

  ‘And he wasn’t afraid?’

  Janna shakes her head. ‘He expected an angel and that’s what he saw.’

  Sister Ruth smiles again and finishes the last of her tea. ‘Perhaps that should be a lesson to us all,’ she says.

  ‘A miracle.’ Sister Emily is waiting at the vestry door, beaming with delight. ‘A miracle has occurred. It seems that Janna has almost definitely decided to stay with us.’

  Father Pascal gives a little cry of pleasure. ‘Oh, but that’s wonderful. Did she tell you so?’

  ‘She told Sister Ruth.’

  His expression changes almost ludicrously. ‘Sister Ruth?’

  Sister Emily nods, enjoying the drama. ‘That’s the real part of the miracle.’

  ‘She told Sister Ruth?’ He still can’t believe it. ‘But why? I mean, how did it happen? I believed that they never communicated at that kind of level. There’s usually too much antagonism between them to imagine such confidences.’

  ‘Something has happened,’ Sister Emily says. ‘So far it is only a hint that Sister Ruth dropped by mistake. We shall find out in due course when she is ready to tell us the whole truth.’

  He frowns, puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t quite know,’ she answers serenely. ‘That will be the final part of the miracle.’

  He shakes his head. ‘You’re talking in riddles today.’

  She smiles mischievously. ‘Those inner angels are being unpacked; layer by layer they are being revealed.’

  She whisks out of the vestry into the chapel and Father Pascal, baffled, begins to prepare himself for the Eucharist.

  Pa’s party is being a great success. The continuing warm weather allows the tea party to be held in the garden, and he is enjoying himself enormously, surrounded by old friends and by his family. Sister Emily, looking oddly Bohemian in smart narrow navy trousers and a loose cream linen shirt, with a small scarlet cotton handkerchief tied gypsy-fashion over her fine white hair, converses eagerly, totally at ease.

  ‘You look great,’ Dossie told her when she arrived, driven by Clem, with an excited Jakey in the back of the car. ‘It’s so odd to see you in ordinary clothes.’

  ‘Mufti.’ Sister Emily regarded her outfit with pleasure. ‘I’ve put that nun away in the cupboard for the afternoon.’

  She turned away to greet Pa and Mo, and Dossie found Clem beside her, wearing his usual enigmatic expression.

  ‘She has a niece,’ he murmured, his eyes still on Sister Emily, ‘who lives in London. It’s a wealthy family, you know, and the niece passes on one or two rather smart bits of designer-label gear to her old auntie.’

  Dossie grinned. ‘She looks smarter than Mo.’

  Clem grinned too. ‘Wouldn’t be difficult. She’s never been a dresser-upper, has she, our Mo? So. Are you OK?’

  He continued to stare out at the people milling about in the garden, but she was aware of his attention focused on her. She felt moved by his caring, and tears pricked the backs of her eyes.

  ‘Of course I am,’ she said. ‘Absolutely. Just a bit tired getting all this organized.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  He didn’t sound convinced, though he still didn’t look at her, and she had a childish longing to burst into tears and tell him everything.

  ‘Go and mingle,’ she ordered him. ‘Be a good grandson. Jakey can hand round. He likes that.’

  Clem gave a snort. ‘People tel
ling him how good and clever he is. He revels in it. He’s in danger of becoming a spoiled monster.’

  She laughed. ‘Good luck to him,’ she said. ‘It’ll soon pass. Let him enjoy it while he can.’

  He was smiling as he went down to join Pa’s friends, and she watched him go, her heart full of love for him, suddenly seeing his father in Clem’s tall, long-limbed grace. She bit her lips, the tears coming quickly now, and turned away into the house, hurrying into the kitchen.

  Now, she closes the door behind her and stands holding the Aga rail, trying not to weep with the sensations of loss and frustration. It is odd how Rupert’s excuses have hurt her. She tries to believe him, to make allowances for the explanation of a former arrangement with his mother, but it has simply brought to the fore the things she’s been trying to ignore. Perhaps he’s just using her and has no intention of considering any kind of future with her apart from this present friendship.

  Dossie picks up a tea cloth, twisting it to and fro, trying to decide what she should do about Rupert. She hears footsteps running across the hall and quickly wipes her eyes with the cloth. Jakey bursts in, eyes gleaming with excitement and importance.

  ‘Mo says we need more tea. More tea, Dossie,’ he shouts gleefully.

  She takes a wavering breath, trying to smile brightly, but he comes closer, his own smile fading a little.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asks anxiously. ‘Are you clying, Dossie?’

  ‘No, my darling, of course not,’ she says, though his concern makes her want to weep even more. ‘No, I just burned my hand a little bit on the Aga and it made my eyes water. Isn’t that silly? I’m absolutely fine. Go and tell Mo that more tea is on the way. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  He hovers, some instinct telling him that she isn’t being truthful, but she swiftly picks up a plate of small cakes and turns to him.

  ‘Now,’ she says seriously. ‘Do you think you could carry these out into the garden without spilling a single one? What d’you think?’

  He grows solemn at once, taking the plate carefully and going out with them, his eyes fixed on the plate. Dossie watches the small earnest figure and is obliged to quell another urge to burst into tears.

  ‘Honestly,’ she mutters. ‘What is the matter with you? Get a grip, for God’s sake!’

  It’s a relief that Janna hasn’t been able to come to the party; there are rather a lot of guests staying at Chi-Meur for St Luke’s Day tomorrow and she is just too busy. Dossie knows that she wouldn’t have been able to hold on to her composure under Janna’s sharp, compassionate gaze.

  John the Baptist comes wagging in, panting with the exertion of being fussed over by so many people and having been given rather too many little treats. He seems almost to be laughing with the fun of it all and she can’t help smiling back at him; tugging at his ear and smoothing his head.

  Quickly she takes her mobile from her pocket and checks it for messages: nothing. She’s sent a couple of texts to Rupert but has had no reply: obviously he is far too busy with his mum. Her heart weighs like lead in her breast and she makes a little face at John the Baptist.

  ‘No go, old chap,’ she murmurs.

  The kettle is starting to sing and she picks up a big teapot and makes the tea.

  Mo watches her come out onto the terrace and put the big teapot on the table. Her heart aches too. She knows that Dossie is unhappy, that her explanation for Rupert’s absence has been much too brittle and bright, and her heart is wrung with pain for her daughter.

  ‘Parents are only as happy as their saddest child’– she’s read that somewhere recently and has been struck by the truth of it. Her gaze wanders over their guests. Pa is in his element: nothing he loves more than being surrounded by friends and dispensing hospitality. Presently the gin and tonics or wine will be poured, and Dossie’s delicious little nibblies will appear, and the party will trundle on into the evening; some of the guests will inevitably be invited to supper. Dossie has planned for that too.

  Mo sighs: oh, how she longs for Dossie to be truly happy. And she believes that she has been happy with this Rupert, but something has gone wrong. She watches Clem, tall and elegant, laughing with an elderly couple, and is sharply reminded of his father. How often this must happen to Dossie; and how does she cope with this constant reminder of her loss? And there is little Jakey, weaving his way in and out of the chattering groups, pausing to offer cakes and to receive praise and pats on his head, as if he were old Jonno. How does Clem manage to contain the pain of his wife’s death whilst bringing up their child?

  She drops her hand and feels old Jonno’s head beneath it; she strokes him gratefully, accepting his silent comfort. Pa glances around, spies her, and raises his arm in a cheerful gesture that says, ‘Come here. Come and join me,’ and she steadies herself and makes her way across the grass with the old dog plodding behind her.

  Dossie takes a step back from the little group, and then another, and stands alone though ready to smile or nod if required. She looks around at the familiar scene. The sun is still hot and the sweet scent of new-cut grass lingers in the heavy, warm air. Scarlet fuchsia blossoms hang delicate and bell-like on their arched stems and the leaves of the sumac trees burn like fire against the faded blue October sky. Michaelmas daisies, smoky blue and pinky-purple, stand in tall clumps against the grey stone walls.

  ‘Isn’t the weather heavenly?’ Sister Emily is beside her. ‘St Luke’s little summer is lasting a long time this year.’ Her eyes twinkle at Dossie. ‘His Feast Day tomorrow. What fun!’

  Despite her heavy heart, Dossie bursts out laughing. ‘And don’t I know it, what with Janna pestering me for something special for you all to eat.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ says Sister Emily contentedly. ‘I do enjoy a surprise.’

  ‘And how will poor Janna manage when the new retreat house opens for business?’ asks Dossie, still smiling.

  ‘Our dear Penny is coming back.’ Sister Emily rises onto her toes and falls back again, as if she is unable to contain her pleasure. ‘She is quite recovered from that debilitating shingles disease and she will be back in the kitchen, and her married daughter is going to help with the other work. We’re hoping to involve the village more fully as we progress – to find jobs, that kind of thing.’

  ‘I see.’ Dossie watches her affectionately, comforted simply by her presence. Even in her unfamiliar clothes she remains essentially Sister Emily. ‘But there must be quite a lot of other things to think about. I know that Clem will be fully involved once he’s trained but who actually runs the show and deals with the nuts and bolts?’

  ‘We shall all work together,’ Sister Emily answers. ‘That is Chi-Meur’s way, but we are fortunate to be supported by a wonderful group of oblates and alongsiders. One of our oblates, a widow who lives in Padstow, has offered to be our secretary and administrator. It will be organic, of course, and we shall make mistakes, but we have plenty of helpers to whom we can turn. We are very lucky.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Dossie. ‘Yes, but you have earned it.’

  ‘And you?’ asks Sister Emily.

  ‘Me?’ says Dossie. ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘I hear that you are starting a new venture, too. Or, at least, taking up where Mo and Pa left off. That’s very exciting.’

  ‘Yes,’ she answers rather dully. ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’

  Sister Emily watches her for a moment, then touches her lightly on the arm. ‘Thank God for work,’ she says gently. ‘Courage, ma brave.’

  She goes away, smiling first to one group and then another, and then Pa appears at Dossie’s shoulder and says: ‘I think it might be drinks time, Doss. What d’you say?’ and she goes with him into the house.

  ALL SAINTS AND ALL SOULS

  JANNA STANDS WATCHING the thick golden mist drifting on the invisible surface of the sea, moving inland, obscuring the further headlands and the cliffs. The crying of the sea birds is muffled, indistinct. Yesterday there was a seal pup on the stony be
ach, far down beneath the steep cliff near Trevone, and she fears that the mother has gone and that the helpless pup will not survive. She sees in her mind’s eye the cruel, stabbing beaks of crow and gull, and shivers. There is no point in attempting to see whether the pup is still there. The soft mist is rolling in now, lapping at the cliff’s edge, drifting across the fields and enveloping her in its chill clamminess. She turns away and begins to walk back. No picnic today, no sitting in the sunshine; yet she is not depressed as she so often is when the clouds cover the sun. She sees someone on the path but is past before she recognizes him as the man who is researching a book. Through the grapevine she’s heard that the locals believe he’s behind the man who wants the convent for a hotel and that he isn’t writing a book at all. It doesn’t matter any more: Chi-Meur is safe.

  She walks quickly with her hands in her pockets, trying to come to grips with an odd experience she had in the chapel before Compline last night. This is the time for Silent Prayer, the chapel lit only by candles, and Sister Emily was in her stall in her usual attitude of contemplation. A priest, at Chi-Meur on a few days’ retreat, sat on a chair near the altar gazing up at the big carved crucifix. Another guest kneeled in the visitors’ pew, head in hands. Janna noted them before slipping into her own corner. Closing her eyes, breathing deeply, she sat simply absorbing the silence, enfolded in the atmosphere of peace. And then, quite suddenly, she had been utterly ravished by a sense of joy. Her heart seemed to flame and burn with it and for a while – nearly ten minutes, she discovered afterwards – she was totally unaware of anything but this overpowering exaltation.

  When she opened her eyes, shocked into consciousness by the clicking on of the chapel lights by Mother Magda for Compline, she was dazed, bewildered. She could feel that her mouth was smiling of its own accord and she was still filled with a fading awareness of the joy. Sister Ruth, coming in and seeing her, raised her eyebrows hopefully and Janna gave a little nod and hurried out to keep vigil over Sister Nichola until Compline was over. This is the arrangement just for now.