The steps twisted as they neared the top and ended at what reminded her of an illustration that had been in her childhood copy of The Piper of Hamelin. A door fixed in the mountainside would doubtless open to reveal the enchanted land beyond. Putting down her bag on the top step, Sister Joan lifted the huge iron latch with the same stir of excitement as the child Joan had once looked at the picture in her book, and stepped into a narrow passage – no more than a cleft in the rock.
Within a couple of yards it widened into a cave, fairly spacious and with a reasonably level floor. She held her bag in front of her and manoeuvred it and her own slight frame into the larger space. Even with the door open it was dim after the sunlit landscape below but not uncomfortably dark. More light filtered through a slit in the rock. Again it was impossible to tell if it were man-made or natural, but it clearly served as a window. Stepping to it, Sister Joan looked out, first seeing only sky, and then as she shifted her head, watching the sweep of the loch as it wended its way, the open sea came into view. A look-out post for Vikings, she reminded herself, and felt a curious kinship with the long dead monks who had taken their turn as look-out scouts, anxiously straining their gaze towards the sea, dreading the sight of a carved dragon prow breasting the waves.
The cave was simply furnished. An iron bedstead with mattress and blankets – how, she wondered, had they managed to get it up the steps? – a primus stove, a shelf with some dishes and cups and cutlery ranged along it, a few hooks hammered into the wall, and at the back of the cave a shallow stone trough which formed a natural washbasin. There were also half a dozen large plastic containers of water which looked fresh and fit for drinking. Presumably Brother Cuthbert renewed the contents regularly. She bent to unscrew the lid, dipped a cup into the wide neck and was rewarded with a welcome, thirst quenching draught of cool water.
‘Much healthier than a cup of tea,’ Sister Joan admonished herself, and grinned as she realized she had spoken aloud. Five minutes in the retreat and she was talking to herself!
She had carried up the lighter bag containing her nightclothes and change of underwear and toilet accessories. Brother Cuthbert had gone off with the bag containing her painting materials and the thick notebook in which she wrote up her meditations. Entries, she thought guiltily, had been sparse in recent months, but the schoolday took up so much of her time, demanded so much emotional energy – and there she went making excuses again. Mother Dorothy had known what she was talking about when she recommended a period of spiritual renewal.
She stepped into the narrow passage again and went through the doorway to the broad, flat top step. Wider than the other steps it had a guard rail about it, a sensible modern precaution of which she heartily approved. She herself had an excellent head for heights but in wet weather the stone would be slippery and the cliffs were steep.
From the top step she had a splendid view of the length of the loch as it curved into wider water and of the spur of land that jutted into it with its trees and long lines of grey stone wall. Colours were muted at this distance and only the sky flashed fire. There was a boat on the loch. She narrowed her eyes to bring it into focus and guessed rather than saw that Brother Cuthbert was on his way with her other bag and, hopefully, something for supper. Sister Joan whose trim figure belied a hearty appetite trusted that the young Brother hadn’t picked up the notion that a retreat also meant extremes of fasting.
‘In the Order of the Daughters of Compassion extremes of devotion are not encouraged,’ her first prioress had said. ‘Excessive self-mortification is dangerous and silly. Please remember that.’
Sister Joan had never had any idea of doing anything to excess, but now as she watched the boatman draw towards the shore she felt another uneasy pang of guilt. So far she had admired the scenery, thought cravingly of a cup of tea, and hoped she’d get a decent supper, and not one prayer of thankfulness for a safe journey had come into her head.
Brother Cuthbert had moored the boat and was striding along the water’s edge with her larger bag in one hand and what looked like a picnic hamper in the other. He began to mount the lower path between the trees with the sure-footedness of a goat. Clearly he would ascend the steps with equal ease, not needing to hold on to the handrail. Sister Joan stepped back as his fringe of ginger hair appeared directly beneath her and retreated into the cave, leaving the door open.
‘Glad you’re settled in, Sister.’ He had inserted himself and his burdens through the narrow passage. ‘Quite a climb, isn’t it? Oh, Father Abbot just had the letter from your own convent to let us know someone was coming on retreat. The post never comes on time here.’
‘I’m surprised it ever arrives at all,’ Sister Joan said frankly. ‘It is pretty remote.’
‘The local postmistress comes on her bicycle,’ Brother Cuthbert explained, setting down his load, ‘and puts any letters for our community into a postbox on the near shore. Father Abbot has the largest post bag, quite a regular series of communications with lay workers in the field.’
‘The field?’ Sister Joan glanced at him enquiringly.
‘The mission field,’ Brother Cuthbert said. ‘We are the contemplative part of our Order but we have brothers and secular workers in the Third World. It is prayer that helps them to continue.’
‘And a few financial contributions,’ Sister Joan reminded him. Brother Cuthbert looked unhappy.
‘One wishes money wasn’t so important,’ he said.
‘Money is very useful provided it’s earned and spent in the same way,’ Sister Joan said with spirit. ‘Wasn’t it Saint Teresa of Avila who said that with God she could do a lot but with God and some ducats she could do more?’
‘Yes, of course. How right you are to remind me that practical things matter too,’ he said with the swift contrition of someone to whom the religious life was clearly still very new and shining.
She would have liked to ask him why he had felt drawn to the contemplative side of his order rather than to more physically demanding missionary work, but Brother Cuthbert’s reasons for doing anything at all were none of her business, so she contented herself with an inarticulate murmur and bent to the wicker basket he had placed on the floor.
‘Shall I empty this, Brother Cuthbert? You’ll need to take it back?’
He shook his head. ‘You can bring it over yourself, Sister when you come to mass,’ he told her.
‘I was going to ask you about that. The local church …?’
‘Is called a kirk and is Protestant. There is a chapel in our own community where the few Catholics around come to mass on holy days. Father Abbot offers the mass at ten in the morning on Sundays and feast days. For the community he offers it every day, of course.’
‘Do I use the boat?’ she enquired.
‘The parishioners have their own small fishing boats they use as transport, but I bring the craft to this side of the loch for anyone who needs it.’
‘Fine. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow then.’
‘If there should be any emergency,’ he said, ‘there’s a bell you can ring.’
‘Where?’ She looked round.
‘Just outside the look-out post. If you put your hand through the gap you can feel the end of the rope. If you need help you ring the bell and it sounds right across the loch.’
Sister Joan smiled somewhat doubtfully. It occurred to her than an accident was more likely to happen when one was on the steps outside than inside the retreat in which case it might prove impossible to tug at the rope. Perhaps the bell was there to provide psychological security.
‘Enjoy your supper, Sister.’ Brother Cuthbert gave her a smiling nod and prepared to depart, his sandalled feet plodding rapidly through the door and down the stone staircase to the path below.
The wicker hamper contained rolls that had clearly been freshly baked that day, a slab of yellow cheese, a jar of herrings in vinegar, a small box of tea bags, several boxes of matches, a small jar of cooking oil, a packet of digestive biscuits and a
few onions and apples. At the bottom of the hamper a crock of honey and a couple of saucepans completed what were evidently regarded as desirable for a nun on a spiritual retreat to consume.
‘And God bless you for the tea bags‚’ Sister Joan breathed after the tiny figure now loping along the shore.
She half filled one of the saucepans with water from the plastic containers and knelt down to light the primus stove, feeling as if she had been catapulted back into a camping trip she’d gone on with a school party when she was fourteen.
A lamp with wick ready trimmed hung on a hook from an area where the cave roof slanted lower. With the last of the sunset vanishing the cave itself was becoming very dim. Nevertheless it seemed warm and dry enough and she certainly seemed to be supplied with necessities. Except for a lavatory.
While the water was heating she squeezed her way past an overhanging curtain of rock to the far end of the cave where a discreetly sited chemical toilet was hidden from the main living area. Brother Cuthbert had obviously been too bashful to direct her to it personally. Its existence was cheering. While the notion of a month-long spiritual retreat might have had a medieval flavour it was reassuring to find modern aids to hygiene and cleanliness.
The tea was strong, hot and sugarless. Sister Joan sat on an outcropping of rock that did duty for a stool and drank it gratefully. A roll and cheese with some sliced onion would do very nicely for her supper, but first she would finish her unpacking and then light a couple of the candles she had brought. Kindling the heaven-pointing flames and setting them in their tin holders on a low ledge she felt the tiredness after a long journey begin to slip away.
She laid her Prayer Book between the candles, knelt down and began her prayers. In the convent, supper would now be served and one of the sisters would be reading aloud from a devotional book – the life of Margaret Clitheroe, Sister Joan reminded herself, with its graphic account of the saint’s martyrdom guaranteed to put anyone off their food. She bit her lip as the irreverent thought popped into her mind.
‘Humour is a splendid attribute to possess‚’ Mother Dorothy had recently remarked, ‘provided that it is not indulged in at inappropriate times.’
She hadn’t looked at anybody in particular as she made the remark but Sister Joan had felt the tip of the arrow just the same.
She detached her rosary beads from her belt and began the murmured recitation of the mysteries. Her stomach growled a little, reminding her that she hadn’t yet eaten, and she resisted the temptation to gabble to a close. The candles she had lit burned with a steady fire in the darkening cave. Above the whispered cadences of her own voice the wind rose, its shriek having in it something primeval as it whistled over the high peaks and fell into the valley in a cascade of dying echoes.
‘Amen,’ said Sister Joan, and rose.
She would brew herself another cup of tea and eat the supper she had decided upon. Then she would clean her teeth, extinguish the candles and grope her way to the iron-railed bunk with its thin mattress and coarse blankets.
The cheese was strong tasting and buttery, the roll satisfyingly crisp. She drank the second cup of tea but it tasted bitter now that her immediate thirst had been quenched. She would find out if it was possible to buy milk from the monks when she went over to mass on the Sunday.
The door had a bolt on the inside which she hadn’t yet fastened, though it was hardly likely that anyone unauthorized would come visiting her in the middle of the night. Nevertheless she went to the door and, after a moment’s hesitation opened it and stepped cautiously outside. An overhanging lintel of stone protected her from the wind and she stood in an oasis of calm, her gaze turning to the dark bulk of the cliffs under a sky wreathed now with night over a landscape from which all colour had fled.
Someone was moving along the shore of the loch. She heard from far down the pitter patter of iron-shod hoofs against pebble and saw in a brief glance the rider and steed, foreshortened by distance, between two clumps of pine.
A woman to judge from the long hair that had streamed behind her. Sister Joan had glimpsed no more than that before the tossing branches of the trees and the rapidly encroaching dark hid rider and horse from view. Then she stepped back within the door, closing it, sliding the bolt home. On this first night, she decided, she would leave the candles burning.
Two
Six years of convent life had accustomed Sister Joan to dawn rising. A subdued grey light filtered through the lookout window and there was a fresh breeze. Habit got her out of bed and on her knees with the traditional ‘Christ is risen’, usually spoken by the lay sister who came round to waken the fully professed.
‘Thanks be to God,’ she answered herself and rose, resisting the impulse to crawl back under the blankets for an extra half-hour.
Cleaning one’s teeth, washing and dressing in a cave had a certain novelty value, she reflected. There were communal retreats held from time to time, usually on some particular theme, but a solitary retreat demanded more both physically and mentally. That one’s living space should be hollowed out of rock put one in tune with the hundreds of contemplatives down through the centuries who had sought God in silence and solitude.
She glanced at the neat fob watch pinned to her belt and saw it was not yet six. The most sensible course of action would be to tidy up the interior and then sit down and make a timetable for herself. Otherwise she was likely to spend too much time admiring the scenery and planning to pray for a longer period the day after. Sister Joan who was more clear-headed about herself than Mother Dorothy credited performed the few necessary chores and sat down with her notebook.
5 a.m. – Rise. Two hours prayer and contemplation.
7 a.m. – Breakfast. Clean retreat.
8 a.m. – Walk.
10 a.m. – Paint.
1 p.m. – Lunch.
1.30 p.m.– Spiritual reading and exercises.
4.30 p.m.– Tea.
5 p.m. – Exercise.
6.30 p.m.– Examination of conscience and evening prayers.
8 p.m. – Supper and bed.
And let’s hope, she thought, regarding her itinerary, that I can keep all my own rules.
Sundays would be different with mass to attend in the monastery chapel and possibly a Benediction later in the day. This morning she would need to walk over to the village for a few supplies since it wasn’t fair to expect the monks to supply everything. Frowning slightly she turned over the page and began on a shopping list.
In the convent the lay sisters did the shopping as a rule though the fully professed were not strictly enclosed. Those who were obliged to earn a living beyond the enclosure had dispensation to do so. But living in a convent did to a certain extent cocoon one from the realities of everyday living. In six years of convent life Sister Joan hadn’t had to worry about paying rent or mortgage or budgeting for a week’s groceries.
She would need some flour – pancakes would be simple enough to make – eggs, a jar of coffee, a couple of lemons, some tuna fish – tin opener, since there wasn’t one here – milk until she found out if the monks kept a cow. Butter? Margarine. She wrote it down and chewed the end of her pencil. What on earth did one buy for oneself? Her order forbade the eating of meat save at Christmas and on Easter Day, but cheese, fish, fruit and vegetables were consumed in a variety of tasty dishes.
‘Fruit gums,’ she said aloud and wrote down the item.
‘A tiny treat now and then is very good for the soul,’ Sister Andrew had remarked during one of their chats.
Sister Andrew was in her eighties and entitled to occasional treats. Sister Joan wasn’t at all sure that she merited the same but she let the two words stand and carefully detached the page from the notebook. It was an extremely modest shopping list to which she would probably add when she got to the shops. Meanwhile she had better get on her knees and do a little praying.
At 8.30, her prayers having lengthened into a full-blown meditation that took no account of timetables, Sister Joan eme
rged from the retreat and looked out over the loch. The sun was still only a pale disk in the sky but the breeze had the gentleness of spring rather than autumn. The screaming wind of the previous night had died away and the surface of the loch was only slightly ruffled by little, dancing waves. She closed the heavy door behind her and went cautiously down the steps, holding the guard rail. It wasn’t impossibly steep though she reckoned it would be tricky in wet or snowy conditions. On the other hand no prioress in her senses would permit one of her nuns to come to this remote retreat in the depths of winter.
She gained the lower slopes without difficulty and paused to get her bearings. Further along this ridge of high cliffs was the gully that cut through to the parallel track with the single gauge railway line beyond the bridge and the village sprawling over the slopes. There would be shops there, perhaps a Saturday market. She retraced the route along which Brother Cuthbert had guided her the previous day, not hurrying since she had allowed plenty of time for a walk. This morning the shoreline was deserted. No woman with long, flowing hair galloped a horse along the shingle.
She cut through the gully and walked towards the scatter of houses clinging to the slopes of the next range of hills. Close to she could see that the narrow, twisting lanes between the buildings were cobbled, the houses themselves built of granite-dark stone with roofs of sombre slate, almost every dwelling having between front door and lane a small yard, incongruously bright with vivid flowers in tubs or growing along the tops of low dividing walls.
She slowed her step, aware that her arrival had been instantly remarked. Not a soul came out to stare but she was conscious of the twitching of a curtain here, the part opening of a door there, a heightening of tension impossible to pinpoint but unmistakable. She walked more slowly, glancing about her. A small boy who had been swinging on a gate jumped down as she neared him, alarm in his face, his thumb and little finger shooting out from his clenched fist in the age old sign of protection against the evil eye.
Vow of Sanctity Page 2
