‘The Penglows, the Wesleys and the Holts in that order,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Then if we could make a detour on the way home we could call in at the Olives.’
‘I don’t believe that I’ve heard that name?’ Sister Margaret looked enquiring.
‘They only arrived in the neighbourhood a couple of months ago. Their daughter, Samantha, joined the school for a term or two before she starts at Bodmin.’
‘Such a pity that you lose them all to the big schools,’ Sister Margaret said. ‘It must be very stimulating to have youngsters about one.’
‘Also exhausting,’ Sister Joan said wryly. ‘The Penglows live on the north ridge.’
‘I believe that I bought eggs here once when our own chickens refused to lay.’ Sister Margaret drew up with a triumphant flourish almost level with a white painted gate on the top of which Madelyn and David sat solemnly side by side.
‘Good afternoon, Sister.’ Their mother, trim in a flowered overall, had come out of the house beyond. ‘I’ve hot scones and a pot of tea ready. The children were telling me about this project you had in mind, so anything we can do to help – get down and open the gate for the Sisters, children.’
Brother and sister solemnly descended and opened the gate. Though they had both obviously been playing out after tea their hands and clothes were spotless. Behind them the house gleamed with fresh white paint and the scent of warm cooking wafted gently from the kitchen as they went in. Sister Joan, while acknowledging the pristine neatness of everyone and everything couldn’t help wondering if anything as original as an idea ever penetrated the gleaming heads of the Penglows.
‘Now, you just sit down, Sisters, and there’ll be tea and hot scones in a jiffy,’ Mrs Penglow said. Her voice was quiet and slow. She gave the impression of never hurrying herself for any reason. Sister Joan found it vaguely irritating, but reminded herself that haste didn’t mean better – it only meant faster.
‘My husband will be in soon, so if you needed to see him –?’ their hostess began, bringing in scones and tea.
The room into which she had ushered them was so tidy that anyone else might have suspected that she had actually rushed round to prepare for them but Sister Joan, who had had occasion to visit the house once before when both children came down with light cases of chickenpox, had found the same placid order then.
‘There really isn’t any need to trouble Mr Penglow,’ she said. ‘The children have told you about the project so there isn’t much for me to add, except to enquire if you think you’ll be able to help out if necessary. I mean if we have a small exhibition or something of that nature?’
‘I can give Madelyn some old Cornish recipes and help her bake a few samples,’ Mrs Penglow said. ‘David fancied making a timetable of the local buses – drawing it up neatly with changing prices over the years. His dad will help him with that.’
‘But that’s a marvellous idea,’ Sister Joan said, with unflattering surprise. ‘I would like the children to do the bulk of the project themselves, of course.’
‘My husband and I will merely lend a helping hand. More scones, Sister?’
Sister Joan hesitated, then declined. The scones were delicious, very light with just the right hint of saltiness, but she resolved on a private penance to remind herself that it was extremely wrong to make superficial snap judgements about people. Underneath their bland, conventional exterior the Penglows were probably seething with originality. Sister Margaret, who never made judgements, had accepted a second scone with a clear conscience and was gazing about the trim, bright room with an expression of happy approval.
‘Getting on all right at school, are they?’ Mrs Penglow allowed a faintly anxious frown to cross her smooth brow. It was obvious that she had no real qualms about her offspring. They would turn out as perfectly as her scones and the homemade bilberry jam she was now pressing upon Sister Margaret.
‘Very nicely. When they go to the senior school they ought to get on very well,’ Sister Joan said. She had planned to mention that it might not be a bad thing for brother and sister to be put in different classes so that each might develop a more independent personality, but such a suggestion wouldn’t have achieved any result. In the end they would turn out to be mirror images of their parents, a thought that depressed her for no coherent reason.
They rose to leave when Sister Margaret had wistfully but heroically refused a third scone. Mr Penglow, driving up as they reached the gate, saluted them with the slightly formal politeness of a non-Catholic who isn’t absolutely sure he likes nuns cluttering up the threshold.
‘Such lovely scones.’ Sister Margaret let in the clutch with a triumphant grinding sound. ‘Do you think it would have been very bold of me to ask for the recipe?’
‘I think she’d have been flattered,’ Sister Joan reassured her. ‘I’ll ask Madelyn to get it from her mother, if you like.’
‘That would be very kind. Such a treat for us all to have on Sunday. Did you say Wesleys next?’
‘Please, sister – though I’ve a feeling that nobody will be in. The Wesleys are rumoured to be allergic to any notions of anything resembling work, and I’m afraid Billy is dedicated to keeping up the family reputation.’
In that prophesy she was proved right. When they drew up outside the cottages where the Wesleys lived they were greeted by a neighbour hanging over her gate and calling that everybody at Number Six was out.
‘Gone to the pictures in Bodmin. It’s Rambo,’ she informed them.
‘Rambo must mean good, I suppose,’ Sister Margaret said, backing up the street. ‘I never can keep up with current idioms.’
‘I think it’s the name of the film, Sister. It’s a series that’s popular.’
‘Like the Doris Day films,’ Sister Margaret said. ‘I saw all the reissues. Most enjoyable. Did you say the Holts next?’
‘The big farm over towards Druid’s Way. The Olives live about a mile further on, so we can cut back across the greenway if that suits you, Sister?’
‘Sounds splendid. I so seldom get the chance to drive up to the greenway,’ Sister Margaret said happily. ‘There are no shops up there and no excuse to go, but all that level ground would give one a wonderful chance to drive fast without worrying whether or not one was going to hit something.’
Sister Joan, feeling slight surprise that her companion did actually fret a little about the safety of her driving, said nothing but reminded herself to tighten her seat belt when the visit to the Holts was over.
Timothy, as she had guessed, was with his father, the two of them emerging from a barn as the nuns stopped the car and approached the house.
‘’Evening to you, ladies. Tim said you’d be calling and staying for a bite of supper, I hope? The wife makes a tasty fish pie.’
‘Oh, I do hope she will give me the recipe,’ Sister Margaret whispered as they went into the big house where a comfortable shabbiness prevailed and Mrs Holt, her hair scraped back from an unexpectedly pretty face, waited to greet them.
‘Nice to see you, Sister Joan.’ She shook hands heartily. ‘Sister – Margaret? We have passed briefly once or twice out shopping. Tim, go and wash your hands. That lad’d spend his entire life mucking out if he wasn’t chided. Supper’s ready and there’s plenty for guests so I’ll not take a refusal. This project now – it sounds like a very good idea, doesn’t it, William? It might focus attention on the way people do actually live out here – not all farmers are millionaires, not by any means. You’ll not object to the telly being on. We’re following a serial – I’ll fill you in on what you’ve missed but first I’ll dish up. Stargazy pie and apples and ice-cream to follow. And plenty of seconds. Tim, will you get your hands washed? That boy is never happier than when he’s grubbing in the soil or scratching the pigs’ backs or doing something that’s sure to make work for me.’
There was no doubt, thought Sister Joan as she was bustled to a long table groaning with food, that Mrs Holt could talk Sister Gabrielle off her feet any time.
Despite the array of food, the cheerfulness, the air of having a big family to look after, she was aware that Mrs Holt’s manner covered past heartbreaks – three babies in the local cemetery before Tim had survived, and two miscarriages afterwards. Her chatter was her way of dealing with grief, her constant stream of grumbles her way of hiding the intense protective love with which she regarded her son.
‘Well, now this is a rare treat.’ Mr Holt, as big and ungainly a man as his son was a boy, took his place at the table. ‘It’s not often we get the Sisters over, is it, love? And Tim’s doing all right at the school, is he? Got a good head on his shoulders that lad – when my time comes I’ll be leaving the farm in good hands. Now, who’s for a bit of pie?’
‘William.’ His wife was scarlet. ‘We’ve not said grace yet.’
‘We never – oh, yes, of course.’ Mr Holt who was not a Catholic put down the serving spoon and looked rather at a loss.
‘Bless this food to our use and us to Thy service,’ Sister Joan said, ‘and keep all safe here and everywhere. Amen.’
Mother and son crossed themselves in unison with the Sisters and Mr Holt picked up the serving spoon again and plunged into the fluffy potato crust with an air of relief.
The conversation centred on the intended project, Timothy volunteering several bright ideas of his own. When he made them his parents listened avidly, Mrs Holt exclaiming softly under her breath, ‘Well, the lad has a point there, I must say. Yes, indeed.’
It was surprising, in view of the way they felt about him, that he was turning out to be such a nice boy, Sister Joan thought. She had no doubt that the farm would be in good hands one day.
‘Not another bite, honestly.’ She put up her hand as Mrs Holt started passing out tarts with a bowl of ice cream. ‘I am full of your marvellous pie. Sister Margaret won’t be happy until she has coaxed the recipe out of you, Mrs Holt.’
‘Oh, it’d be a pleasure, Sister,’ their hostess said promptly. ‘The secret’s in the marinade – lemon juice with a touch of sugar. It gives the fish just that touch of flavour.’
‘Ah, that explains it then,’ Sister Margaret said. ‘Very subtle amounts I think, but you were going to watch your serial. I’d not wish to spoil your enjoyment.’
‘There’s a repeat on Saturday,’ Mrs Holt said. ‘Tim’ll watch it though while I show you how I make the dish.’
Timothy, with a muttered apology, slid thankfully from the table and bolted into an alcove where a large television set was enthroned rather like a monarch on his throne.
Sister Joan, setting her empty cup back in its saucer, looked up to meet Mr Holt’s steady regard.
‘We’ve a new calf, Sister Joan, if you’ve a mind to see.’ He spoke gruffly, giving a little jerk of his head towards the door.
‘Well I don’t – yes, I should like to see it very much,’ Sister Joan said, impelled to acceptance by something unspoken at the back of his mild grey eyes. They walked across the darkening yard towards the barn, he pausing to take a lantern from a hook on the wall as they reached the barn.
‘Animals prefer the softer light. I find they give richer milk if they’re not always in glare.’
He lit it neatly with his big, calloused hands and they passed on into a high, vaulted place with the smell of milk, and straw and the unmistakable smell of birth.
‘Dropped her calf two nights since. Nice little thing. I’ve a fondness for small creatures – why I’ve held out against factory methods, I suppose. Not that I’m sentimental, and there’s nothing like a good steak but at least give the creatures the chance to see a bit of sky first, eh, Sister?’
‘I’m sure you’re right, Mr Holt.’ Sister Joan moved to the rail of the stall and looked at the long-legged, large-headed baby, now suckling contentedly. The mother turned a larger head, curiosity in the brown eyes, but seeing or smelling the human she knew lost interest.
‘She’m a good old maid,’ Mr Holt said, dropping the standard English he had been speaking for a moment, as he leaned to scratch the cow’s rump. ‘Why did you really come here this evening, Sister?’
‘To talk about the project,’ Sister Joan said. ‘You know, being a nun it is often difficult for me to get out to meet the parents of my pupils as often as I’d like. I hope you don’t –’
‘Mind you coming? Glad of it. Never had any particular faith myself but the wife sets store by her church and I’d no objection to having Tim reared in the same faith. Point is, Sister, I know that prayer you said before we ate and there’s nothing in it about keeping folks safe. I thought as how you were hinting that you wanted a private word, like.’
‘No, honestly, I wasn’t. I don’t know why I put that in,’ Sister Joan said, feeling suddenly foolish. ‘It was an impulse.’
‘A good one I’m thinking.’ Mr Holt drew back from the cow and frowned down at his smaller companion. ‘I thought as how you might have picked up the scent that’s been in my nostrils these past weeks.’
‘Scent?’
‘Evil,’ said Mr Holt flatly and smote his hand lightly against the rail to emphasize his point. ‘That’s an unfashionable word, isn’t it? Well, I’m not a clever bloke – all I know’s farming, but I know evil too. It’s around, Sister. I can smell it on the wind, but I can’t tell you where it is or the way it’s coming. I can only tell you that it is coming. I’ve no enemies that I know, but evil takes no count of that. And I tell you frankly, Sister, that if anything harmed the wife or my lad –’
‘Mr Holt?’ She stared at the big, clenching hands.
‘I’d kill,’ he said with a terrible simplicity. ‘I’d kill, Sister. Shall we go in?’
Lifting up the lantern again he stood aside politely to let her pass out of the barn.
Five
‘You added something to the Grace this evening,’ Sister Margaret remarked when they were back in the car. ‘A very kind thought, Sister. It’s clear they dote on that boy.’
She turned to wave to the trio standing at the door as they drove away. The recipe for stargazy pie reposed in her bag and her face was irradiated with quiet content. Not for one second had Sister Margaret been aware of the creeping presence of anything.
‘You should have come to look at the new calf, Sister,’ Sister Joan said. ‘It was so sweet.’
‘I’m afraid that I always get a guilty feeling before anything else when I see small creatures,’ Sister Margaret said. ‘Before I entered the religious life I was quite partial to the occasional lamb chop. Even now I do occasionally wonder if we ought to eat fish, but then I read an article once that said lettuces scream and eggs faint when you start preparing them. So I reckon we have to eat something.’
They had turned on to the track that ran towards the area of the moors known locally as the greenway, an area where bracken and ling gave way to deep, soft earth and a natural windbreak formed by a deep and wide dip in the landscape through which ribbons of tiny streamlets watered the fertile ground. The light had quite faded, but the scent of wild verbena drifted through the open window of the car.
‘Is that where the Olives live?’ Sister Margaret gestured ahead to a dark bulk set back from the flowering grass. ‘It’s the old Druid place, surely? That was before your time, dear, but a brother and sister owned the place. Quite reclusive in their ways, so it was generally rumoured they were exceedingly rich, and a nephew – or was it a niece? I forget which and it really doesn’t matter – he or she started coming over to visit the couple, hoping for something, I daresay, but when they died – influenza, the virulent kind – they found out there was no money at all. The place stood empty for years and then the niece – or was it nephew? – sold it and it’s passed through a series of owners since. Funny, but despite the land being so fertile and rich nobody’s actually got down and cultivated it properly. But it’s a beautiful spot, and it is rather refreshing to see somewhere that hasn’t been tamed for commercial purposes.’
It looked lonely, Sister Joan thought, as they stopped the car – Sis
ter Margaret having heroically refrained from speeding along the deserted track – and walked up to the sprawling mass of stone with its Victorian additions in the shape of cupola and turrets outlined against the evening sky. The black stone loomed against the dark night and the square of light in the windows did nothing to dispel the sudden and disturbing impression that the house crouched on the flowerstrewn moor like some wild beast waiting to spring.
She frowned impatiently at her own foolishness, deciding that while a vivid imagination was all very well in an artist it was out of place in a woman vowed to the religious life. And the impression had been erroneous anyway, since the main door opened as they neared it and a flood of cheerful light illumined Samantha’s small frame.
‘Do come in, Sister. I was afraid that you weren’t going to come,’ she invited.
‘I hope we’re not too late. This is Samantha, Sister. Sister Margaret is lay sister at the convent.’
By the time she had finished the introduction they were in a square, panelled hall and Mrs Olive, her slender figure enhanced by tight black trousers and a white shirt, was on her way down the stairs with outstretched hand and a manner very different from her previous languid one when she had first brought her daughter to the school.
‘Sister Joan, how pleasant to see you again. Sister Margaret, how do you do? I was beginning to think that Samantha had got hold of the wrong end of the stick but she insisted that you’d be coming.’
‘Only a brief visit, I’m afraid.’ Sister Joan glanced at the small steel fob watch pinned to her belt. ‘We had other parents to see and overstayed our welcome.’
‘Oh, surely not. I can’t imagine your outstaying your welcome anywhere. Come into the warmth and sit down.’
The long drawing-room was warmer than would have been comfortable in the depths of winter. Both the nuns flinched slightly as they were met by a blast of hot air from every direction at once. Not only central heating warmed the room but a huge fire burned in the cavernous fireplace above which a large photograph of Samantha, taken some years before, smiled coyly down, clutching a pink rabbit.
Vow of Chastity Page 6
