‘Coffee? Tea? I don’t suppose that I dare offer you a cocktail?’ She moved to a smart cabinet that looked small and incongruous against the faded grandeur of the room.
‘The point is that we wouldn’t dare accept it,’ Sister Joan said lightly. ‘All I came about was to enquire if we can ask for your co-operation in the matter of the school project.’
‘It’s a local project, isn’t it?’ Mrs Olive looked politely attentive. ‘Naturally my husband and I will give all the help we can, but as newcomers there isn’t very much we can add to the knowledge that people already have. We’re still finding our way round ourselves, you see. But if it’s a question of money –’
‘No, it really isn’t.’ Sister Joan felt the familiar blush of shame at the realization that most people associated nuns with collecting boxes.
‘Then I really don’t – my husband is fond of photography. He could take some photographs of local beauty spots, I suppose. He took that one of Samantha on her fifth birthday. We’ve always loved it.’
‘If the parents actually do the project it won’t be the children’s work,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I was hoping that we might have an open day at the school – invite people to come and see what the pupils themselves have produced.’
‘It sounds very exciting, don’t you think so, Samantha darling?’ The green eyes, so like the child’s save that they looked out between heavily mascara’d lashes, turned to where Samantha stood.
‘Yes.’ A flat monosyllable devoid of expression. Samantha’s lively welcome had flared and died.
‘Perhaps a folder about this house with drawings? I believe it’s quite an old building?’ Sister Joan suggested.
‘Now that’s a splendid idea,’ Mrs Olive said. ‘The house is eighteenth century, I believe. My husband is very keen on that period. He’s writing a book set in the – oh, darling, I was just about to boast of you.’
She had turned as a man entered the room.
‘Then it’s fortunate that I came in to put an end to it,’ he said, advancing with outstretched hands to where the visitors still stood. ‘I’m Clive Olive, Samantha’s father. You will be Sister Joan and –?’
‘Sister Margaret. How do you do?’
‘As well as can be expected.’ He glanced down with raised eyebrows.
Sister Joan, following his glance, found herself staring at a built-up shoe. A club foot? An accident?’
‘Sit down, won’t you?’ He nodded towards the armchairs scattered about the room. ‘Has anyone offered you anything yet?’
‘We did, Daddy, but they have to go,’ Samantha said.
‘But you will come again?’ His thin, clever face had bright, squirrel eyes. The greyish hair that grew thickly on the long head had the aspect of a squirrel’s pelt.
‘If we need help with the project,’ Sister Joan said. ‘As I was explaining to your wife the idea is for the children to produce work that can be mounted in a small school exhibition. Nothing very elaborate.’
‘It sounds charming.’ The squirrel eyes moved slowly over her. ‘Doesn’t it sound charming, Julia?’
‘We’ll certainly give Samantha all the encouragement we can,’ his wife said.
‘Fine. Then we won’t detain you any longer.’ Sister Joan turned away slightly from the probing, stripping gaze. ‘Samantha seems to be settling down in school very well.’
Nobody had asked but she thought she might as well throw in the information.
‘Samantha is infinitely adaptable,’ her father said. ‘Aren’t you, darling?’
‘Yes, well – thank you again,’ Sister Joan said, wondering what exactly she was thanking them for. ‘Sister Margaret?’
‘Good evening.’ Sister Margaret, who had stood dumbly, gazing round, came to life again.
‘I’ll see you out.’ Mrs Olive moved, thin and graceful, to the door.
At the back of the hall a long passage stretched past the wide staircase, presumably to the kitchen quarters. Sister Joan, glancing back, saw someone standing there. She caught a glimpse of hair so fair that it looked almost white, a classical profile, a lean, athletic body clad in jeans and sweatshirt. Then Mrs Olive turned her sleek head, saying in a raised voice, ‘In a moment, Jan.’
A side door was opened and closed. The nuns came out to the front step.
‘Au pairs can get so bored in the country when there isn’t anywhere to go,’ Mrs Olive said deprecatingly.
‘But I thought – I assumed that your au pair was a girl,’ Sister Joan said.
‘Oh, Kiki got bored too and left us. Jan was recommended through the same agency so I’m hoping that the same pattern won’t repeat itself,’ Mrs Olive said.
‘Through a local agency?’ Sister Joan asked.
‘One in Bodmin – Foreign Companion Helps – something like that. So far he seems to be settling down, but one can never tell.’
The car that picked up Samantha from school always stopped at some distance. She had never bothered to look closely at who was driving it. Not that it was any of her business if the Olives chose to fill their house with male au pairs. Handsome male au pairs, Sister Joan amended, and rebuked herself for being narrow minded.
‘Next time you must stay longer,’ Julia Olive said. The languidness was back in her voice.
‘It would be most interesting to see something of such an old house,’ Sister Joan agreed.
‘Most of it is in very bad repair,’ Mrs Olive told her. ‘The basement is very damp and the foundations quite unstable. It will require a lot of work on it before it can be put right, I’m afraid. Good evening again, Sisters.’ Without waiting to see them into the car she turned and went back into the house.
‘We shall have to hurry or we’ll be late for chapel,’ Sister Joan said. ‘We’ve missed recreation already.’
‘So we have.’ Sister Margaret gave herself a little shake and got hastily into the car.
‘You were very quiet in there, Sister. Was anything wrong?’ Sister Joan glanced at her companion as the latter started the engine.
‘I was looking at the dirt,’ Sister Margaret said, ‘and wishing that I had a bucket of hot soapy water and a scrubbing brush. Of course one cannot blame the poor lady. It is an enormous house to clean.’
‘It didn’t strike me as particularly dirty,’ Sister Joan said, puzzled. ‘A bit faded and some of the furniture didn’t suit the room too well, but hardly dirty.’
‘Very dirty,’ said Sister Margaret with unusual firmness and gripped the wheel as the engine sprang into life.
Whatever occupied her mind had at least emptied it of the desire to break speed records, Sister Joan reflected, as they rode home at a moderate speed. Her own mind was a ragbag of impressions which she would have to sort out later.
‘I’ll put the car away, Sister. You hurry on into chapel,’ Sister Margaret said as they swept up to the convent.
Chapel, Sister Joan thought, is exactly what I need. This round of visits has muddled me terribly.
She walked briskly to the side door and let herself in, the thought crossing her mind that the habit of leaving the door open was not perhaps a very wise one. Anyone from the laity who wanted to pray in the middle of the night was scarcely likely to come all the way out to the convent in order to gratify their wish. On the other hand a thief or a prowler could easily get in. It might do no harm to have a quiet word with Mother Dorothy on the subject.
‘Oh, there you are, Sister! Did you have a pleasant evening? Pleasanter than mine, I’m sure.’
Sister David, snub nose twitching violently as was her habit when agitated, met her at the door of the chapel.
‘Is something wrong, Sister?’
‘The holy water in the stoup has all dried up,’ Sister David said plaintively. ‘It is always refilled on Wednesdays as you know and now there isn’t a drop left. I can’t for the life of me understand it. I checked the stoup for cracks but there aren’t any, and in any case the floor would have been wet had it leaked. It looks as if someone
actually drank it all up and that’s too ridiculous to contemplate.’
‘What have you done about it?’
‘Fortunately there is sufficient for the blessing and tomorrow morning we must ask Sister Margaret to take the water cans over to Father Malone so that he can bless them as soon as they’re filled. I did suggest to Mother that we telephone and ask Father to come here for the blessing, but she said we couldn’t expect him to come rushing backwards and forwards when we were the ones who had been careless – but I am certain that I was not careless, Sister. The stoup was full otherwise I would naturally have asked Father to bless the next batch of water after he had heard confessions this afternoon.’
Little Sister David sounded near to tears.
‘I’m sure it will be sorted out‚’ Sister Joan said warmly, wishing she was as sure as she sounded, and went on into the chapel, sliding to her knees with a sense of relief.
Prayers and the nightly blessing that immediately preceded the grand silence were effective barriers against discussing the matter further that night. She put the other questions firmly into the storage cupboard at the back of her mind and concentrated on her Maker.
Morning brought a light shower of rain that was refreshing to the spirits even though it meant she would have to don the unwieldy gaberdine over her habit to protect herself against a wetting. When she went out to the back to saddle up Lilith she bumped into Sister Margaret who looked less than her normal cheerful self.
‘Mother Dorothy has told me to go to the presbytery with the water cans so that Father can bless a new batch of holy water‚’ she said. ‘It seems there isn’t any left, which seems quite extraordinary to me. I do so dislike driving in the rain. Lampposts are apt to leap up at one, you know, and the car skids on the wet track.’
‘Wait until it clears up. It is only a light shower‚’ Sister Joan suggested.
‘One hopes so, which is a very ungrateful thing to say‚’ the other replied, ‘seeing that without rain the flowers wouldn’t grow. But it is terribly bad for poor Sister Mary Concepta’s rheumatism, and the worst of it is that she never complains. I can feel every twinge of her pain in my own joints – oh, what a grumbler I sound today! You must forgive me, Sister. This is poor thanks for the delightful visits we have paid.’
‘You probably got out of bed the wrong side this morning. I know that I did.’
‘I’m sure you’re right. Gadding about isn’t conducive to a quiet mind, is it? Well, as I have to drive into town at least I can get some more of Sister Mary Concepta’s embrocation at the same time. Have a pleasant day, Sister.’
Something, thought Sister Joan, saddling the horse and mounting up, had ruffled the clear stream of the lay sister’s spirits. Surely not the weather or the unaccustomed visiting? Perhaps the evil that William Holt had so startlingly mentioned had reached out to affect even Sister’s tranquil spirit. She wished that her former prioress were here. Mother Agnes with her El Greco profile, her air of timeless aristocracy, had understood subtleties, half-formed fears, uncertainties in a way that the brisk Mother Dorothy could not. For the latter there were no greys, no shadows, only plain black and white. She was perfect when it was a matter of dealing with would be saints in the postulancy or a nun uncertain of a particular aspect of the rule, but she couldn’t deal with spiritual cobwebs.
Once riding across the moor her spirits lifted even though the rain was becoming heavier. The air up here was clean and sharp and heathery and the faint pain that had been gripping her temples when she awoke was lifted. This morning there would probably be absentees. Contrary to popular belief the Romanies hated rain, huddling like cats in their wagons when it was wet. For the children who did turn up she would light the old-fashioned oil stove in the corner of the classroom and brew up hot soup.
As she had expected none of the Romanies were there. The Penglows were, clad in identical mackintoshes and sou’westers and conscientiously scraping their shoes on the iron mat outside the door; Billy Wesley arrived in the pick-up with Mr Holt and Timothy; the car dropped Samantha closer to the school than usual and sped off, the beautiful young man at the wheel. Considering the weather fifty percent attendance was excellent.
Having only half the school present also meant they could pull their chairs into a semicircle around the glowing stove while she abandoned the formal curriculum in favour of story-telling, first relating the Hans Christian Anderson story of the Ugly Duckling and then inviting the children to make their own contributions.
‘I know Cinderella,’ Madelyn volunteered, after some prompting from her brother.
‘Fine. You tell it then.’ Sister Joan frowned at Billy Wesley who had audibly groaned and rolled his eyes up to heaven.
Madelyn, with David supplying at least half the narrative, launched into a long and meticulous and infinitely boring retelling of the old tale. Sister Joan allowed her mind to wander.
Someone – and she doubted if it was one of the nuns unless someone was quietly going mad without anybody else noticing – someone was helping themselves fairly liberally to candles, flowers and holy water from the chapel. All those things were readily available elsewhere, but would not of course be blessed. Someone needed candles, flowers and water that had been blessed. Why?
The big crucifix had been removed from the altar and put back again within a few minutes. She cast her mind back to the sequence of events. She had gone to the chapel and found the altar bare save of candlesticks. She had hurried into the hall and stood there, debating with herself whether or not to interrupt Mother Dorothy’s session with the postulants. Then she had returned to the chapel and seen the crucifix back in its place. Either the thief had found it was too heavy to steal or – or the thief hadn’t been a thief at all, merely someone who had wanted her to notice the crucifix was missing.
In that case they must have been hiding nearby. The confessional. That box with its closed door, its secret darkness where sins were whispered into Father Malone’s ear every Wednesday afternoon – that would have held person and crucifix. She hadn’t stopped to search.
‘And they lived happy after ever,’ Madelyn said.
‘Thank you, Madelyn. That was very nice,’ Sister Joan said, pulling her mind back. ‘Now who is going to be next? She smiled round expectantly.
The others looked at one another.
‘I know about Robin Hood,’ Billy said unexpectedly.
‘Good. You tell us the story about him then.’
‘He lived in Sherwood Forest and he took things from the poor – no, that’s wrong. He took things from the rich and give ’em to the poor and everybody loved him very much, except the Sheriff of Nottingham but he went out and stuck a sword through the Sheriff of Nottingham and then pricked him all over with arrows and then cut off his head,’ Billy said with relish.
‘That’s a horrid story, isn’t it, Sister?’ Samantha said primly.
‘No, it’s jolly good,’ Timothy began and stopped dead, uncertainty in his face. After a moment he said lamely, ‘I guess it is horrid too, more horrid than good.’
‘Do you know a story, Samantha?’ Sister Joan asked.
‘There was once a lady and a gentleman and they got married and had a little baby girl and lived in a very nice house and lived happily afterwards until they were all a hundred years old and then they all went straight to Heaven,’ Samantha said.
‘What happened to them before they went to Heaven?’ Billy enquired.
‘Nothing,’ said Samantha serenely. ‘Nothing ever happened to them at all.’
‘Wasn’t that a bit dull for them?’ Sister Joan asked cautiously.
‘Oh, no, Sister, it was just lovely!’ The child’s green eyes blazed suddenly, lighting up the plain, pale little face. ‘It was just lovely.’
‘I think that was a very nice story,’ Madelyn said.
‘Yes, but –’ Sister Joan broke off at the sound of an approaching lorry. ‘Excuse me for a few moments, children. I think the others may have arrived.’
/>
When she went out to the front, however, where the drizzling rain had lessened to a wet mist hanging on the air, only Padraic Lee alighted, jumping down from the driver’s seat and squelching towards her through the wet grass.
‘Good morning, Sister. Sorry to interrupt but I was wondering if Petroc had turned up at school,’ he greeted her.
‘None of the Romany children are here. You should know since you drive them.’
‘It was raining.’ He gave her a reproachful look.
‘The children won’t melt in the rain,’ she said irritably, aware of a nasty, sinking feeling at the pit of her stomach. ‘And Petroc isn’t here.’
‘Then I reckon he’s nipped off to try and see his dad,’ Padraic said. ‘Funny though, not to leave word with someone. He knows that I’d try to argue him out of it but I’d never stop him if he’d fixed his mind.’
‘Mr Lee, your nephew is twelve years old,’ she reminded him. ‘He’s a child. You can’t let children do whatever they fix their minds on.’
‘Petroc’s a sensible lad,’ his uncle argued. ‘I didn’t take much note last night when I went by his wagon and he wasn’t there. I figured he’d gone off to do a bit of –’
‘Poaching,’ Sister Joan said severely.
‘Nature watching,’ he substituted with a grin. ‘Anyways this morning seeing it was wet and all was peaceful-like, I figured we’d sleep in and I let him be, but then I minded myself that I’d some scrap to pick up in Bodmin so I went over to see if he’d a fancy to come and he wasn’t there. Bunk not slept in. So I wondered if he’d hightailed it over to school.’
‘None of your children came this morning,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Mr Lee, if Petroc is missing shouldn’t you get the police?’
It was, of course, entirely the wrong suggestion. She knew it even before his face closed against the idea of authority and he said defensively, ‘No need to bring the law in on this, Sister. Before you know it we’ll have them social workers down about our necks like fleas. My good lady would be very upset about that.’
Vow of Chastity Page 7
