by Robin Jarvis
Unfortunately, Frances' visits to the wards had been rather too frequent and rather too long. The recovery of the patients had been hindered by her over-zealous desire to help. Finally, when a man who had only been admitted with an ingrowing toe-nail had to be treated for three fractured ribs, a broken arm and aggravated stress, enough was considered to be enough.
Everything the nun ever did stemmed solely from her willingness to give aid where she thought it was needed. Yet, in spite of her intrepid endeavours, she never accomplished anything and blustered through life oblivious to the mayhem that erupted around her.
Even that fateful banishment from the wards failed to dampen her lively spirits. Seizing this God-given opportunity she had taken it upon herself to visit those in need of her special skills in their own homes.
However, it seemed the only beneficiaries of her new devotions were likely to be the owners of Whitby's china and crockery shops. As Sister Frances invariably outstayed her welcome, when she finally departed the helpless invalids she left behind felt worse than before her arrival. So exasperated were these victims of her eager bounty that they hurled whatever came to hand at the door through which she had recently departed. Hence many vases and tea cups were smashed to pieces and needed to be replaced.
That morning, with the rain running down her long straight nose and plopping in large droplets on to her chin, she was ready for anything that God might throw at her, and breathing in the clean sea air rejoiced in all He had created.
As she made her ungraceful way into Church Street, Sister Frances gave her ungainly salute to everyone she knew. But for some reason, the owners of those familiar faces broke into furtive trots when they saw her and rushed by with only the briefest of exchanges. The nun waved after them but evidently the rain was too severe or their hats too tight over their ears and they did not hear her.
With large, irregular strides she passed The Whitby Bookshop, whose proprietors hastily immersed themselves in the stock-taking which they had been putting off for weeks.
Frances stared in at them. Madeleine, the willowy woman with strawberry-blonde hair, was desperately trying not to notice her, and Michael her partner had deviously hidden behind one of the bookshelves.
The nun rapped teasingly on the window and in her overgrown schoolgirl voice called, "That's it! Nose to the grindstone!"
"Go away!" Michael droned. "If she comes in you deal with her—I'll have to go and lie down."
"Don't you dare leave me to cope on my own!" Madeleine hissed through teeth which were still smiling at Frances' grinning face. "Last time she tried to reorganise the local interest section. No, it's safe—she's gone."
"Thank God," he muttered, shuffling cautiously into view. "You know, we should really take that offer on the shop. We could always open up in Scarborough."
Madeleine chewed her lip thoughtfully. "So long as we don't tell her where we've gone to," she said at length, "I agree."
As Sister Frances walked, her oddly-shaped head pushed and pecked at the air as if to counter-balance her unusual gait and in her black habit she resembled an ostrich at a funeral. Her unfaltering progress was checked only when she attempted to enter one of the small alleyways, for she had forgotten the width of her umbrella and the instrument became well and truly stuck.
"Simply too dippy of me," she laughingly chided herself. The nun heaved at the wooden handle and the spokes of the umbrella scratched and squealed over the bricks with a nerve-fraying shrillness.
"Gracious!" she exclaimed, yanking the now broken contraption free. "Clumsy old thing I am. Whatever will Sister Clare think—her favourite brolly!"
Giving the damaged article one futile waggle just to make certain it was beyond repair, Sister Frances thrust it under her arm then marched up to one of the cottages and pressed the bell.
With a honk of mirth, she playfully pressed it again, then kept her finger jammed firmly on the button.
The front door was flung open and a jangled Edith Wethers peeped crossly out at her.
"Couldn't resist," the nun explained. "Well, it's another Thursday and here I am—how's the poorly patient?"
"Not herself, I'm afraid," Miss Wethers informed her, taking the disfigured umbrella from the nun as she bounced inside. "Got a trifle overwrought the other day. I had to call the doctor."
Sister Frances' face assumed its startled, yet sympathetic expression. "How rotten!" she puffed glumly. "I would have come yesterday had I known."
"Well you're here now," Edith said quickly, "that's the main thing. You'd best go and sit with her—Alice has been acting most oddly since her fall and keeps poring over a fusty old book which I've a good mind to throw in the dustbin."
"Don't you worry," the nun assured her, "I'll bring the colour back to her cheeks."
"I'm sure you will," Miss Wethers whispered to herself as she opened the door of the sickroom.
Mr Gregson, the next-door neighbour, had already been in to carry Miss Boston from the bed and place her in the armchair with a blanket covering her lap and tucked in below her knees.
Usually the old lady would sit there, lamenting her condition, and wait for the hours to roll slowly by. Not so today—Alice Boston was busier than she had been for months.
During the past week she had marvelled at the Book of Shadows, and the tantalising things she had read there inspired and filled her heart with hope. She had never guessed that Patricia Gunning had been such an adept; the book was crammed with ancient charms, incantations, favourite pieces of mystical poetry and page after page of secret knowledge.
Unfortunately Miss Boston had only managed to read brief extracts from the volume, for Edith Wethers was continually interrupting her. Sometimes the book would be whisked from her lap and a cup of tepid milk plied to her lips. One of the most infuriating acts of sabotage practised by the Wethers enemy was to switch off the bedside lamp without warning. This nauseating act had left the invalid in the dark on two occasions now and it was driving her to despair.
Yet Miss Boston had read just enough to learn by heart an obscure rhyming chant and had lain awake the whole of the previous night, speaking those esoteric words in her thoughts.
Over and over in her mind she repeated the spell, concentrating with all her strength upon the mysterious little verse and calling on whatever powers were still left to her.
Thus engrossed, she failed to see Sister Frances advance through the courtyard and did not hear the conversation in the hall.
"There you are!" the nun suddenly yahooed. "Who's been a naughty old girl then? I hear you tried to go walkabout—that'll never do, will it?"
Sister Frances peeped closely at the frail figure in the chair. "I say," she addressed Miss Wethers, "I believe she's dropped off. Shall I be as quiet as a wee mousie and tippy-toe to the other chair until she wakes?"
Edith scrutinised her sick friend with critical eyes.
"She's not asleep," she commented, "just pretending. Mother used to do that too."
"Well then!" exclaimed the nun. "We can't have that, can we? I've brought my Jolly Cheer Up Bag especially to buck the poorly patient out of those dreary doldrums."
Miss Boston continued to show no sign that she was aware of them. Her eyes were tightly closed and in the map of wrinkles that was her face, it was difficult to say exactly where they should be.
Edith took her overcoat from the stand and smartly slipped it on. "Most aggravating," she commented. "Been like that all morning. You've no call to be stubborn, Alice! Doctor Adams won't be pleased, will he?"
Fishing a plastic rainhood from her pocket, she tied it neatly over the grey haystack of her hair and said to the nun, "Just popping to the shops; won't be long."
"You shop away!" Sister Frances told her. "We'll have such a spiffy time, won't we, Miss B?"
Edith gave the old lady one final, dithering look then flitted out of the door.
Sister Frances laced her fingers together and paced towards Miss Boston.
"Come, come," s
he called, stooping over the armchair. "Time to open those eyes. There's sleep enough in the grave, as my dear Papa used to say."
Miss Boston did not stir so the nun put out a hand and patted her on the head.
At once the eyes snapped open and Miss Boston's concentration was completely shattered.
"Oh what a grumpy face!" laughed Sister Frances, sitting upon the other chair. "I can see I've got my work cut out for me this morning."
Indignant and furious, Miss Boston scowled but the expression faded when she saw the nun reach for her large bag and the old lady groaned inwardly.
"Now then," declared Sister Frances brightly and pronouncing each word with an exaggerated movement of her mouth as if Miss Boston was deaf and reading her lips, "what lovely things can we do today? Shall I peep inside the Jolly Cheer Up Bag and see what rays of sunshine we can find? Here I go then."
As this was not the first time Miss Boston had been visited by the nun, the old lady knew exactly what rays of sunshine the wretched bag contained and loathed each and every one of them.
Out came the home-made glove puppets that were not exclusively reserved for entertaining sick children. But thankfully the stitching in one of the heads had started to unravel and disgorge cotton wool everywhere so the nun put them to one side. Then appeared a game of Tiddlywinks, but one glance at Miss Boston's arthritic hands made Sister Frances think twice and go rooting for something else.
"Here we are!" she announced, flourishing a large cardboard box held together by rubber bands. "A lovely jigsaw. Wouldn't that be nice! I'll get a tray and pull my chair next to yours then you can watch me fit the pieces—what fun! Such a divine piccy of ducklings on a pond with a dainty bridge spanning..."
Sister Frances looked at the poorly patient and faltered. The old lady's countenance was so terrible that it quelled that idea—but not Sister Frances' unbridled enthusiasm.
"If you don't feel up to the quacky little ducklings," she rallied, "how about some nice soothing music?" In one bound she reached for Miss Boston's radio and eagerly turned the switch.
A sudden blast of painfully loud wailing screeched through the room. The windows rattled in their panes and the ornaments upon the shelves jumped and shook until a small green bottle toppled on to the floor and spilled its contents of dried leaves everywhere.
With her ear drums pounding, Miss Boston gritted her teeth and shook with rage.
Giggling, Sister Frances revelled in the clamour as she fumbled for the volume control. "What a fine voice that young gentleman has!" she shouted above the din. "But it is rather modern, isn't it? Shall I try for another station?"
Blithely, she twiddled the dial and the room settled back into silence.
"Ooh, how simply marvellous!" she gushed when voices began to filter through the ether. "A play—smashing! We can sit back and listen to it. Won't that be pleasant, Miss B?"
Smoothing out the creases in her habit, she sat down once more and turned an attentive ear to the drama.
Miss Boston closed her eyes to try and blot out the whole thing and concentrated on her thoughts.
With a charmed smile, Sister Frances let the play unfold around her.
"I can't go on, Ricky! I just can't!"
"Shut your mouth and do as you're told!"
"What you're asking me to do is murder!"
"Listen, you little tart! If it weren't for me you'd still be on the streets. If you haven't got the guts for the job I can always get someone else! Nobodies like you are cheap to come by! The gutter's full of them."
"You're a swine, Ricky! Why don't you just go to Hell?"
The smile dwindled from the nun's face. "Gosh," she muttered a trifle uneasily.
"You'd miss me then, wouldn't you?"
"Never!"
"Not what you said last night, honey!"
"I was drunk!"
"Not too drunk you weren't—come here."
"No!"
"Come here!"
"Stop it—let me go."
The voices were replaced by heavy breathing as the actors on the radio kissed and Sister Frances cleared her throat then gazed absently about the room.
"Love me, love me!"
"I need you—you need me!"
"I'll do anything for you, I promise."
"Oh Sandra!"
"Oh Ricky!"
"Oh dear!" Sister Frances squealed as she raced over to switch the embarrassing machine off before the drama went any further. "Not very suitable for a day of carefree jollity, was it?" she stated, a little pink in the cheeks. "I know what you're thinking—what can we do now? Never fear, there are more jolly sunbeams in my bag."
Out came a magazine. It was one of those dreary publications full of recipes, helpful hints, problems and short stories which always find their way into dentists' waiting rooms.
"Can you guess what I'm going to do?" she piped up. "That's right, I'll read it to you. Just relax and enjoy."
Miss Boston opened her eyes, mortified by the unrelenting torments of her visitor. As the nun turned the first page, after reading aloud the title of the magazine and what delights lay in store—she felt that truly she could bear no more.
Quivering with impotent fury, Miss Boston's hands clenched into fists and her face turned purple.
"How I grouted my kitchen tiles in one afternoon" the dreadful creature read with a light-hearted lilt in her voice.
The dastardly monologue continued and Miss Boston could feel the blood vessels thump and pound in her forehead.
"'Dear Norma—I have an unsightly blemish on my chin which is most upsetting. I am very conscious of it at social events and have taken to wrapping a scarf around my face when I go out. Can you help me? Spring is coming and I shan't be able to wear the scarf in warmer weather.' "
Miss Boston shook all over and her one good hand gripped the chair arm so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Her breath snorted down her nostrils like that of a horse and she opened her mouth to scream.
"'Three mouth-watering ways to use red cabbage—inflame your salads and make others green with envy..."
That was it. In a voice that had not been heard for three whole months and with a trumpeting shout so loud that the windows trembled a second time—Miss Boston roared.
"GET OUT!" she yelled. "GET OUT OF MY SIGHT, YOU STUPID IMBECILE!"
Sister Frances dropped the magazine and stared incredulously at the old lady.
"You... you spoke!" she exclaimed, "Oh! How fabulous!"
***
That afternoon, when the children returned from school they were disappointed to find Sister Frances still at the cottage and even more dismayed to hear that Doctor Adams was once again examining Aunt Alice.
"Has she fallen again?" Jennet asked fearfully.
They were gathered in the small kitchen. Miss Wethers was trying to arrange some biscuits on a plate for the doctor but she was in such a fretful state that they kept breaking in her twitching hands. She was too busy to answer so Jennet directed her question to the nun instead.
Sitting upon a stool, with her long legs stretched out in everybody’s way Frances breathed a great sigh. "It really is miraculous!" she informed the children. "I feel so honoured that I was the one to witness such a momentous event."
Jennet looked across at her brother. They had not spoken since the girl's angry outburst and though she regretted it, Ben was not prepared to forgive her yet. Ignoring his sister, he screwed up his face and regarded the nun with annoyance.
"But what has happened?" he asked.
Sister Frances put a finger on her lips and signalled for them to listen.
The sound of Doctor Adams's voice floated from the sickroom.
"Well, Miss Boston," he said in a resigned sort of way, "I'm afraid there's no explanation for it. None whatsoever."
Ben held his breath. Whatever it was it sounded extremely serious. Perhaps the old lady had had a relapse, and he glanced worriedly up at Miss Wethers.
"There now," the woman soothed
when she saw his concerned face, "have a bourbon. There's nothing to..."
Before she could finish, to both Ben's and Jennet's amazement and disbelief, they heard Aunt Alice's answering retort to the doctor.
"Of course you have no explanation!" she cried. "I always thought you were a quack, Adams—now I know for certain! Don't you think you should step aside and let a younger fellow take over? Well overdue for retirement you are."
Ben forgot that he was not speaking to Jennet and pushed her aside as he ran from the kitchen. "It's Aunt Alice!" he shouted. "She can talk again!"
In the sickroom Doctor Adams was preparing to flee from the vicinity of the restored voice when the boy burst through the door and rushed at Miss Boston.
"Benjamin, dearest!" she laughed, and the sound was wonderful to hear. "Oh my, what a commotion! It's nothing to get excited about. I was just telling Incompetent Adams here that from now on there is nothing to worry about. Ho—look at him, he's completely foxed! Hasn't a clue how I managed it."
Jennet entered the room just in time to see the doctor shift his weight from one foot to the other and hold his medical bag before him. He looked decidedly uncomfortable and felt as though he was back at school in the headmistress's office. Miss Boston's tongue was just as disconcerting as it had always been.
"It seems all I can do is congratulate you," he said with a nervous cough. "If you recall, I did say that you might one day speak again—only not so quickly as this."
"Pooh!" scorned Aunt Alice. "You'd given me up totally—another month or so and it would have been some home or other, to be sure. Well, you can take all your charlatan paraphernalia out of here and do whatever you like with it. I have no further need of your services, thank you very much."
The doctor knew it was hopeless to argue with the old battleaxe so he mumbled his farewells and hurried to the door, bumped into Jennet on the way, then was caught by Edith who pounced on him as he passed the kitchen.
"You're not going?" she simpered, bearing her tray of broken biscuits. "I was going to make a nice pot of tea."
"Not today," he snapped.
Edith's tissue dabbed her nose. "Next time then," she whimpered hopefully.
