by Marele Day
‘My grandmother was called to God many years ago. But she left money behind.’
‘Where?’ asked Margarita, imagining it was in a jar or a sock. How had Iphigenia come across it, was it somewhere in the monastery?
‘With her solicitor.’
‘Solicitor?’
The more Iphigenia said the less her sisters seemed to understand. She stopped. Took some breaths. She was going too fast. How could they be expected to understand straightaway? They knew nothing about the phone calls to Mr Colquhoun, nothing about the Trust letter.
She gathered it all together and tried as best she could to tell the story. It seemed to take ages because every time she explained one thing ten other things sprang up that needed explaining as well. But eventually she finished. ‘And we can stay here and nobody can make us move, not even the Pope himself.’
Carla was amazed. All of this had been accomplished through black and squarish. Carla watched as Iphigenia produced the phone. Here it was, after all this time. Carla crept her hand around it. She pushed up the aerial and prodded the buttons. She knew just how to do it. ‘Hello, hello?’ But she heard nothing. ‘Seven buttons,’ said Iphigenia.
Ring, ring. Ring, ring. What a sound it made, like a thrush in the apple trees calling to its mate.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello? Hello?’ she chirruped.
‘Who is this?’ It was a gruff, grumpy voice.
‘Hello? Hello?’
Then the voice stopped and was replaced by an unpleasant noise similar to the one the car had made.
‘Hello? Hello?’
But the voice had gone. Carla was disappointed with the voice from the world. She hadn’t expected such gruff grumpiness. Still, she wasn’t going to let that spoil her good mood. She was part of a secret, she and Iphigenia and Margarita. She put a finger up to her lips and looked in the direction of the priest’s room. ‘Secret, eh Iphigenia?’
‘Yes,’ smiled Iphigenia, ‘we mustn’t tell.’
‘What will become of him?’ asked Margarita.
He was to be their guest till they heard from Mr Colquhoun that the sale has been transacted. ‘Then we let him go.’
A splendid idea, thought Margarita.
They took up their ancient rhythm. The Blessed Virgin, St Anne and the stained-glass saints enjoyed the company of the nuns, the vibration of their voices and their holy words seven times the next day and the next. But although observation of the canonical hours returned life at the monastery to its eternal circularity, there was a meteor on a trajectory heading straight for it.
‘Do you have news, Mr Colquhoun?’
‘I have made a phone call. Rather curious in fact.’
‘Curious?’ What could be curious?
‘They asked where I had heard of the sale. It seems it has not yet been advertised. Considering your desire for anonymity, I could hardly give you as the source.’ Iphigenia started to get a tingling warning knot in her chest. ‘I simply said that I had received an expression of interest in the property. And then I was told a rather curious tale. About a priest, the Bishop’s secretary actually, who had set out to examine this property and never returned. Did you receive a visit from this priest?’ The knot in Iphigenia’s chest grew tighter and tighter. She tried to calm herself by remembering that in the book they said the disadvantage of the telephone was that you couldn’t see the person’s ‘body language’. It was an advantage now. She was extremely grateful at that point that Mr Colquhoun could not see her. ‘Hello. Sister, are you there?’ She must have made some sort of noise because he continued. ‘They viewed my enquiry with a certain amount of suspicion. Banks, Colquhoun and Andrews is a highly respected firm of solicitors, of long, longstanding. Never in all its history has even the slightest shadow of doubt been cast on any of its dealings. If I am to represent you, Sister, you must be perfectly frank with me.’
‘Of course, Mr Colquhoun.’
‘I am informed that the Bishop wishes to rationalise the Church’s assets but needs his secretary’s assessment before sale can proceed on this property. They sent out a search party for the priest but found no trace of him. But in view of my enquiry they are considering mounting the search afresh. If you have had any contact with this person, or any information pertaining to this matter, I believe it is in everyone’s interest that you let me know.’
Iphigenia found herself gaping like a fish. ‘Of course, Mr Colquhoun.’ She briskly terminated the call.
She went to lie down in her cell, leaving the phone on the courtyard table in case it still had some residual power and could convey a message to Mr Colquhoun. Her heart was beating fast and she could smell her sweat, a gingery odour.
She lay on the bed, breathing in and out, her hands crossed over her heart, willing it to calm. After all that had happened, after the fire, the breaking apart of the community and its coming together again, the knitting together of its bones, her announcement to her sisters that they would buy the monastery and everything would be all right. Now this. The balance of life seemed very fragile indeed if it could be upset so easily.
They would not be able to hold the priest till the sale was assured. A second search party would be more thorough. They would land, they would look. The community couldn’t hide forever. And they couldn’t hide him forever. The priest who had disappeared would have to reappear.
She rested on the bed, watching the sky. It would be Sext soon. She would discuss the matter with her sisters and together they would concoct a plan.
She came to Ignatius’ room carrying bread, cheese and apple chutney.
‘Are you enjoying your stay with us?’ she asked.
To tell the truth, right now he was feeling a bit miffed. They left him alone in his room for long periods while they all sat in the courtyard enjoying each other’s company and doing their chores. He was the priest who had celebrated Easter for them, yet now they treated him like a child, a pet, carrying him back in here for an afternoon nap, as if he wasn’t capable of staying awake all day. But it was better than before. ‘It has been … interesting.’
His response seemed to please her. She gave him the plate of food. He dipped the cheese in the chutney, put it on the hunk of bread and scoffed it down. Enjoy, no. But at least he was being fed.
The knitting that had been suspended resumed in earnest and once again the priest was back in the role of storyteller.
‘Gingerbread Man!’ shouted Carla. They had finished the last man off at dinner and it was fresh in her memory. She could still taste him. ‘Run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me I’m the gingerbread man,’ Carla gurgled to remind him.
Yes, yes, he remembered the refrain but how did the story start? He was being chased by … a farmer’s wife?
‘Once upon a time there was a gingerbread man who was being chased …’
‘No, no, no,’ roared Carla. How could he get it so wrong? ‘Once upon a time Sister Cook baked a batch of gingerbread men.’ Having started him off, Carla settled into the knitting, a happy smile on her face.
‘Yes, right,’ said Ignatius. ‘When it came time to take them out, she opened the oven door and one of them leapt out and ran from the kitchen. “You can’t catch me I’m the gingerbread man,” he shouted back to her. He knocked over a pot of beans, on his way …’
‘Bucket of water,’ corrected Carla.
He glared at her. ‘Perhaps you would like to tell the story?’
He was looking cross. It was wrong to interrupt. She put her head down and concentrated on the knitting.
‘He knocked over a bucket of water,’ he said emphatically, ‘and ran out of the kitchen. Then he came across a sheep. He ran up and butted into the sheep’s back legs. The sheep was very annoyed at this interruption to her grass eating and started to chase him. “Run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me I’m the gingerbread man.” Now he had the farmer’s wife, sorry, Sister Cook, and the sheep after him. He ran over the fields and down the hill, leading the
m a merry chase. Halfway down the hill he met a rabbit. “What a silly tail,” he said to the rabbit and off he went. The rabbit ran after him. He came to a body of water, big and wide. He could not go in the water because he would go all soggy.
‘Just then a wily fox appeared. “Quickly, gingerbread man, hop on my back and I will take you across the water.” The gingerbread man looked around. His pursuers were very close. He hopped onto the fox’s back.
‘Halfway across the water the gingerbread man had forgotten all about the danger and boldly picked up his old refrain, “Run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me I’m the gingerbread man.”
‘“What’s that you say, gingerbread man? I can’t hear you. Creep closer.” The gingerbread man crept higher up the fox’s back and repeated it.
‘“What’s that you say, gingerbread man? Creep closer to my ear so that I can hear you.” The gingerbread man crept up even closer to the fox’s pointy ears.
‘“Run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me I’m the gingerbread man.” But still the fox seemed not to hear. Silly old deaf fox. Now the gingerbread man got up so close he could see right inside the fox’s ear. “Run, run as fast as you can,” he shouted into that strange labyrinth of curls and folds, “you can’t catch me I’m the gingerbread ma—” The fox snapped his jaws and the gingerbread man disappeared in one gulp. And that was the end of the gingerbread man.’ Ignatius settled back.
But they seemed to be waiting for more. ‘And …’ Carla encouraged him.
‘And …’ he tried to think of something, ‘and the fox got to the other shore and lived happily ever after?’
‘No, no, no,’ said Carla in the voice she used to admonish the hedgehog. ‘After eating the gingerbread man, the fox came back. Because he remembered the sheep. And where there are sheep there are lambs. He quietly followed the sheep and Sister Cook back up the hill, and waited till night. He ravaged a lamb and left a scene of sheer carnage. So the nuns had to kill the fox. Then all the Agnes sisters lived happily ever after.’ She smiled merrily at him. They put their knitting down and sighed. A story well told.
They had done a lot of work to his nice, fast rhythm. They brought the knitting over and held it up against him. It was getting quite long. ‘Robing Day soon,’ they announced.
They carried him back to his bed. Though his legs were still encased his new hands had remained unbound. Still, the candle was not replaced and he thought it was probably better not to ask for another one. He put his hands behind his head. Robing Day soon. Legs. And then he would go.
The darkness thickened and he knew Iphigenia had entered. It had been some time since she had paid a nocturnal visit.
‘So much to do to turn this into a resort,’ she said.
He shifted slightly. He said nothing but he had heard.
‘Cut back the brambles. Mark out the path. Swimming pool. Golf course.’
She had hardly touched the surface. There was a lot to do but it would be worth it. The location was too good to be true. Playground of the rich and famous.
‘And then there is us. We could become difficult. “Church turns three elderly nuns out of their home”,’ she quoted imaginary headlines. Mr Colquhoun had given her the idea about the newspapers.
Ignatius had imagined similar headlines but he wished she hadn’t brought it up.
‘We have been making enquiries. You have come here to assess the property. There is no committed buyer for it.’ He felt annoyed. It was none of her business. It was his project, he was in charge. ‘This is true, is it not, Father Ignatius?’ He felt his face flush in the dark. It was true, damn it, but how did she find out? Had she actually phoned the Bishop and spun him some story? Worse, had the Bishop actually listened to her! He noticed that for the first time she had addressed him as Father Ignatius. But rather than showing respect, it somehow seemed to erode his authority even further. He felt as if she’d caught him playing with himself.
Uninvited, she plopped herself down on his bed. He had to steady himself with his hand to stop rolling in her direction. ‘Not very talkative this evening, are we?’ She leant over and picked a bit of lint off his arm, tucked the blanket around him. Good grief! ‘A story?’
He opened his mouth, his response to the request almost automatic. But no, it was Iphigenia who was going to tell him a story.
‘Once upon a time there were three sisters who lived in a big house high on a hill. The seasons turned, they prayed to God, tended their sheep, and knitted their wool. One day a visitor arrived. Visitors had not come for many years and they were quite surprised. Nevertheless, they welcomed him as an honoured guest.
‘When he had eaten of their meat and drunk of their wine, he announced that the house was being sold and they would have to leave. Leave? It was preposterous.
‘“Cut out his heart and bury him in the forest.” “Fatten him up and eat him.” But none of these things seemed quite right. He tried to trick them and run away. He hurt himself, they brought him back and attended to his wounds. They tethered him to quieten his savage spirit. They prayed and prayed.
‘And by and by one of the sisters remembered that her fairy grandmother had a helper. All they had to do was call him. But this was not an easy thing. Although their voices reached God, they did not reach as far as Grandmother’s helper. But there was a way. Something the visitor had brought from his world. They learnt its magic, put their voice into it and this time the fairy grandmother’s helper heard them.
This helper was a very, very good elf and the fairy grandmother was a very, very wise woman. She had left a pot of gold in the elf’s care. He was to mind the gold until such time as it was needed. And now was the time. The solution was plain as the nose on your face. If the house was for sale then it must be bought. And the sisters would be the ones to buy it!’
Iphigenia walked to the window and looked into the night. The Easter moon was waning, almost half of it in shadow now. She turned to face him. ‘This is the happy ending for the sisters but the man is in the story too. What is the happy ending for the man?’
He waited, expecting her to reveal it.
But it was Iphigenia who was waiting.
‘They give the man a new set of clothes and send him on his way?’
‘A good idea, but there is still a loose end. Does the man recommend the monastery become a playground for the rich?’
‘No,’ he murmured.
‘Pardon? I didn’t hear you.’
He sighed and said it louder.
‘But ah,’ said Iphigenia, pointing her finger in the air, ‘that will never do. Because the man will have failed in his mission. And so his ending is not happy. How can he accomplish his mission so that the ending is happy for everyone?’
It was late, he wasn’t in the mood for riddle solving. He was not Oedipus, even if Iphigenia thought she was the Sphinx. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. He wishes she would leave now, he just wants to go to sleep.
‘It may not be an answer you can think of immediately, yet there is a way. Just as the sisters’ solution was in the story all the time, so is the man’s. I will give you until tomorrow morning.’ And with that she disappeared.
He was overtired, he could not sleep. She had gone but she had left behind a conundrum. He could almost see it sitting there in the room, a lump with glowing eyes. If he didn’t think of something it would grow out of control. What had she said? Help from an unexpected source. Where was his unexpected help going to come from? The solid stone walls remained mute. When he looked out the window the moon hid behind a cloud.
Although Ignatius recognised familiar patterns in the story it had not soothed him. Perhaps it was the way she told it. Ignatius reflected that though she had become more and more voluble, this was the first time he had heard Iphigenia tell a story.
The loose end dangled in front of him. He adjusted his position. Was she honestly trying to tell him they had money stashed away, enough to buy the monastery? It was all bluff. This farce had go
ne on long enough. He was well within his rights to have them all charged. Despite the détente that Easter had brought he had not lost sight of the fact that they were keeping him here against his will. He was the prisoner, but they were the ones that needed locking up.
But he wouldn’t be laying charges. He wouldn’t be telling anyone that three old nuns had managed to keep him prisoner all this time.
He had till morning. Then what? Was she going to have him put to death, like the sultan and Scheherazade? That is what Ignatius had become, a Scheherazade entertaining them nightly. And also, like Scheherazade, trying to stay alive, to keep his audience in his thrall.
She was giving him the chance for his own happy ending. He went over the story bit by bit. By morning, when Iphigenia appeared, he hadn’t slept a wink and he didn’t have a solution. ‘I don’t know,’ he cried.
She didn’t seem to mind at all. ‘It’s simple,’ she beamed.
It was simple. Simple, outlandish, impossible, absurd. Nevertheless, here he was out in the courtyard, a party to it. That’s when he realised how truly exhausted he was. He had brain fag, the filter needed changing.
It was a foggy cold morning. They had eaten breakfast but the dampness hadn’t yet lifted. The sisters, the sheep, the trees, the fields, the buildings were swallowed up in fog.
‘I believe you wanted this?’ Iphigenia came into focus, laying the phone on the table. He stared at it dumbly. It seemed so long ago that he’d played his clever games with Carla. And now here was the phone that his cleverness had failed to produce. For some reason the mere sight of it made him want to burst into hysterical laughter. He tried to compose himself. He bit the inside of his lip and pictured the Bishop and the other priests around the palace fireplace. Even that seemed hilarious. He cleared his throat, picked up the phone and prepared to be businesslike.
‘The Bishop, please.’ He was told the Bishop was unavailable. ‘It’s … it’s Father Ignatius,’ he dropped his bombshell.
‘Ignatius? Where are you, what the hell happened? The old man had a chopper out looking.’ It was Dominic, one of the ones who told the jokes about boys. The three sisters loomed, so close he could feel their breath.