Thunder on the Right

by Mary Stewart

  Nor, indeed, was the courtyard across which the orphan now began to lead her even remotely suggestive of flagellations, of nuns walled up alive, or of the other commonplaces of fictional convent life. Heat and light beat back in tangible waves from the beaten dust of the floor, and from the white walls where hanging creepers, partly masking the glare, drooped heavily round the arched windows. The yard was unbelievably still and hot, a little well of stillness where you almost had to push through the palpable heat of the air, and, at its centre, like a symbol, the well itself stood ankle-deep in parched grass, the bucket hanging motionless, bone-dry, from the rope.

  The two wings of the convent building formed the south and east walls of the courtyard, and at their junction stood the chapel, with its square tower jutting up above the roofs. The girl led the way diagonally across the yard towards this corner, where an archway gave on to a stone passage, a kind of tunnel which skirted the end of the chapel, and led straight through the south block of the building into the gardens beyond.

  Inside the tunnel it was dim, and beautifully cool. Jennifer paused a moment, gratefully, as the chill of the stone poured over her like a cold breeze. To her left a shallow flight of steps led upwards into a flagged hallway; further along the tunnel a heavy door, with a bell-rope looped up beside it, suggested an entrance to the chapel. Opposite the chapel door was another which, she found later, gave on to the refectory and kitchens, with the dormitories of the orphans and lay sisters above.

  Her young guide led the way quickly up the steps into the hall, which was apparently the centre of the main offices of the building. Here the sunlight met them again, but this time mitigated by the lovely traceries of stained glass, which laid its peacock train of gold and green and amethyst along the flags, to where the treads of an imposing staircase barred them.

  ‘I suppose,’ began Jennifer, as her guide started in a great hurry for the stairs, ‘I suppose—’

  But the girl, with one wide apprehensive glance at her, plunged ahead, her bare legs twinkling rapidly through the jewelled light; vermilion, amber, emerald … Stop, Caution, Go, thought Jennifer wildly, thrusting Mrs. Radcliffe back into the limbo from which she was irresistibly peering once more. She hurried after her guide, the variegated light flickering over her dress, and swimming into shadow on the panelled wall of the staircase, where saint after saint peered dimly from the brown varnish of small and undoubtedly mediocre canvases. St. Sebastian, of course, abundantly transfixed by arrows; St. Teresa on a cloud, miraculously suspended; a third and dimmer figure, withdrawn into the darkness of the varnish, but still indubitably surrounded by a flock of pigeons, geese, storks, bullfinches, and what looked remarkably like a cockatoo … St. Francis and his friends slid back and down the shaft of the staircase as Jennifer, chasing after her guide, emerged into a long upper corridor, abundantly lit by the afternoon glare which struck now through plain windows against a white wall and a row of light-wood doors. And here, in niches between the windows, stood the saints again, triumphantly emergent from the obscurity of their canvases, little statues brave in the brightness of red and blue and gilt, with the varied gaiety of flowers round their feet.

  Mrs. Radcliffe, defeated, dwindled and faded in the superfluity of light, and Jennifer spoke with a decision that brought the scurrying orphan to a halt half-way along the corridor.

  ‘Tell me, please’ – the girl turned and faced her – ‘shall I be able to see my cousin today?’

  But here the orphan, to Jennifer’s amazement and growing exasperation, suddenly clapped her hand to her open mouth, not quite in time to stifle a shrill nervous giggle. Over her hand the blue eyes stared with the same fixed and disconcerting look. She gulped and said nothing.

  ‘Now look,’ began Jennifer. Then, as the uneasiness of the girl’s demeanour communicated itself to her yet again, she said in a voice sharpening with apprehension: ‘Is anything wrong? Is my cousin ill? She is here, isn’t she – Madame Lamartine?’

  Then, to her embarrassment and dismay she saw that, though the child still gulped nervously into her hand, there were tears of real distress in the round blue eyes. But as Jennifer moved towards her the orphan ducked back and, turning, scoured away down the corridor as fast as she could. Her steps slithered and rattled down the staircase, receded rapidly across the flagged hall below, and were gone.

  Jennifer, thus marooned in the empty corridor, stared after the child for a moment in amazement mingled with uneasiness, then, with a mental shrug, began to look about her.

  The doors on her right were all closed; the saints on her left remained uniformly silent; but at the very end of the corridor’s bright avenue she saw facing her another door whose carved lintel and elaborate scrolls of ironwork held a suggestion of importance. This, surely, must be the Mother Superior’s room, towards which she had charged the orphan to lead her? Jennifer hesitated for a little, further oppressed now by the silence round her; it became, momently, less and less possible to walk up that length of corridor and knock boldly upon a door. The out-of-the-worldness of the place pressed heavily upon her, and she remembered all at once that from first to last the orphan had said no word. Perhaps, thought Jennifer, hovering miserably in mid-corridor, this was the sort of convent where nobody ever spoke? Trappist, that was the word. Or were Trappists always men? And could one teach—?

  And here, like a hair-prickling draught on the back of the neck, came the feeling that she was being silently watched. From behind.

  She turned her head over her shoulder, to meet the bright brown stare of St. Anthony, smiling down at her from his niche with its immortelles and its nest of dead candles; St. Anthony, who found that which was lost … there was nothing in that fixed and plaster smile which could have caused the little frisson of goose-flesh a moment ago. She turned further, and met the gaze of a still, black figure standing, like yet another statue, in an open doorway. But the door had been shut when she passed it a moment ago. And the eyes of this statue were alive.

  So effectively had the silence and the strangeness of the place done their work that, for half a moment, Jennifer’s mind failed to register the simple fact; that here at last was one of the inmates of the place who could tell her what she wanted to know. Instead, at the sudden sight of the blackrobed nun standing behind her, she experienced a sharp sense of shock; that sickening contraction of the stomach muscles, the swift chilly emptying of the blood from the heart that momentarily cancels normality of reason and action. Here, in the sun-glaring corridor of the convent, one might surely expect to meet a nun, robed as this one was robed? But such had been the magic of the high valleys, the charged strangeness of the silence, and the inexplicable demeanour of the girl at the gate, that Jennifer stared at the black-habited figure before her with all the horror and apprehension that she might have accorded to a supernatural being fresh from the medieval mysteries of the Inquisition.

  Then the figure spoke, and moved from its doorway, shedding as it did so its ghostly anonymity, and becoming instead a tall woman with a coolly authoritative voice.

  ‘Buenos dias, señorita. The Reverend Mother is at present occupied, but perhaps you can discuss your business just as well with me? Will you please come in?’

  The room into which Jennifer followed her bore the same evidence of poverty as did the rest of the convent. It was small and square and, beyond the scanty furnishing provided by the flat bed, single chair, chest-of-drawers, and prie-dieu, it held nothing. The floor, of scrubbed white boards, was innocent of polish, and the plain uncarved prie-dieu was placed, deliberately it seemed, so that the kneeler’s gaze was turned away from the sun-drenched prospect of meadow and mountain, and directed towards a crudely carved crucifix – an effigy that made it only too plain that the cross was an instrument of torture. The odour of sanctity here, thought Jennifer, as she passed into the sterile sunlessness of the room, was too clearly the odour of sackcloth. If this was the rule that directed the Sisterhood of Our Lady of the Storms, then less and less could i
t be the place for Gillian.

  The owner of the room closed the door softly, and turned.

  Seen here, in the clear unshadowed light from the small window, her appearance seemed as Spanish as her first words had suggested. Somewhere, a score of times, Jennifer had seen those high-bred, fine-boned features, on faces gazing proudly from ruffed and jewelled canvases. The longish nose and arched nostrils, the clean angles of cheek and jawbone, the thin line of a once-passionate mouth – here was the breeding and arrogance of old Spain, starved, as it were, into submission. Only the eyes, large and dark, spoke still of what fire had been there once, and they were hooded hawk-wise, under lids no longer smooth, but crinkled and bistred like fading poppy-petals. Their once deep lustre had shallowed and flattened, so that they showed as unreadable, as expressionless, as the obsidian gaze of a sphinx.

  She remained standing just inside the door, with her hands folded and hidden, traditional fashion, in the long sleeves of her robe. Robe and headdress were alike of black, unrelieved by any delicate contrast of white frill or wimple to frame the face. Over the heavy floor-length robe she wore a species of tunic reaching to the hips and girdled at the waist with a knotted cord. This medieval-looking garment (here Jennifer was reminded sharply of a seventeenth-century Spanish canvas) had a hood which completely concealed the hair and was fastened close under the chin, framing the face. Over it was a fine light veil which fell below the shoulders. All that relieved the sombre black was the small cross on her breast and the rosary hanging from her waist.

  With a slight inclination of the head she indicated the single chair to Jennifer. She herself remained standing near the door.

  Jennifer sat down. To her own surprise, the illogical feeling of discomfort persisted. Faced now as she was with one of the inmates of the convent, this woman who stood quietly in traditional medieval garb against the austere simplicity of white wall and unvarnished deal, she should surely have been able to dismiss her earlier tremors as absurd. Why, then, should the appearance of the woman realize rather than quell the senseless unease of the past few minutes?

  Then the Spaniard’s hand moved from her sleeve and came up to touch the cross at her breast, and Jennifer understood, if only with a deepening puzzlement. On one of the long white fingers glowed a big ring, an amethyst, its colour blandly feminine against the black tunic. As Jennifer’s eyes, faintly shocked, followed the movement of the ring, she saw, too, that the tunic and robe gleamed with the unmistakable heavy sheen of silk. The veil was of silk, too, as fine as lawn.

  … Now the long fingers were playing with the pectoral cross. There, too, Jennifer caught the wink of a jewel; the male glitter of a ruby answering the softer amethyst … The effect was one of sombre richness, and – against that simple white background – curiously unpleasant.

  ‘And how can I help you?’ came the cool, precise voice.

  Jennifer banished what must after all be only a momentary and slightly nerve-ridden impression, and introduced herself and her mission without delay.

  ‘My name is Silver, and I’m the cousin of Madame Lamartine, who is, I understand, staying here with you …’

  She paused, not quite knowing why she did so. The black eyes watching her showed no expression, but the ruby on the woman’s breast sparked and then dulled again. She said nothing.

  Jennifer found herself going on, a little hurriedly:

  ‘She wrote to ask me to come and see her, so I’ve taken a room in Gavarnie for a fortnight. I arrived this morning, and have come straight up, hoping to see her today. Is it possible, or have I come at an inconvenient time?’

  She paused expectantly. For a moment the woman did not reply. Then she repeated, slowly: ‘You are Madame Lamartine’s cousin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She told you that you could come here and see her?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jennifer again, trying to keep the edge of impatience out of her voice.

  ‘But you are English.’

  ‘So is she. She married a Frenchman, and her mother was French, but she’s English.’

  ‘But—’ The woman began to speak, then stopped short, and the heavy lids came down over her eyes, but not in time to conceal a flicker of puzzlement, and something else that Jennifer could not read. She was silent.

  ‘Does it matter?’ asked Jennifer. ‘Surely she mentioned the fact that I’d be coming to see her? Naturally, I assumed that I could, or she’d have written to put me off.’

  The other did not raise her eyes. She said slowly, almost absently: ‘No. No, she did not mention it. We were not aware that she had any … connections.’

  There was something so queer about the tone of the last sentence that once again Jennifer felt that curious stir of uneasiness. She said, keeping her voice pleasant and unworried: ‘I see. I’m sorry to have taken you unawares. But I’d be very glad to see her now that I have come. Will you take me to her, please, Sister?’

  But the woman in black still stood there without response, and suddenly Jennifer’s impatience and earlier uneasiness gathered and broke in a jet of apprehension. All at once it became urgent, immediate, that she should see Gillian: it was both wrong and absurd that this should be made so difficult; a convent was not a prison, and, in any case, Gillian could not possibly have taken any vows yet, so the convent rules could not bind her. Why, then, should these impalpable barriers be erected between them at every turn? Ridiculous as the suspicion appeared, she began to see, in the silence of the girl at the gate, and in the unresponsiveness of this woman, evidence of a mysteriously motivated effort to keep her away from Gillian.

  She said levelly: ‘I know that my cousin has been ill; she wrote and told me so. If she is ill at present, I should be glad if you will tell me the truth about it. In any case, well or ill, I should like to see her. At once, please.’

  This, at any rate, elicited some response. The heavy lids lifted, and the expressionless eyes met hers.

  ‘I am afraid that is not possible.’

  ‘You mean I can’t?’ Jennifer moved sharply. ‘Why not? She’s here still, isn’t she?’

  Something flickered again behind the dark Spanish eyes, and, quite suddenly, Jennifer felt once more, deep inside her, the cold twist of fear.

  ‘Isn’t she?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the cool voice, ‘she is here. She died two weeks ago, señorita, and was buried in our churchyard. Shall I take you to her now?’

  4

  The Walk to the Paradise Garden

  It was in a state of merciful numbness, as yet unthawed into grief, that Jennifer, following her new guide, retraced her recent steps. Down the corridor, between the blind doors and the glaring windows, where the saints waited, dumb in their shadowed niches … I have found that which was lost … St. Anthony’s changeless smile passed over her unheeding head; nor did she lift her eyes as she went softly down the broad staircase between yet other ranks of watchers … St. Francis, St. Teresa, St. Sebastian … whatever of consolation lay in those dim canvases went unsought; she gave them never a glance. The hall, rich still in swimming light that swarmed gold-dusty with motes of blue and scarlet and topaz, the tunnel’s cool echoing passage, the chapel door … these flowed by like a dream, forgotten even as it passes.

  And then they had left the building, and over them broke the brilliance of the blazing garden.

  If poverty had been the keynote of the convent buildings, its garden was redolent of wealth. There was, even here, certain evidence of monastic austerity, in that no flowers grew for the sake of their beauty alone, but the formal beds beneath the peach trees were rich with thyme and lavender and purple rosemary, while the feet of the pear and apple trees espaliered on the surrounding walls stood deep in a silver drift of sage. A row of apricot trees lent support to a disciplined riot of vines; below it, in careful ranks, fading stems were weighted with the fabulous red of tomatoes. There was even a pair of orange trees, standing sentinel at the end of a box-bordered path, looking, with their symmetrical head
s hung with glossy green fruit, for all the world like guardians of some fantastic gateway to fairytale, or to the herb-garden pictured on some faded medieval page … basil, vervain, borage; saffron, hyssop, juniper; violet for heart’s-ease, and blue clary and the little lemon thyme … Over all hung the scent of spices and warm earth, and the resinous smell of the near pine-woods mingled sleepily with the fragrance of lavender. Not a bird sang, but the air was loud with bees.

  Of none of this was Jennifer even remotely aware; neither, it appeared, was her black-robed guide, who, for some doubtless cogent reason of her own, passed swiftly between the orange trees with downcast eyes, and led the way along a path whose borders held back a tide of balsam and drowsy poppies, towards an iron gate set in the east wall of the garden. But before she reached it, something – whether it was the sudden high drone of a bee passing too near her cheek, or the flash of a lizard across the path, or the muted plop of a ripe apricot falling among the herbs – some small jerk at her senses recalled Jennifer to herself.

  She checked her pace, and spoke. ‘Sister, please.’

  The woman turned. The white hands were hidden again, but the ruby sparked as the sun caught it. The shadow of a peach-tree, making patterns with the sun upon her black habit, cast a veil across the upper part of her face.

  ‘Please,’ said Jennifer, holding her with a little gesture, ‘just one moment. Please tell me a – a little more about it. It’s been a bit of a shock, you see. I’d be glad if you’d tell me – how it happened.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  Under the circumstances, the question was sufficiently surprising, but the cool voice, no less than the woman’s whole indifferent demeanour, made it an outrage. A healthy prick of anger stabbed through the numbness of Jennifer’s grief.

  She said, hotly: ‘Somewhat naturally, I want to know everything about it! I come here, expecting to see my cousin; I’ve heard nothing from her since she wrote three weeks ago asking me to come; I have the greatest difficulty in finding out anything about her – and now you tell me that she’s dead, and expect that to be enough! Don’t you think I have a right to know how she died, and why none of her relatives has been informed of her death?’