‘And, “In the Bleak Midwinter”,’ Sister Joan said eagerly. ‘I think I love that best of them all! How odd it seems to be talking about Christmas at the beginning of November! And with the weather so muggy too!’
‘I start looking forward to Christmas the minute Easter’s over!’ Brother Cuthbebrt admitted. ‘Quite wrong of me, of course, with Corpus Christi and Whitsuntide and all the other festivals in between! Father Superior often had cause to rebuke me for wishing away the months. Oh, I had a letter from him the other day and he asked to be remembered to you.’
‘That’s very kind of him. Will you send him my good wishes when you reply?’ Her thoughts reverted briefly to the Scottish loch on which Brother Cuthbert’s monastery was situated. A strange, wild place where strange, wild events sometimes took place.*
Aloud she said, ‘Do you miss it – the monastery, I mean? The peace and the silence and the isolation?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He looked slightly surprised at the question. ‘But this year in the world and yet not of the world is doing me a lot of good! It’s very easy to become a little bit selfish and insular when one only mixes with religious, you see, and then having the use of the little school as a lodging gives me a certain amount of independence too which is very nice, but I do miss my companions sometimes! It’s a sad weakness in me, to become attached to my friends. When I go back to Scotland next year I shall probably miss everybody here as well! People have been so extraordinarily kind to me. Any little I can do to help in return—’
‘Does that include carting rubbish?’ Sister Joan asked.
‘From the gardens? Sister Martha had thought of having a bonfire.’
‘From the storerooms. I have the task of clearing them out in the hope of finding something saleable but any heavy stuff will have to be lowered from the windows.’
‘Any time you need a strong back and two willing hands, Sister,’ Brother Cuthbert said promptly, ‘you know where to come.’
‘Thank you, Brother Cuthbert. Actually, we’re rather hoping that something valuable will turn up amid all the rubbish,’ she confessed. ‘You know that our Order bought the estate from the Tarquin family intact, but nobody ever got round to clearing out the storerooms over the chapel wing. I daresay that in the old days the servants slept there, in three big dormitories.’
‘And the family died out?’
‘I believe the last of them is still alive – Grant Tarquin. We have no contact with him.’
She spoke somewhat shortly, her face clouding as she recalled her own brief acquaintanceship with the last of the Tarquins. It was an experience she preferred to forget.*
A man was emerging from the convent gates, a haversack over his shoulder, his gold ear-ring and red neckerchief proclaiming the Romany. He waved to the two approaching and quickened his pace to meet them.
‘Afternoon, Sister Joan! Brother Cuthbert! I’ve just been having a bit of a gossip with Sister Perpetua, took her some nice trout and some wild garlic I found. Too damp for much else! Alice is getting a mite plump. She hasn’t been – begging your pardon, Sister – having it off with one of my lurchers, has she?’
‘She has only been in season once,’ Sister Joan said, amused.
‘Once is often enough,’ Padraic Lee said with a wink. ‘Sister Perpetua says you’re going to clear out the attics. Don’t forget me when you’re tossing scrap iron out of the windows. Anything that’s no use to you load on to a skip and we’ll split the profits. Can’t say fairer than that, now can I?’
‘Indeed you can’t,’ Sister Joan said, ‘but it’ll take weeks to clear and sort it, so don’t hold your breath until Christmas.’
‘With the carol service.’ Padraic’s lean brown face creased into a smile. ‘We look forward to that, Sister.’
‘And to the punch that goes round afterwards,’ Sister Joan said cynically.
‘That’s a wicked slander, Sister!’ Padraic said with a grin. ‘You ought to give credit for spiritual feeling.’
‘Indeed I ought, even if it only comes once or twice a year,’ she agreed.
‘If I came regular to mass it’d give God too much of a shock,’ Padraic said. ‘I make sure the children go though.’
‘How are Edith and Tabitha?’ Sister Joan asked.
‘Right as foxes,’ their father said proudly. ‘They miss having you to teach them though. Edith’s going on nine now and very quick, and Tabitha’ll be ten soon.’
‘And your wife’s well?’
‘She has her ups and downs,’ Padraic said, a casual tone masking pain. ‘She wasn’t so well last month but she’s a lot better now.’
Meaning that she was recovering from one of her alcoholic binges, Sister Joan thought, and reminded herself not to nag Padraic about regular attendance at mass. It was due to him that his daughters were clean and neat and well behaved.
‘I’d better get on,’ Padraic said, breaking the silence. ‘Have you seen Luther anywhere around?’
‘Earlier when I first started out.’
‘Then I reckon he’ll turn up sooner or later,’ Padraic said in a resigned tone. ‘Not that he’d harm a fly but I like to keep an eye peeled.’
He loped off, the haversack bumping against his back. Doubtless it contained other fish snatched from doubtful sources.
‘A very godly man,’ Brother Cuthbert observed as they started up the drive.
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose that he is,’ Sister Joan said, considering the remark. ‘Yes, you’re right as usual, Brother Cuthbert!’
‘I’m generally right twice a day like a stopped clock,’ Brother Cuthbert said. ‘There’s Mother Dorothy looking out for me and wondering why I’m strolling instead of running to her command. God bless, Sister!’
He went off towards the main door and Sister Joan led Lilith back round to the yard where she secured her in her stall, and shooed Alice into the kitchen where Sister Perpetua was cleaning and gutting a heap of plump speckled trout.
Sister Joan went round to the chapel door and let herself in. This outer door which led into the chapel passage was, by custom, left open though Detective Sergeant Mill gravely disapproved on the grounds of security.
‘You may well be correct, Detective Sergeant Mill,’ Mother Dorothy had said with reluctance, ‘but we like to think that God’s own place is always available for anyone, night or day, who feels the need of prayer. We do, of course, follow your advice and lock the connecting door to the enclosure but beyond that I’m really not prepared to go.’
It was over a month since she’d seen Alan Mill. Which was just as well, she told herself severely. Personal friendships were discouraged and though she had been involved in more than one investigation with the police officer, it was only right that their relationship should be confined to the occasional, fleeting professional contact. It was a definite weakness on her part to regret the excitement that sent the adrenalin coursing through her veins when they were engaged on a case which had dropped upon them out of the blue and which was missed when everything returned to normal again.
Their most recent collaboration had left her feeling vaguely disillusioned with the world,* more certain that her loyalties lay with the convent and her sisters there, so there was absolutely no excuse for the feeling of malaise that gripped her. It was probably the weather, she decided, genuflecting to the altar and climbing the spiral staircase.
‘Is that you, Sister Joan?’
Little Sister David looked up from her desk just within the open door of the library. Sister David had the appearance of someone destined by nature to be a librarian. Tiny and spare with thick spectacles and a skin that looked like the blank grey-whitened paper of a book, she had jutting teeth and a snub nose, and an unexpectedly pretty voice.
‘I came up to contemplate some kind of strategy for clearing out the junk,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Am I disturbing you, Sister?’
‘Not in the least.’
Sister David pushed up her spectacles and gave her sweet, timid smile.
‘You’re working on the children’s book?’ Sister Joan glanced at the tiny, neat handwriting that filled the page. Sister David only used the convent typewriter for her secretarial work.
‘I’m up to J,’ Sister David said. ‘I’ve chosen St John the Beloved and St Joan of Arc to represent the letter. Their stories are interesting, don’t you think?’
‘Isn’t being burnt alive strong meat for youngsters?’
‘Actually the more horrid a story is the more children seem to enjoy it,’ Sister David said with unexpected shrewdness.
‘You’re right, Sister. I’ll leave you to it then.’
Sister Joan withdrew from the threshold of the library and went into the first of the huge storerooms which stretched over the rest of the chapel wing, joined by an archway, with large, grimy windows along the outer wall. The light here was dim even on a sunny day, the windows being not only smeared and dirty but partly blocked by the packing cases that were piled in tiers with narrow gangways between littered with bits and pieces of broken furniture and cardboard boxes bulging with old newspapers and piles of old books, their covers stained and torn. She had started to compile a local history of the district using old newspapers which needed to be sorted into chronological order, but the task went slowly partly because she could devote only a limited amount of time to it, partly because she had a bad habit of getting immersed in items that had nothing to do with the area at all. Nevertheless she was reluctant to throw them out.
There was a large wall cupboard, its door swinging on its hinges. It contained rolls of motheaten cloth and several stacks of documents. Once cleared it would provide an excellent receptacle for the old newspapers. Sister Joan pulled out a roll of musty brocade, its silk pitted with tiny holes, its raised embroidery greatly tarnished, and wrinkled up her nose.
Not even Sister Teresa could conjure dusters from anything like this. She would bring up some large sacks and fill them with what was outworn long ago.
Something slid from the mouldering folds and landed at her feet. Sister Joan bent and picked it up, moving nearer to the light. It was a photograph, sepia faded, the background a blur of obscurity against which the face appeared in stark relief, only blurred by a thick film of dust.
An arrogant face, she thought, her stomach churning as she stared at it. The dark eyes were heavy-lidded, the mouth full and sensual, the effect exaggerated by the narrow sideburns of black hair. She knew the face though she had met its owner only on a handful of occasions. Grant Tarquin stared at her mockingly. No, not him but his father or more likely grandfather surely. Intrigued she turned the photograph over and read the handwriting scrawled across the back, still black and bold after the years:
We have a secret the Devil and I.
That was all. Staring down at it, feeling the gloom of the storerooms close in about her, she was immeasurably relieved to hear Sister David call, ‘Would you like to come down for a cup of tea, Sister?’
* See Vow of Fidelity
* See Vow of Sanctity
* See Vow of Silence
* See Vow of Fidelity
Two
She had pushed the photograph beneath the folds of decaying brocade again and left it there, scrubbing her hands in the little washroom with more than usual energy before following Sister David downstairs and over to the recreation room where the nuns, congregating from their various tasks, drank a cup of tea before going to the afternoon talk. This being Advent the subject of these talks was mainly centred upon the ideas of waiting and preparation. Sister Joan’s mind wandered, something extra to put in her private spiritual diary, she thought, and wondered if after her death the journal would be circulated as an example of how not to be a nun!
‘Sister Joan.’
Mother Dorothy was looking at her.
‘Yes, Mother Dorothy?’ Sister Joan jumped slightly.
‘Forgive me for interrupting your meditation,’ Mother Dorothy said, allowing no trace of sarcasm to enter her cool voice, ‘but as Sister Teresa and Sister Marie will be going over to the postulancy after supper has been cleared away it would be a great help to us and save Sister Teresa from having to come back to the main house with these dark nights to add to her discomfort if you were to see to the final locking up when the grand silence begins, and also to give the morning salutation.’
‘Yes, of course, Mother Dorothy. I shall be pleased to help out,’ Sister Joan said. She spoke with absolute sincerity. Locking up, lowering the lights, checking on Alice and Lilith meant that she would have the place to herself for a little while after her sisters had retired to their cells. Late at night there was a peace that stole over the enclosure that was refreshing to the body and the spirit. Giving the morning salutation meant rising at 4.30 in order to wake the rest of the community at five, but it also meant half an hour in which to prepare oneself for the day ahead while the rest of the community still slept.
‘Good. I take it that you will be starting the clearance of the storerooms soon?’
‘Yes, Mother Prioress. Luther and Padraic have both offered help and Brother Cuthbert is ready to lift anything heavy.’
‘Do try to do as much as possible yourself, Sister,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘We don’t want the house cluttered up with men.’
She spoke as if men were highly undesirable objects to be tidied away as fast as possible. Further along the semicircle old Sister Gabrielle emitted a barely concealed snort of amusement.
‘Dominus vobiscum,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘Yes, Sister, what is it?’
‘I shall need large sacks, bin liners or something of that sort,’ Sister Joan said.
‘For the rubbish in the storerooms? Sister Martha, do you have any unwanted potato sacks?’
‘I’m sorry, Mother. They were all used when we collected the fruit,’ Sister Martha said.
‘You will also need disinfectant, more scrubbing brushes and polishing cloths,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘You had better take the van into town tomorrow morning and buy what you need. You may also buy a copy of Exchange and Mart. It would be wise to check on what prices are being asked for various things these days, so that if we do find any worth selling in the storerooms we won’t offer them at a price that is inflated or ridiculously low. Dominus vobiscum.’
Her glance dared Sister Joan to interrupt again.
And now it was morning though the dark sky outside disputed the fact. There had been a time when Sister Joan had doubted if she would ever be able to wake up so early without outside aid. The old trick of asking a soul just released from purgatory to shake her pillow as they passed had never worked for her. All the souls released from purgatory in her vicinity simply flew up without even ruffling the hem of her pillow. Fortunately she had learned to wake herself at whatever hour was necessary and lay for only a few seconds before wakefulness cleared the mists of sleep from her brain and she pushed back the blankets and slid her feet into the cloth sandals that served as slippers while she washed her face and cleaned her teeth in the basin of cold water on the floor, reached shiveringly for her clothes, combed her short black curls into place and pinned the short white veil over her head. The ankle-length grey habit with its wide sleeves and a neat belt from which her rosary depended, the thick black stockings and laced black shoes were as familiar to her as her own skin, and leaving her cell with her eyes accustomed to the darkness she went along the gallery past the dining-room out of which the recreation-room opened, down the dimly lit curving staircase, across the hall to unbolt the connecting door to the chapel and then across to the passage which led past the infirmary and the dispensary into the big kitchen with its two tiny, now unoccupied cells. Alice greeted her with a sleepy wag of the tail.
Sister Joan put on the huge kettles to boil, measured coffee into the jugs, cut thick slices of the brown bread which, together with a piece of fruit, comprised the communal breakfast at 7.30, and went back into the hall to pick up the wooden clapper which was sounded to mark the start of the day.
; A large piece of paper had been folded and thrust through the letterbox behind the front door. She went over to pull it in, feeling the usual mixture of annoyance and amusement. It was quite astonishing how often circulars were delivered by hand even here, and most of them hardly likely to appeal to nuns either! She recalled a series of pamphlets advertising a new beauty parlour that offered instant facelifts and colonic irrigation, and another from a matrimonial agency which Sister Gabrielle had to be dissuaded from sending a spoof reply to declaring herself to be an eighteen-year-old millionairess from Peru.
This particular circular was curiously apposite.
G.T. MONAM, SCRAP MERCHANT AND SILVERSMITH
If you have unwanted articles to be cleared please ring the number below. We give the highest prices. Delivery of refuse sacks, assistance with clearing and free estimates given on demand. Highest prices given.
There was a local number beneath. Sister Joan folded up the circular, thrust it into the deep pocket of her habit and took up the wooden rattle, mounting the stairs briskly, whirling it over her head as she raised her voice loudly.
‘Christ is risen!’
‘Thanks be to God,’ came the voice from behind the prioress’s door.
Sister Joan passed her own door, whirled the rattle and cried again, ‘Christ is risen!’
‘Thanks be to God!’ Sister David sounded as if she’d been awake for ages.
In contrast Sister Perpetua sounded grumpy, Sister Katherine sleepy and Sister Martha as startled as if she were hearing the words for the first time.
Sister Joan returned to the kitchen, giving a final whirl of the rattle at the door of the infirmary where two voices immediately answered. The old ladies slept fitfully these days, she thought, and went into the kitchen to open the door for Alice.
By 5.30 they were in chapel, kneeling in their places engaged in private prayer until either Father Malone or Father Stephens came to offer a low mass at seven. Sister Teresa and Sister Marie slipped into their accustomed places, looking slightly out of breath while Sister Hilaria processed in, followed by the pink-smocked, white-bonneted Bernadette.
Vow of Poverty Page 2