Now, he builds the fire up and puts the guard in front of it. At the window he pauses. The fields slope steeply to the cliff’s edge and he can see away across the sea to Cataclews Point and Trevose Head. The silvery water, fretted by the sharp north-easterly wind, churns restlessly, chopping and changing – now azure, now grey – beneath the cold clear blue sky and snow-charged clouds. In the clump of ash trees just below the house Clem can see a quarrelsome party of rooks balancing amongst the bone-white branches; their bulky, twiggy nests being bargained over and refurbished. Suddenly one of the rooks takes to the air, swerving and diving, showing off to his mate and rivals alike as he exults in the strengthening breeze. Others follow him, challenging him, their harsh voices tossed and lost in the wind.
Clem likes the rooks: he senses their joy in their connivance with the elements, their bravado, and their instinctive one-upmanship battling with their need for community.
‘Like us, don’t you think?’ Sister Emily is at his shoulder: ‘Argumentative, difficult, but needing one another.’
Clem, who has just been thinking that very thing, bites his lip. ‘I expect,’ he says awkwardly, his eyes still on the rooks, ‘that living in a community probably makes you better people in the end.’
‘But we’re not here to be “better” people. Or even “nice” people. We’re here to try to be God’s people, wouldn’t you say?’ She touches him lightly on the shoulder with the sheaf of papers she is holding and glides quietly away, pausing at the door. ‘How inviting that fire looks. Thank you, Clem.’
He follows her out and goes back to the Lodge to waken Jakey and give him breakfast.
The snow begins to fall later that afternoon. The duck is finished, and the remains of the feast are cleared away. The Sisters are having tea in the library and Jakey has just arrived home on the school bus.
‘Bad weather setting in,’ shouts the driver to Clem. ‘Snow’s forecast. Doubt I shall see you tomorrow.’
He pulls away up the narrow lane and Clem catches Jakey’s hand and hurries him into the Lodge out of the cold wind.
‘Snow!’ Jakey struggles out of his coat; his eyes shine in expectation. ‘We can make a snowman.’
‘If there’s enough of it.’ Clem hangs the coat up on the row of pegs in the hall. ‘We don’t usually get very heavy falls down here in Cornwall so don’t count on it. It’ll probably be gone by morning. So have you had a good day? What did you do?’
‘Nothing.’ Jakey goes into the sitting-room and through to the kitchen.
‘That must have been interesting then,’ Clem says, sighing inwardly, recognizing the mood, knowing he should have been more upbeat about the snow. ‘So you all sat in rows not doing anything all day. I thought it was Show and Tell today. You took your pirate book that Mo and Pa gave you. That must have gone down well.’
Jakey leans against the table, puts his thumb into his mouth and nods slowly; he is finding his first term at school very tiring. He looks exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes, and Clem is filled with the familiar ache of love and compassion for him.
‘What would you like to eat?’ he asks. ‘Just a little something to keep you going until supper time. There’s still some of that Smartie cake. Would you like some milk? Or juice?’
Jakey takes his thumb out. ‘I’d like a cup of tea.’
‘Tea?’ Clem’s mind jumps to and fro. Is it OK to give tea to a four-year-old? What about tannin? And caffeine? He hesitates and Jakey looks mutinously at him.
‘The Sisters give me tea,’ he says. ‘And sometimes coffee, if they’re having it. I like it.’
Clem begins to laugh. ‘The Sisters are naughty,’ he says – and Jakey laughs too, at the idea of the Sisters being naughty.
‘Sister Emily is naughty,’ he says thoughtfully, ‘but Sister Luth isn’t.’
‘OK,’ says Clem. He’ll make it nearly all milk with just a dash of tea: surely it can’t hurt him. ‘Tea it is. Now let’s hear about Show and Tell.’
Jakey scrambles up onto his chair and reaches for Stripey Bunny, eager now to tell. Outside the snow whirls. It flutters past the window and begins to settle on the fields.
‘I’m outa here,’ says Mr Caine, mobile clamped between ear and shoulder as he packs. ‘The weather forecast is snow and more snow. I’m getting back to civilization while I can … No, Tommy, I’m not ratting out. I’m just biding my time. I’ll come back when it’s clear … Phil is holed up in Plymouth, waiting by the phone … No, they haven’t come to a decision. I’ve told you. These old dames don’t work like we do. Their time frame is different. We want everything yesterday and their eyes are fixed on eternity … Yeah, I know it sounds fanciful but I tell you, a few weeks on this godforsaken peninsula, you get fanciful. It’s enough to drive you crazy. A load of Worzel Gummidges drivelling in your ear all day about farming and fishing … Yeah, yeah, I know the stakes are high but Phil’s on the case. If they accept the offer he’ll be right on to it … No, he can’t just frighten them into signing a bit of paper saying the convent’s done for and they’ll accept his offer. He’s got to keep cool. They’re thinking about it … OK, but nobody else is gonna come charging in, are they? Why would they? Nobody’s gonna be thinking about it, are they? … Yeah, I know we don’t want to give them time to start looking at that old covenant saying it’s got to be a convent or else, but we don’t want to make them nervous either. You said not to make them suspicious. I hope that mole solicitor of yours is right about it, that’s all. He’s probably as crooked as you are. Can it be proved, that’s the real question? … OK. OK. I’m off. I’ll speak when I get to Exeter. If I get that far. I’ve told the Worzels I’ll be back in a few days. They’re holding my room. Like they need to! Nobody else is crazy enough to want to be here in bloody February … Yeah. Be in touch.’
He crams the last of his clothes into his bag, glances round. He can hardly wait to be out and driving up the A39 towards civilization. It gives him the creeps, all this emptiness, the steep cliffs, the awful relentless sound of the sea. He’s always hated the sea: feared it, even. It’s so uncontrollable, indifferent, vast. He likes to be in control and here, on this wild north coast, he feels helpless. These poor sods spend their whole lives in one long battle against the elements.
He checks the tiny bathroom, comes out and here’s Mrs Trembath in his room. He swallows down a surge of irritation – everything’s packed, there’s nothing to see – but he allows a suggestion of surprise to creep into his smile.
‘Didn’t hear you knock,’ he says pointedly.
She ignores it. Well, what do you expect from yokel locals? He picks up his bag.
‘I’m off then. See you as soon as this passes.’
‘There was a phone call,’ she says – and he tenses. What phone call? Who’d try to get him here? Tommy and Phil use only mobiles.
‘Who was it?’
She shakes her head. ‘Woudden leave no name. I told ’en you was packing. Said ’e’d try another time.’
He wants to shout at her; give her a good shaking. Why didn’t the silly cow simply come and get him? He hides all these reactions, and smiles.
‘Can’t have been important then.’
She watches him, saying nothing.
‘Well, then.’ His joviality sounds forced. ‘Thanks for holding the room for a few days,’ he gives a little chuckle, ‘though I’m not sure it’s really necessary. Can’t see people beating down the door exactly, can you? Not in this weather.’
She continues to stare at him. ‘We gets all sorts,’ she answers. ‘All weathers.’
His smile fades. ‘Yes, I’m sure you do.’
He can’t wait to be away; it’s really getting to him now. He’s wasting time and it’s still snowing. He edges past her and hurries down the stairs.
‘’Bye, then,’ he shouts. ‘I’ll be in touch. Thanks,’ and he goes out into the whirling snow, slings his bag into the car and then he’s away down the track as fast as he dares.
J
anna wakes in the West Room above the porch. The little room, recently painted by Clem, is full of a chill, unearthly light. Janna lies quite still, accustoming herself to strange new sensations: the softness of the bed, the low beams and the silence.
Mother Magda and Clem persuaded her from the small, cosy security of the caravan early in the evening after Clem heard the weather forecast. Like an unwilling animal coerced from its lair, she reluctantly stumbled through the already thick snow, clutching her tote bag full of the things she’d need for this sojourn in the house. Her protests fell on deaf ears. She had no fears of the snow or of being cold, she said, but it was the sight of Mother Magda, frail and anxious at the caravan door, that made her give in. Clem wore his usual, secretly amused, half frowning expression, which always gave the impression that he utterly understood everything but was saying nothing.
Janna slides out of bed, pulls her shawl closer around her and goes to the window. She gives an involuntary gasp of shock. Snow is falling so thickly that she can barely see further than the window. The lawn below the house is indistinguishable from its surrounding wall and the fields beyond. The cliffs and the sea are swallowed by this dazzling, dancing cloud of snow.
Recovered from the shock, her first thought is: Thank goodness Dossie filled the freezer with all that food. Her second thought sends her reaching for the light switch. With relief she sees that the electricity hasn’t been cut off.
She dresses quickly, staring at herself in the small square mirror above the little basin in the corner. Her untameable lion-mane hair clings to the brush and stands out about her small thin face. Someone once told her that her eyes were the colour of clear honey and she peers into them, trying to see herself as others see her, wondering if she is attractive.
Passing out of the room, she pauses in the corridor to listen to the silence. No visitors to fill up the empty bedrooms, nobody hurrying to the bathroom, or down the stairs to breakfast in the guests’ dining-room next to the refectory. Standing outside her bedroom door she is aware of the spaces of the house all about her, used now only by retreatants, and of the nuns tucked away in their private wing. She goes down into the hall and through to the back of the house to the kitchen. How warm it is in this long, low room; how welcoming.
Slipping between the kitchen and the refectory, she makes porridge, and puts bread in the toaster; assembles cereals, butter and marmalade and lays places for the Sisters. There are voices in the back hall and Clem and Jakey come into the kitchen. Jakey’s cheeks are poppy red, his eyes bright. He is trussed up like a parcel in his warm, padded jacket and he wears a woolly knitted hat with earflaps.
‘We shall be able to make a snowman,’ he says to Janna. ‘And the bus won’t get up the hill so I can’t go to school. We’ve come to have bleakfast with you.’
‘That’s great,’ Janna says, and Clem says, ‘Remember that you must talk quietly, Jakey.’
Jakey makes a face; he presses his lips together and puts his hand in front of his mouth. His eyes beam at Janna above his fingers and she grins back at him.
‘I’m going to check the banties,’ Clem says. ‘They’ll have to stay in their house today. I’ll clear a bit of a path and then I’ll light the fire in the library. You stay here, Jakey, and no nonsense. Janna’s got to get everybody’s breakfasts. Make sure you help her.’
Jakey wrestles the small rucksack off his back, opens it up and sits Stripey Bunny on a chair at the table. He hangs the rucksack on the back of the chair and looks round as he struggles out of his coat. He loves the kitchen, with its huge ancient inglenook fireplace, which now houses the big four-oven Aga, and the low-beamed ceiling. Along the deep-set stone windowsills Janna has put pots of hyacinths and cyclamen and there are some special pretty pebbles and stones too, which he and she collect down on the shore. He goes to stand beside her at the Aga as she stirs the porridge.
‘Daddy got his shovel out,’ he says to Janna, ‘and dug a path for us. Can I have sausages?’
‘Not for breakfast.’ She looks down at him, touches his blond hair very lightly. ‘Maybe for lunch. How about porridge? And then toast and honey?’
He considers and then nods: if he’d been at home he might have argued about which cereal he wants but he remembers that he is supposed to be helping Janna. And, anyway, he likes porridge and toast and honey.
‘Get some spoons out of the drawer there,’ she tells him. ‘Three spoons, one each for you, me and Daddy, and put them on the table. Can you do that? Listen. I think the Sisters are coming out from Morning Prayer.’
He puts the spoons on the table just as Mother Magda comes into the kitchen. She raises her eyebrows at him in a kind of smiling surprise and makes him a little ‘Good morning’ bow. He is quite used now to this form of silent greeting and he bows back to her, very seriously, and then picks up Stripey Bunny and makes him bow too with his long floppy ears falling forward. Mother Magda’s smile becomes a wide beam and he laughs with her, sharing the joke.
She and Janna speak softly together and Janna takes the bowls out of the lower oven and begins to fill them with porridge. He watches Janna put four bowls on the tray with a jug of milk and carry them into the refectory; Mother Magda follows her. The toast pops up; four pieces in the long silver toaster and, as he stands beside his chair, the room grows brighter and is suddenly filled with light; long fingers of sunshine reach through the windows and touch the flowers and the pebbles.
Janna comes back. She fills a bowl with porridge for him, mixes it with some cold milk, sprinkles sugar over it and puts it at his place. He scrambles onto his chair, still watching her as she puts the toast into the rack. She is like nobody else he’s ever known, with her wild lion hair and thin brown face and bright strange clothes. Beside the elderly sober-clad nuns she is vivid and exciting. Today she’s wrapped herself in the apron that has words printed on it: ‘SAVE WATER. DRINK WINE.’ She’d read them to him and even then he hadn’t understood, but Sister Emily said, ‘Now I think that is such a good idea.’ And they laughed together, silently, bending close, with Sister Emily’s wrinkled, thin hand on Janna’s warm, strong arm. Sister Ruth came in and paused, looking at them both, her chin high and forbidding, and Janna moved away, still smiling secretly to herself.
Now she turns suddenly, holding the toast rack, and catches his stare.
‘OK, my lover?’ she asks, and there’s a tenderness in her voice and in her look that makes him feel a bit odd: shaky and upset, and wanting to run over to her and bury his face in the warmth of her body and snuff up the scents of her skin. He has a little pain in his chest, as though something is missing, that he’s lost something really important, and he wants to hold on to Janna. He feels as if he might cry and, as if she understands, she puts the toast on the table and comes swiftly round to him. She kneels beside his chair and puts her arms round him, and he buries his face in her warm breast and cries without knowing why, although Daddy has explained that it happens because he lost Mummy just after he was born and it’s all quite natural and nothing to be worried about, and that Daddy feels the same way too, sometimes.
Gently Janna smooths his hair and wipes his cheeks with her fingers. ‘Poor Stripey Bunny needs some porridge,’ she whispers to him. ‘Poor old Stripes. He’s all thin, look.’ And she squeezes his middle so that he flops about and looks funny, and Jakey manages a smile and takes up his spoon. And then Daddy comes in saying how cold it is and they’ll build a snowman after breakfast, and suddenly everything is quite all right again.
Clem eats his porridge gratefully. He knows he’s lucky that the Sisters are prepared to stretch a point with Jakey so that he is allowed into certain parts of the house and the grounds as long as he is quiet and good. It had to be part of the contract and Mother Magda was quick to see that there needed to be a readiness to adapt on both sides. It’s odd, actually, how readily Jakey has accepted convent life. He seems to understand the reverence required and even enjoy it. Of course, he got used to going to church in London but ev
en so it’s a great deal to ask of a small boy. He remembers, when he brought Jakey to be introduced to the Sisters, how Sister Emily shook his hand and then asked to be introduced to Stripey Bunny.
‘How do you do, Mr Stripey Bunny,’ she said gravely, shaking his paw, and Jakey gazed at her for a moment in surprise, and then they chuckled together, sharing the joke. Mother Magda laughed too, and took Stripey Bunny’s paw but Sister Ruth watched with her hands hidden in her sleeves, not reacting when Jakey looked hopefully towards her, inviting her to share in the game. Clem could tell by her expression and body language that here was a woman who feared any kind of loss of control; who instinctively disliked any relaxation of the rules. He stiffened a little, anxious for Jakey lest he was hurt by the rebuff, but Jakey was already turning back happily to Sister Emily and Mother Magda – his new friends.
Clem finishes his porridge and puts his bowl aside, still brooding on the oddness of bringing up a child in such a place as Chi-Meur. The point is that they are all bringing Jakey up: Janna, the Sisters, Father Pascal, Dossie, Mo and Pa. Clem watches Janna cutting soldiers of toast and spreading honey on them. She puts them on to Jakey’s plate and he eats them, relishing them and offering bites to Stripey Bunny at intervals.
It is as if we are a family, Clem thinks. And I’m sure Jakey is happy here.
Janna smiles at him and pushes some toast towards him and he thinks: If only I could fall in love with her, how simple life would be.
The snow falls, freezes, and falls again: in Cornwall the schools are closed and roads are blocked with drifting snow.
‘Unheard of down here,’ Pa says crossly, staring disconsolately from the bedroom window. ‘Climate change. We can look forward to this kind of thing now: floods, snow, heat waves. All this energy in the atmosphere; that’s what’s causing it. Tsunamis, volcanoes erupting. How am I supposed to get the dogs out in this?’
Straight-backed, one hand clenched in a fist behind his back, he raises his coffee mug and drinks. Mo watches him from the bed. His intensity, his high-octane energy, has always been slightly exhausting, even when they were both young; now it is poured out in tirades against the government, roaring at the television, raging at newspaper articles. She is terrified that these storms will cause another stroke. Their GP has been understanding about her anxiety but realistic about Pa’s character.
The Christmas Angel Page 5