She nods, reassured. ‘It’s just that Ruth says that Janna hasn’t been here long enough to be consulted about such an important matter.’ She hesitates, seeking for some tactful phrase. ‘She has never been quite comfortable with Janna.’
Father Pascal snorts with amusement. ‘Nor with Jakey.’
‘No,’ Magda agrees, smiling. ‘She’s not easy with children and yet she is so wonderful with Nichola. Caring for Nichola has brought out all her best instincts. It was the right decision yet we feared that she’d never manage. Ruth’s always been so spiky; so sharp and so fearful of being undervalued. Do you remember how anxious we were?’
‘God works with our brokenness, whether it’s Nichola’s physical and mental deterioration or Ruth’s insecurities—’ he begins – and stops as the door opens and Nichola and Ruth come in together.
It is clear from Ruth’s face that she thoroughly disapproves of what is about to happen; but Nichola beams vaguely upon them all and is helped to her chair where she sits, looking about her. Sister Emily comes quickly in: she wears an eager, expectant look, as if great decisions might be made or wonderful truths uncovered. Father Pascal instinctively smiles, despite Magda’s anxiety and Ruth’s disapproval. Sister Emily’s positive, almost childlike, approach always fills him with delight.
‘Sister Emily is a “yes” person,’ he said once to Clem. ‘Everything is a possibility until proved otherwise.’
Even as he remembers saying it, there is a tap at the door, and Clem and Janna come in together. He sees at once their fear, their uncertainty, and his spirits sink again. As Magda hurries forward to welcome them and asks them to sit down he makes a little prayer for guidance. As yet he can see no way forward. Even if Mr Brewster’s offer were not accepted it will not be long before the frailty of the community makes it necessary for a decision to be taken for its future. Surely it is better to jump than to be pushed – or is it? He tries to imagine Chi-Meur as a hotel: it would be themed, of course. The Tudor Experience, perhaps, or the Elizabethan Manor House Weekend. He tries to visualize the house with a bar and a gym and wonders what Mr Brewster would do with the small, perfect chapel. House yoga sessions?
He realizes that a little silence has fallen on the now assembled group. Sister Nichola is watching him. Half smiling, half frowning, she seems to be trying to read his thoughts. Her round pale face, freckled by the brown coins of old age, is surprisingly unlined; all cares and fears have been smoothed away as she’s slowly been drawn into her parallel universe where she dwells in peaceful quietude. He nods at her, smiling, as if to say: ‘All is well.’
‘Silence,’ she says sweetly, surprisingly, into the silence. Her voice is quite clear and unusually strong. ‘The silence before and after music is as important as the music.’
The silence now takes on a new quality of surprise, almost trepidation, at what Sister Nichola might say next: she speaks rarely these days and her words are strange yet significant.
And she is so right, thinks Clem. Those amazing silences at the end of some great symphony, when the audience has been transported to another level of consciousness. How I hate it when people start shouting and clapping almost before the last note has been played, destroying the atmosphere that has been created. And the intensity of concentration at the beginning when the baton is raised and everyone is drawn into a breathless silence of expectation.
‘And the silence before and after prayer,’ says Father Pascal, taking his place at the table. ‘Shall we wait in silence now before we pray for the wisdom to see God’s plan for us here at Chi-Meur, and for the courage to follow it?’
In the churchyard, Mo is putting flowers on her parents-in-law’s grave. Neither of them would have thanked her for hothouse blooms and, instead, she’s picked a few of the pretty snowflakes that are still blossoming in the churchyard, and some red campion that grows wild on the big, old graves of other, long-gone, members of the family who have lived at The Court and worshipped in this beautiful little collegiate church.
‘So what would you do?’ she asks silently of their shades, as she takes out the withered stems of her last offering and puts the bright fresh flowers into the little holes in the metal holder. ‘It was your house. You loved it and cherished it, as we do, and worked in the garden where there are the graves of all the dogs. Oh, the dogs! I remember them all so well. And how The Court was such a refuge to come back to after those foreign countries.’
She sits back on her heels, looking up into the dark glossy black-green leaves of the great yew tree, reaching out to touch the rough, grainy branches.
‘You loved Adam so much when he was a baby. How proud you were of him. But what would you think now? What would you want us to do? He doesn’t want The Court. He doesn’t value it. He hated it when we had the B and B-ers and he refused to bring his friends home in the holidays. He went away to them instead and we hardly ever saw him. I spoiled him, of course. After all those miscarriages, suddenly to have a son; we were overjoyed. And he was such a funny little boy, so cool and quiet. Always watching but never really joining in. So detached. Poor Dossie. She tried so hard to integrate him with whatever she was doing and with her friends but he was what the French call insortable.
‘I was so happy when he married Maryanne. She was such a bubbly, warm, extrovert sort of girl. This will do it, I thought. She will make him really human, at last. But it didn’t work. At the beginning she simply swept him along in the current of her energy but in the end his chilliness simply froze her out. It withered her until she had to leave so as to save herself. I could see that. She didn’t really want to; she loved him but she simply couldn’t connect. None of us could. Oh, I miss Maryanne. We stay in touch but it makes him angry. It was almost a relief when she took the job in Brussels. And now there’s Natasha. She’s another cold fish so they suit each other, and I’m sure that they are happy in their own way. I’m not judging that. I’m just wondering what to do with The Court. They don’t want it. Those girls of hers hate it down here. They want shops, entertainment, noise. Adam and Natasha want to be certain that Dossie isn’t left with any rights to stay in the house when we die. They fear that Clem and Jakey would move in too, and then there would be no money for them. I know it’s wrong of us to feel this way if Adam loves her, but Pa said: “What if we leave it to Adam and then he dies unexpectedly soon and it goes to Natasha and those girls? We don’t know them, and they care nothing for us or The Court, and what about Dossie, then?” But Adam is our son and we love him. And if we leave it between them Dossie couldn’t afford to buy him out and where would she go? It’s her home.’
Mo gets up very slowly and painfully, dusting down her rubbed and faded navy-blue cords, looking with approval at the graceful, pretty arrangement of the flowers: the creamy white with the dark, rich pink. She stretches her cramped limbs and turns to look beyond the further wall to the distant gleam and dazzle of the sea. In the fields tall feathery grasses and bright yellow buttercups ripple before the wind, shining in the sunshine like the sleek pelt of a great healthy animal. The sun is hot on her shoulders and she breathes in the scent of the hawthorn and the new-mown grass. She is in some odd way consoled, as if those fierce, tough former guardians of The Court are still standing in the shadows ready to guide and protect. She picks up the wilted stems, folds them and crushes them, and puts them into a plastic bag, which she stuffs into the pocket of her Husky gilet. Under the great yew she passes, making her way to the gate, and there she smiles with pleasure because across the road at the end of the lane, with Wolfie and John the Baptist on their leads, stands Pa.
‘Thought we’d come to meet you,’ he says as she crosses the road towards them. ‘The dogs were missing you.’
They turn back into the lane and he releases the dogs, and they jump about Mo with excitement as if she has been gone for days, and then they all set off home together.
The meeting is over. Sister Ruth goes out with Sister Nichola, Sister Emily behind them, whilst Father Pascal ta
lks quietly with Mother Magda beside the table as she tidies the papers. Janna slips along to the kitchen to start preparing lunch and Clem follows her.
‘So then. Now we know.’ He closes the door and leans against the table.
‘’Tis awful. Oh, poor Mother Magda. She looks quite ill with the prospect of it all.’ Janna goes to the sink and begins to scrub the tiny new potatoes Clem brought in earlier from the garden. Fresh-picked mint lies beside the saucepan.
‘But I suppose it’s not such a shock, in a way. They must have realized that they couldn’t go on indefinitely like this. At the same time, it hadn’t occurred to me that they might sell Chi-Meur.’
‘Well, what did you think then?’
‘I just assumed that they might bring in Sisters from another community. It happens all the time these days. I never thought that they might be the ones to go. Stupid of me.’
They speak very quietly as usual, but this morning both of them feel rather like conspirators.
‘I’m the stupid one. I never thought about it at all. I just thought this was all quite normal, but they’d probably eventually have to bring in a few more helpers. After all, when we’ve got guests and the house is full it all feels just great. I know we’re stretched but I never thought of them having to sell it and go. ’Tis horrible. They’ve been here for years and years. This is their home. And to turn it into a hotel …’
Clem can see that she is near tears but doesn’t know how to comfort her.
‘I thought it was brilliant when Sister Emily said that if there were one single nun remaining at Chi-Meur then there was a community here, didn’t you?’
Janna dashes a hand across her eyes and nods, smiling a little at the remembrance of the valiant comment.
‘But they’ve got to think ahead,’ he goes on thoughtfully. ‘Of course they have, yet there must be some way that Chi-Meur can survive.’
‘How?’ She looks at him hopefully. ‘You could ask Dossie. She’s always full of good ideas and plans. And Pa and Mo.’
‘Nobody is supposed to know until the Visitor has been, Mother Magda said.’
‘I’d never heard of the Visitor. Funny name.’
‘It’s Bishop Freddie from the Truro Diocese. Pastoral overview, advice, and all that stuff. He’s always brought in when there’s a really big decision to be made. Good job this hotelier is from upcountry, otherwise it would be all over the village by now. They’re going to be really upset about it. That’s probably why he’s playing his cards so close to his chest. Doesn’t want to upset the locals before it’s absolutely necessary.’
Janna turns to him suddenly. ‘D’you think it’s that man that’s been staying with Penny’s uncle at the farm? He says he’s writing a book but Penny says her auntie doesn’t believe a word of it. Says he’s writing a history about north Cornwall but never listens when you tell him anything. He’s always talking on his mobile. I’ve seen him in the village and up on the cliffs. He’s that man I saw in the grounds, ages ago. D’you remember? Penny’s boy says he can’t find him when he Googles his name. Perhaps he’s just been spying on us.’ Her eyes fill with tears again. ‘’Tisn’t right. They belong here, the Sisters and Mother Magda. And you do too. You and Jakey down in the Lodge.’
‘And what about you?’ he asks softly. ‘Don’t you belong here?’
She bites her lips, slides the potatoes into the large saucepan and drops in the mint. ‘Funny, isn’t it? I’ve never felt I’ve belonged anywhere really before I came here. But ’tis like I’m not meant to, I suppose. I’ve always been frightened at the thought of settling anywhere and now it seems I shan’t have to worry about it after all. I just wish it hadn’t been so soon.’
‘It hasn’t happened yet,’ Clem says.
He goes to stand beside her, wondering how to comfort her. Sister Emily comes gliding in and smiles at them, slipping an arm around each of them.
‘Exciting times,’ she says. ‘Much to think about, and to pray about. What is for lunch? Oh, lovely lamb casserole and new potatoes. How delicious that mint smells.’ She beams upon them, holding on to them very tightly for a moment. ‘All will be well,’ she murmurs.
She goes out again, and they turn to their tasks, but both feel oddly comforted.
Driving in the twisting, narrow maze of lanes at the edge of the moor, Dossie stops occasionally to check the map and to peer at slanting ancient finger posts.
‘It was probably crazy to buy it,’ Rupert said ruefully. ‘Nobody will ever find it and I shall be having calls from desperate holiday-makers telling me that they’re lost. Except that the mobile signal around here is a bit patchy. I shall have to get a telephone installed, of course. I’ll email you a map and I’ll be looking out for you.’
Luckily she knows roughly where she is, although it is definitely off the beaten track and she’s already taken one or two wrong turns. She doesn’t care: she is so happy. Marvelling at the glory of the spring, listening to Joni Mitchell singing ‘At Last’, she flees through the sunken byways; glimpsing the heavenly glimmer of bluebells in an oak wood that climbs a steep, rocky ridge; passing a farm gate where tender, fleecy lambs crowd, clamouring, against the bars. Stopping yet again to consult the map, and getting out so as to take off her jacket, she hears the yaffle laughing down in a valley hidden amidst creamy clouds of hawthorn blossom.
On she goes. The lane winds downhill and then, quite suddenly, she is there; and he is waiting for her. She pulls in just beyond the cottage, beside his Volvo in an old lean-to shed, and climbs out.
‘Well done!’ he cries, as though she’s won some kind of marathon. ‘Did you get lost?’
‘Not really.’ It is silly to feel like this each time she sees him: almost shy and not quite knowing how to behave. ‘Not seriously lost. I made a few wrong turns but realized quickly afterwards. I see what you mean about your average tourist finding it, but it’s utterly delightful.’
She stands in the lane looking at the small cottage basking in the sunshine. Wisteria climbs over the front door and she can hear the tinkling, gurgling murmur of water. The tiny stream runs at the edge of the square of lawn and disappears away down the valley. Rupert is watching her reaction.
‘It’s a bit gloomy in the winter,’ he says. ‘Not much sun then, but there’s a good wood-burner and it’ll be cosy. It’s very small. Come inside and have a look.’
She sees at once that he is living quite comfortably and not simply camping. The inglenook fireplace, with its heavy wooden lintel beam, has been carefully cleaned and a bookcase has been built into a recess. The two armchairs look shabby but comfortable.
‘I try to keep areas of tranquillity,’ he says, ‘otherwise it’s too depressing for words. It’s not always possible, of course, in the early stages but I’m working upstairs now and keeping this room and the kitchen as couth as I can. Go and have a recce upstairs while I make some coffee. I thought we’d have it out in the sunshine. The staircase is very steep so be careful. I’m having a new rail made for it by an amazing blacksmith in Boscastle.’
The landing branches at the top and the floorboards are bare. One bedroom is clean and fresh, with new paint and sanded boards. She is impressed by the beautifully hand-built cupboards and the dark blue, folding linen blind in the small, deep-set window. A bathroom is being installed into what was a box-room, an elegant egg-shaped washbowl and tall shining taps plumbed cleverly into the deep slate of the windowsill so as to give maximum space. The third room – the bigger bedroom – is clearly in use. Although the floor is covered with an expensive rush matting and the uneven walls painted, there are no cupboards yet. Her quick, inquisitive glance takes in his belongings: a towelling robe flung across the bed, a book on the floor beside a radio. Some clothes hanging on a rail that stands in the corner. She turns, feeling as if she is spying on him, and comes cautiously down the steep stairs, one hand on the wall.
She stands in the narrow hall, listening, and then pushes open the door into the kitchen. It is clear that
this has once been a living room with the kitchen in a lean-to behind it, and more hand-built cupboards and a dresser have been carefully installed in this bigger room. This is work in progress but still functional, and she is impressed by his vision and ability. She goes out again, passing through the hall and out into the sunshine. Rupert is unloading a tray onto the wooden picnic table on the little grassy space and she joins him. He glances up at her expectantly and she grins at him.
‘I like it,’ she says lightly. ‘It’s going to be really special.’
He gives a laughing little sigh of relief, as if her approval is really important to him. ‘You really think so?’
‘It’s got everything,’ she says, sliding onto the wooden bench. ‘Character, charm, but with all the really nice modern bits. Glorious setting. Cosy in the winter.’
‘Like to write the brochure for me?’ he teases.
‘At a price,’ she says. ‘Goodness. This is quite a feast! I approve. As a family we have a great picnic tradition.’
‘I think I’d gathered that.’ He pours some coffee. ‘Anyway, you deserve it, having trekked right out here. So you don’t think I was a fool to buy it?’
Dossie shakes her head. ‘Not at all. I’m glad that you’re moving the kitchen into the living-room, though. It must be a bit poky out the back there.’
‘The old kitchen is going to be a wet-room …’
He begins to tell her his plans, his fingers sketching diagrams on the rough planking of the table, but she is only half listening to him; drugged by the warm sunshine, the music of the water, his voice. She drinks her coffee and eats some chocolate tiffin, and pulls herself together sufficiently to ask one or two intelligent questions. He pours more coffee and she turns to watch a bluetit on the nut-feeder, which someone has hung from the branch of an alder that leans above the stream.
The Christmas Angel Page 11