‘Exactly my point!’ Pa exclaims in a kind of whispered shout. They’ve both instinctively lowered their voices, leaning across the table towards each other. ‘That’s why we should have it out with her.’
John the Baptist’s tail begins to beat against the table leg and Mo and Pa instinctively turn towards the door. Dossie comes in. She wears pretty flowered pyjamas, her fair hair is fluffed up around her head and she looks radiantly happy.
‘What are you up to?’ she asks brightly. ‘Bit early, isn’t it, for plotting over the teapot?’
‘Plotting?’ begins Pa, flustered by her sudden entrance. ‘How d’you mean? Plotting?’
Mo kicks him, not gently. ‘You’re up early too,’ she says to Dossie. ‘Was it the thrush singing? He disturbed us and then we simply had to get up to see the sun rise. It was wonderful. We were just making plans for today, weren’t we, Pa? Deciding what to do.’
She stares at him, daring him to contradict her. He breathes in through his nose and pours some more tea, his lips tightly compressed. John the Baptist goes to sit beside him and lays his heavy head consolingly upon Pa’s knee.
‘So, then,’ says Dossie cheerfully, fetching a mug, pouring tea. ‘What are these plans for today?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ says Pa blandly. ‘How far had we got with the plans, Mo?’
Mo sits up straighter. Her eyes sparkle challengingly. ‘We decided that we’d go over to Chi-Meur, and have a chat with Clem, persuade him to make us some coffee, perhaps, and then go to the Eucharist. It’s so peaceful and the Sisters always love to see us. That was as far as we’d got, wasn’t it, darling?’
Pa, who has already decided on a delightful pottering sort of day in the garden, is silenced.
‘Sounds great,’ Dossie is saying. ‘And then you can have a pub lunch and take the dogs for a walk on the cliff.’
‘And what about you?’ asks Pa suddenly, ignoring Mo’s look of warning. ‘What are your plans? Anything exciting?’
‘Take some freezer meals over to a holiday cottage at Port Gaverne,’ she answers. ‘Make some phone calls to clients. Work out a menu for a lunch party. Catch up on a bit of paperwork. Usual sort of day. I thought you were working in the garden today, Pa, rather than going off on a jolly.’
‘So did I,’ says Pa grimly.
‘Plenty of time for both,’ says Mo brightly. ‘You can easily get a couple of hours in before we go off to Chi-Meur. Better hurry up and get some clothes on, though.’ She beams upon him. ‘You can take first go in the shower. What luck that the thrush woke us so early, wasn’t it?’
‘I wonder now,’ says Clem, ‘whether I got it all wrong. I should have continued with my training.’ He glances at Father Pascal, hoping for a response but the old priest remains silent. ‘The problem was,’ he continues almost defensively, ‘it just seemed utterly crazy with a baby. Even with a nanny, and I’m not sure how on earth that would have worked in a theological college. The distractions would have made studying and working impossible.’
There is a longer silence. Sunlight slants through the cottage window, picking out the colours of the books on the shelves and sliding over the paintings on the walls.
‘Why, then,’ asks Father Pascal placidly at last, ‘do you feel that you got it wrong?’
Clem sighs; a kind of angry, groaning sound. ‘Because I can’t see where I’m going. I love it here, actually, but I’ve never seen it as my life’s work. I thought something would evolve out of it. Something to show me clearly where I should be going.’
‘But how do you know it won’t?’
Clem leans forward in his chair, staring at his hands clasped between his knees. ‘I suppose all this worry about what will happen at Chi-Meur is unsettling. I thought that I’d have the time, you see, to make a plan rather than just waiting for the blow to fall.’
‘But waiting is essential to the spiritual life. And waiting on God demands patience. But it need not be a passive patience as if you’re waiting for the rain to stop, or a bus to come along. We wait in expectation, living each moment fully in the present. You know that as disciples we are always waiting. During Advent we wait for the birth of Jesus, at Easter we wait for the Resurrection and now, during Pentecost, we wait for the coming of the Spirit. You know this, Clem.’
‘It’s not just me, though,’ Clem protests. ‘I have to think about Jakey too. I don’t intend to stay on here if Chi-Meur becomes a hotel, even if Mr Brewster were to offer it. I think I’d like to go back to college but I don’t know how I’d manage it with Jakey.’
‘Would you consider leaving Jakey with Dossie and Mo and Pa during the term-times? Would they be able to cope?’
‘I don’t know. He’d have to change schools, of course, but he’d have to do that anyway if I went back to Oxford. And I couldn’t afford a nanny for him this time.’
‘And afterwards? How do you see your ministry?’
Clem sits back in his chair. He relaxes; his attractive bony face brightens. ‘Well, what I have discovered is that I love Chi-Meur best when it’s packed with guests and retreatants. The vibes are terrific. And people talk to me, you know, when they see me around and it’s utterly amazing to talk to people who regard a conversation about God as normal. Some of them are just so strong in their faith and others have been shaken by some disaster and are dithering, and they sometimes wander round with me as I work and we discuss it.’
Father Pascal studies him thoughtfully; he knows that some of the guests have spoken with great respect of Clem. ‘Have you ever considered being a chaplain?’ he asks.
Clem stares at him. ‘What, in the Services, d’you mean?’
Father Pascal shrugs. His shrug is a Gallic one: shoulders, hands, even his face shrugs. ‘Not necessarily. There are other kinds of chaplaincy. Universities, prisons, hospitals, retreat houses. They all have chaplains.’
Clem thinks about it. ‘A retreat house,’ he answers at last. ‘That would be really good. Are there many? You mean like Lee Abbey over on Exmoor?’
‘That kind of thing. I’m not certain how many there are but I know one or two that are attached to monasteries …’
The thought occurs to them at exactly the same moment: they stare at each other.
‘A retreat house,’ Clem says softly. ‘Why not? Could it be done?’
Father Pascal can hardly speak; his heart hammers. ‘It must be done. This … this, Clem, is what we have been waiting for, I feel sure of it.’
Without being aware of rising they are on their feet, almost breathless with excitement.
‘But how does it start?’ asks Clem. ‘Who would actually run it? What has to be done?’
‘Much,’ is the answer. ‘But it’s so right. You feel it too?’
Clem nods. ‘Will the Sisters agree?’
Another shrug. ‘If it is right. Go away now, Clem. I need to be alone. To think and to pray. You do the same. I shall be up to the Eucharist later and we’ll speak again then.’
Clem nods, glances at his watch. ‘Pa and Mo are coming over,’ he says. ‘I must dash anyway.’ He hesitates. ‘But it will be OK, won’t it? I mean, it’s just such a perfect answer.’
He looks almost beseeching, and for a brief moment Father Pascal is reminded of Jakey pleading for some treat. He touches the tall figure lightly on the shoulder.
‘Go and see Pa and Mo,’ he says gently. ‘Come to the Eucharist and pray for guidance but don’t speak of it yet to anyone.’
He opens the front door. Clem ducks beneath the low beam, exchanges one last excited look with the old priest, and hurries away up the steep hill to Chi-Meur.
‘Butterfly cakes,’ Dossie says, ‘because I’ve been doing a children’s party. But I thought that we needed a moment. We haven’t had one for ages, have we? Gosh, the lavender smells wonderful.’
She gives the cake tin to Janna and bends to run her fingers through the lavender’s scented spikes. The caravan seems to rest amongst a flowerbed: pots of varying sizes and shapes contai
ning herbs and flowers are piled around its base. Dossie touches first this one and then that, pausing to sniff luxuriously at her fingers. Janna watches, delighted to see her: in her faded jeans and baggy white cotton shirt Dossie looks young and pretty and happy.
‘I love butterfly cakes,’ Janna says. ‘And the timing is just right. We’ve got some oblates staying and they’re giving me a bit of a holiday by taking on some of the work, so I’ve got a day off. Cuppa?’
‘Mmm, yes, please. Camomile and lemon would be good with the cakes.’ She straightens up and looks at Janna. ‘How are you?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ She tries to conceal her anxiety about Chi-Meur, about her future, knowing that Dossie has no idea of what is happening. ‘’Tis good to have a bit of help. The people who come here are just amazing, you know. ’Tis like they’re part of the community. Like family. ’Course, they’ve been coming for years so I suppose they are family. Hang on, I’ll get the kettle on.’
She brings out a little folding canvas chair, sets it beside the lavender for Dossie, and goes back inside to make the tea. After a few minutes she reappears with a tray, which she puts on the grass, and then sits down again on the caravan step.
‘I love it here,’ Dossie says dreamily, eyes closed in the sunshine. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, that the grounds have exactly the same atmosphere that you have in the chapel. It’s like there’s some kind of spell over the whole place. You’re not frightened, sleeping out here on your own?’
Janna shakes her head. ‘Sometimes I even leave the door open when ’tis hot at night. The top half, anyway. I’ve felt more frightened in a street full of people than I’ve ever felt here on my own. It’ll be difficult—’ She stops, biting her lip, reaching for her mug.
‘What?’ asks Dossie idly, eyes still closed. ‘What’ll be difficult?’
‘Nothing. Just thinking about managing when the oblates go home. Some of the women come up from the village to help when they can, though, so it’s fine really. So what about you? You look fantastic.’
Dossie opens her eyes. ‘Do I?’ she asks, delighted. ‘Really? I feel rather good at the moment.’
‘So what’s it all about then? Got a new fella?’ teases Janna, and is taken aback when Dossie turns her head to look at her and says, ‘Actually, I have.’
She laughs at Janna’s expression. ‘Crazy, isn’t it? But, listen. Don’t say anything, will you? Nobody knows yet. It’s just I’m not ready yet to talk about it. Pa will start questioning me – you know what he’s like – and Mo will fuss. And Clem …’ Her voice trails away. ‘It’s always a bit tricky explaining to your son that you’re … Oh, well.’
‘I can see that. But Clem would be pleased if you’re happy, wouldn’t he?’
‘Yes, I’m sure he would, but the truth is I haven’t got a very good track record for picking men. That’s why I’m not telling anyone, even my old friends. They always want to remind me about the last time. It’s never quite worked out, you see, and I always feel such a prat afterwards. This time, though …’
She sips her tea and Janna casts about for something to say that will be encouraging without seeming nosy.
‘He’s nice, is he?’ she asks lightly. ‘Does he live locally?’
Dossie shakes her head. ‘He’s rather peripatetic. He’s got a portfolio of properties including some holiday cottages, mostly on the south coast. He lives in the one he’s doing up at the time and then buys another and moves on. He’s never long in one place.’
‘Sounds good,’ Janna says enviously. ‘Does he need a mate?’
Dossie laughs. ‘I’m hoping so.’
Janna grins. ‘I didn’t mean like that. What was that word you said? Perry-something? It means moving about, does it? Sounds better than being a traveller. I’ll remember that one.’
‘Peripatetic. Really, it means living on the edge. He seems very happy, anyway.’
‘And would you like that?’ asks Janna curiously. ‘Moving about and never having a real place of your own?’
Dossie frowns. She puts her mug down on the grass and selects a butterfly cake, peeling off its paper cup. ‘Sometimes the thought of it seems like heaven. No responsibilities. Now here, now there. Seeing each place come together must be very satisfying. And then again …’ she shrugs. ‘I’ve lived at The Court for nearly all of my life, and I’d miss it dreadfully. I can’t really imagine living anywhere else. I suppose a change would be exciting, though I’ve no idea how on earth I’d tell Mo and Pa. And how would they manage? I’d feel so selfish.’
‘Maybe,’ Janna suggests, ‘if you get together, this man might decide to settle down somewhere near to them. He could still do places up, couldn’t he? He doesn’t have to live in them?’
‘His name’s Rupert. I’ve thought about that too. I just wish I knew how he really feels.’
‘About you, d’you mean?’
‘Mmm. I mean, we get on really well, and he seems keen. Phones up and texts, suggests pub lunches, and he’s shown me the place he’s working on and another one he hopes to buy, but we seem to be a bit stuck, if you know what I mean. He’s really easy to be with, and great fun, and he’s affectionate and … well, he says nice things, but we’re not moving on very quickly.’
Janna takes a cake too. ‘It could be that he’s had a bit of a bad time and he’s being cautious. Is he divorced?’
‘His wife died not that long ago. He doesn’t talk about it, just goes a bit grim and silent. Someone else told me.’
‘Well, then. That could be it, couldn’t it? He might just be feeling guilty about falling for you. Sort of callous when she’s died, poor thing. I can understand that.’
Dossie brightens. ‘I’d wondered about that too.’
‘Perhaps he just needs time to sort of fix it with his conscience.’ Janna pauses, feeling anxious in the role of confidante. After all, what does she know? ‘So Mo and Pa haven’t met him?’
‘Heavens, no!’ Dossie speaks vehemently. ‘It’s all so difficult because of living with them. I always feel like a kid taking home a boyfriend. Obviously they’ll have to meet him sooner or later but just for now I’m trying to be low key about it, and Rupert doesn’t ask. He knows the situation and I think he’d be as embarrassed about it as I am. I’m hoping that it will happen sort of naturally, somehow. You won’t say anything, will you?’
‘’Course I won’t. I promise. I’m just glad you’re happy. The rest’ll sort it itself out.’
‘I know.’ Dossie finishes her cake. ‘So how about you? No gorgeous men coming on retreat?’
‘Actually, it does happen sometimes. Generally, though, they’re married priests, although there have been one or two others. Widowers, generally.’
Dossie raises an eyebrow. ‘Bit old for you, I should have thought.’ She hesitates. ‘Pity you can’t fall in love with Clem, that’s what I think.’
Janna chuckles. ‘I couldn’t agree more. I love him but just not like that. He’s the same about me.’
‘Funny, isn’t it, this old chemistry business? You simply can’t manufacture it, can you?’
Janna shakes her head. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever really been in love. I don’t just mean the sex thing. That’s easy. But the real passion; I’ve never known that one. Is that what you’re feeling now?’
Dossie blushes and Janna laughs. ‘No need to answer. I can’t wait to meet him.’
‘You may have to,’ retorts Dossie. ‘I’m not going to introduce him to a gorgeous young creature like you until I’ve got him well and truly hooked.’
Later, walking down to the beach, Janna wonders what it must be like to be Dossie: to be in love but unable to talk about it. She can imagine how hard it would be for Dossie to tell Mo and Pa that she would be leaving them, and to explain such emotions to Clem. It is so sad, though, that she has to hide her happiness instead of sharing it. It seems that everyone has secrets just at the moment. As she begins to climb the cliff path, Janna wishes that she could share her own secret
with Dossie; but the fate of Chi-Meur isn’t just her secret. Clem and Jakey are involved, and Dossie would be anxious about them.
The lark’s song, bubbling up and up and followed by the swift descent into silence, distracts her. Here, on the sheltered path, plump pink cushions of thrift flower; above them, on the rough granite walls, delicate white rockroses clamber amongst clumps of red valerian. She crouches down, gathering her red cotton skirt around her knees, so as to examine a nest of scurrying ants who work busily in and around the base of the wall by the root of a mallow. How organized they are; how committed: fetching and carrying and guarding their home. She teases them for a while with a long grass stalk, smiling to herself but impressed, too, as they rear up and wave their pincer-like forelegs fearlessly at this intruder.
Out on the cliff the strong wind seizes her, battering her; still cold despite the sun’s warmth. As she draws nearer to the cliff’s edge she can hear an unusual sound: a high-pitched noise like the crying of a thousand babies. Curious, she looks out to sea where a white sail thrashes on the turquoise-green and inky-purple water, and tall, white-topped waves race in to smash themselves in flying spray against the steep, glittering-grey walls of the cliffs.
The crying is coming from somewhere below her and, looking down, she sees a strange sight: hundreds of seagull fledgelings are crammed in rows in the rocks’ crevices, all screaming for food. The parent birds dive and plunge below the rocks, landing and taking off again in a frenzy of providing. Suddenly the gulls are all around her in a whirling white storm of beating wings, and Janna steps back, instinctively raising her arms to ward them off. She moves away from the cliff’s edge, half frightened, half exhilarated by the encounter, struggling against the force of the wind and turning on to the path again. It will be better down on the beach. Tucked into the shelter of the rocks, she can sit in the sunshine and sleep.
The Christmas Angel Page 13