‘Surely,’ Sister Ruth is saying, ‘surely it would be more sensible for us to go to the Sisters in Hereford rather than open Chi-Meur to strangers. To move out of our own quarters into the Coach House would be an enormous upheaval. How would we manage?’ She looks at Sister Nichola, who seems to be listening intently to something that nobody else can hear. ‘How would she cope? She’s been very restless again lately, disappearing on her own, and I’m sure it’s because of all this worry.’
Ruth feels the situation is slipping beyond her own control. She knows that Sister Emily will welcome it – she’s always been a radical – and that Magda will dither anxiously, trying to make certain everyone is happy. Can’t they see, she asks herself crossly, the unsuitability of cramming themselves into the Coach House?
Father Pascal waits for Mother Magda to speak but when she remains silent, he says: ‘Any change is going to be an upheaval. Surely, if it could be arranged, it would be less of an upheaval to move across to the Coach House than to go to a completely strange place. I know that you communicate regularly with the Sisters in Hereford but, even so, it would be a very big change.’
‘I think,’ says Sister Emily, eyes shining, ‘that it is a wonderful idea. To stay here and to see Chi-Meur still used for the spiritual comfort and guidance of many, many people. Even to have a small part in it. Oh, what a gift it would be.’
She opens her cupped hands, as if already receiving the gift, and Father Pascal tries to suppress the uprush of affection and joy that she always invokes in him.
‘But,’ says Sister Ruth rather desperately, ‘surely this would all take time? It seems rather a risk. And if it doesn’t work? What then? We might still have to move, and think what a toll that would take on Sister Nichola.’
‘I think, if we were able to ask Sister Nichola, she would want to stay here if it were at all possible,’ says Sister Emily. ‘She was born and brought up here, after all. Her relatives visit her regularly. Think how much she would miss them.’ She raises her chin, in the imperious way she has, and beams upon her old adversary.
Sister Ruth stares back. She would like to smack Sister Emily very hard. This is not a new sensation and she wills herself to sit still, reluctantly acknowledging that it is an important point. The fact that she has been trying to ignore this aspect of the move to Hereford simply makes her feel guilty about Nichola and even more resentful towards Emily.
Father Pascal watches them, aware of Sister Ruth’s muddled emotions; still he waits for Mother Magda to speak. He knows that she is very taken by the idea of Chi-Meur becoming a retreat house, though she is anxious – Mother Magda is always anxious – about how it is to be done.
‘Try not to worry about the nuts and bolts of it,’ he said, when they first talked about it. ‘Just try to think about it as a whole, and pray about it, and then we can speak to Emily and Ruth and Nichola.’
‘It sounds a wonderful solution,’ she said cautiously. ‘We could remain a community but still have a part in this greater movement.’
‘Exactly!’ He was barely able to contain his excitement. ‘You could live in the Coach House and keep the orchard for your own use. You’d still be quite private and self-contained. Naturally there would have to be some small changes to the Coach House to make it easier for Nichola – perhaps a stair-lift – but I’m sure it could be sorted out. And Chi-Meur could continue its tradition with people coming on retreat and on courses, and you could still be part of that but not responsible for it.’
Now, as he waits, she gathers herself to speak, her thin, lined face intent with the need to say the right words: to convince, to encourage. Suddenly he remembers the young Magda who looked after the small herd of dairy cows in the days when the convent was much more self-sufficient. How she’d loved those quiet, gentle creatures; she’d hurry from the milking parlour, coming in late to the early Office with wisps of straw on her habit, boots kicked off at the chapel door, her face rosy and peaceful. How sad she’d been when keeping the farm had no longer been an option.
‘I believe that this is something we must think about most carefully,’ she says now. Her fingers nervously pleat and repleat the skirt of her habit. ‘It could be a very great opportunity to see our community growing rather than shrinking. We’ve been unsuccessful in finding any other group to join us and some of us are unwilling to leave Chi-Meur and allow it to become an hotel. Who knows? Out of the retreat house we might find vocations being discovered and novices wanting to join us …’
‘In the Coach House?’ Sister Ruth speaks sneeringly, and Mother Magda is silenced.
‘Yes, if necessary.’ Father Pascal is firm. ‘All things are possible with God. And this kind of movement is much more likely to attract young women than the older, more retired ways would. You must be prepared for change.’
Sister Emily takes a deep, happy breath. ‘And Clem and Jakey and Janna could stay with us.’
‘If they wish to, and I feel certain that Clem will.’ Father Pascal hesitates, choosing his words carefully. ‘You all know that Clem was selected for training and hoped to go on to ordination. It was only the tragic death of his wife that made him postpone it so as to bring up Jakey. Perhaps, now, he could start his training again. In my opinion he would make an excellent priest and warden. Of course, I would still be here, and so would you. It is you who would be laying the foundation stones.’
‘And if Janna would stay we would be very grateful to have her,’ adds Mother Magda.
‘We’d certainly need her,’ says Sister Emily bluntly. ‘We’d need someone who knows our ways and whom we trust and feel safe with.’
‘And Jakey?’ asks Sister Ruth sarcastically. ‘I suppose we need him too?’
‘He balances us,’ answers Sister Emily. ‘We who are so old and Jakey who is only four. It is refreshing to see things through his eyes and to hear his thoughts and ideas. Yes, I think that Jakey could be contained within it all, don’t you?’
‘If Clem stays, then Jakey stays, and we certainly need Clem,’ Father Pascal says strongly. ‘They could stay in the Lodge, of course. Nothing need change there.’ He looks around at them. ‘We have much to think about and to pray about, I know that, but it gives us a fresh hope and the prospect of a new beginning. I am reminded of that verse from Isaiah: “Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you … Nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn.”’
‘As long as we can manage it all. If only we were younger …’ Mother Magda still looks anxious; Sister Emily is radiant and Sister Ruth judicious. Sister Nichola gets up from her chair and shuffles across the room to stand beside Father Pascal. She bends towards him.
‘“Have you not known?’” she quotes softly. ‘“Have you not heard? Those who wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength: they shall mount up with wings as eagles, they shall run and not be weary, and they shall walk, and not faint.”’
They sit for a moment in silence and then Father Pascal smiles up at her. ‘You do right to quote Isaiah, too,’ he says. ‘A prophet of vision and of great faith. Shall we have a prayer to close?’
‘I like butterfly cakes,’ Jakey says contentedly. He sits on the grass outside the caravan door. Stripey Bunny is propped against the leg of the canvas chair and the Peter Rabbit mug stands beside him on the picnic rug. ‘Shall I have another one?’
‘Why not, my lover? You should eat Stripey Bunny’s. I don’t think he likes them much.’ Janna is stretched out on the grass beside the rug. ‘Is Daddy coming back for a cuppa?’
‘He said he would.’ Jakey peels away the paper carefully and licks some crumbs from it. ‘He’s happy again now.’
‘Is he?’ Janna shades her eyes with her hands and looks across at Jakey. ‘That’s good, then.’
Jakey nods, eating his cake. ‘Auntie Gabriel came in the night and then Daddy was happy again.’
‘Auntie Gabriel?’ Janna half sits up, propping herself on her elbow. ‘Isn
’t she the angel you had at Christmas standing on the bookcase?’
Jakey licks his fingers and wipes them on the grass. ‘She comes and watches us in the night. She looks after us.’
‘Watches you?’
‘She stands outside but I can see her when I look out of my bedloom window.’
‘And then what happens?’
‘I wave to her.’
‘And does she wave back?’
Jakey shakes his head. ‘She has her hands together like this.’ He clasps his hands. ‘She’s holding her heart so she can’t wave back.’
Janna sips her tea thoughtfully. She remembers the large, delightful angel with her string hair and fragile crown; and now, too, she remembers the red satin heart that Auntie Gabriel holds between her hands. Janna guesses that it must have been a particularly vivid dream.
‘As long as you weren’t frightened,’ she says.
‘No. I love her,’ he says. ‘She’s not flightening. She watches over us. Look! Here’s Daddy.’
Clem comes striding towards them through the orchard, the pretty grey and gold banties scattering before him; he looks strong and confident and purposeful. Janna watches his approach with a mixture of surprise and wariness: it is clear that he’s heard some news. Instinct warns her that great change is imminent for all of them and her heart beats faster in trepidation.
‘We saved a cake for you,’ Jakey is crying to him, delighted to see him. ‘You can sit there, in the chair.’
Clem folds himself into the small chair and smiles at them both. Janna stands up, still wary, examining the excitement that shines in his eyes.
‘You look like you’ve won the lottery,’ she says lightly. ‘Want a cuppa?’
‘Oh, yes, please. Just ordinary stuff, if you’ve got some.’ He accepts the cake that Jakey presses upon him and looks again at Janna, who hesitates at the bottom of the caravan step. ‘I’ve just seen Father Pascal.’ He speaks quietly. ‘Good news. It seems we might not have to go, after all. Can you come down and have some supper after I’ve put Jakey to bed?’ She nods and he smiles at her reassuringly. ‘It sounds really good,’ he promises, and then Jakey flings himself upon him, wanting attention, and Janna climbs up into the caravan to make the tea.
TRINITY
AFTER TWO WEEKS of cold winds and heavy rain, which beat down the remaining frail blossoms from the azaleas, the last week in June is sunny and hot. In The Court’s gardens, baby woodpeckers sporting their bright red caps cling nervously to the nut-feeders, trying their new skills, still hoping to be fed by their watchful parent. From a corner, beneath the stone wall, a bronze slowworm slithers silently into the dank warm safety of the compost heap.
Mo, weeding the long border, sits back on her heels. She feels tired and anxious. Earlier, Adam, Natasha and the girls left to go back home after a weekend of tension, and she and Pa are suffering from the strain of it. The girls were uncommunicative, as usual, whilst Natasha seems to condone their behaviour, shrugging, smiling apologetically, but doing nothing to suggest that they might answer questions or be polite.
‘I suppose,’ Pa said, ‘that we are utterly irrelevant to them. They have a father, even if he is estranged, and aunts and uncles and grandparents, and we are just a tiresome pair of old biddies that they don’t need to bother about.’
‘But even so,’ Mo answered, ‘that doesn’t excuse rudeness. It doesn’t matter who we are, surely common politeness is still necessary, especially whilst they are our guests.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Clearly not.’
And now he is determined to speak to Dossie; to tell her that they want to leave The Court to her and to ask if she knows of any reason why this wouldn’t be a good plan.
Mo climbs rather painfully to her feet and puts a handful of weeds into the wheelbarrow. Her heart pounds unevenly and she steadies herself by grasping its handle.
‘So,’ Adam said casually when they were alone together. ‘Anything decided yet? Any plans for the future? I thought that Pa was looking a tad stretched. He’s OK, is he? No more keeling over sideways?’
‘No,’ she answered, shrinking distastefully from his callous words. ‘No, none of that. He’s very fit at present. And so am I.’
Adam glanced around the garden and up at the house. ‘Just as well,’ he said lightly. ‘I can’t think how you manage it all.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you can.’ She turned away from him, not liking him, and horrified at herself for such a feeling.
He followed her, catching at her arm. ‘It’s no good being upset, Mo,’ he said, almost angrily. ‘It’s got to be sorted out. I’m wondering if I – and Dossie – ought to have power of attorney, just in case. It’s all very well being proud, but things can happen suddenly at your ages.’
‘Or even at your ages,’ she responded sharply. ‘You might have a heart attack, mightn’t you? What then? What are your plans? Does everything go to Natasha? After all, you’ve known her for little more than a year and you’re not married. Do you intend to get married?’
He flushed: that odd, familiar yet almost shocking reaction, which suffused his fair skin with such vivid colour that his eyes looked frostily cold and rather frightening. She stared at him, fascinated.
‘It’s none of your business,’ he said shortly, turning away from her, so that it was she, this time, who followed and grasped his arm.
‘Why not? Why are you allowed to question us but we are not allowed to know your plans?’
He shook himself free and went quickly into the house, and she had to wait for several minutes to control her uneven breathing and the odd pain in her side. She thought, wryly, that it was quite the wrong moment to – how had he put it? – keel over. Suddenly she was determined to go with Pa to their lawyer and get it sorted out: The Court must go to Dossie.
Now, standing quietly, breathing deeply, she prays that Dossie still wants it; wonders if this new man might yet set all their plans awry. As she lets go of the wheelbarrow, she hears Pa calling her and the dogs appear, as if to collect her. She turns towards the house and he waves to her and she raises her arm in response.
‘All right, Mo?’ he asks as she approaches, and they sit down on the wrought-iron seat together.
‘No,’ she says crossly, when she’s got her breath back. ‘I am not all right. I feel angry and frustrated and, oh, lots of other things.’ She looks at him as he turns towards her and lays his arm along the back of the seat. ‘Where did we get it wrong, Pa? We loved him so much, didn’t we? The longed-for son. We were so proud. All those miscarriages. Do you remember in Jo’burg? God, it was so hot and you getting called away on some emergency and me losing the baby. It was like a miracle, having Adam. Yet it’s as if he’s a changeling.’
‘Yes, that’s exactly it.’ Pa nods. ‘Somehow I’ve never really recognized him. Dossie’s a mixture of you and my mother, and a bit of me mixed in too, which helps us to understand her, doesn’t it? And old Clem …’
‘I worried about Clem for a bit when he was at that adolescent stage. He became a bit distant. Dossie calls it “austere” and I feared that he might turn out like Adam. But he didn’t. He is austere but he’s also got a tremendous capacity for compassion. And a great sense of humour. Adam just doesn’t have that, does he?’
Pa shakes his head sadly. ‘I can’t reach him. I disappointed him when I stopped being someone he could brag about.’
‘We got it wrong for him when we came home and settled here. I thought he’d be pleased, which was stupid of me. I suppose it’s more fun for a teenage boy to be travelling across the world for his holidays than having his parents close enough to be able to turn up for athletics days and rugby matches. And he’d got used to us being so far away. He’d had to learn to manage without us and then he found he could. We can’t blame him for that.’
‘But it was exactly the same for Dossie,’ Pa argues. ‘She was older, of course, but she’d been away to school, too. Dossie loved us all being together.’
> ‘I’ve often wondered if Adam takes after my father,’ Mo says. ‘After all, I was only five when he was killed at Dunkirk, and he was a professional soldier so I hardly remember him at all. His photographs are all so formal. And black and white, of course, so it’s a bit difficult to see much of a resemblance, though his very fair colouring is right for Adam. My mother rarely spoke about him except in a kind of respectful way but never with great passion or huge regret.’
‘Well, it wasn’t a generation that let it all hang out, was it? Grief was a private thing. Stiff upper lip.’
‘Even so.’ Mo sighs. ‘I cannot connect with him. Adam, I mean. And it just breaks my heart. I can’t connect with Natasha, either, or those girls. Whatever shall we do?’
‘Whatever we do, I don’t intend to leave Dossie without a home. If she wants to stay here, then that’s what I want for her. I know they could sell and split the money and she’d have enough to buy a little place of her own but Dossie loves The Court. It’s her home.’
‘But could she afford to live here on her own?’ asks Mo anxiously. ‘We’re all chipping in, aren’t we, at the moment? But without our pensions, especially yours from RTZ, could she manage?’
‘She could do what we did,’ he says.
Mo looks at him, puzzled. ‘What we did? Oh! B and B-ers?’ She is silent for a few moments. Then, ‘Actually,’ she says slowly, ‘that’s not a bad idea. And she’d be so good at it. But would she even consider it?’
He shrugs. ‘She might get tired of all this driving to and fro. Making food, catering for dinner parties, dashing round the county.’ He grins at Mo. ‘Wouldn’t it be great?’
She smiles at his enthusiastic optimism. ‘It would be just wonderful.’
‘So when are we going to ask her about this man?’
Panic seizes Mo’s heart again. ‘Oh, good grief,’ she groans. ‘However can I ask her? How would I start?’
They sit together, considering ways and means, whilst the dogs doze at their feet in the sunshine.
The Christmas Angel Page 14