Vow of Obedience

by Veronica Black

  ‘Did you have a good retreat, Sister?’ Mother Dorothy gave her an expectant look.

  ‘In many ways, yes, Mother Prioress. It was cold and lonely at times, but the loneliness was never empty. I found that I actually met several local people, which I did enjoy.’

  ‘And your example may have inspired some of them to consider the deeper aspects of life.’

  Sister Joan rather doubted that but bowed her head meekly.

  ‘And you did some painting?’ Mother Dorothy looked at her.

  ‘Yes, Mother. In my case. Unsigned.’ For the life of her she couldn’t repress a faint sigh after the last word.

  ‘We shall find time to look at them later,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘Some of them may be good enough to be sold at the Christmas fair.’

  How Jacob would mock if he could hear those words. Jacob, with his keen, clever, Semitic face, his scorn of those who wasted or threw away their talents.

  ‘Never sell yourself short even if you’re not a Michelangelo,’ he had instructed her. ‘And always be proud of what you do. Art is above all the expression of the artist’s own personality.’

  ‘Personality must be checked and repressed to a certain degree,’ Mother Agnes had advised. ‘It cannot be entirely eradicated; nobody would wish that, but we must avoid singularity.’

  Sister Joan doubted if that counsel of perfection would ever be achieved by her. However there was no point in worrying about it now. She murmured, ‘Thank you, Mother.’

  ‘Have you any particular observations on our Scottish retreat?’ the other wanted to know.

  ‘You do know there’s a steep climb up to it? It would be impossible for older members of the community to make the climb regularly.’

  ‘That point has been made by several other sisters,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘It may be time for us to consider another site, but that will be a matter for consultation among all our houses. You look well, Sister, despite the rigours you have undergone. Ready to begin your tasks in the community again?’

  ‘And glad to be home,’ Sister Joan said warmly. ‘How is Sister David managing at the school or did you decide to defer the opening?’

  ‘The school is closed.’

  ‘Then I’d like permission to spend a day cleaning out before we reopen. After such a long break there’ll be dust an inch deep.’

  ‘Permanently closed,’ said Mother Dorothy.

  ‘Perm … I don’t understand.’ Sister Joan looked at her blankly. ‘You always said the school fulfilled a real need.’

  ‘It wasn’t my decision, Sister,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘The new education rules, with the national curriculum and endless series of tests make schools like the Moor School superfluous – or so the education authorities inform me. The children are being bussed into Bodmin.’

  ‘Which is ridiculous!’ Sister Joan’s face flushed indignantly. ‘Don’t they understand that the Romany children will start truanting if they’re thrust into the Bodmin school? They come to me because we’ve built up a pleasant relationship. They get as much education in the Moor School as they’d get anywhere else, probably more because they get individual attention. We know the families, the way they think. Officialdom can be so – so …’

  ‘Officious?’ Mother Dorothy smiled slightly. ‘I agree with you, Sister, but we have no real grounds on which to make a stand. The number of pupils affected is very small indeed, and you know that when they get older they are already obliged to enter the larger schools.’

  ‘But what about the trust? The Tarquins founded it for a school.’

  ‘I am in touch with lawyers,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘It may be possible to convert the trust into something else that would benefit the community. The school building is sound and then there are the books and desks and teaching aids. Something can be worked out, I’m sure.’

  Sister Joan was silent. She hadn’t realized until this moment how much she had enjoyed teaching, how close she had become to her pupils. Riding to school on Lilith, the placid pony, every morning she had relished the hours of freedom when she had been in charge of her little world. To have to give it up and submit herself to the cloistered life entirely was a blow for which she was unprepared.

  ‘You did some very good work there,’ Mother Dorothy was continuing. ‘You have every right to feel proud of that, Sister. I understand that you feel you have a responsibility to the children, but your first responsibility must be to God and the community. And you need not fear that we will leave you without occupation. After your retreat you will be ready for some practical work, I’m sure.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mother.’ Sister Joan felt more cheerful.

  ‘My main concern is how to use you in the best possible way,’ the prioress was considering thoughtfully. ‘There is one area where you would be most useful but I wonder how you would feel about it yourself. You have been Mary. Perhaps it is time for you to be Martha for a while. I mean that as we have no lay sister at the moment you could fill that gap until we can obtain one.’

  The lay sisters did most of the cooking and shopping; they kept earlier hours and went to bed later than others in the convent. They slept in the two cells that led off the kitchen. At present there were no lay sisters at the Cornwall House. Women who chose the religious life generally preferred to enter the cloister proper in an order like the Daughters of Compassion.

  ‘It would not,’ said Mother Dorothy with delicate irony, ‘be a demotion. Sister Perpetua has been doing most of the work but she has her infirmary duties.’

  ‘I would be very happy to take over the duties of lay sister,’ Sister Joan said, curbing her enthusiasm prudently. ‘I must warn you that my cooking isn’t very good – and that’s an understatement.’

  ‘We are always in need of extra penances,’ Mother Dorothy said, her mouth twitching slightly. ‘Fortunately Sister Teresa can cook. As novice she must not, of course, take her full place in the activities of the community until she has made her perpetual vows. However she can be of use in the kitchen.’

  ‘Thank you, Mother.’

  ‘Your things will be moved to the lay sister’s cell,’ Mother Dorothy said, making the small gesture that signified the end of the interview.

  ‘May I have leave to ride over to the school before chapel?’ Sister Joan asked. ‘I’d like to pick up a few things and …’

  ‘Take a somewhat sentimental farewell? Be back in time for chapel, please. Punctuality hasn’t been waived during your absence.’

  ‘Yes, Mother. Thank you.’

  She waited until she was outside the parlour door before she allowed herself to grin with delight. Mother Dorothy, for all her prissy ways, knew her nuns. The prospect of being able to go shopping in the car without asking for special leave, of having some precious time to herself in which to let her mind roam while her hands busied themselves with mundane tasks.

  ‘So you’re back.’ Sister Perpetua, reddish eyebrows arched, clumped through from the back premises. ‘Has Mother Prioress told you?’

  ‘About the school being closed? Yes, it was a shock.’

  ‘Trust the government for that,’ Sister Perpetua said with a sniff. ‘Always sticking their fingers in the pie.’

  ‘But I am to take over the duties of lay sister.’

  ‘Leaving me free to get on with my infirmary and leaving you free to do the cooking? I call that a mixed blessing.’

  ‘Sister Teresa is to do most of the cooking,’ Sister Joan assured her.

  ‘Then my pills and potions won’t be needed so often,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘So how was Scotland?’

  ‘Beautiful,’ Sister Joan said simply. ‘I painted some pictures there.’

  ‘Let’s hope Mother allows us to hang one of them up somewhere then. Where are you going now?’

  ‘Over to the school to give Lilith some exercise. Then I’ll move my things down to the lay cell.’

  ‘I can do that for you,’ the older nun offered. ‘You have your ride and get your bit of nostalgia
over. Don’t stay out after chapel or you’ll blot your copy-book before you’ve been back five minutes.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Sister Joan, ‘I have the feeling that those words will be the first addressed to me by Saint Peter when I arrive at the heavenly gates.’

  Sister Perpetua gave a harsh bark of laughter. ‘And if you arrive at the other place, which God forbid, I daresay you’ll be certain of a welcome!’

  Sister Perpetua was evidently developing a sense of humour. Sister Joan smiled as she went on into the narrow passage off which the infirmary and dispensary opened before the large kitchen was reached.

  She paused to put her head in at the door of the infirmary but the two old nuns who spent most of their time there were both dozing and Sister Perpetua’s loud whisper restrained her.

  ‘Don’t go bouncing in on Sister Gabrielle and Sister Mary Concepta now, just when I’ve got them settled for a nice little nap before chapel.’

  Sister Joan put her hands on her heart and went on through the kitchen to the yard. Lilith, her head stuck over the half door, greeted her with a whinny.

  ‘Hello, girl. Did you miss your rides?’ Sister Joan lifted down the old saddle and led the pony out. It struck her that she was talking to the horse rather in the same way that Sister Perpetua had talked to her, as if she were ten years old instead of thirty-six. However, since only a sixth of her life had been spent in the religious life she suspected that in many ways she could fairly be regarded as a mere child.

  She swung herself up into the saddle and trotted round to the front of the building. The sunshine had been deceptive. The light was beginning to fade and the joined shadows of Lilith and herself were long and thin on the grass. When she rode to school she had a special dispensation to wear jeans under her habit, but at this hour it was scarcely likely that she would meet even a casual walker on the moor.

  She urged Lilith into a jog, sensing her mount’s pleasure at being out again. A gentle walk up and down the lawn on a leading rein was the most she could have expected to get from any of the other sisters.

  The moor was brown at this end of the year. Unlike Dartmoor with its high, wild crags Bodmin had a brooding, secretive quality of its own. It yielded its beauties reluctantly, like a veiled woman holding back jewels. Here and there a late clump of heather clung to the turf, and the fronds of bracken were tipped with the pale gold of late autumn.

  The schoolhouse lay ahead, its walls and roof softened by shadow. She drew rein and dismounted, thinking with real regret of the months she had spent teaching here. She had grown to love the children, had even managed to weld into one class the dark-eyed Romanies and the more stolid offspring of the farmers. She liked to think they had liked her too, but she was too clear headed to imagine she had had any lasting influence on them. They would move on into other schools and forget her.

  ‘One of the hardest things you will ever have to do is cultivate detachment,’ her novice mistress had warned. ‘Detachment from all save the things of the spirit. Detachment does not mean coldness or not caring, but it does mean the ability to set oneself apart from all yearnings for transient things, all possessiveness, even in the end from the very prayers and devotions so dear to our hearts. These are only the finger pointing at the moon. Don’t spend all your time looking at your finger.’

  She had forgotten to bring the key to the school. Sister Joan wondered if that could be attributed to detachment but decided wryly that it was more likely to be absent-mindedness.

  Leaving the placid Lilith to graze at her ease she approached the door and gave it an experimental push. Sister David had evidently been remiss since it swung open with a protesting creak. Within, the cloakroom on the left and the classroom on the right were shadowed and shuttered. There was no electricity in the school. She had brewed tea for herself and hot soup on chilly days for the children on a primus stove. She went into the classroom and opened the shutters, letting the last of the late afternoon sun illumine the desks and blackboard and the shelves where the children had kept their projects.

  Sitting at her desk, surveying the room, peopling it with remembered children, she permitted herself her moment of nostalgia.

  ‘So, goodbye and God bless, my dear pupils.’

  She spoke the words aloud into the sighing silence. No sense in lingering here. Later on, when it had been decided to what use the building could be put, she would ask if she might take a few of the books. There were other books in the cupboard behind her. She glanced round and frowned slightly. The shelves from the cupboard had been lifted out and leaned against the blackboard. Sister David had evidently started clearing out ahead of time.

  ‘And as my deputy she has a perfect right,’ Sister Joan told herself firmly, rising and pulling open the door.

  The girl wedged awkwardly into the shadowy corner wore a white dress and had a garland of fading leaves on her head. She looked as if she were asleep but, of course, she wasn’t.

  * See Vow of Chastity.

  * See Vow of Silence.

  * See Vow of Sanctity.

  Two

  Sister Joan had seen dead bodies before. Death itself held no terrors for her, but the manner of dying did. As she knelt to lift the drooping head she saw the thin, purple line cutting into the neck like the rehearsal for a beheading.

  She had seen the face already that day. Valerie Pendon, missing from home in the middle of the night, now bundled into a cupboard, the wreath on her head and the long white dress with its inserts of cheap lace a terrible mockery of a bridal costume. Bitten nails on the fingers added the final touch of unbearable pathos.

  It had been an elopement then. A girl of sixteen stealing away in the middle of the night to meet a boy-friend of whom her parents had either been unaware or of whom they would have disapproved. Killed here? Brought here later? It was impossible to tell.

  Moving with the calmness of shock, she rose and shut the cupboard door, her hand automatically sketching a blessing. There was no help for it but on her first day back she would have to miss chapel.

  Remounting Lilith she urged her down the track towards the town. Fortunately the pony was in a mood to go fast but it would be dark by the time she reached the police station, even though in Cornwall the day died slowly.

  Street lights cast a hard blue light over nun and horse as she rode down the street and dismounted in the parking space at the side of the police station, tying Lilith’s rein loosely to the fire hydrant.

  When she walked into the station the desk sergeant glanced up, then snapped to attention in the way some people did when a nun appeared.

  ‘Good evening, Sister. Anything I can do for you?’ He sounded brisk and businesslike.

  ‘Is …’ She searched for the one name she knew. ‘Is Detective Sergeant Mill on the premises?’

  ‘Someone using my name in vain? Oh, hello, Sister Joan.’ Detective Sergeant Mill had just emerged from the inner office.

  ‘I hoped you’d be working late,’ she said.

  ‘Catching up on paperwork.’ His voice sharpened slightly as he took a second look at her. ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘I’m afraid there is, Detective Sergeant Mill. May I use your telephone to let the convent know I’ll be late?’

  ‘Certainly. You look as if you need a stiff shot of brandy too. See about it, will you?’

  He threw the order over his shoulder at the desk sergeant as he held open the door for Sister Joan.

  She accepted a chair gratefully and dialled the convent with fingers that felt suddenly clumsy and chilly.

  ‘Sister Perpetua? Sister Joan here. Please ask Mother Dorothy to excuse me but I’m forced to be absent from chapel and possibly for supper too.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ At the other end of the line Sister Perpetua sounded more resigned than panicky.

  ‘I’ll explain what has happened when I get back. I’m ringing from the police station but I’m perfectly all right, so there’s no need for anyone to worry. Goodbye.’

&
nbsp; She hung up quickly to find Detective Sergeant Mill’s eyes fixed on her.

  ‘What has happened, Sister?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I went over to the Moor school – you know it’s been closed? I wanted to have a last look at it – not literally, of course, but in a rather sentimental way. I also had some idea of picking up anything that I thought I might need. I’d forgotten the key but the front door was unlocked, so I went in.’ She paused to moisten her lips, clasping her hands tightly together. ‘Someone had taken the shelves out of the cupboard behind my desk. I opened the cupboard door and the girl – the one who was reported missing – was there. She was – someone strangled her, I think, and she’s wearing a bridal gown with a wreath of leaves on her head.’

  To her extreme embarrassment her voice choked and tears came into her eyes.

  ‘Drink this.’ Detective Sergeant Mill handed her the brandy the desk sergeant had just brought in. ‘You heard that, Stephens?’

  ‘I did.’ The desk sergeant looked marginally less stolid.

  ‘Lay on a car and get hold of Barratt, will you? He may as well be flung in at the deep end.’

  ‘Doctor, sir?’

  ‘And the photographer. A couple of men to rope off the area – you know the drill. Oh, and better get hold of the priest – Father Malone. Don’t contact the Pendons yet. Bad news will keep, if it is their daughter. Did you know the girl, Sister?’

  Sister Joan, her throat burning from the brandy, her self-possession restored, shook her head.

  ‘I saw the posters earlier,’ she said. ‘The photograph was a good likeness.’

  ‘I’ll have to ask you to accompany me, Sister. I can run you back to the convent afterwards.’

  ‘What about Lilith?’