Vow of Obedience

by Veronica Black

  ‘Would you mind if I paid a visit this morning?’ she asked.

  ‘Glad to have you visit any time, Sister,’ he said welcomingly. ‘We can walk over together if you like.’

  ‘Fine. I’d like to have a cup of tea and a chat.’ She smiled at him, deciding to say nothing yet about Sister Hilaria.

  The bus stopped at the corner where the raw, red roofs of the houses on the industrial estate began. Padraic, alighting from the vehicle with Sister Joan at his heels, gave them a scornful look.

  ‘’Orrible,’ he pronounced gloomily.

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with you, but people have to live somewhere,’ she said.

  ‘Me and the wife will stick to our caravan,’ he said firmly. ‘The council can grumble about it until the heavens fall down. If they put some money where their mouth is and laid on a decent water supply and a few drains we’d be a lot better off.’

  ‘How is your wife?’ Sister Joan asked delicately.

  ‘Not too well if the truth were known,’ he informed her. ‘Gone to stay with her cousin for a bit. These murders have shook up her nerves.’

  Which meant either that Padraic’s adored wife had vanished on one of her periodic binges or was drying out in some clinic. Padraic himself would never say and she honoured him for his loyalty and regretted that it was spent on someone unworthy of it.

  They strode together along the track that straggled to the Romany camp. The caravans, some brightly painted, others faded and in need of repair, the washing lines strung between them, the small bonfires with the cooking pots hung over them, the odorous midden round which the lurcher dogs snuffled, had no place in a clean, sanitized society, but it was her considered opinion that something of value would be lost when the day of conformity arrived. Padraic, less romantic than herself, nodded towards the camp as they approached.

  ‘Smells to high heaven when the wind’s in the wrong direction,’ he said. ‘The kids don’t think much of the new school, by the way. Too many in the class and no Sister Joan.’

  ‘I miss them too,’ she confessed. ‘Right now I’m helping out with lay duties.’

  ‘And with the novices until Sister Hilaria gets on her feet again?’

  ‘You know about that?’

  ‘Give me credit,’ he said.

  Sister Joan, remembering the mysterious grapevine that ensured the Romanies knew about everything that happened almost before it occurred, gave him credit with a questioning glance added.

  ‘Found with her head stove in, wasn’t she? I’d’ve mentioned it but you didn’t say anything so I figured you wanted it kept quiet.’

  ‘She was hit by a vehicle, fortunately not as badly as you seem to have heard,’ Sister Joan began.

  Padraic was ahead of her, his black eyes kindling as he spoke.

  ‘You think my pick-up hit her? You should’ve said, Sister.’

  ‘I didn’t think you were the one driving,’ she protested.

  ‘Even so …’ He gnawed his lip for a moment, then relented. ‘You’d not want the rest of them on the bus to hear our private business. Well, someone borrowed my pick-up and put a dent in it. You’ll be wondering whom.’

  ‘Surely not one of your people,’ she said.

  To her surprise, instead of agreeing vehemently, he gave her an uneasy sideways glance, saying, ‘You take a stool, Sister, and I’ll bring out the tea. Gets a bit lonely with my good lady away.’

  Surely not one of his people, she reflected, seating herself in a patch of sunlight. Poaching, occasional petty thieving, the odd drunken brawl were the limits of their criminality. No Romany of her acquaintance would deliberately run down a nun and leave her there. No Romany of her acquaintance …

  ‘There we are then, Sister. Nothing like a cup of tea on a cold morning.’ Padraic emerged with two mugs and a flowered china bowl of sugar arranged rather touchingly on a tray.

  ‘Nothing in the world,’ Sister Joan agreed, noting the over-hearty manner.

  ‘One thing I must say,’ he continued, ‘is that the kids are getting a good midday meal at that town school. No reflection on you, Sister, because I know you used to feed ’em hot drinks off that little primus, but the school food is pretty good.’

  ‘I’m very pleased,’ she assured him. ‘Sooner or later all the children would have grown far beyond my teaching powers. But I shall miss them for a while. Padraic, hasn’t your cousin recently joined you?’

  His swarthy skin had reddened but he answered coolly enough, ‘Luther? Yes, he’s joined us.’

  ‘After eighteen months – away?’

  ‘In gaol,’ Padraic said reluctantly. ‘And if you’re thinking Luther pinched my pick-up then you’re way off course, Sister. Luther ain’t a thief.’

  ‘But he was in gaol?’

  She watched the inward struggle mirrored in his face. At last he said, ‘Can you keep this to yourself?’

  ‘Not if it has a bearing on Sister Hilaria’s accident,’ she said honestly.

  ‘It don’t have – doesn’t.’ In moments of stress his carefully articulated sentences unravelled. ‘It doesn’t have, Sister. Luther wouldn’t run anyone over.’

  ‘Why was he in gaol?’ she persisted.

  ‘When I said gaol,’ Padraic said uncomfortably, ‘I didn’t actually mean gaol. I mean not gaol exactly – more hospital really, for tests.’

  ‘Psychological tests?’

  ‘So they call them,’ he nodded. ‘Nothing wrong with Luther but nerves …’

  ‘Nerves?’

  ‘He gets notions,’ Padraic said with extreme reluctance. ‘He gets notions that young girls fancy him and he follows them to give himself the chance of being courted by them if they’ve a mind. It’s a harmless fancy but some folk complained and he was taken to the hospital. He’s cured now. He must be else they’d not have let him out, so it hasn’t anything to do with anything.’

  ‘Where was he in hospital?’ she demanded.

  ‘Up in the Black Country. One side of our family camps out by the Wrekin.’

  ‘Near Birmingham.’

  ‘In that area, yes. But he was never brought up for anything. He agreed to go for treatment, and he’s cured of following now.’

  ‘I agree with you that it doesn’t seem likely he’d have knocked Sister Hilaria down.’ she agreed, finishing her tea. ‘Padraic, where’s your pick-up now?’

  ‘Beyond the camp under a tarpaulin,’ he said, obviously relieved to change the subject. ‘You’ll be wanting to take a look?’

  ‘If you don’t mind?’ Rising, she waited for him to lead the way beyond the caravans where the few older people sitting on the steps greeted her as she went by, past the shed with chalkmarks still visible on the grass though the restraining string had gone, to the tarpaulin cover stretched over tent poles under which the pick-up truck stood forlornly.

  ‘I’ve not knocked out the dent yet,’ Padraic said. ‘I’m looking for new tyres – well, as good as new but at this time of year and with the recession – it’s all money and the lack of it, isn’t it, Sister?’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right.’ She stooped to the dented bumper. Whoever was driving it would have hit Sister Hilaria a glancing blow but surely low down. Unless Sister Hilaria, in turning to flee, had tripped and fallen and the truck had swerved towards her, then swerved away again. Panic or design? She shook her head and straightened up again.

  ‘You have to report this to the police,’ she said. ‘Before the dent is knocked out. You must, you know.’

  ‘Couldn’t you report it for me, Sister?’ he asked.

  ‘If you like.’ She nodded reluctantly. ‘Meanwhile, don’t touch it.’

  ‘But I don’t want the police bothering Luther,’ he warned.

  ‘But they have to be told,’ she protested. ‘Surely you can see that …’

  ‘What I told you about Luther was in strict confidence, Sister,’ Padraic said. ‘Luther never took my pick-up anyway. Why would he when he only had to ask? And he certain surely
wouldn’t knock down a nun. You’ll say nothing, Sister.’

  ‘For the moment,’ she temporized unwillingly, ‘but if you mention it to Detective Sergeant Mill he’ll be able to eliminate your cousin from his enquiries.’

  ‘Pardon my frankness, Sister,’ Padraic said with dignity, ‘but you don’t know what you’re on about. There were complaints made about Luther and though he never meant any harm or got into the dock his name’s known. Detective Sergeant Mill is decent enough but that new fellow, Barratt, is an unholy terror. Throws his weight about something shocking. Only let him get a whisper and there’d be no peace for poor Luther.’

  ‘At least think about what I’ve said,’ she begged.

  ‘I’ll think about it and you’ll tell Detective Sergeant Mill that my pick-up was borrowed and there’s a dent in it. Just that, Sister.’

  ‘Very well. Unless it becomes absolutely necessary I’ll say nothing,’ she said. Being backed into a corner wasn’t a pleasant sensation but there was nothing she could do about it.

  ‘Shall I walk back with you?’ he was asking.

  ‘Stay and keep an eye on the pick-up,’ she advised. ‘I’ll get permission to phone the station and let Detective Sergeant Mill know about its having been taken and damaged. Thank you for the tea.’

  It was only natural that he should wish to protect his relative from police questioning, but her manner was somewhat constrained as she parted from him. The burden of keeping silent in obedience to his wishes threatened to be a heavy one. She hoped he would change his mind and give her leave to speak.

  Meanwhile she could at least point the detective in the direction of the pick-up. That might alert him into interviewing the newcomer to the Romany camp rather more thoroughly, but one couldn’t be sure. One couldn’t, she thought, gripped by the sense of unease that seemed to overhang her since her return, be absolutely sure of anything.

  She had neglected to take the shorter track that would lead her to the front gates of the convent and, either by chance or subconscious design, found herself still on the path that curved towards the Moor School. If she left it now she would be forced to blunder through low bramble and bracken to reach the wider track. She hesitated a moment and then continued on her way, hastening her pace, thankful for flat heels and ankle-length skirt. In her pre-convent days she had sometimes worn high heels despite Jacob’s gibes.

  ‘You can’t stand being insignificant.’

  ‘Neither would you if you were only five feet two!’ she had retorted.

  When she had decided – or something had decided for her – that she was going to be a nun she had eschewed the orders that clung still to their medieval costumes and approved the neat grey habit of the Daughters of Compassion with its shoulder-length white veil. Practical but without any risk of being mistaken for a district nurse, she had thought, feeling a slight guilt that such considerations should matter.

  ‘You’ll not last six months,’ Jacob had said sourly.

  ‘I’ll last for life,’ she had answered stubbornly.

  Yet at that time he might have induced her to change her mind, might have agreed to lay his Jewishness aside instead of insisting that his wife, the mother of his future children, must convert to his faith. And this from a man who cheerfully broke the laws of kashrut and never went near a synagogue. In the end their separate ancestries had proved stronger than their mutual loving.

  The schoolhouse had no attendant constable. She went up to the front door and tried it experimentally but someone had locked it and the blinds were drawn down over the windows.

  Wasting time definitely wasn’t encouraged even though she had been granted a certain amount of freedom. She sighed briefly, recalling the happiness of young pupils spilling out to play on a sunny afternoon, and turned away.

  In the high bracken that grew beyond the short, feet-trampled turf, something moved and was still. Sister Joan felt the short hairs at the back of her neck bristle with a knowledge of their own. Somebody watched her from the fastness of the bracken, someone who had ducked down as she moved.

  Not a child, she told herself, willing her mind to calmness. A child cast a different aura, something more mischievous. Children didn’t watch with an intensity that burned up the space between.

  She began to walk slowly towards the track, wishing she were mounted on Lilith or safely ensconced behind the wheel of a car. Out here, a small grey figure in the vastness of moors and sky, she was vulnerable.

  Whatever watched her had moved again, was keeping pace still hidden by the tall bracken. Out of the corner of her eye she followed the undulating movement.

  ‘You had better come out.’

  She had planned on sounding confident and brisk, but her voice wavered slightly as she flung her challenge into the air.

  There was absolute stillness again, the bracken holding its breath, and then the tall figure, lank black hair falling in a cowlick over a sallow face, rose up and stood before her, arms hanging at his sides.

  ‘It’s Luther Lee, isn’t it?’

  Oddly though her heart hammered with fright her voice was suddenly cool and steady.

  ‘I wasn’t doing no harm,’ he said in the curious flat accents of a Brummie.

  ‘I am Sister Joan from the convent. I believe I saw you the other evening?’

  She had begun to walk on, sensing rather than seeing his loping gait at her side.

  ‘The coppers came,’ Luther said. ‘Asking questions. Always bloody questions.’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s their job,’ Sister Joan said.

  ‘Persecution,’ Luther said, and repeated the word with a certain pride as if he had just learned it off by heart. ‘Persecution.’

  ‘What were you doing at the school?’ she enquired, increasing her pace slightly, aware as she did so that his strides had lengthened too.

  ‘They found the other one there, didn’t they?’ He spoke with a dreadful, brooding excitement. ‘T’other lass?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, they did.’

  ‘Like a bride,’ Luther said. ‘I like brides in pretty dresses I do. All clean and shiny like apples you bite.’

  He suddenly bared excellent white teeth in a wide and wolfish grin.

  ‘But she isn’t in the school now,’ Sister Joan said. ‘The police took her away. There isn’t anything interesting for you to see.’

  ‘There’s you,’ he said and gave a high-pitched giggle as unnerving as it was unexpected.

  ‘Oh, I’m not very interesting,’ she answered lightly. ‘I used to teach at the school, you know? Your cousin, Padraic’s children, were in my little school. Your cousin is a good friend of mine.’

  ‘Padraic’s a good ’un,’ he said. ‘Speaks up for me when they tell lies. They do tell lies. All the women gang up and tell lies. S’not fair they should take my character from me. S’not fair.’

  ‘No indeed, but here in Cornwall it will be different.’

  ‘Not likely, is it?’ He shot her a brief, bitter glance that held in its depths a flash of sanity. ‘Not when your name’s written down. Written down and the doctors taking notes about it. Not right, not fair. Not fair!’

  His long arms, raised suddenly, thudded impotently against his sides.

  The moor was empty still, the convent only a tiny shape in the distance, unreachable as a mirage. If a car would only come, a solitary walker …

  ‘Well, it must be nice to be back with your people again,’ she said inadequately.

  ‘Nice?’ He tasted the word and giggled again. ‘Fun,’ he amended.

  ‘I mean – there’s Padraic. And his pick-up.’

  ‘It got a dent,’ he said. ‘Padraic was mad. He’s going to do it up lovely.’

  ‘Paint it? Yes, he told me.’

  ‘I drew a picture once,’ he confided suddenly. ‘All coloured and singing. Big red flowers and green leaves, and brown leaves and red leaves and – dead leaves.’

  ‘It must have looked lovely.’

  ‘How d’ye know?’ His bl
ack brows lowered over his eyes. ‘You ain’t seen it.’

  ‘No, but you just described it and I paint and draw myself sometimes.’

  ‘And pray,’ Luther said.

  ‘Oh, that most of all,’ she agreed fervently.

  ‘That other one was praying,’ Luther said.

  ‘Other one?’ Sister Joan stopped short and turned to face him. ‘What other one?’

  ‘The tall one with the bulging eyes. On her knees, praying. Not pretty like you.’

  ‘Where was this?’ She forced herself to walk on, to speak casually.

  ‘By the gates. On her knees. Praying.’

  He had moved a few steps ahead of her, stepping into the track, his long shadow barring her way.

  ‘You saw Sister Hilaria?’

  ‘On her knees. Praying is on your knees, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes but not always.’ Not at this moment when inside I’m praying harder than I can remember praying for a long time. Without words. Without thought. Only a silent striving for help from anyone, anywhere.

  ‘Luther, have you told anyone about seeing Sister Hilaria?’ she asked aloud, moving to the side, skirting around him cautiously.

  ‘They’ll send me back to the hospital for following,’ he said. ‘It’s not right to follow them, you know. It makes them nervy like. But nuns aren’t women, are they? Not proper women in white dresses. Like brides.’

  ‘I think you ought to talk to Detective Sergeant Mill,’ she said carefully.

  ‘To the coppers? No, I’ll not, and you can’t make me.’ His tone had become petulant, the accents of a sulky child.

  ‘No, of course not. but Sister Hilaria was hurt. You wouldn’t want …’

  ‘I never meant to hurt her,’ he said on a high wail. ‘I put her under the branches. It was off the track away from the road. Safe in the bracken. Are we going to make a hat out of leaves for her like the others?’

  ‘No, we’re going to telephone Detective Sergeant Mill and ask him to come over for a chat,’ she said steadily. ‘He’s – he’s not like other policemen. He’ll listen.’

  ‘I’m not coming anywhere to no telephone.’ He had stopped, his hands rising, twitching. ‘Voices say bad things down telephones.’