She drew the homework books towards her and gave what she hoped was an encouraging smile.
‘I asked you to write about your favourite flowers,’ she began, ‘and the work that was handed in pleased me on the whole. Petroc, you’ll have to copy yours out again, I’m afraid, because you got the inkwell muddled up with the paper. Conrad, it was thoughtful of you to explain why you didn’t hand in any work, but the explanation won’t do. This week I shall be telling you about Sir Philip Sidney who was a very brave soldier and a poet — also married. Madelyn, your work was very neat but you copied the poem from a book, didn’t you?’
‘No, Sister.’ The blue eyes were limpid. ‘David copied it and then he read it to me.’
‘You both copied the same poem? Then where is David’s work?’
‘We didn’t want to hand in two the same, Sister, in case you got bored,’ David said pedantically, ‘so I tore the pages out of my book.’
‘Logical, I suppose,’ Sister Joan said, ‘but in future I’d like you both to work by yourselves and try to compose something of your own.’
The twins, unable to contemplate a separate mental existence, stared back at her blankly.
‘Timothy, your drawing was very good though it wasn’t quite what I’d asked for.’ Sister Joan nodded at the child pleasantly. He had drawn what he saw, neatly and unimaginably dully, but she had a soft place in her heart for those who expressed themselves in paint rather than words. Tabitha had also sent in a drawing — less neat and accurate but infinitely more colourful. Edith hadn’t sent anything in. She told her gently that she must try to do the homework, aware that any harsher scolding would bring the tears flooding to the little girl’s sloe-black eyes, and spoke rather more sharply to Hagar about her failure to do the set task, knowing that her words were making no impression upon the girl at all. Hagar merely smiled, one side of her full mouth curving in mute contempt, as Conrad said quickly and loyally, ‘Hagar don’t mean to be lazy, Sister. She has lots to do at ‘ome — washing and cooking and the like, and she needs time to enjoy.’
To enjoy what? Sister Joan thought, her eye measuring the jut of budding breasts. There was something in Hagar’s scornful little smile that hinted at pity for herself. She wanted to shake the child, to inform her roundly that the religious life didn’t unsex anyone, but Hagar wouldn’t have understood.
‘Try to enjoy doing a little homework occasionally,’ she advised. ‘Billy, one of these days you are going to astonish us all by actually doing some homework. Could you make it soon?’
‘Can we write about something else next time?’ Billy asked promptly.
‘This coming week you can all write — write not draw — a few sentences about the person you admire most — admire means wanting to be like them, Edith. Just a few words, of your own and not copied.’
‘Alive or dead?’ Billy enquired with as much interest as if he were actually going to do the homework.
‘Whichever you like,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Samantha, did you read the poem you sent somewhere in a book?’
‘No, Sister.’ The voice was neat and precise.
‘It was — unusual,’ Sister Joan said cautiously. ‘Nicely written and spelled, if a bit — morbid. Perhaps you should try to write happier pieces?’
‘Yes, Sister.’ The green eyes held her own blue ones for a moment and then were lowered.
‘So!’ Mentally resolving to look more closely into the child’s home background Sister Joan spoke brightly, telling herself that cheerfulness was contagious. And that, she realized abruptly, was the trouble. Her pupils who generally exasperated her for half of the time were simply too quiet, too solemn, too attentive. She held the realization at the back of her mind while she outlined the week’s projects. One of her most difficult tasks lay in welding together a group of children between the ages of six and thirteen into a class following roughly the same curriculum. Nature walks, talks about events that the older ones would have read in the newspapers, opportunities for them to express themselves in drawing or singing, all these took precedence over formal lessons though she took care to include some of those too. Sister David who had helped out as her assistant was now full time convent librarian and there were times when Sister Joan missed her help exceedingly.
She thrust aside the selfish desire for less work and talked on enthusiastically about the project she had dreamed up just before going to bed.
‘A history of the district with a coloured map and drawings of the animals and the plants that are found here and pictures of the houses, and then bits about the people who lived here long ago. We can make a series of folders or even an exhibition for your parents to come and see.’
‘For fifty pence‚’ David suggested.
‘Well, I’m not sure about that — we’ll see. Now we’d better do some arithmetic,’ she said firmly, and prepared to wrestle with the multiplication tables. Apparently nobody learned them these days but it was the only way she knew of fixing numbers in youthful heads.
When break came she dismissed the children, a slight frown creasing her brow as she saw how obediently they rose, girls filing out ahead of boys. It was what she was always trying to instil into them but the lack of the usual scramble to the door was unnerving.
‘Conrad, one moment, please.’ Her voice and beckoning finger detained her eldest pupil.
‘Yes, Sister? The boy turned back, looking at her expectantly. Tall and broad for his age, she judged, with little of the wiry slenderness of the other Romany children. There were rumours that his mother had been less than particular about her partners and that Conrad’s father was not the thin, stooped Jeb Smith who had deserted his family some months before but a travelling man, a tinker with whom she’d briefly taken up in the years when she had still been pretty.
‘Everybody seems very good these days,’ she hazarded. ‘I was wondering why?’
‘Ain’t we supposed to be good then?’ Conrad demanded.
‘Yes, of course. Of course you are. It merely occurred to me that you were all being very good,’ she said, keeping the look of enquiry on her face.
‘Reckon we just caught it,’ Conrad said after a moment’s thought.
‘Well, if it’s only goodness that you catch then we ought to be grateful, I suppose.’
‘Yes, Sister.’ He gazed at her steadily from under his cowlick of dark hair.
‘Yes, well — thank you, Conrad.’
The dismissal, she knew, sounded feeble but she couldn’t think of anything else to say. Perhaps the unnaturally good behaviour, which she realized had been going on for some time, was merely a sign that they were growing up, becoming more responsible. She collected up the arithmetic exercises, wiped the blackboard and went out of the room, past the small cloakroom to the outside where neither wall nor quadrangle separated the building from the moor.
The school had originally been endowed by the Tarquin family for the children of the tenants. It was still administered by a trust that provided books and paid for the repair and upkeep of the building. But the number of pupils was steadily diminishing; in another year or two there would no longer be any reason to keep it open. She tried to explore her own feelings, to decide whether or not she would regret it. She wasn’t a trained teacher, but the work was interesting and she’d established a rapport with some of the children. Too close a rapport, perhaps? There was always the danger of losing the detachment that was part of the religious life. These children were not her own children and the teaching was only secondary to her life, the modest salary paid out of the trust going directly to the convent.
The children were split as usual into two groups, Romanies and farmers’ offspring. Usually they scampered about, young voices echoing over the moor, but this morning the two small groups clustered together, talking quietly, eating the bags of crisps and sweets provided from home. One or two of the little ones had already started on their lunchtime sandwiches. There were no facilities for the provision of a midday meal apart from a kettle
where one could boil water for a hot drink or a packet soup.
Not all the children were joined into the groups. The new child, Samantha Olive, had wandered off a little way to where a solitary beech spread protecting branches over the mossy turf. She stood with her back to the others, staring out across the waves and dips of the moor.
Sister Joan strolled towards her, attitude casual.
‘It is a lovely view, isn’t it?’ she said, reaching the child’s side. ‘When I am troubled I like to stand and look out over the grass and the heather to where the land meets the sky. It makes my own worries seem very small.’
‘Does it, Sister?’ A polite, indifferent little voice, the profile unyielding.
Sister Joan sighed, saying, ‘You are still settling in here, I daresay. In a few weeks it will feel as if you’ve always lived here. Let me see. Your parents took over Farren Farm, didn’t they?’
‘Yes, Sister.’
‘Do your parents like the district? It must seem very quiet after the city.’ The Olives weren’t farmers but had come originally from up north somewhere. The child still had the flat vowel sounds of Lancashire in her voice, though they were scarcely perceptible. She came from what might be termed an upper-class background, Sister Joan thought, remembering the slim, stylish woman who had brought Samantha to school.
‘My husband has a fancy to write a book or something of that nature.’ Mrs Olive had possessed a languid, die-away voice. Her eyes, green between mascara’d lashes, had held a tolerant amusement at the idea of her husband writing a book. Or that was how Sister Joan had interpreted it at the time, feeling a sudden sympathy for the absent Mr Olive. Now she wondered if Mrs Olive hadn’t been laughing at her, a woman the same age as herself but so differently clad in an ankle-length grey habit with short white veil and white wimple, her legs encased in black tights and sensible laced shoes, the narrow gold band on her left hand a symbol of her spiritual marriage. In contrast Mrs Olive wore a suit that was probably a Chanel with a green scarf that echoed her eyes, her long ash blonde hair coiled and folded like wings at the back of her sleek head. Only her skin detracted from her looks, pitted with the tiny marks of severe teenage acne. Sister Joan had instinctively put up her hand to her own smooth, glowing complexion and then felt ashamed. Personal vanity had no place in the life of a Sister of the Order of the Daughters of Compassion.
‘It would be possible for me to take Samantha to the school in Bodmin but I like the idea of a little rural school,’ Mrs Olive had continued. ‘It will ease her more gradually into country life.’
‘She is eleven, isn’t she?’ Sister Joan had frowned slightly. ‘You know, she has to go to the state school when she’s twelve at the latest. We simply don’t have the staff or the facilities here to provide a complete senior education.’
‘A couple of terms will suffice.’ Mrs Olive had sounded more bored than ever. ‘Our au pair will be dropping her off every morning and picking her up in the afternoon.’
Now, glancing at the child’s remote little profile, Sister Joan said, ‘Is everything all right at home, Samantha? Your parents are well?’
‘Yes, thank you, Sister.’
‘And you like it here? With the other children?’ Getting information was like wading through deep mud with heavy boots on.
‘I like it very much, Sister.’
For the first time there was a lilt in the cool, dry voice, a quick flash of a smile.
‘You don’t have any brothers and sisters, do you?’ Sister Joan said.
Samantha shook her head briefly.
‘Then it must be pleasant for you to have companions,’ Sister Joan said, wondering where to go from there. Was there, indeed, anywhere to go? There was no accounting for the direction a young imagination might take. She recalled that as a schoolgirl herself she had spent one whole summer copying the epitaphs from gravestones and lulling herself to sleep with pleasant fantasies of herself, suitably pale and beautiful, dying of a broken heart or sliding into a decline like Beth in Little Women.
‘Oh yes, Sister,’ said Samantha.
‘Then perhaps we ought to start a game or something,’ Sister Joan said, conceding victory to her — ridiculous to think of an eleven-year-old kid as an opponent. She reached out, took a small, limp, unresponsive hand and started back towards the others, saying in the loudly hearty tones of a particular games mistress she recalled from her own schooldays.
‘We’ll be indoors again soon enough, so let’s play rounders for a while. Conrad, go into the cupboard and bring out the stumps. Billy, you help him. We can mark out the ground with a bit of chalk.’
To her relief something like childish enthusiasm returned to the children. For the next half hour they ran, hit out at the ball, argued scores like normal youngsters. Which, she reminded herself firmly, was exactly what they were. This unusual meekness was a phase and instead of worrying about it she ought to be thanking her stars that she had managed to instil the rudiments of good conduct into so diverse a group.
‘You were out that time, Samantha.’ She pulled her thoughts back to the present, waving towards the girl.
‘She was in,’ David said. ‘She was in, Sister.’
‘No, dear. She was definitely run out,’ Sister Joan said.
‘Was I?’ Samantha asked not her own side but the opposing side. There was the earnest desire to know on her small, plain face.
The Romanies shifted their feet, hesitating. Then Hagar called, ‘In. Samantha was in.’
‘Out,’ said Sister Joan and was instantly engulfed in protest from both sides.
‘All right, all right. In, if you insist,’ she said at last in exasperation, ‘but if this is a ploy to spin out break time it won’t work because I’d already decided to make this a games period anyway.’
And don’t forget to make a note of that for your next general confession, she advised herself silently.
Samantha’s team won which was hardly surprising since Samantha herself was never run out even by the long-legged Petroc, and her wildest swipes at the ball were all acclaimed as hits. Perhaps it was the children’s way of making a newcomer feel welcome, but Samantha had already been at the school for several weeks, and in any case Sister Joan had never before noticed any signs of excessive kindness to new pupils in any of the others. For the moment the riddle would have to remain.
The dinner-hour and the rest of the afternoon passed. The children ate their sandwiches and drank the cups of tea that she brewed up on the table at the back of the classroom — it ought to have been milk, she supposed, and made a mental note to order more. She talked about Sir Philip Sidney with the uneasy feeling that despite her efforts most of the boys still regarded him as a bit of a sissy; set the older ones to labelling some blank maps while she gathered the little ones around for a simple spelling bee; reminded them about the project she’d mentioned earlier, and saw the hands of the clock stand at 3.30 with more relief than she’d have thought possible at the beginning of the day.
‘Time for the afternoon prayer, children.’ Her tone was joyful.
‘A simple morning and afternoon prayer, Sister Joan‚’ Mother Dorothy had instructed. ‘Not all the children are Catholics. Nothing unconventional or novel.’
The children rose, virtue shining on their faces. Too much virtue for small souls to bear. She composed her own face, bowed her head, recited the short prayer and crossed herself, some of the children following suit. Samantha, she noticed, was not among them. There was no surprise in that since the Olives weren’t Catholic. All the Romany children crossed themselves though she suspected that they all forgot their Catholicism the moment they were out of the school door.
Hooting from the track announced the arrival of the pick-up truck in which some of her pupils rode home. Further off a sleek car had drawn up. Samantha headed towards it, not running and tumbling but walking sedately. A nicely brought up child, Sister Joan reflected, and turned to greet the wiry dark man who jumped down from the truck.
&n
bsp; ‘Good afternoon, Mr Lee. I haven’t seen you in quite a while.’ She shook the hard, dark hand.
‘Been inside, ain’t I?’ the man said. ‘Three months of picking up something that the magistrates wouldn’t have paid ten pence for on a good day. Injustice.’
‘It fell off the back of a lorry, I suppose?’
‘Aye, something of that nature.’ He grinned, one rebel acknowledging another. ‘You know, Sister, I’ve told you before if you ever need anything cheap — cigarettes now—’
‘I don’t smoke.’
‘And quite right too, Sister. Nasty, unhealthy habit,’ he agreed. ‘But if you ever were to fancy a nip of whisky, say? Just tip me the wink.’
‘If I ever do I will,’ she promised, ‘but it’s doubtful. It’s very doubtful, Mr Lee.’
‘Well, if you do, let me know. Come on, kids. Home’s the word. Hope they’ve been good, Sister.’
‘Perfectly good‚’ Sister Joan said.
‘Then there’s mischief brewing‚’ said Mr Lee. ‘Depend on it, Sister.’
He saluted her and turned to chivvy the Romanies into the truck. Further off Samantha had reached the car and ducked into the back seat. The au pair brought her and picked her up every day. Sister Joan had glimpsed blonde hair and a very short skirt and allowed herself to wonder briefly if Mr or Mrs Olive had engaged her. Not that it was any of her business.
The other children went out, running and shouting. At least their docility didn’t carry on after school hours, she thought. Didn’t carry on once Samantha Olive was out of the way. Silly to think there could possibly be a connection.
Tidying the classroom, wiping the board, took only a few minutes. She locked up, went to the lean-to shed to get Lilith who greeted her with a whinny of pleasure. She would ask for permission to visit the children’s parents, she decided. To call upon the Olives alone would be to pick out Samantha, focus attention on her. There was no need to lie to Mother Dorothy. The project she had envisaged might well lead to a small exhibition, a Parents’ Day, something of that nature, and the parents themselves might well be involved.
A Vow Of Chastity Page 3