‘Mrs Smith? I’ve come to have a chat about the school project.’ She raised her voice encouragingly. ‘Perhaps Conrad or Tabitha told you about it?’
‘Conrad did mention—’ Mrs Smith came further down the steps, pulling her dress as straight as crooked seams could make it. ‘He went over to the village to do some odd jobs for a lady there. The money comes in handy since — my Jeb isn’t home yet, you see.’
Her Jeb, Sister Joan thought with irritated compassion, was never likely to come home but Ginny Smith evidently believed in keeping up appearances. Theoretically that was, since what could be glimpsed of the interior of the caravan was a jumble of blankets, cushions, soiled underwear strung on a line, and a cat shedding hairs over everything that hadn’t been ruined in any other way.
‘We’re having a school project about this district‚’ Sister Joan said. ‘Posters and folders and perhaps a school exhibition.’
‘Well now I don’t know — really I don’t.’ Ginny Smith looked more harassed than ever. ‘With my Jeb not being home and so many chores to do — of course Conrad will be all for it. Bags of energy that lad. Yes, he’ll enjoy that — project you said? Hagar too. She needs a hobby does Hagar. Misses her dad, you see. A man about the place makes all the difference, don’t you — but then you wouldn’t, would you? Being vowed to chastity and all. Will you take a mug of tea?’
She looked round vaguely as if she expected it to materialize out of the thin air.
‘We’d love to but we really haven’t time,’ Sister Joan said with what she hoped sounded like real regret. ‘As long as you think the project might be interesting—?’
‘Oh, I’m sure. Yes indeed, Sister. I’m afraid everything’s a bit untidy right now. I really can’t think where Hagar can have got to.’
She looked round again as if she expected her daughter to materialize along with the tea.
‘As long as we can count on you,’ Sister Joan said with equal vagueness.
‘I was scared you was the attendance man,’ Ginny Smith confided, coming almost to the bottom of the steps. ‘Conrad’s been coming regular, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes, very regularly,’ Sister Joan assured her, ‘but we shall have to talk some time about his going to the Bodmin School. Petroc will be going there next term so he won’t be alone. And Hagar of course is twelve now and also ought to be going into Bodmin.’
‘I thought as how you wanted to talk about the project,’ Ginny Smith said.
‘Yes, that’s the main thing. But the other—’
‘I’d not dream of doing anything without my Jeb’s approval,’ the other said firmly. ‘When he gets home, Sister, then we’ll see about Bodmin.’
‘Yes.’
There was no point in arguing, Sister Joan decided. Mrs Smith was obsessed with the hope that her errant husband would come wandering home, and couldn’t be bothered with anything else, It was possible that he might, of course, but if he had any instincts of fastidiousness at all the inside of his caravan would soon send him off again.
‘Nice talking to you, Mrs Smith,’ she said brightly. ‘We’d better be going now.’
‘Yes, well — if you call again my Jeb’ll likely be home,’ Ginny Smith said, with a desperate little clutch at her sagging dress. ‘Goodnight, Sister.’ She had turned back up the unpainted wooden steps before there was time for a reply.
‘That seems to be that,’ Sister Joan said.
‘Yes indeed.’ Sister Margaret’s round face was shadowed. ‘How fortunate we are, Sister Joan, not to love where love is not returned. Did you want to see anyone else?’
‘That’s the lot. I would like to have had a word with Hagar though. She ought to be given a nice, absorbing interest,’ Sister Joan answered thoughtfully.
‘You want no truck with young Hagar. Old Hagar can tell you what you want to know.’
The old, pipe smoking woman who had made the sign against the evil eye in their direction had left the steps of her wagon and approached them. Close to she was even older than at first appeared, her face monkey wrinkled, what showed of her scant hair from beneath the coloured scarf a dirty white. On her hands a number of very beautiful and incredibly dirty rings gleamed in the setting sun.
‘Are you also named Hagar?’ Sister Joan asked, resisting the temptation to take a step backwards.
‘Hagar Boswell,’ the old woman nodded. ‘The Boswells was royalty once — Romany royalty. You heard of the Boswells?’
‘Yes indeed. My name is Sister Joan and this is Sister Margaret. We are from—’
‘I knows where you’m from,’ the old woman interrupted impatiently. ‘That convent place where them old maids is locked up.’
‘On the contrary we choose the life.’ Sister Joan prepared to argue.
‘More fools you then,’ Hagar Boswell said contemptuously. ‘Young Hagar Smith’s off again, preparing herself for a bad end — she’s her dad in her that one. Feckless. We’ve troubles enough without a couple of nuns bringing bad luck here. Evil we’ve got. Evil crawling and creeping.’
‘Oh, I hardly think so,’ Sister Margaret began.
‘Oh, I hardly think so.’ The other mocked her in a high, bitter voice. ‘Wrapped in cottonwool like babes come afore their due date you lot be. There’s evil here. Black evil, my fine ladies. If you don’t believe me then walk on to the willows and you’ll see.’
Muttering angrily she drew her shawl about her and went off, her scarved head bobbing up and down.
‘She is possibly a little touched in the head,’ Sister Margaret said in a low voice.
‘Possibly.’ Sister Joan stared after the retreating figure for a moment, then added, ‘All the same I think we ought to stroll on towards the willows.’
‘To seek out evil?’ Sister Margaret looked nervous. ‘Dear Sister Joan, do you think that entirely wise? We are taught that evil seeks us constantly.’
‘Then perhaps we ought not to flee but turn and face it,’ Sister Joan said.
‘Of course you are right.’ Sister Margaret looked unhappy. ‘Or perhaps we may find the poor old lady is a little lacking in her wits. So sweet of her to bless us.’
‘Bless us?’ As they continued their walk Sister Joan looked at her companion in some perplexity.
‘That curious gesture she made with finger and thumb — a Roman blessing, I suppose, and all the while being really rather discourteous.’
‘A Romany blessing — yes,’ Sister Joan said.
They were approaching the circle of willow trees that screened the pool from any casual glance. The setting sun still made a glory of the sky but their shadows were long and thin behind them on the trampled grass, and the trees seemed to lean together, the young cages of their scarcely leaved branches stark against the landscape. Behind them lights had glowed forth in the windows of several caravans and the smell of cooking had grown stronger.
By mutual consent they had both fallen silent, their shoes quiet on the grass as it grew longer, starred with the pale lace of meadowsweet. At a little distance the splashing of water came to their ears. Sister Joan stepped on to a narrow path that wound down between the willows. At this point the trees were mixed with sturdy oak and ash, the latter trembled slightly as the rising wind caught its silvery leaves.
In the pool two figures were swimming, heads diving down, heels kicking upwards in flashes of spray and bare white skin. The two nuns paused, themselves shielded by the deep gloom cast by the trees, and looked at a scene of sylvan loveliness. The two young creatures in the water dived and broke the surface and dived again, then playfully wrestled like clumsy little bears, then shook water out of their eyes and dived again, becoming on the instant mermaid and merboy with legs straight as arrows and black hair streaming. At the other side of the pool the water shallowed and a rock broke the surface.
Hagar swam to it and mounted the stone, arms raised, ripe young breasts and hips dyed scarlet as the sun dipped lower. Petroc — it was Petroc, she saw — reached the rock and clung to it,
head back, childish laughter changing to something else. Something pagan and primitive. Then the moment fled and he gripped her ankles and tumbled her into the water again, the two shapes becoming one as the silver of the pool became darker and was rayed by one beam from the climbing moon.
In complete silence the two nuns turned and walked back to the car, Sister Joan’s face dyed with colour. She craved palette and brush and canvas — anything to capture and hold that unearthly loveliness. She also craved oblivion. Of all the companions she might have had then Sister Margaret was the most unsuitable. Sister Margaret had been so innocent and yet she had brought her here. If brandy were needed she rather feared the lay sister would be the one in need of it.
‘So wicked,’ Sister Margaret said, fumbling with the controls of the car once they were safely belted in.
‘Perhaps not wicked,’ Sister Joan said desperately.
‘It is a strong word, Sister, and perhaps I am wrong to use it,’ Sister Margaret said, ‘but I do feel quite strongly — of course the poor old lady is very likely touched in the head. But how one could so twist the playfulness of those two children — well, words fail me.’
At that moment words also failed Sister Joan. She could only sit staring at her fellow nun’s indignant profile as the car leapt forwards.
‘You didn’t think—?’ she said at last.
‘Oh, they are not without blame,’ Sister Margaret said, bumping over the gorse. ‘The boy was supposed to stay with his cousins while Padraic saw to his poor wife. The habit of strong drink is a curse, Sister. How thankful we must be that we are not afflicted.’
‘Yes indeed,’ Sister Joan said automatically.
‘The problem is that she is quite well educated,’ Sister Margaret said. ‘Padraic is proud of that. He sets great store by education, but there are other things required if one is to be a good wife and mother. On the other hand she has much to try her, poor soul. The law can be quite harsh on men like Padraic and his brother. I do hope they won’t catch cold. Not exactly a warm night for swimming.’
‘And without bathing suits,’ Sister Joan said dryly.
‘It reminded me of Eden,’ Sister Margaret said wistfully. ‘Sometimes I wonder what it was like to be there — before the serpent came. Such joy, don’t you think? All the garden to play in, and all nature at one’s command. And the Father to come for a chat in the cool of the evening. Something wonderful to look forward to every day. Do you want to visit any of the other parents this evening, Sister? The light is almost gone but it would be quite an adventure to drive in the dark.’
‘I thought we might have another little expedition tomorrow,’ Sister Joan said.
‘Oh, splendid! After Father Malone has heard our confessions? I must clear my conscience before I venture forth again.’
‘What of?’ Sister Joan asked in astonishment.
‘My dear, have you forgotten that I broke the grand silence?’ There was sorrowful reproach in the other’s voice. ‘Mother Dorothy was so kind about it, even suggesting that I accompany you on this round of visits. One feels like a good stiff penance to redress the balance, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose.’ Sister Joan felt shame rising.
‘And we must both pray for poor old Hagar Boswell. So sad to lose one’s wits and see evil where there is only innocence.’
Sister Joan nodded silently. Her conscience — that over-active conscience about which Jacob had so often teased her — was nagging her again. Spiritual pride, she thought uneasily, was probably her besetting sin. She had been so certain that Sister Margaret would be shocked by the unselfconscious nudity, so sure that innocence was generally paired with a narrow mind. Narrow minds were usually dirty minds. She blamed herself for having forgotten that simple fact.
‘Anybody for the brandy?’ Sister Perpetua greeted them jokingly as they got out of the car at the back door.
‘Everything went very well,’ Sister Margaret said happily. ‘You know I believe I am really getting the hang of this driving business. I may ask leave to try out the car in the middle of town very soon.’
‘May the saints preserve Bodmin,’ Sister Perpetua said fervently.
‘I made a start on supper, Sister.’ Sister Teresa came to the door. ‘It won’t be as tasty as it usually is, but I thought you might be tired after the driving.’
‘Now that is thoughtful of you, Sister.’ Sister Margaret beamed. ‘What a lovely treat, to make a pleasant visit and then come home to find one’s work done for you. Really, this has been quite a day. And we were given a very stimulating mug of tea too. People are very kind.’
Some of them are, Sister Joan thought, standing stock still. But not all of them, Sister. We have been in the presence of evil tonight and I don’t know its source. Not in the old woman or in the kids swimming, but someone. Reaching out to cast a shadow that has no shape. Evil, but I can’t put a face to it or a name.
And the bell just then ringing she thrust the certainty to the back of her mind and followed her sisters.
Four
At school the next day the Romany children had chattered excitedly about ‘Sister’s visit.’
‘And there was two of them come,’ Petroc was announcing. ‘One in a black veil, and Sister Joan in her white. Why’s that, Sister?’
‘Sister Margaret is a lay sister,’ she explained. ‘That means she goes out more into the world than we do. She does the shopping and posts the letters and things like that.’
‘Then she ain’t a proper sister,’ Billy said firmly.
‘Indeed she is.’ Sister Joan was equally firm. ‘She keeps the rule just as we all do. In many ways her job is harder because she has more distractions.’
‘But you come out?’ Tabitha said, looking puzzled.
‘Only with permission,’ Sister Joan said.
‘What’s this rule then?’ Conrad enquired.
Sister Joan hesitated. They were about to embark on a geography test and she knew a red herring when she saw one, but on the other hand it was probably wise to tell them something of the life a nun led, to dispel some of the more grotesque misconceptions that got into people’s heads.
‘When we enter the religious life — become Daughters of Compassion,’ she said, ‘we have to train for it, you know, the way one trains for everything. So we spend two years as what is called a postulant — we learn what it means to give up everything for God. Then we take vows that last for one year and after that, if we still want it and if the other sisters agree we take vows that last for the rest of our lives. Vows are promises we make to God.’
‘What promises, Sister?’ This from Samantha Olive who leaned forward, her green eyes alight with interest.
‘Poverty — that means not owning things; chastity — that means being pure; obedience — you know what obedience is; and then in our order we take a vow of charity — of love and kindness.’
‘If you can’t own anything, and you can’t get wed and you have to do as you’re told and go round being nice to everybody it can’t be much of a life,’ Hagar said.
‘I think it sounds lovely.’ Samantha’s plain little face was wistful.
‘Most of the time it is, but you have to be suited to the life. You have to really want to do it and live it and be it.’ Sister Joan smiled at her.
‘I think I’d rather get married, Sister,’ Madelyn Penglow said apologetically.
‘Getting married is fine too, if you choose the right person. Now, how about that geography test?’
‘I’ve been thinking, Sister,’ Petroc said sweetly, ‘that God’d be real upset to see us all inside working on a morning like this. I think He’d say, “Run out and enjoy yourselves”.’
His black eyes met her own blue ones with a look of limpid innocence; in his ear the customary gold hoop glinted against black curly hair.
In fewer years than I care to count, Sister Joan thought, with a spasm of amusement, you will be a heartbreaker, my lad.
‘The Creator,’ she said a
loud, ‘has expected people to work ever since they had to leave the garden of Eden. Now Madelyn will give out the papers and Edith will give out the pencils. Some of the questions are going to be too hard for the younger ones. Don’t worry about it but do what you can.’
The test proceeded smoothly with no more than the normal amount of cheating. She rode back to the convent in the afternoon, her mind reaching ahead to the evening’s visits. It was a pity that the other parents would have had warning by now. She had particularly wanted to meet the Olives when they were unaware. Their daughter had an aura about her — not of loneliness. Of apartness. Yes, that was the word. She was set apart in more ways than being a newcomer to the district. The other children who usually teased newcomers for a few days before admitting them into the group had always held aloof from Samantha; yet in some odd fashion they craved her approval, covering up for her when she was, as she frequently was, slow at games, their voices dying into a mumble when Samantha spoke. If it hadn’t been a ridiculous notion Sister Joan would have said they were afraid of her.
On Wednesdays Father Malone came to hear confessions and stay on for a bite of tea and a bit of a gossip. The nuns fluttered round him, relishing the only breath of masculinity that entered their lives. Father Malone was elderly and unambitious, unlike his curate Father Stephen who rushed everywhere at top speed as if he were already chasing after a bishop’s mitre.
‘A very spiritual young priest,’ old Sister Mary Concepta said in some bewilderment when she had made a confession to him on one occasion, ‘but a little thoughtless, I fear. He kept asking me what else I had done that was on my conscience, and he didn’t seem to understand that being confined to the infirmary with rheumatism doesn’t give very many opportunities for occasions of sin.’
‘Being nearly eighty doesn’t make for many opportunities either,’ Sister Perpetua had boomed. ‘Man’s a young idiot.’
‘Oh, no, Sister.’ Sister Mary Concepta’s sweet, old face had looked distressed. ‘He was quite right to press me, but Father Malone makes one feel more comfortable, you know. Always finishes off his visit with a nice little joke. So amusing.’
A Vow Of Chastity Page 5