TWO

Sister Mary Salome had made the announcement, it being her turn this week to read out the notices during supper.

‘Sister Joan has been appointed to our Cornwall House where Mother Frances recently passed over. Sister Joan will be teaching in the local school in addition to her religious duties. She will carry our good wishes and our prayers with her.’

There was a murmur of approbation. Rather touching, Sister Joan thought, considering that they knew only the surface of her. Of the three novices who had entered with her two had left and the other gone to the mother House in Holland. What struggles of will and conscience she had endured were known only to Mother Euphemia and the Prioress. She doubted if her own experiences had been very different from all the other novices who had passed through their hands.

One or two curious, covertly envious glances were cast in her direction. Some of the women listening to the announcement would remain here for the rest of their lives. Not for them the journey by train down to the south-west tip of England.

‘And I,’ Sister Joan thought, ‘will probably never come back here or see any of these people again.’

The rule against making particular friendships was a sound one, breached at one’s peril. Yet she felt a twinge of regret when she knelt for the blessing of the Prioress. Reverend Mother Agnes was a woman of character. There had been a subtle flattery in her request for help. She had not referred to the matter again. It was not in her nature to labour a point.

A taxi took her to the station. Had there been a local bus she would have been expected to take that in accordance with her vow of poverty. As it was she enjoyed the ride less than she had determined to do, because the well sprung plush interior startled a frame accustomed to stone floors and wooden benches, and the streets spun past too brightly coloured, too crowded with people. She supposed that someone emerging from prison might suffer from the same disorientation.

‘Need any help, Sister?’ The taxi-driver spoke in a self-consciously hearty way as if he were addressing a mental defective. Later he would go home and tell his wife that he’d taken one of the nuns to the station, and she’d seemed just like anybody else really.

‘Thank you, no. I am meeting somebody.’

He had already been paid and tipped. In her purse was her own ticket and five pounds in cash. She smiled at the taxi-driver, picked up her large suitcase in which her entire wardrobe was packed and went through on to the platform.

‘Sister Joan?’

The voice was young and breathless, the face distractingly lovely.

‘Veronica Stirling?’

It had to be. Sister Joan’s blue eyes travelled swiftly over the blue coat and small hat pulled down over pale flaxen hair. The child had left off her make-up and elected to wear the most unbecoming garments she could find. She was still beautiful.

‘I’m not late, am I, Sister? My parents wanted to come with me to see me off but I insisted on coming alone.’

Parents could be a nuisance. Even the most fervently religious were apt to oppose the entry of a cherished daughter into the religious life. In her own case it had not been her parents but Jacob who had set stumbling blocks in her path.

‘Very sensible of you, Veronica,’ she said briskly. ‘I see the train is in so we may as well find a couple of seats. Have you got your ticket?’

‘Yes, Sister.’ Veronica produced it triumphantly.

‘Come along then.’

Having Veronica with her helped enormously through those first nervous moments when she showed her ticket, hauled her suitcase up to the rack and sat down. The compartment was empty. Sister Joan guessed that it might remain so, since most people avoided sitting next to nuns for journeys that lasted any length of time. Some Orders tried to circumvent this by updating the habit, shrinking the crucifix to the size of a lucky charm and trying to pretend there was no difference between nuns and laywomen. The Daughters of Compassion still wore the habits designed by their founder.

‘We don’t have to change, do we?’ Veronica was asking, though she must have known the answer already. ‘I’ve never been to Cornwall, so it will be quite an adventure. Of course my family hoped that I could do my novitiate here, but I was told one of the novices in the Cornwall House left and there’s a vacancy there. It probably is better to start out completely alone – so far as family is concerned, don’t you think?’

‘I think we ought to relax as we have a four-hour journey ahead,’ Sister Joan said, hoping she didn’t sound stuffy. The child was nervous and overwrought and wanted to chatter, but she might as well begin learning that nobody made allowances for nerves in the religious life. Nobody made allowances for anything.

‘Is it all right if I read?’ Veronica said anxiously.

‘As long as it isn’t I Leap Over The Wall,’ Sister Joan said.

‘Oh no, Sister.’ Veronica looked shocked. ‘It’s St Teresa’s Journal of a Soul.’

From the cover as she displayed it the journal was that of the Lisieux saint and not her Spanish namesake. The latter might prove strong meat for a wide-eyed romantic. She nodded approval, wondering if the girl would detect the sexual hysteria under the syrup, and decided that she probably wouldn’t. Veronica seemed a young nineteen. Undoubtedly still a virgin which might be some kind of record.

The train screamed out. The other compartments had filled up, but the one in which they sat might as well have had a scarlet plague cross on the door. Sister Joan took out her Missal and, under cover of its closely written pages, let the miles slide past. April had drifted into a cool, wet May which boded ill for the summer ahead. She wondered what Bodmin would be like. There had been opportunities to go to Cornwall for artists’ workshops when she was in college, but Jacob had vetoed them.

‘Every fool who ever held a paintbrush rushes off to Cornwall. You and I are going to Sweden.’

Cold, pearl-grey skies, white foam on green water, the light glinting on slippery fish-scaled cobblestones down at the quay, the sharp prow of a red fishing-boat. They had gone out together in one of the boats, huddling under a tarpaulin on deck while the rhythm of the work went on around them, instructions yelled in the sing-song of an unfamiliar tongue. She had never done better work than during that holiday nor felt more keenly the gap between talent and greatness.

‘Would it be all right if I got a cup of coffee from the refreshments bar?’

She had forgotten that Veronica wouldn’t be accustomed to long periods of fasting.

‘Why not get two cups of coffee and some sandwiches?’ she suggested, bringing out her purse.

‘My treat,’ Veronica said brightly and whisked away.

The coffee was barely drinkable, the sandwiches surprisingly good. Wasting food was a sin. Sister Joan drank the coffee unflinchingly and longed for some thirst-crazed beggar to arrive and give her the chance to exercise charity. Thirst-crazed beggars were, however, in short supply on the Cornish line.

‘Do you think I’ll be allowed to telephone my parents to let them know that I’ve arrived safely?’ Veronica asked, collecting the plastic and cardboard conscientiously.

‘Someone will do that for you,’ Sister Joan said. ‘The initial break has to be a clean one, you know.’

‘Yes, of course.’

In the end she had made the break herself, but not cleanly. She had left parts of herself like tattered rags in the wind in every place where she and Jacob had been. Five years and she was still nor sure if the healing was complete.

Their compartment was no longer empty. A fat woman with a large shopping-basket got on the train and sat down two seats away from Sister Joan, her eyes roving over the other with ill-disguised curiosity. In a few minutes she would strike up a conversation, make some snide comment about women who locked themselves up to pray.

‘You’ll be going to the Daughters of Compassion, Sister.’ Her voice was rough but clear.

‘Yes.’ Sister Joan hid her surprise.

‘One or two of them used to visit the local hospital when I was having my veins done,’ the woman said. ‘Wonderful people. I’m not a Catholic myself but that made no difference. They always stopped by for a chat.’

Sister Joan’s hand rose, brushing the symbolic chip off her shoulder. It was something she had often teased Jacob about.

‘He didn’t short-change you just because you’re Jewish. He probably cheats Moslems and Buddhists too.’

They were coming at last into Bodmin. Slowing and stopping alongside a flower-bed edged with shells. The platform was slippery with rain.

‘Reverend Mother Agnes said we would be met,’ Sister Joan said.

‘There’s a nun over there‚’ Veronica said in the excited tones of a visitor to the South Seas who has just spotted her first grass skirt.

The sister flapped over to them, habit covered by a plastic cape and hood, Wellingtons on the long feet.

‘Our Lady be praised that you got here safely,’ a voice boomed from the depths of the plastic. ‘Perfectly foul weather. I’m Sister Felicity. Lay sister which gives me the chance to drive the car, though may I be forgiven for distinguishing it by that name. Give me your cases. Have you got your tickets? Right then, off we go.’

All novices ought to be met by someone like Sister Felicity, Sister Joan thought, meekly following. In her presence introspection vanished. Anyone whose vocation consisted of romantic images of Audrey Hepburn looking impossibly beautiful would be speedily disillusioned by this cheerful normality.

The car was not a new model but neither was it the jalopy she had expected. It was sparklingly clean and the engine sounded well tuned. Sister Joan suspected that Sister Felicity spoke about it in the same way a proud mother often disparaged a clever child, to save both of them from the sin of pride.

‘We’re a fair way from the town,’ Sister Felicity was saying. ‘The House used to be the home of the local squire, you know. The family made their money in tin-mining. Then this century the family fortunes declined the way all fortunes decline, and the father of the present Tarquin – that’s the family name – sold the place to the Order at a knockdown price. The son still lives here, built himself a more modern place. Still quite wealthy. Hold on.’

The warning was unnecessary since she started up and accelerated smoothly away. She was obviously an excellent driver.

Sister Joan obeyed a gesture and snapped shut her seat-belt, glancing towards the back where Veronica sat with a faintly bemused expression on her face. Her more romantic notions were clearly being rapidly eroded.

‘It’s a real pleasure to have two newcomers,’ Sister Felicity said heartily. ‘One becomes insular. Did you ever meet Mother Frances?’

‘No, never.’

‘Marvellous old soul.’ Sister Felicity said, negotiating a bend. ‘We have rather more than our share of old dears actually. Sisters Mary Concepta, Andrew and Gabrielle total nearly two hundred years between them. It will be a shot in the arm to get some fresh blood here.’

‘With us your House has its full quota, hasn’t it?’ Sister Joan asked.

‘Fifteen professed, four novices,’ Sister Felicity nodded, spraying her passenger with raindrops from the brim of her plastic hood. Mid-forties, Sister Joan calculated, a gawky girl who had matured into a plain woman with intelligent eyes.

‘That’s the school where you’ll be teaching.’ She waved a hand to the right.

Sister Joan had a glimpse of a low building set back from the narrow lane. Then they were past it, turning on to a broad track that made a wide, white parting on a low heath of short grass and tangled broom.

‘It will mean a mile’s walk twice a day,’ Sister Felicity said. ‘Do you like walking?’

‘I used to love it.’

‘Because of the walking involved you’re to be excused garden duty.’

‘Blessings never come singly‚’ Sister Joan said piously.

‘Here we are then.’ It was a shout of triumph as they sped off the track through open gates that led them on to a driveway bordered unexpectedly with sad-looking laurels.

The house looked exactly like the kind of Victorian monstrosity that a rich man without any aesthetic sensibilities might build. Basically it was well proportioned in the Elizabethan E shape, with two wings sweeping back from the ivied facade. It had probably been at a later date that someone had added the cupolas and columns and the huge greenhouse that was stuck on at one end of the front, ruining the symmetry.

‘Marvellous old house, isn’t it?’ Sister Felicity said, drawing up before the double doors that marked the main entrance.

She wasn’t trying to be funny. Her plain, strong face was glowing. She was as proud as if it were her own ancestral home.

Sister Joan was spared a reply since the doors were opened at that precise second and another lay sister, as short and plump as Sister Felicity was tall and thin, came down the half-dozen steps.

‘Sister Joan? Veronica? Praise to Our Lady that you got here. One hears such tales of the dangers of travelling on the railway these days. Come along. Sister Felicity will see to your bags. I’m Sister Margaret.’

They followed her into a cavernous hall in which a strip of red carpet looked uncannily like a tongue preparing to lick them up.

‘Reverend Mother Ann will see you first, Sister Joan. Veronica, you are to come with me to meet Sister Hilaria, the Mistress of Novices.’

She indicated a small anteroom containing a carved wooden bench and bustled Veronica away.

Sister Joan stepped obediently into the antechamber and sat down on the bench, folding her hands.

The first meeting with one’s Superior was important, setting the tone of future relationships. A good first impression could make a difference between having some private space in which to grow or being constantly frustrated by every pettifogging little rule and restriction a Prioress could dream up.

‘Sister Joan, please come in.’

An inner door had swung silently open and the Prioress stood on the threshold, arms extended for the sexless embrace exchanged between sisters at arrival and departure.

‘Reverend Mother Ann.’

First the bow and then the formal embrace. Two pairs of lips kissed the air at each side of the white veils.

The Prioress of the Cornwall House was tall and slim, her features regular. It was impossible to calculate her age from her smooth skin and dark eyes set slanting above high cheekbones. A classically beautiful woman, Sister Joan thought, with a definite charm of manner that might or might not be calculated.

‘Come and sit down, Sister.’ The voice was warm, each word clearly enunciated. ‘I always have a cup of herb tea at this hour, so I hope you will join me?’

The parlour must once have been the drawing-room when the Tarquin family had owned the house. The panelled walls had traces of gold paint still outlining the cornices. The floor of polished oak boasted two thin, exquisite Aubusson rugs, and the mullioned windows were diamond-paned. The few pieces of furniture obviously belonged to the house. Equally plainly they were valuable, two sofas covered with petit-point, two high-backed spool chairs, a multi-drawered cabinet against one wall inlaid with ivory, the table of walnut with a profusion of tiny plants carved about its edge. On one wall, between two of the windows, hung the photograph of the founder of the Order. In one corner between high Adam fireplaces and another window stood a carved wooden statue of the Holy Virgin, untinted, pristine in its simplicity.

‘Shall we sit here?’ The Prioress indicated two low basket chairs, of later date than the other furnishings, drawn up by a matching coffee-table on which two mugs of smoked glass were set. Steam curled up from them both and the spicy scent teased Sister Joan’s nostrils.

She sat down, tensing slightly as she felt the plump cushion at her back.

‘Did you have a comfortable journey, Sister Joan? It is a very long time since I was on a train. When my father was alive we travelled all over together, of course. Would you believe that I once learnt how to race a camel?’

Her dark eyes twinkled between their thick lashes.

‘A horse is the most I ever rose to,’ Sister Joan confessed.

‘But that is wonderful!’ The other looked delighted. ‘We have a horse. Not a very challenging mount but a very affectionate, stable mare. She needs exercise, so you may ride her to and from the schoolhouse every day.’

‘But that would be wonderful.’ Sister Joan unconsciously echoed the other’s phrase, then checked herself. ‘Is it allowed?’

‘There is nothing in our rules which forbids a sister from riding a horse, though only lay sisters are permitted to drive cars. You can use a side-saddle? Good. I do not believe in interpreting the rules too rigidly.’

She looked gently amused as she spoke. Sister Joan sipped her herb tea silently.

‘Sister Felicia has probably told you that we have a number of elderly sisters here,’ the Prioress was continuing. ‘Three of them – Sisters Mary Concepta, Andrew and Gabrielle are in the infirmary most of the time. Of course their advice and wisdom is invaluable but they can no longer take an active role in the running of the convent. It puts more stress on the younger and more active among us. Fortunately we are a very happy little Community here. I will introduce you at suppertime. Now there must be questions you wish to ask me.’

‘Only about the school, Reverend Mother Anne. It’s a Primary School for children who live on the moor. I didn’t realise that people did live on the moor.’

‘Oh, there is the occasional isolated farm and the gypsies camp there regularly. The older children go by bus to the various Secondary Schools in the district, but many of the younger ones slip through the net. There is an excellent Primary School in Bodmin, but it is somewhat overcrowded. Mr Tarquin senior endowed the moorland school in an attempt to provide some basic education for those who can’t get into Bodmin, or whose schooling is frequently interrupted through family concerns. At sowing and harvest you will have very few pupils, I fear.’

‘It is not a State school then?’

‘No, a private concern, but the teacher must be qualified, of course. You are?’

‘I have a teaching diploma.’ She opened her bag and handed it over. ‘May I ask whom I am replacing?’

‘Sister Sophia used to undertake the teaching. She died six months ago and her successor is unfortunately not fully qualified though she will continue to assist you as and when you deem necessary.’

‘Are we to take turns on the mare?’ Sister Joan enquired.

The Prioress laughed.

‘Sister David is terrified of any animal larger than a kitten,’ she said. ‘Were it left to her I’m afraid poor old Lilith would never get any exercise. No, when you require her at the school she will walk over as usual. She will be able to tell you much more about the routine and the pupils than I could. You will be able to ride over tomorrow after Mass to get your bearings.’

She put down her cup and smiled again. Oddly enough it was when she smiled, revealing small and undoubtedly natural teeth, that one became aware that she was no longer a very young woman. The smile revealed tiny lines round nose and mouth, a faint darkening of the flesh beneath the fine, slanting eyes.

‘Now I must interview our new novice,’ she said, rising. ‘You travelled with her on the train. How did she strike you?’

‘As a very nice, eager, sincere girl,’ Sister Joan said promptly.

‘Untouched?’

‘I beg your pardon, Reverend Mother?’

‘Would you judge her to be a virgin still?’

‘Well, one cannot tell merely from looking,’ Sister Joan said in bewilderment, ‘but, yes, I would have guessed she’s still a virgin.’

‘One sees so few truly chaste girls these days‚’ the Prioress said sadly. ‘So many women cram all the experience they can into a few years and then present their broken vessels to God. Such a sad waste, don’t you think?’

‘I really hadn’t given it much thought, Reverend Mother‚’ Sister Joan evaded.

‘Chastity is the greatest gift we can bring to Our Lady. I entered the religious life at a comparatively late age – twenty-five – but I am proud of the fact that no man had ever laid a finger on me.’

Sister Joan bit back a hearty ‘Bully for you!’

If the other expected some kind of recriprocal confidence she was doomed to disappointment. Past experiences were closed books.

‘Well then.’ The Prioress, having waited a moment, spoke brightly. ‘Sister David is to be your assistant, so it seems fitting that she should show you the way to your cell. We will meet again at supper which is at seven.’

She tugged a plaited bell-cord against the wall and the outer door opened so quickly that it was obvious the bespectacled nun who entered had been waiting for the signal.

‘Sister David, this is Sister Joan who will be taking over at the school,’ the Prioress said.

‘Oh, that will be a great relief, Reverend Mother.’ Sister David gave a long sigh of pure pleasure. ‘Some of the pupils are so rough and disobedient that I cannot handle them.’

‘You mustn’t frighten Sister Joan away,’ the Prioress said, smilingly. ‘Sister David has always had difficulties with maintaining discipline, haven’t you, Sister?’

‘I wasn’t trained to deal with gypsies,’ Sister David said, a trace of sulkiness behind her glinting spectacles.

‘We must all learn to adapt, Sister David. Now run along and take Sister Joan with you.’ Sister Joan was not altogether happy about the ‘Run along’, which smacked of the sort of patronising way in which those in authority sometimes treated their nuns. Sister David, however, giggled as if in obedience to the twitching of a string.

As they went through the antechamber and began to ascend a handsome staircase in the Jacobean style they passed Veronica standing shyly at the side of a plump, freckle-faced woman whom Sister Joan took to be Sister Hilaria. A thin ribbon of purple on one sleeve showed that she too had been a Prioress at some time though she had been referred to as Sister intead of the Mother to which her previous position entitled her.

Before she could ask she was set straight.

‘That is Mother Emmanuel. She always likes to introduce the new novices. Sister Hilaria is inclined to become rapt in prayer so Mother Emmanuel is a great help in this respect. Our cells are here in the north wing. The house is very logically set out. The chapel is in the other wing with some storerooms above. The dining and recreation rooms are above the public parlour in the main wing and the kitchen and infirmary are underneath our cells.’

‘I’m sure that I will find my way around quite easily,’ Sister Joan said soothingly as they reached the top of the staircase and the other paused for breath.

‘Oh, I am sure you will‚’ Sister David said fervently. ‘We are a very happy Community here, all pulling together in the hidden life of Nazareth so to speak. This is your cell.’

Rather to Sister Joan’s relief the narrow slip of a room with one wall of hardboard to denote that it was only half of the original chamber was like every cell she had ever seen, its walls whitewashed, its floor covered with brown linoleum, a plain wooden cross dark against the whiteness, a narrow bed, a basin and ewer on the floor, a shelf for books, and hooks for her clothes behind a plastic curtain. Her suitcase stood on the floor. ‘I’ll leave you to wash your hands and unpack‚’ Sister David said. ‘I do hope you will be happy with us. Reverend Mother Ann is a splendid Superior, perfectly splendid.’

Unusual certainly, Sister Joan thought, sitting down on the edge of the bed as the door closed softly behind the other nun. Never in her life, even before entering the religious life, had she met a nun whose nails were varnished pale pink and whose habit was scented with lavender.