Five years earlier, Sister Joan had entered the refectory of the convent where she had been accepted to do her novitiate and been faced by what had seemed like a sea of strange faces turned towards her. She had something of that same feeling this evening when, shepherded by Sister David who had come to collect her, she entered the huge chamber where the rest of the Community were already seated, the professed nuns at one long table with the Prioress at the head, the novices at a side table. Double doors at the far end of the room led, she assumed, into the recreation room.
The whole of this upper floor must originally have been a ballroom in the days when balls were held. The polished floor and pale walls with darker panels where once mirrors had been, the ceiling with its central rosette from which a sparkling chandelier still hung, the long windows shrouded by dark velvet curtains, demanded girls in low-cut gowns, young men eager to sign dance cards, and a Strauss waltz tinkling in the background. Instead there was the Prioress, raising her well modulated voice to say, ‘Sisters, let us give thanks to Our Lady that Sister Joan has come. She is to take over the teaching at the school, and Sister David, for one, is delighted to see her. Sit down.’
Sister David went to what was apparently her usual place and Sister Joan took the chair remaining, tucking the long white napkin under her chin, crossing herself as a nun further down the table intoned the Grace.
Sister Margaret was serving the food, her plump frame moving with swift lightness from serving-trolley to table. Sister Felicity stood at the lectern, preparing to read the notices. When she began Sister Joan was pleased to hear her clear voice. All too often the sister who read the notices mumbled so that one missed half of the information, or rushed through it, no doubt eager to get to her own supper. Sister Felicity read at a measured pace with emphasis in the right places.
‘Mr Grant Tarquin has given permission for the Solstice Festival to be held in the north meadow as was done last year. He does request that we make sure we don’t allow the children to leave any litter around. Sister Clare from our Amsterdam House has been appointed as Prioress in place of Mother Grete who has been called to the Mission Fields in Sudan. In view of the political situation in central Africa your prayers are particularly sought. As Sister Joan will be working full-time at the school she is excused garden duty but Sister David is reminded that when she is not required to assist at the school she must take her turn at the weeding.’
Sister Joan, scooping up excellent vegetable stew, wondered if there was something wrong with her hearing. She could have sworn that Sister Felicity had spoken of the Solstice Festival. Nobody else seemed to have noticed anything amiss. Apart from the Prioress only nine sisters were ranged down both sides of the main table. The three oldest nuns would eat in the infirmary, she supposed. The necessity of keeping her eyes on her plate made it quite impossible to study each individual face. Lifting them briefly she was surprised to see a place laid opposite her with nobody sitting in the chair.
Her swift upward look had been noted. As Sister Felicity came to the end of the notices the Prioress said,
‘I can see that Sister Joan has noticed our empty place. Can you guess for whom it is intended, Sister?’
Plates of toasted cheese were being handed down the table.
‘It does not occur to you that one day Our Blessed Lady may wish to share our meal?’
Sister Joan forgot about custody of the eyes and frankly stared.
‘She has visited other convents‚’ the Prioress said. ‘You will remember how when Saint Teresa of Spain was delayed by a rapture her place was taken by the Blessed Virgin Who came to take her place at evening prayers. You will remember how Saint Catherine Laboure was interviewed by the Blessed Mother in the chapel of her convent in the Rue du Bac. We cannot claim to harbour any potential saints here, but who knows whom Our Lady will deign to honour.’
Sister Joan had a sudden, irreverent picture of the Holy Virgin chewing a slice of cheese on toast and sternly forbade herself to grin. Some comment was evidently required however. She said, trying to sound calm and sweet,
‘Those are wonderful stories, Reverend Mother Ann.’
‘More than stories, Sister Joan.’ The voice was gently reproachful. ‘Of course it may never happen, but we lay a place as a symbol that She will always be welcome among us.’ Silence descended. The toasted cheese was succeeded by baked apples and cups of weak coffee. The food was good anyway, Sister Joan thought with relief. She had never believed that badly cooked, inadequate meals heightened one’s religious impulses.
There was a concerted rustle as the Community rose for the short prayer after a meal. The four novices were being shepherded away by Sister Hilaria. She was the Novice Mistress who got lost in prayer and had to be helped out by Mother Emmanuel, Sister Joan reminded herself. Presumably she had eaten sufficient to earth herself since Mother Emmanuel was heading towards the recreation room. The two lay sisters had begun to clear away.
‘Shall we go to recreation?’ Sister David said, popping up at her side like a short-sighted rabbit appearing out of a hat. With her twitchy nose and slightly protruding teeth she did indeed look faintly rabbit-like.
The double doors at the end of the room had been opened and led, Sister Joan had guessed, into another huge apartment with chairs set ready in a semi-circle and a long table piled with work baskets.
‘I understand that you worked at embroidered objects before,’ the Prioress said from her place in the centre of the semi-circle.
‘Yes, Reverend Mother Ann.’
Tapestries that would cover kneeling-mats and pew cushions, flower pictures to be sold at Christmas bazaars, now and then a stole or a cope for a newly ordained priest.
‘Tonight you are excused from working during recreation,’ the Prioress said. ‘If you wish to spend part of this period in exploration of the House or quiet prayers in the chapel you are free to excuse yourself.’
‘Thank you, Reverend Mother.’
For the moment she was content to sit at the end of the arc of chairs, her gaze turned towards the other nuns, now settling themselves with their knitting and sewing. The Prioress was not working. Her hands with their pink varnished nails were folded in the lap of her purple habit; her dark eyes surveyed the sisters with unremitting sweetness. At her left loomed the large, freckled face and hands of Mother Emmanuel knitting with a ball of violent green wool what looked like a scarf for the neck of some hapless priest. At her other side Sister David was darning a pair of black cotton stockings. Sister Joan had feared that Sister David might prove to be limpet-like, but she had obviously done her an injustice.
‘The rest of us had better introduce ourselves,’ the Prioress said, when all were seated. ‘Now whom have you not yet met? Ah, Sister Dorothy is our librarian.’ Sister Dorothy looked as if she had been created for the task of librarian, with her rimless spectacles and slightly hunched posture. As the Prioress paused encouragingly she said,
‘We have an excellent library here, Sister Joan. Much of it belonged to the Tarquin family and was sold with the house. Each sister is permitted to choose one book per week to keep in her cell and read in her leisure time.’
In Sister Joan’s experience leisure time didn’t total up to more than a twenty-minute period in any one week, but the thought of borrowing a book, of dipping into it at odd moments was attractive.
‘Sister Martha is our chief gardener,’ the Prioress was continuing, nodding towards a thin delicate-looking nun who ducked her head shyly, mumbling something. ‘Sister Lucy is our choirmistress and sacristan.’
Sister Lucy was young and pretty. Sister Joan, catching her triangular smile, was reminded of a sleek little cat who might or might not scratch when stroked.
‘Sister Perpetua is our infirmarian and Sister Katherine is in charge of the linen.’
It was impossible to distinguish neatly between these veiled heads and identical habits. Nuns en masse had as little individuality as an army. Only in personal conversations away from other listening ears might the individual woman under the habit emerge.
‘You have not yet met the older sisters in the infirmary,’ said Sister Perpetua who, from the whiteness of her skin and the russet tone of her eyebrows, could be assumed to be a redhead. ‘I hope you will find time to visit them, Sister. They are most interested in any little event that relieves the monotony of their days.’
‘I hope that my coming won’t remind them of their recent loss,’ Sister Joan said.
‘Mother Frances, you mean?’ Sister Perpetua’s kind crumpled face brightened. ‘What a truly fine old lady she was. Sharp as a needle to the end. Such a loss to the Community when one like that goes.’
‘A gain for heaven, Sister Perpetua,’ Mother Emmanuel said.
There was always someone like Mother Emmanuel in a convent, Sister Joan thought. Before it had been Sister Francis who could be relied upon to provide the religious cliché.
‘If heaven is already perfect how can further perfection be added?’ Sister Dorothy asked. Behind the rimless spectacles her eyes were intelligent.
‘That is a most interesting theological point,’ the Prioress said. ‘How would you answer?’
Her dark eyes smiled at Sister Joan.
‘Perhaps there are degrees of perfection, Reverend Mother Ann,’ she said. ‘A small wine-glass can be as full as a large wine-glass. Saint Teresa of Lisieux made that point to one of her novices.’
‘It was Saint Teresa’s eldest sister, Pauline, who actually made that point to the Little Flower herself when she was a child.’ Sister Dorothy had a triumphant air.
‘You are quite right,’ said Sister Joan placidly.
‘Are we then to extend the boundaries of heaven every time a good person dies?’ the Prioress asked. Her tone was playful.
‘Only if one is a Fundamentalist,’ Sister Joan said.
If this was some kind of theological word-game designed to show up her ignorance she didn’t feel like playing.
‘Sister Mary Concepta has a little stomach-ache today,’ Sister Perpetua said, with an air of pouring oil on troubled waters.
‘Nothing serious, I hope, Sister?’ Sister Lucy looked concerned.
‘Too many chocolates. Her nephew will insist on sending them and she is not always as scrupulous about sharing them as she might be‚’ said Sister Perpetua.
‘The old must be allowed their little selfishnesses‚’ the Prioress said tolerantly.
‘I understand that I am actually a replacement for two sisters.’ Sister Joan glanced round.
‘I hope you do not regard yourself as a substitute, Sister Joan‚’ Mother Emmanuel boomed suddenly. ‘We each have our unique contribution to make.’
‘I was referring to Sister Sophia‚’ said Sister Joan. ‘She also died, did she not?’
Mother Emmanuel dropped a stitch and clicked her tongue in annoyance.
‘You will have your work cut out to maintain her standards‚’ the Prioress said. ‘You will all have seen the new novice, Veronica. Did you gain any strong impression?’ She looked brightly round the semicircle as she asked the question.
‘Most promising, I would say‚’ said Mother Emmanuel. ‘Polite and modest. Very different from some of today’s young girls.’
‘I too gained a favourable impression‚’ the Prioress nodded. ‘Chastity has its own perfume.’ Sister Joan wondered if it was lavender and was shocked at the trend of her own thoughts.
‘If I may be excused –?’ She began to rise.
‘Certainly, Sister Joan.’ The Prioress nodded pleasantly. ‘Do you need a guide or do you enjoy exploring by yourself?’
‘I was going to the chapel‚’ Sister Joan said.
‘Down the stairs and turn left. The plan of the building is very simple. We will see you at Benediction. Father Malone will be coming over.’
It was then a conventual benediction without any members of the laity there. Giving the customary bow, receiving the customary ‘Dominus tecum’ she left the recreation-room and walked back through the dining-room. The tables had been cleared, the long white napkins neatly folded. There was no sign of the two lay sisters who, she surmised, would be now enjoying their own supper or perhaps tending to the three old dears in the infirmary.
On the landing she stood for a moment, looking down into the shadowed hall. The familiar convent smell of incense and beeswax permeated the air. The old wood of the balustrade slid like silk under her hand as she descended. On the left an archway led into an antechamber similar to the one where she had waited earlier. This one had a heavy grille along the inner wall. The visitors’ parlour would be beyond the grille reached by an outside door.
That had been the most final moment, that clashing down of the grille as she passed from lay life to religious life. Two years before. It seemed longer. She had walked through without looking back knowing that Jacob wouldn’t be there. It was a measure of how much she had matured in the two years since that were she to take her final vows and pass beneath the grille again she would not besitate to glance back with love.
The chapel would be behind the visitors’ parlour. A low doorway led her into a narrow many-windowed passage running between the right-hand walls of the two parlours and the right front of the main wing. This part of the house felt older than the rest. She passed a side door through which visitors evidently stepped and saw the glow of the Perpetual Lamp gleaming redly through a half-open door.
The chapel was pre-Elizabethan, she calculated, standing for a few moments by the holy water stoup, feeling as she always felt that mixture of awe and heartshaking love when she stood in the place where the core of her life was held.
No attempt had been made to modernise the interior. Stone walls and floor, a heavily carved wooden ceiling of a later date than the chapel itself, polished pews and pulpit, black and white kneeling-mats.
Sister Joan slipped into the nearest pew and knelt, back straight, hands echoing the candle flames that streamed upward from the altar. The altar was set in the traditional place against the wall with a large crucifix flanked by candlesticks beneath the veiled Host. Within the altar rail was a low table covered with a white cloth. The scent of spring flowers mingled with the incense. Her beads slid, cool black tears, through her fingers as she began a decade of the rosary.
Crossing herself, letting the chain on which her prayers were strung fall freely from her belt again, she rose, her eyes becoming accustomed to the flickering light.
The chapel was larger than she had thought. No doubt in the old times tenants and servants had worshipped here with the Tarquins. The imagined echoes of their devotions were almost audible.
To the right of the altar was a rood screen, hiding the door into the sacristy where the priest robed and disrobed, where missals and hymnbooks and boxes of candles were kept. To the left was the smaller Lady altar with its statue of the Holy Virgin, crowned head high, blue painted robe falling in frozen curves of plaster to rose-decorated feet. There were candles lit there too and a bowl of flowers on the step.
‘Nothing is wrong in this chapel,’ thought Sister Joan and she was immediately puzzled as to what might have led her to believe there might be something wrong.
Tiredness played tricks sometimes with the mind. She recalled suddenly how, as a child, waking from a bad dream she had gone into the sitting-room and seen strangers there, people with whom she had nothing to do. She had stood, terrified, on the threshold of the room and then the strange woman by the fire had turned her head and smiled and resolved herself into Mum.
But the Holy Virgin was the Holy Virgin. She wasn’t about to turn into someone else while Sister Joan stood there staring at Her.
A slight cough by the door made her jump so violently that she was ashamed when Sister Perpetua said,
‘Do forgive me, Sister, I didn’t mean to startle you, but I just came from tucking in my old ladies. I promised them that you would see them tomorrow and they look forward to it very much. New faces always stimulate them splendidly.’
‘I hope I don’t stimulate them too much,’ said Sister Joan.
‘Heavens, what a thing to say.’ In the candlelight Sister Perpetua’s reddish eyebrows wriggled furiously up and down on her white forehead. ‘Would you like to take a short stroll before Benediction starts?’
Sister Joan would have preferred to take it alone but the thought of company was not unpleasant. And this was the infirmarian who had known Mother Frances and might clear up the mystery of that last letter.
They went out through the side door into the rain-sparkled dimness of the May evening. At this end of the land the light stayed longer than in the north. It was not a black but a grey cloak that spread itself over the landscape. From a nearby oak a rook cawed into the air, intent on prey.
‘This is the enclosure,’ Sister Perpetua said, unlatching a high wicker gate and passing through it.
The Order of the Daughters of Compassion was not entirely cloistered as were Orders such as the Carmelites. Any sister who wished to immure herself completely must first receive the unanimous consent of all the Prioresses. In the fifty years since the Order had been founded only two sisters had sealed themselves into a hermit existence.
The dim twilight revealed the kitchen garden with its staked vegetables and borders of herb. A cobbled yard with the outlines of stable and garage diminished the space intended as the exercise area. There were rose bushes and spiky lavender to scent the air and against the farthest wall pear and cherry and walnut spread branches heavy with blossom.
‘I love the enclosure,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘Now that summer’s on the way my old ladies will be able to come out here and sit.’
‘Are they very sick?’ Sister Joan asked as they passed the winding path.
‘Sister Andrew has had breast cancer, but thank God she’s in remission at present,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘Sister Mary Concepta suffers from rheumatism. Sister Gabrielle is just old. They’re all three old but quite bright still. At least they’re finishing their lives with some dignity.’
It was one of the benefits of a religious vocation, Sister Joan thought, that no nun ended her days in loneliness living on Welfare. To the last breath the old sister remained an integral part of the Community to which she had dedicated her life.
‘You must have been sad to lose Mother Frances,’ she said aloud. ‘Reverend Mother Agnes told me that she used to be her Novice Mistress.’
‘Oh, Mother Frances spoke of her often,’ Sister Perpetua volunteered. ‘She remembered all the novices who had passed through her hands, but Reverend Mother Agnes was always special to her. I think she hoped for a visit from her before the end came.’
‘But she did write, did she not?’
‘A few days before her death,’ Sister Perpetua answered promptly. ‘She wanted her to visit, you see, but one realises that a Prioress cannot uproot herself at a moment’s notice and come dashing down to Cornwall to see an old friend. I think Mother Frances also realised it. Very soon afterwards she lapsed into a coma and died. It was a holy death.’
Sister Joan nodded. The holy death was one to be anticipated by any sister who had spent her religious life in the tranquil carrying out of her vows and duties. In such a death soul and body separated gently with little anguish, the soul helped on its homeward flight by the prayers and invocations of the assembled nuns.
‘Reverend Mother Agnes would have liked to come,’ she said.
‘She telephoned,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘By then Mother Frances wouldn’t have recognised her, I’m afraid. Did you know that originally she was a Sister of Charity?’
‘Mother Frances? No, I didn’t.’
‘She entered the religious life when she was twenty-one. When our Order was founded she obtained permission to transfer. She knew our Foundress personally. Think of that.’
‘I fancy that Marie Van Lowen was quite a woman,’ Sister Joan said.
‘A great sinner who may yet become a saint if Rome agrees. The problem is that in Rome everybody moves at a snail’s pace.’
Sister Perpetua had unfastened a gate set in the wall and was stepping through. Sister Joan, following, was momentarily stilled by the glinting white crosses that marked the close-cut turf.
‘Our convent cemetery,’ Sister Perpetua said. ‘We will all lie here one day.’ There were no more than a dozen crosses, in two neat rows, like children at assembly. Each cross bore name and dates of birth and death. Underneath the mounds the sisters slept, clad in their shrouds, uncoffined according to custom.
Two of the graves were marked not by crosses but by small plaques.
‘Mother Frances,’ Sister Perpetua indicated one. ‘The cross will be set in a year’s time when the earth has settled.’
That too was according to custom.
‘And the other is Sister Sophia?’
‘I have a torch,’ Sister Perpetua said unexpectedly and switched it on, directly at the engraved plaque.
‘Sister Sophia Weldon. 1963–1987’
The engraved letters, white against the black, were square and neat.
‘She was very young,’ Sister Joan said, shocked.
‘She had taken her vows three months before,’ Sister Perpetua said, switching off the torch again.
‘What happened?’
‘She hanged herself,’ Sister Perpetua said.
‘Hanged herself?’ The words made no sense. ‘But surely – the announcement of her death – I cannot recall –’
‘Reverend Mother Ann did not make the manner of her death public to our other Houses,’ said Sister Perpetua, beginning to walk back to the gate. ‘We do not discuss the incident, but I felt it only fair to let you know so that you don’t inadvertently say the wrong thing. It was and is a most painful subject.’
Across the enclosure the bell for Benediction began to ring.