One

It was a day for feeling hopeful and optimistic. Sister Joan, who seldom felt anything else, led Lilith, the convent pony, out into the cobbled yard and mounted up, secure in the knowledge that if the breeze blew up the skirt of her grey habit she was wearing jeans underneath, a special concession permitted by her prioress, Mother Dorothy, who came now to the kitchen door and looked out, gold-rimmed spectacles clamped firmly to her beaky nose, her hands folded in approved fashion within the wide sleeves of the dark purple habit which signified her position as head of this particular community of sisters of the Order of Daughters of Compassion. When her five-year term was over she would wear a purple band on the right sleeve of her grey habit to remind her of the office she had held. Rather like a sergeant’s stripes, Sister Joan thought with an inward grin, composing her face as she turned dark-blue eyes towards her superior.

‘Do you want me to pick up anything else for you in town?’ she asked.

‘I don’t think so, Sister. You’ll check the velvet is good quality?’

‘Yes, of course, Mother. Sister Teresa is going to look beautiful, isn’t she?’

‘And velvet is such a sensible choice,’ Mother Dorothy said briskly. ‘It can be quite chilly at this time of year and one doesn’t want to see a Bride of Christ shiver her way through her final vows. You’ll look in on Father Malone?’

‘Yes, Mother.’ Sister Joan bowed her veiled head for the swift blessing sketched upon the air and trotted beneath the arch and down the side path to the drive which curved between lawn and shrubbery to the moorland track.

In Cornwall spring often came sooner than in other parts of the country, and this spring was no exception. The turf was starred with wild flowers and there was a faint golden haze on the horizon that hinted at a fine day to come.

‘Come, Lilith!’ Sister Joan slapped the pony on her rump and broke into a canter. Behind her she heard a doleful whining from Alice, the year-old Alsatian bitch acquired originally as a guard dog for the isolated community. Sister Joan had taken the precaution of tying Alice up before she set out since a gambolling dog wasn’t the most desirable companion for a trip into town. Her conscience was less stricken than it might have been since she knew perfectly well that Sister Perpetua would take Alice’s mind off her imprisonment with a few choice titbits. The infirmarian had a soft spot for animals though she would have been unwilling to admit it, having long since cast herself in the role of a red-haired, peppery individual with no time for sentiment.

And what role do I see myself in? Sister Joan thought, checking her speed and holding Lilith to a more decorous pace.

Thirty-eight years old, having turned her back on marriage or a career as an artist nearly ten years before to enter the religious life, she mused, trying to stand outside herself mentally and take the objective viewpoint. Not, she suspected, an ideal nun though she tried hard to fit her lively and impestuous nature to the even tenor of community life. Certainly not a Living Rule, that nun whose conduct would make it possible to write out again the rules of the order should they ever be lost. There were times when she doubted if a Living Rule had ever existed in actuality.

She slowed further as a small stone building came into view. The building had once provided a school where local children could be taught before going into town to the ‘big’ school. She herself had been the teacher, with a small class composed of local children and a few from the Romany camp high on the moor. She had enjoyed her period of teaching until new regulations had forced the school to close. Now the stone building stood mute and locked, its windows boarded up. It was still convent property but nobody had thought of a proper use for it.

As she turned into the main street of the town she decided she would call first on Father Malone. Sister Jerome who had kept house for him and the curate, Father Stephens, since the former’s return from his sabbatical abroad, couldn’t be said to be an amiable woman but she made splendid coffee.

Sister Joan dismounted, leading Lilith down the side alley which bisected the streets and provided a short cut to the church and presbytery, both modest structures since in this predominantly Protestant corner of England the Catholic Church still existed more or less on sufferance and trod cautiously to avoid offence.

As she tied Lilith to the garden gate the front door opened and Father Malone came out, beaming in his usual welcoming fashion.

‘Sister Joan, bonjour as they say! All’s well?’

‘All’s well, Father.’ Sister Joan bit her lip to stifle a giggle. Father Malone had been lacing his conversation with foreign phrases ever since his return from his sabbatical five months before.

‘Come in, Sister. You didn’t bring the car?’ He came close enough to give Lilith the lump of sugar in his hand.

‘Lilith is easier on the petrol,’ Sister Joan said with a grin. ‘You spoil her, Father.’

‘Now isn’t a pony a living beast now?’ he countered, dropping into his native brogue. ‘Sure but it’s a breathing, feeling thing and, if His Holiness is right, the owner of a soul which will open the doors to an afterlife.’

‘I’m sure His Holiness is right,’ Sister Joan said, following the priest back up the path. ‘I never could imagine heaven without a few animals around.’

‘The blessed St Francis would have blessed you for that, Sister,’ Father Malone approved. ‘You know I helped offer mass at Assisi. I’ve some photographs somewhere. Or perhaps you have already seen them?’

Everybody in the convent had seen them several times. Father Malone had gone off on pilgrimage clutching missal and camera with almost equal regard for both.

‘I’d love to take a look at them, Father,’ she said. ‘One doesn’t get the chance for a proper look with everybody crowding round.’

‘They’re about here somewhere.’ Father Malone led the way to the study, looked round vaguely and pounced on the buff folder. ‘Here we are! Sit yourself down and I’ll ask Sister Jerome to make us a nice cup of coffee. I’ve an idle half-hour this morning since Father Stephens very kindly offered to visit the old people’s home.’

‘That’s very nice of him,’ Sister Joan said diplomatically.

From what she’d heard Father Stephens, who was young, educated and ambitious, was apt to talk rather too much about the twilight of life and the gates of heaven standing open when he was with anyone over the age of sixty.

‘Many of the poor souls are getting very deaf, you know,’ Father Malone said, a slight twinkle in his eyes betraying that he shared her reservations. ‘Ah, Sister Jerome, here you are! And with coffee already!’

‘I heard Sister Joan’s voice.’ Sister Jerome put down the tray and nodded her head in Sister Joan’s direction. ‘Good morning, Sister Joan.’

‘Good morning, Sister Jerome.’ Answering pleasantly, receiving a frosty smile before the priests’ housekeeper went plodding back to the kitchen, Sister Joan reminded herself that Sister Jerome had a sad history and was more in her element here ministering to men of the cloth than trying to live with a crowd of women.1

‘Help yourself to sugar, Sister. Now let me see – this is of the façade of the cathedral. You can judge its size if you realize that the figure by the portico is myself and I’m five feet seven. A friar was kind enough to take the picture for me. He took another, a close-up but it came out a mite fuzzy. I was coming to the end of that roll of film.’

Sister Joan shook her head to the sugar and the chocolate finger which marked the end of Lent and looked dutifully at the photographs, marvelling at her own ability to say something freshly complimentary about each one.

‘I’ve the ones from Lourdes somewhere around,’ Father Malone said hopefully.

‘Father, once you tempt me into looking at photographs of Lourdes I’ll be here all morning,’ she said, laughing. ‘I only came to ask you if everything’s being made ready for Sister Teresa’s final profession. I’m sure that it is but you know Mother Dorothy likes all her i’s dotted and her t’s crossed in good time.’

‘Everything’s going ahead very smoothly, Sister,’ he assured her. ‘His Lordship will be here in a month’s time, staying overnight at the presbytery, of course, and there’ll be a concelebrated mass up in the convent chapel. She’ll be looking forward to it – Sister Teresa.’

‘I’m sure she will, but of course she’s still in retreat,’ Sister Joan said.

After the postulancy and the novitiate intending Daughters of Compassion spent a year in virtual silence and isolation before taking their perpetual vows of poverty, chastity, obedience and compassion.

‘A pity she wasn’t able to make her profession last Easter,’ he regretted.

‘Circumstances delayed her entry into retreat as you know, Father. In a way the delay will work to our advantage, I think,’ Sister Joan said, rising. ‘Not being able to join fully in the celebrations at Easter with the rest of us means she starts out with a sacrifice and then, having her own ceremony after Easter, will make it a real landmark day.’

‘Without having to compete with the risen Christ for the attention of the community?’ Father Malone shook his grey head at her reproachfully.

‘I didn’t mean it quite like that, Father,’ she protested.

‘I’m sure you didn’t. Whatever the circumstances I’m sure Sister Teresa’s day will be a wonderfully happy one. You have errands to do?’

‘I’m collecting the material for Sister Teresa’s dress. Is it all right if I leave Lilith here? She dislikes being ridden through traffic.’

‘As long as you please, Sister. The traffic will be getting worse here soon, I’m afraid.’ He rose to accompany her to the door.

‘Tourists so early?’ Sister Joan looked at him.

‘New Age Travellers,’ Father Malone said, giving each word a large, doleful capital letter. ‘Apparently a large group are headed this way.’

‘They’ll probably camp out of town on the moor,’ she said.

‘One hopes so.’ Father Malone, who liked his fellow human beings to be in neat categories, sighed. ‘It’s very difficult to draw the line between freedom and licence, isn’t it? We shall just have to pray that they don’t cause too much damage. Give my regards to Mother Prioress and the community. Does Sister Teresa intend to continue as lay sister after her profession?’

‘We’re all hoping so,’ Sister Joan said. ‘A year of my cooking is about as much as the community can endure. Goodbye, Sister Jerome.’

From the kitchen door Sister Jerome afforded her a curt nod before returning to the sink.

The line between lay and semi-enclosed sister was in the Daughters of Compassion as fine as between the freedom and licence the priest had remarked upon, she mused, as she strode off down the main street, the ends of her short white veil fluttering in the spring breeze. Within the community the nuns remained within the confines of the enclosure, earning their living as far as was possible from their home base. Only the lay sisters went out to do the marketing and, in return for that small freedom, lived more separately than their sisters, taking their meals and recreation separately, the Marthas of the community. Sister Teresa’s year-long retreat had imposed a certain loneliness on Sister Joan too. Mother Prioress had hinted that if Sister Teresa chose to continue as lay sister she herself might be considered as assistant mistress of novices. Not that she considered herself a suitable mistress of anyone but it would be nice to write home and tell her family about it. Her mother would certainly regard it as a promotion. In her letters she frequently hinted what a thrill it would be if her only daughter got elected as prioress one day.

To which dizzy heights I am unlikely to aspire,’ Sister Joan muttered and walked full tilt into a tall man walking in the opposite direction.

‘Talking to yourself, Sister Joan? Times must be desperate!’

Detective Sergeant Alan Mill took a pace backwards and looked down at her, one dark eyebrow raised in amusement.

‘It’s probably the onset of my twilight years,’ Sister Joan said. ‘How are you, Detective Sergeant Mill?’

‘Well enough.’ He gave her a second look. ‘And you, Sister? It’s months since we’ve met.’

‘I don’t come into town more than once a month and then I’m usually in the car. I rode in today on Lilith.’

‘Not shopping?’

‘Sister Teresa makes her final profession next month and I’m here to pick up the material for her dress.’

‘Dress?’ His eyebrow rose again.

‘Wedding dress,’ she said provocatively, waiting for the scowl.

It came, reminding her of Jacob whom she seldom thought about these days except when she ran into the detective. Both were dark, lean men, Detective Sergeant Mill having the advantage in height and a chiselled profile while Jacob had borne the palm for intensity of dark eyes and quick, nervous gesture.

‘You can’t expect an agnostic to be very thrilled at the prospect of a healthy young woman getting herself togged up to exchange marriage vows with someone who was executed nearly two thousand years ago,’ he said.

‘You must allow us our eccentricities,’ she said lightly, but there was a flash of concern at the back of her eyes.

Detective Sergeant Mill had never spoken so sourly of religious matters before. He and she had, at the beginning of their acquaintanceship, tacitly agreed to beg to differ. He had always shown respect towards her beliefs, and she had gleaned the impression that he was more sympathetic than otherwise to the Faith.

‘Sorry, Sister,’ he said quickly. ‘That was rude and insensitive. The truth is that I’m not in a mood to talk about marriage today.’

He had told her once, briefly and casually in passing, that he and his wife were having problems, but she had never enquired further. Nor would she do so now. It was no business of hers how a man with whom she had been associated in his professional capacity lived in private. Before she could change the subject, however, he said, ‘My wife’s asked me for a divorce and I’ve agreed.’

‘I’m truly sorry.’ Her expression had darkened slightly.

Divorce was always a sad end to a relationship and in this case there were children.

‘We’re merely closing the book on a tale that was told quite a long time ago,’ he said. ‘She’ll take the boys but I’ll have ample access. There’s nobody else involved.’

‘Then couldn’t you—?’

‘Not unless I left the Force and I’m not prepared to do that. It’s not her fault. When we first married she didn’t realize – neither of us realized – the inroads the job makes into one’s private time. We’ve lived apart for two years in fact if not in name so there won’t be any difficulties.’

‘Aren’t there places you can go for counselling these days?’ she ventured.

‘We’re neither of us interested,’ he said.

‘Then I am sorry,’ she repeated gently. ‘I can understand how you feel when I go on about Sister Teresa’s final profession. It must seem like a medieval mockery to you.’

‘I wish her happiness anyway,’ he said. ‘How’s the dog getting on? Alice?’

‘Alice is a joy and a delight,’ Sister Joan said, relieved to have moved away from the personal.

‘I gave her to the community as a guard dog.’

‘Oh, she’s that too – or will be when she’s completed her training,’ Sister Joan assured him. ‘She’s very intelligent and obedient.’

‘I’ll call one of these days and see how she’s getting on.’

‘You’ll be very welcome, Detective Sergeant Mill. How are things apart from—?’

‘On the work front everything’s very quiet – for the moment. We’ve just had word that a group of new-age travellers are headed in this direction. If we all keep very quiet they might pass on by.’

‘You don’t approve?’

‘Not much.’

‘You know,’ she said, smiling as the thought occurred to her, ‘I suppose that Our Blessed Lord and His disciples were rather like new-age travellers in their day – a group of men with a sprinkling of women journeying about in the Holy Land, not staying quietly in their homes and minding their own business.’

‘I doubt if Jesus and His friends smoked hash or claimed Social Security benefits,’ Detective Sergeant Mill said dryly.

‘Probably not! Will you try to move them on then?’

‘I’ll try to persuade them not to stay too long,’ he said grimly.

‘You don’t mind the gypsies.’

‘There’s been a Romany camp up on the moor for nearly three hundred years, Sister. They earn a living of a sort; pay their fines or serve their time if they fall foul of the law, and don’t interfere with the rest of us. We’ve a live and let live policy towards them. The other lot are different. If they give you any trouble at the convent let us know.’

‘Oh, Alice will see them off,’ Sister Joan said cheerfully. ‘It was nice seeing you again.’

‘You too, Sister. Take care now.’

He saluted her with a slight lifting of his hand and went on past her down the street. She turned to stare after him, frowning a little. From the beginning there had been an unspoken understanding between them that anything in the nature of a personal friendship was out of the question. She had helped him in a couple of cases in which she had become innocently involved and when the last report had been written they went their separate ways. That he should speak so readily of his impending divorce demonstrated his bitterness. That might indicate there was some feeling left in him for his estranged wife. She resolved to pray about it and went on briskly.

The smooth folds of velvet were a soft ivory in shade. There would be sufficient over for a heart-shaped cap from which a plain white veil would descend. Sister Teresa had chosen to carry lilies and white rosebuds. With her dark hair and brown eyes she was going to look lovely.

Paying for the material, watching the assistant parcel it up, she remembered her own dress, of white muslin with a ruffled hem, and white carnations because it had been summer and anything heavier than muslin would have swamped her small, slight frame. Her parents and both her brothers had been there, looking unfamiliar in their best go-to-church clothes, her mother’s face shaded by a wide-brimmed hat so that it was impossible to see if she was shedding a few tears or not. Jacob hadn’t come.

‘No point in prolonging the agony,’ Jacob had said, when they’d finally decided that he couldn’t bring himself to marry a Gentile and she had known that she couldn’t bring herself to convert to Judaism much as she respected that ancient faith.

She’d waited nearly a year before applying to the Order of the Daughters of Compassion, sent Jacob a brief note telling him of her decision, emphasizing that this was what she wanted to do with the rest of her life, but he hadn’t written back and he hadn’t come to see her make her final profession.

She had no idea whether or not Sister Teresa had left an ex-boyfriend behind, had ever had a boyfriend. In her early twenties, rosy and amiable with a calm, unfurrowed brow Teresa looked as if she had been preparing for the religious life since childhood.

She came out into the street again, the bulky parcel under her arm, and walked back towards the presbytery. People were doing their morning shopping, a few nodding to her pleasantly as she passed. In the years since the community had taken over the old Tarquin estate the presence of a nun or two in the town occasioned little comment.

Father Stephens, blond and urbane, was just approaching the gate as she strapped the parcel into the saddle-bag and untied Lilith.

‘Good morning, Sister Joan. Are you coming in?’

‘No, I’m on my way back to the convent, Father. Did you have a good visit at the old people’s home?’

‘Inspiring,’ he said. ‘Being with old people humbles one, don’t you find? Such experience! Such nobility!’

‘I’m sure you’re right, Father,’ Sister Joan said kindly.

In her opinion age didn’t always confirm either experience or nobility. Bad-tempered young people simply became more so as they aged, but Father Stephens was still an idealist with no glimmerings of any sense of humour. He would probably end up as a bishop, she thought, and mounted Lilith hastily lest her twinkling eyes betray the course her thoughts were taking.

‘You’ve heard the news, I suppose, about the new-age travellers coming?’ In just such sepuchral tones might a Saxon monk have announced that Viking longships were on the horizon.

‘Yes, but they’re not here yet, are they?’ she said aloud.

‘One hopes they will go elsewhere,’ he said.

‘But then someone else will have the inconvenience.’

‘You’re right, Sister. That was a selfish thought though I fear I’m not the only one thinking it,’ he said. ‘Perhaps one should welcome them. Many must feel rootless, seeking their pleasure in drugs and er – other things.’

‘Sex, do you mean?’ Sister Joan gathered up the reins.

Father Stephens betrayed his youth by blushing bright red.

‘I tried it once,’ he said.

‘Good Lord, Father!’ She stared at him and he went, if possible, a deeper shade of scarlet as he said hastily, ‘Marijuana, Sister. What they call “hash”. A few of us got hold of some in school and smoked it. Well, I only had a couple of puffs before I felt sick but I feel I have some experience of “being high”.’

‘Indeed you have, Father. It gives you something in common with the junkies,’ she said gravely.

‘It gives me a slight advantage if I come into contact with them,’ he agreed. ‘What I just told you is confidential, of course, Sister. I’d not wish to shock Father Malone.’

Father Malone would probably be relieved and amused to learn his curate had a weakness, she thought, but answered promptly, ‘Of course, Father Stephens. I’ll not say a word. Good day to you.’

‘God bless you, Sister.’

He signed a large cross upon the air and turned in at the gate. He already had the long sweeping step of a bishop, she thought, watching him go in with a feeling of exasperated tenderness. She didn’t like to admit it but she was fond of Father Stephens because of his faults and not despite them.

Riding back up the track that crossed the moor she was conscious, as she always was, of the beauty of her surroundings. The mother house where she had done her training was in the middle of the city with traffic noises interfering with the peace of the cloister. Here there was peace and isolation, the flower-starred grass broken by an occasional patch of peat, dark against the surrounding green, the pale haze of the far hills thrown into focus by a tree standing slantways against the wind.

Dismounting at the convent gate she stood for a moment to enjoy the loveliness of the old house. Not even the ‘improvements’ inflicted on it by Victorian builders could entirely ruin the classical severity of walls and roof and window lintels. The great house had been built of granite, its tiled roof now worn by age to a silvery grey, its chimneys smokeless since there was heating only in the infirmary and then only in the coldest part of the winter.

‘Sister Joan!’ Little Sister Martha who did the gardening, lifting huge loads with an ease that belied her delicate appearance, came speeding down the drive. ‘Sister, Mother Dorothy asked me to look out for you. She wants to see you in the parlour.’

‘I wonder what I’ve done wrong now,’ Sister Joan said.

‘Oh, I’m sure you haven’t done anything, Sister.’ Sister Martha’s pale face was startled. ‘She seemed in an excellent humour. Shall I take Lilith back for you?’

‘Thank you, Sister, and will you give Sister Katharine the velvet for Sister Teresas dress? It’s in the saddle-bag.’

‘White velvet. How elegant that will look! I had silk with tiny white and gold flowers embroidered all over it,’ Sister Martha said with pleasurable recollection replacing the startled look. ‘My godmother bought the material for me. Come along, Lilith.’

She took the reins and set off up the drive, leaving Sister Joan to follow more pensively.

Despite Sister Martha’s reassurances it was seldom that Mother Dorothy invited one into the parlour for a happy little chat. On the other hand Sister Joan couldn’t bring to mind any recent infractions of the rule that called for scolding.

She went in through the front door, leaving Sister Martha to lead the pony round to the back.

The main hall with its sweeping staircase was polished as usual to the acme of shining slipperiness. To the left and right arched doorways led respectively to the antechamber with the prioress’s parlour beyond and into the chapel wing where a narrow corridor led past the visitors’ parlour with its dividing grille into the long chapel with its tiny sacristy leading off it. There were no decorations but the height of the ceiling with its swags of white plaster grapes, the intricate carving of the balustrade made gilding the lily unnecessary.

She straightened her veil, pushed back an errant curl of blue-black hair, checked that her skirt was straight, and went through the antechamber with its long, carved wooden seat and the table on which the mail was laid ready for Mother Dorothy’s inspection, and tapped on the inner door.

‘Come in.’ Mother Dorothy’s voice didn’t sound any sharper than usual, but that was no guarantee.

The parlour beyond had once been a large drawing-room, and the silk embroidered panels, faded but still exquisite, remained on the panelled walls. At the two long windows the original pale curtains hung, their velvet slightly scuffed by the passage of time. A firescreen blocked the hearth above which a plain wooden crucifix hung and the spindly-legged sofas and occasional tables which must once have graced the room had been replaced by a row of filing cabinets, a semi-circle of stools and a flat-topped desk behind which the Prioress sat.

‘Dominus vobiscum.’ She gave the customary greeting.

‘Et cum spirutu tuo.’ Sister Joan knelt briefly as her superior indicated one of the stools.

‘You bought the material?’ As usual Mother Dorothy dealt first with the practicalities.

‘Yes, Mother. I called at the presbytery too. Father Malone has made arrangements for the bishop’s coming. He sent his blessing. Sister Jerome gave me a cup of coffee.’

‘And which set of photographs did you look at this morning?’ Mother Dorothy asked. Evidently she wasn’t in trouble then or Mother Dorothy wouldn’t have hovered so near a joke.

‘Assisi, Mother.’ Sister Joan folded her hands and risked a smile.

‘That dear man will never recover from the thrill of his pilgrimage,’ Mother Dorothy said, also smiling. ‘Well we have some news. You know how earnestly we have been praying for new vocations. Well, two young women have applied to stay here for a couple of weeks with a view to entering the order. If both are suitable that means that when Sister Marie and Sister Elizabeth enter the novitiate Sister Hilaria will have two new postulants to train. It is extremely good news.’

‘Yes, indeed.’ Sister Joan sat up eagerly, her face bright.

‘One of them, Bernadette Fawkes, writes to us from Yorkshire. She encloses a letter of recommendation from her parish priest, which, of course, is not strictly necessary yet, but it shows she is serious in her intention. The other is a Magdalen Cole, who writes from London.’

‘Two separate applications.’

‘Which I prefer. When two friends turn up, declaring they have a vocation, I am always a trifle wary. So often the stronger personality influences the weaker. Now for the bad news.’

‘Bad news?’

‘Bad is not accurate – slightly inconvenient would fit better. Miss Cole says in her letter she will be arriving today on the late afternoon train. Miss Fawkes says she will be arriving as soon as I approve her application. She doesn’t take her welcome for granted.’

It was clear from her tone that she preferred a touch of diffidence.

‘You will approve her application?’ Sister Joan queried.

‘Yes, of course. I immediately telephoned Miss Fawkes’s parish priest and as luck would have it she was there discussing the matter with him. I suggested she might like to come down immediately so that she could arrive at the same time as Miss Cole, and she said that she’d go at once to the station. Apparently she had her case packed in readiness. Her priest rang me back a few minutes ago to inform me she had caught the London train by the skin of her teeth, so she will be here on the same train as Miss Cole though they obviously won’t be travelling together. It means that we shall have to prepare the two vacant cells upstairs rather quickly and you will have to take the car into town to meet them both.’

‘How will I recognize them?’

‘If I were you I’d station myself at the station exit and wait for them to recognize you,’ Mother Dorothy said. ‘Bernadette Fawkes is twenty-two. Magdalen Cole doesn’t give her age.’

‘I’ll see they get a good welcome,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Will they join in with the life of the community?’

‘As far as their lay status permits. They will be paying a modest fee for bed and board but they will of course, be guests while they’re with us. It will give them the chance to observe the routine of the convent at first hand and help them to decide whether or not the religious life might be for them. As much as we wish for new vocations that is no reason for lowering our standards. I think it might be a nice gesture if we were to put flowers in the two cells and see if Sister Perpetua can provide a couple of hot-water bottles. They may find it cold here at night with no heating.’

They’re not the only ones, Sister Joan thought irreverently, as she rose and knelt, saying aloud, ‘I’ll see about it, Mother. May I be excused now to get on with lunch?’

‘Yes, of course. I’ll announce the imminent arrival of our two guests at the meal. Thank you, Sister.’

Two intending postulants marked the day as a red letter one. In the hall Sister Joan paused to smile at the prospect. The front door was still open but the sunlight had fled from the lawn beyond. The breeze must have sharpened since there was no other reason for the long shiver that suddenly racked her from head to foot.

1 See Vow of Penance