‘WHAT’S HAPPENING?’ JANNA asks Clem. ‘Why have we both been invited to the Chapter meeting this morning? Are we going to get the sack?’
‘It doesn’t seem likely that we’d get the sack when there’s so much to be done and nobody else to do it.’
They stand together, near the caravan door; both of them puzzled and anxious. The orchard is full of bluebells, the ancient trees standing ankle-deep in a lagoon of shining blue. Somewhere above their heads swifts race, screaming.
‘What would you do?’ she asks. ‘If we had to go, I mean.’
Clem takes a deep breath; he stares upwards between the leaves, wondering how to answer.
‘It sounds crazy but it’s not something I’ve ever thought about. Not in that way. I’ve wondered whether I should start my training again and hope to be put forward for ordination but I’ve been so busy thinking about that – apart from the work here – that it’s never occurred to me that I might simply have to pack up and leave. I believed … that I was led here.’ He hesitates but he knows that Janna will understand; she won’t mock or deride his feeling. ‘It seemed so right; everything fell so perfectly into place. It seems … well, impossible that we, Jakey and I, should be suddenly set adrift. Again.’
His jaw clenches and she sees the muscle moving in his cheek. He looks angry and confused, and she feels even more frightened.
‘You could go to Dossie, couldn’t you?’ She speaks timidly. ‘Just for a bit. And, anyway, it might be nothing. Just a kind of check-up on things. Like how we’re coping and how we see things going forward.’
‘It didn’t sound like that, though, did it? I felt that Mother Magda waited until she’d got us both together at a busy moment so that there wasn’t an opportunity for us to question her. She looked a bit fraught.’
Janna nods. ‘And ’tis short notice, too.’
Clem looks down at her; suddenly his narrow blue-brown eyes crease in amusement and he seems to throw off his fear. ‘She didn’t want us to be doing this, that’s why. Huddling together trying to guess what it’s all about.’
Janna feels better at once. ‘It’ll be all right. ’Course it will. Father Pascal hasn’t said anything, has he?’
Clem shakes his head. ‘I’m not sure that means much, though.’ He looks at his watch. ‘Shall we go, then? It’s nearly time.’ He laughed. ‘It’s like having to go and see the Head, isn’t it?’
She nods, biting her lips, taking courage from his cheerfulness. ‘Come on, then. Let’s hope ’tis only detention.’
In the library, chairs have been set in a semi-circle around a little table. Mother Magda puts some papers on the table and glances doubtfully at Father Pascal.
‘It’s quite right that they should be included,’ he says, interpreting her look. ‘It is the right decision. Sister Ruth isn’t seeing it quite clearly. It’s only fair that Clem and Janna know the score. You depend upon them – and they might have something valuable to add to the discussion. Maybe not immediately, of course, but Sister Emily has the root of it in her. We are all joined on this journey and each of us has a contribution to make towards it.’
She nods, reassured. ‘It’s just that Ruth says that Janna hasn’t been here long enough to be consulted about such an important matter.’ She hesitates, seeking for some tactful phrase. ‘She has never been quite comfortable with Janna.’
Father Pascal snorts with amusement. ‘Nor with Jakey.’
‘No,’ Magda agrees, smiling. ‘She’s not easy with children and yet she is so wonderful with Nichola. Caring for Nichola has brought out all her best instincts. It was the right decision yet we feared that she’d never manage. Ruth’s always been so spiky; so sharp and so fearful of being undervalued. Do you remember how anxious we were?’
‘God works with our brokenness, whether it’s Nichola’s physical and mental deterioration or Ruth’s insecurities—’ he begins – and stops as the door opens and Nichola and Ruth come in together.
It is clear from Ruth’s face that she thoroughly disapproves of what is about to happen; but Nichola beams vaguely upon them all and is helped to her chair where she sits, looking about her. Sister Emily comes quickly in: she wears an eager, expectant look, as if great decisions might be made or wonderful truths uncovered. Father Pascal instinctively smiles, despite Magda’s anxiety and Ruth’s disapproval. Sister Emily’s positive, almost childlike, approach always fills him with delight.
‘Sister Emily is a “yes” person,’ he said once to Clem. ‘Everything is a possibility until proved otherwise.’
Even as he remembers saying it, there is a tap at the door, and Clem and Janna come in together. He sees at once their fear, their uncertainty, and his spirits sink again. As Magda hurries forward to welcome them and asks them to sit down he makes a little prayer for guidance. As yet he can see no way forward. Even if Mr Brewster’s offer were not accepted it will not be long before the frailty of the community makes it necessary for a decision to be taken for its future. Surely it is better to jump than to be pushed – or is it? He tries to imagine Chi-Meur as a hotel: it would be themed, of course. The Tudor Experience, perhaps, or the Elizabethan Manor House Weekend. He tries to visualize the house with a bar and a gym and wonders what Mr Brewster would do with the small, perfect chapel. House yoga sessions?
He realizes that a little silence has fallen on the now assembled group. Sister Nichola is watching him. Half smiling, half frowning, she seems to be trying to read his thoughts. Her round pale face, freckled by the brown coins of old age, is surprisingly unlined; all cares and fears have been smoothed away as she’s slowly been drawn into her parallel universe where she dwells in peaceful quietude. He nods at her, smiling, as if to say: ‘All is well.’
‘Silence,’ she says sweetly, surprisingly, into the silence. Her voice is quite clear and unusually strong. ‘The silence before and after music is as important as the music.’
The silence now takes on a new quality of surprise, almost trepidation, at what Sister Nichola might say next: she speaks rarely these days and her words are strange yet significant.
And she is so right, thinks Clem. Those amazing silences at the end of some great symphony, when the audience has been transported to another level of consciousness. How I hate it when people start shouting and clapping almost before the last note has been played, destroying the atmosphere that has been created. And the intensity of concentration at the beginning when the baton is raised and everyone is drawn into a breathless silence of expectation.
‘And the silence before and after prayer,’ says Father Pascal, taking his place at the table. ‘Shall we wait in silence now before we pray for the wisdom to see God’s plan for us here at Chi-Meur, and for the courage to follow it?’
In the churchyard, Mo is putting flowers on her parents-in-law’s grave. Neither of them would have thanked her for hothouse blooms and, instead, she’s picked a few of the pretty snowflakes that are still blossoming in the churchyard, and some red campion that grows wild on the big, old graves of other, long-gone, members of the family who have lived at The Court and worshipped in this beautiful little collegiate church.
‘So what would you do?’ she asks silently of their shades, as she takes out the withered stems of her last offering and puts the bright fresh flowers into the little holes in the metal holder. ‘It was your house. You loved it and cherished it, as we do, and worked in the garden where there are the graves of all the dogs. Oh, the dogs! I remember them all so well. And how The Court was such a refuge to come back to after those foreign countries.’
She sits back on her heels, looking up into the dark glossy black-green leaves of the great yew tree, reaching out to touch the rough, grainy branches.
‘You loved Adam so much when he was a baby. How proud you were of him. But what would you think now? What would you want us to do? He doesn’t want The Court. He doesn’t value it. He hated it when we had the B and B-ers and he refused to bring his friends home in the holidays. He went away to them instead and we hardly ever saw him. I spoiled him, of course. After all those miscarriages, suddenly to have a son; we were overjoyed. And he was such a funny little boy, so cool and quiet. Always watching but never really joining in. So detached. Poor Dossie. She tried so hard to integrate him with whatever she was doing and with her friends but he was what the French call insortable.
‘I was so happy when he married Maryanne. She was such a bubbly, warm, extrovert sort of girl. This will do it, I thought. She will make him really human, at last. But it didn’t work. At the beginning she simply swept him along in the current of her energy but in the end his chilliness simply froze her out. It withered her until she had to leave so as to save herself. I could see that. She didn’t really want to; she loved him but she simply couldn’t connect. None of us could. Oh, I miss Maryanne. We stay in touch but it makes him angry. It was almost a relief when she took the job in Brussels. And now there’s Natasha. She’s another cold fish so they suit each other, and I’m sure that they are happy in their own way. I’m not judging that. I’m just wondering what to do with The Court. They don’t want it. Those girls of hers hate it down here. They want shops, entertainment, noise. Adam and Natasha want to be certain that Dossie isn’t left with any rights to stay in the house when we die. They fear that Clem and Jakey would move in too, and then there would be no money for them. I know it’s wrong of us to feel this way if Adam loves her, but Pa said: “What if we leave it to Adam and then he dies unexpectedly soon and it goes to Natasha and those girls? We don’t know them, and they care nothing for us or The Court, and what about Dossie, then?” But Adam is our son and we love him. And if we leave it between them Dossie couldn’t afford to buy him out and where would she go? It’s her home.’
Mo gets up very slowly and painfully, dusting down her rubbed and faded navy-blue cords, looking with approval at the graceful, pretty arrangement of the flowers: the creamy white with the dark, rich pink. She stretches her cramped limbs and turns to look beyond the further wall to the distant gleam and dazzle of the sea. In the fields tall feathery grasses and bright yellow buttercups ripple before the wind, shining in the sunshine like the sleek pelt of a great healthy animal. The sun is hot on her shoulders and she breathes in the scent of the hawthorn and the new-mown grass. She is in some odd way consoled, as if those fierce, tough former guardians of The Court are still standing in the shadows ready to guide and protect. She picks up the wilted stems, folds them and crushes them, and puts them into a plastic bag, which she stuffs into the pocket of her Husky gilet. Under the great yew she passes, making her way to the gate, and there she smiles with pleasure because across the road at the end of the lane, with Wolfie and John the Baptist on their leads, stands Pa.
‘Thought we’d come to meet you,’ he says as she crosses the road towards them. ‘The dogs were missing you.’
They turn back into the lane and he releases the dogs, and they jump about Mo with excitement as if she has been gone for days, and then they all set off home together.
The meeting is over. Sister Ruth goes out with Sister Nichola, Sister Emily behind them, whilst Father Pascal talks quietly with Mother Magda beside the table as she tidies the papers. Janna slips along to the kitchen to start preparing lunch and Clem follows her.
‘So then. Now we know.’ He closes the door and leans against the table.
‘’Tis awful. Oh, poor Mother Magda. She looks quite ill with the prospect of it all.’ Janna goes to the sink and begins to scrub the tiny new potatoes Clem brought in earlier from the garden. Fresh-picked mint lies beside the saucepan.
‘But I suppose it’s not such a shock, in a way. They must have realized that they couldn’t go on indefinitely like this. At the same time, it hadn’t occurred to me that they might sell Chi-Meur.’
‘Well, what did you think then?’
‘I just assumed that they might bring in Sisters from another community. It happens all the time these days. I never thought that they might be the ones to go. Stupid of me.’
They speak very quietly as usual, but this morning both of them feel rather like conspirators.
‘I’m the stupid one. I never thought about it at all. I just thought this was all quite normal, but they’d probably eventually have to bring in a few more helpers. After all, when we’ve got guests and the house is full it all feels just great. I know we’re stretched but I never thought of them having to sell it and go. ’Tis horrible. They’ve been here for years and years. This is their home. And to turn it into a hotel …’
Clem can see that she is near tears but doesn’t know how to comfort her.
‘I thought it was brilliant when Sister Emily said that if there were one single nun remaining at Chi-Meur then there was a community here, didn’t you?’
Janna dashes a hand across her eyes and nods, smiling a little at the remembrance of the valiant comment.
‘But they’ve got to think ahead,’ he goes on thoughtfully. ‘Of course they have, yet there must be some way that Chi-Meur can survive.’
‘How?’ She looks at him hopefully. ‘You could ask Dossie. She’s always full of good ideas and plans. And Pa and Mo.’
‘Nobody is supposed to know until the Visitor has been, Mother Magda said.’
‘I’d never heard of the Visitor. Funny name.’
‘It’s Bishop Freddie from the Truro Diocese. Pastoral overview, advice, and all that stuff. He’s always brought in when there’s a really big decision to be made. Good job this hotelier is from upcountry, otherwise it would be all over the village by now. They’re going to be really upset about it. That’s probably why he’s playing his cards so close to his chest. Doesn’t want to upset the locals before it’s absolutely necessary.’
Janna turns to him suddenly. ‘D’you think it’s that man that’s been staying with Penny’s uncle at the farm? He says he’s writing a book but Penny says her auntie doesn’t believe a word of it. Says he’s writing a history about north Cornwall but never listens when you tell him anything. He’s always talking on his mobile. I’ve seen him in the village and up on the cliffs. He’s that man I saw in the grounds, ages ago. D’you remember? Penny’s boy says he can’t find him when he Googles his name. Perhaps he’s just been spying on us.’ Her eyes fill with tears again. ‘’Tisn’t right. They belong here, the Sisters and Mother Magda. And you do too. You and Jakey down in the Lodge.’
‘And what about you?’ he asks softly. ‘Don’t you belong here?’
She bites her lips, slides the potatoes into the large saucepan and drops in the mint. ‘Funny, isn’t it? I’ve never felt I’ve belonged anywhere really before I came here. But ’tis like I’m not meant to, I suppose. I’ve always been frightened at the thought of settling anywhere and now it seems I shan’t have to worry about it after all. I just wish it hadn’t been so soon.’
‘It hasn’t happened yet,’ Clem says.
He goes to stand beside her, wondering how to comfort her. Sister Emily comes gliding in and smiles at them, slipping an arm around each of them.
‘Exciting times,’ she says. ‘Much to think about, and to pray about. What is for lunch? Oh, lovely lamb casserole and new potatoes. How delicious that mint smells.’ She beams upon them, holding on to them very tightly for a moment. ‘All will be well,’ she murmurs.
She goes out again, and they turn to their tasks, but both feel oddly comforted.
Driving in the twisting, narrow maze of lanes at the edge of the moor, Dossie stops occasionally to check the map and to peer at slanting ancient finger posts.
‘It was probably crazy to buy it,’ Rupert said ruefully. ‘Nobody will ever find it and I shall be having calls from desperate holiday-makers telling me that they’re lost. Except that the mobile signal around here is a bit patchy. I shall have to get a telephone installed, of course. I’ll email you a map and I’ll be looking out for you.’
Luckily she knows roughly where she is, although it is definitely off the beaten track and she’s already taken one or two wrong turns. She doesn’t care: she is so happy. Marvelling at the glory of the spring, listening to Joni Mitchell singing ‘At Last’, she flees through the sunken byways; glimpsing the heavenly glimmer of bluebells in an oak wood that climbs a steep, rocky ridge; passing a farm gate where tender, fleecy lambs crowd, clamouring, against the bars. Stopping yet again to consult the map, and getting out so as to take off her jacket, she hears the yaffle laughing down in a valley hidden amidst creamy clouds of hawthorn blossom.
On she goes. The lane winds downhill and then, quite suddenly, she is there; and he is waiting for her. She pulls in just beyond the cottage, beside his Volvo in an old lean-to shed, and climbs out.
‘Well done!’ he cries, as though she’s won some kind of marathon. ‘Did you get lost?’
‘Not really.’ It is silly to feel like this each time she sees him: almost shy and not quite knowing how to behave. ‘Not seriously lost. I made a few wrong turns but realized quickly afterwards. I see what you mean about your average tourist finding it, but it’s utterly delightful.’
She stands in the lane looking at the small cottage basking in the sunshine. Wisteria climbs over the front door and she can hear the tinkling, gurgling murmur of water. The tiny stream runs at the edge of the square of lawn and disappears away down the valley. Rupert is watching her reaction.
‘It’s a bit gloomy in the winter,’ he says. ‘Not much sun then, but there’s a good wood-burner and it’ll be cosy. It’s very small. Come inside and have a look.’
She sees at once that he is living quite comfortably and not simply camping. The inglenook fireplace, with its heavy wooden lintel beam, has been carefully cleaned and a bookcase has been built into a recess. The two armchairs look shabby but comfortable.
‘I try to keep areas of tranquillity,’ he says, ‘otherwise it’s too depressing for words. It’s not always possible, of course, in the early stages but I’m working upstairs now and keeping this room and the kitchen as couth as I can. Go and have a recce upstairs while I make some coffee. I thought we’d have it out in the sunshine. The staircase is very steep so be careful. I’m having a new rail made for it by an amazing blacksmith in Boscastle.’
The landing branches at the top and the floorboards are bare. One bedroom is clean and fresh, with new paint and sanded boards. She is impressed by the beautifully hand-built cupboards and the dark blue, folding linen blind in the small, deep-set window. A bathroom is being installed into what was a box-room, an elegant egg-shaped washbowl and tall shining taps plumbed cleverly into the deep slate of the windowsill so as to give maximum space. The third room – the bigger bedroom – is clearly in use. Although the floor is covered with an expensive rush matting and the uneven walls painted, there are no cupboards yet. Her quick, inquisitive glance takes in his belongings: a towelling robe flung across the bed, a book on the floor beside a radio. Some clothes hanging on a rail that stands in the corner. She turns, feeling as if she is spying on him, and comes cautiously down the steep stairs, one hand on the wall.
She stands in the narrow hall, listening, and then pushes open the door into the kitchen. It is clear that this has once been a living room with the kitchen in a lean-to behind it, and more hand-built cupboards and a dresser have been carefully installed in this bigger room. This is work in progress but still functional, and she is impressed by his vision and ability. She goes out again, passing through the hall and out into the sunshine. Rupert is unloading a tray onto the wooden picnic table on the little grassy space and she joins him. He glances up at her expectantly and she grins at him.
‘I like it,’ she says lightly. ‘It’s going to be really special.’
He gives a laughing little sigh of relief, as if her approval is really important to him. ‘You really think so?’
‘It’s got everything,’ she says, sliding onto the wooden bench. ‘Character, charm, but with all the really nice modern bits. Glorious setting. Cosy in the winter.’
‘Like to write the brochure for me?’ he teases.
‘At a price,’ she says. ‘Goodness. This is quite a feast! I approve. As a family we have a great picnic tradition.’
‘I think I’d gathered that.’ He pours some coffee. ‘Anyway, you deserve it, having trekked right out here. So you don’t think I was a fool to buy it?’
Dossie shakes her head. ‘Not at all. I’m glad that you’re moving the kitchen into the living-room, though. It must be a bit poky out the back there.’
‘The old kitchen is going to be a wet-room …’
He begins to tell her his plans, his fingers sketching diagrams on the rough planking of the table, but she is only half listening to him; drugged by the warm sunshine, the music of the water, his voice. She drinks her coffee and eats some chocolate tiffin, and pulls herself together sufficiently to ask one or two intelligent questions. He pours more coffee and she turns to watch a bluetit on the nut-feeder, which someone has hung from the branch of an alder that leans above the stream.
‘I had a crazy idea,’ he is saying. ‘It’s such a fantastic morning I wondered whether we might have a walk. There’s a path right through the woods beside the stream just over the bridge there. I think you’d love it. And then, perhaps, we could go to the pub in the village for lunch – if you don’t have to dash off, that is.’
She looks at him, and then glances quickly away again.
‘Yes, I think I could,’ she murmurs. ‘Yes, why not?’ And then she looks at him properly and they smile at each other.
Later, Rupert phones Kitty. It’s not that he’s feeling guilty about Dossie, no, it’s simply that he wants to connect, check that Kitty’s OK. She answers after a few rings and her voice is unusually animated though a bit fuzzy. She’s with Sally in her car, she tells him, whizzing back from Cribbs Causeway having had lunch and a retail therapy session at John Lewis. He can hear Sally saying something in the background and then Kitty reminds him that they’re all going to the Ashton Court Club this weekend and that Sally says to tell him that she’s looking forward to doing a tango with him, and then there’s lots of girly laughing. He goes along with it all, making an outrageous remark about one of Sally’s particularly daring outfits and there are more shrieks, and then he says that they’re breaking up and shouts goodbye.
He puts his mobile in his pocket, breathes deeply. So that’s good, then. It’ll be a great weekend, he’ll make certain of that, falling in with plans for shopping, a rubber of bridge, dinner at the Club: but still the prospect of this kind of future appals him. He cannot see himself as a retired husband: pushing the trolley around Sainsbury’s whilst Kitty darts up and down the aisles, visiting the garden centre, ‘doing’ Badminton or making cosy foursomes with Sally and dull old Bill. He shrinks in horror from it. He’d like to have Kitty back with him, working together and having fun in their own way. Of course he could see that she had to go back to look after Mummy when Kitty’s father died so suddenly – he’d absolutely encouraged it – but he hadn’t anticipated that Kitty would have been so quickly reabsorbed into the social scene she’d once so cheerfully abandoned.
He goes into the cottage, thinking now about Dossie, and begins to whistle under his breath as he clears up the remains of their picnic.
Stripey Bunny has been very rude and silly, and he is sitting on the naughty step. The naughty step is the first at the bottom of the stairs and Jakey himself had been sitting on that step just a bit earlier. Now he sits at the kitchen table, running a little car to and fro, and wonders how Stripey Bunny is feeling. It isn’t really fair to blame Stripey Bunny for not eating his tea properly because he hasn’t got a very good mouth for eating things, but it made Jakey feel better to tell him off and plonk him down on the step. Earlier, Daddy did that very same thing to him because he was rude to Sister Ruth. It is unfair because everyone – the Sisters, Janna, Daddy, even Dossie – is behaving oddly and Jakey can’t understand why. It is as if they aren’t really noticing him or hearing him any more, and deep down it frightens him. They look worried and they frown, all except Dossie who is very happy and does funny things that make him laugh, but still worry him a bit too, in a different way.
And when Daddy met him off the bus he still had that same not-seeing look and said, ‘Come on, Jakes, get a move on,’ not smiling or asking him about school or anything and then Sister Ruth came through the gate, back from a walk, and said: ‘Good afternoon, young man. So what have you learned today at school?’ and he said, ‘Nothing,’ and turned his back, and Daddy grabbed him by the arm and made him apologize for being rude and then hurried him into the Lodge and plonked him on the step.
It wasn’t long before Daddy came back and said that he could have his tea now and he said he didn’t want any, and then he saw that it was his favourite Smarties cake and he thought he might like some after all but didn’t want to give in because he still didn’t think it was fair. But Daddy crouched down and gave him a kiss and said, ‘All over now, Jakey. Come on. Let’s have some of this nice cake,’ as if he was sorry really, and so he climbed up on his chair and watched while Daddy cut the cake.
And then, just when he thought things were going to be all right again and Daddy was talking to him properly, his mobile rang and Daddy picked it up and went out of the room. So he finished his cake all on his own, feeling cross and disappointed, and that’s when Stripey Bunny had been silly and he’d taken him out and put him on the naughty step.
Jakey drives the toy car to and fro, feeling muddled and upset. Then the door opens and Daddy comes in carrying Stripey Bunny and saying, ‘Hey. Look who I found on the naughty step. He says he’s sorry and may he come back now?’ and he dances Stripey Bunny up and down on the table so that Jakey laughs and grabs him, and Daddy says, ‘That’s better. Listen. Why don’t we walk down to the beach and look for stones for Janna?’ This is a big treat in the week, because of being tired and having to get to bed on time because of school next day, and suddenly he’s really happy again and he jumps up and down and shouts, and Daddy smiles at him so that he feels that some heavy thing has rolled away from his heart and everything is all right.
Janna puts her mobile down on the caravan step beside her and leans back against the doorway. Poor Clem; he sounded so remorseful.
‘I feel such a pig,’ he said gloomily. ‘Mind you, he was rude to Sister Ruth, but I think he’s picking up my anxiety. Poor little chap.’
‘Well, you made your point,’ she answered. ‘Now give him a real treat. Take him down to the beach and ask him to find me some more stones to put on the windowsill. He loves that. Oh, never mind bedtime and all that stuff just for once, Clem. It’s such amazing weather and it’ll be pouring next week. Be happy with him. I’ll come down and see you later after supper.’
They are all feeling the strain. Even Sister Emily looks preoccupied. Janna pulls her skirt up around her knees and closes her eyes. Sister Nichola’s remark about silence made her think about it and she’s begun to realize that there are different kinds of silence. Sometimes she slips into the chapel and sits just inside the door. They offered her a place of her own, just behind Sister Emily, but she felt that this was too much; that she didn’t quite merit her own place. Anyway, she likes the freedom of perching near the door: last in, first out. There is a silence in the empty chapel; not a scary, empty silence but the silence of a deep-down peacefulness that slows her breathing and calms her. If any of the Sisters are at Silent Prayer then the quality of the silence is a different one, though the other is held within it. This more human silence contains a sense of expectation; of waiting.
Now, sitting on the step in the sunshine, with the pretty banties pecking around her feet, she is aware of the rural silence: a silence that contains the drone of a bee, birdsong and, more distantly, the sea’s unceasing whisper. Clem asked her to go with them to the beach – and she longed to go – but it would soon be time for Vespers and then supper. When she is with Clem and Jakey it is like having a family, but without any of the responsibilities. When Jakey sits on her lap and leans against her, and she rests her cheek against his small head, she feels a great longing: a deep, deep desire for a child of her own. Yet the prospect frightens her. She sees the relentless commitment that Clem makes to Jakey and she wonders if she’ll ever have the courage to give herself totally to a relationship or to a child. Oh, but she loves Jakey. He has, by sheer force of character, finally carried away her Little Miss Sunshine book. He loves the story of the grumpy king who can’t smile and lives in Miseryland and Little Miss Sunshine who teaches him how to laugh.
Sitting there, eyes closed, she remembers her mother saying to her: ‘You’re my Little Miss Sunshine. You can always make me laugh however bad things are.’
‘I need the book,’ Jakey would say, leaning against her knee, looking at her winningly. ‘Then Daddy could read it to me at bedtime. I really do need it, Janna.’
‘But isn’t it nice to have it here as a treat, my lover?’ she’d counter. ‘Makes it sort of special.’
‘But I could bring it when I come to see you,’ he’d answer. ‘Then I could have both.’
‘But would it be so much of a treat?’
‘It would be even more a treat. Twice-times a treat.’
Eventually she’d given way and he carried off the book triumphantly, though he still brings it back sometimes so that she can read it to him. Yet in the giving there has been real pleasure, as if she’s passed on something precious, which now links her with Jakey in some way. Or perhaps it is more than that: in giving it away she’s gained something more important in its place. Maybe that is what Sister Emily meant when she said: ‘When you no longer need them then you will be free.’
‘You shouldn’t have given in to him,’ Clem said. ‘I warned you about his arguing ability. You should have been firm. I can get it back for you.’
She shook her head. ‘I want him to have it. He loves it. Don’t worry, Clem.’
After all, she still has the Peter Rabbit mug and the shawl as reminders of her childhood and her mother: symbols to show that she has been loved. Perhaps, here at Chi-Meur, these symbols are less important – but how would it be if she had to leave? And where would she go? Janna opens her eyes and folds her arms around her knees, filled suddenly with a sense of panic and loss.
‘Mother Magda’s trying to find another group who could come here to Chi-Meur to make it more viable,’ Clem told her. ‘It’s a rather last-ditch effort. In the last year two Sisters have died and the novice who was here decided she would be more useful if she were to take Holy Orders. Losing three people in twelve months is a big deal in a small community. After all, Mr Brewster has merely hastened an inevitable process. Something has to be done. There might be another community somewhere, in the same position, that could join us here.’
Janna stands up and her long scarlet cotton skirt swishes around her slender ankles. She gathers the thick, wiry, lion-mane of her hair into a great bunch on top of her head, stretching her back and breathing in the heady scent of the bluebells. Suddenly a new sound is introduced into the silence: the sweet high note of the bell ringing for Vespers.
‘They’re thinking about it,’ says Mr Caine. ‘Not a good time to ring. I’ve told you before it’s best I call you. People about.’ He smiles at a few locals as he edges out of the pub and crosses the road to the sea wall. ‘Look, it’s no good swearing at me and Phil. We’re doing our best and they’re thinking about it … The dit is that they might get other nuns to join them. That’s the latest thing … No, it’s common gossip in the village. I don’t need to creep around, spying. I told you, they love these old dears. Nobody wants a hotel, I can tell you that … One of the old ducks was born round here and she’s still got rellies in the village … OK. Just warning you. Anyway, nothing to report … No, I’m stuck here now, aren’t I? Ear to the ground. Poor old Phil has been doing his stuff but he can’t put the frighteners on ’em. You just don’t get it, do you? They’re not like the poor little people you usually bully. These old girls have different values … Yeah, yeah, whatever, but you’re not here, are you? I’ll keep you up to speed.’
He snaps his mobile shut and slips it into his pocket. He nods to a couple of young men who lean on the sea wall, pints in their hands. They stare back at him.
‘I love you too, baby,’ he mutters, and goes back into the bar.
The thrush wakens her. The clear distinctive thrice-repeated phrases evoke other springs and half-forgotten emotions connected with youth and restlessness. She knows that it will be impossible to sleep again now and she turns carefully, so as not to waken Pa, and tries to see the little bedside clock: a quarter-past five. It is quite light and she slides quietly out of bed, pushing her feet into slippers, gathering up her dressing gown.
The dogs raise their heads, watching and waiting. Is this simply a bathroom break or something more? Mo opens the bedroom door and gestures them to follow her. They come at once, tails wagging, across the landing, down the stairs and into the kitchen. Mo closes the door, lest either of them is tempted to sneak back upstairs to look for Pa or Dossie, and pulls on her long dressing gown and ties its belt firmly. Then she lets them out through the boot-room and into the garden where the thrush is still singing.
She changes her slippers for gumboots and follows them, wandering over the dew-drenched grass, pausing to break off a spray of the sweet-scented yellow azalea as she waits for the sun to rise. A blackbird hops ahead of her, pausing to eavesdrop on a worm. The garden is full of rosy light; the clear pale sky streaked with crimson and scarlet. The thrush, perched high in an ash tree at the field’s edge, continues to sing; she can just see his pale speckled breast between the light green leaves.
Now, away in the east, the world’s rim flames and dazzles and suddenly the whole landscape burns into brilliance as the sun rides up clear of the earth. The garden is a magic place: trembling with a soft radiance; flashing with jewelled brightness; filled with the pure, unearthly sound of mounting notes and trills and cadences as other birds join the thrush to welcome the morning.
The dogs come back to her, pushing against her cheerfully, eyes bright, and she bends to stroke them.
‘Much too early for breakfast,’ she murmurs, ignoring John the Baptist’s hopeful gaze. He sits down and offers his paw. ‘Well,’ she relents, ‘perhaps a tiny biccie each while I have my tea.’
Back in the kitchen she leans against the Aga waiting for the kettle to boil, thinking about Dossie. Every instinct tells Mo that there is a new man in Dossie’s life: she can recognize the signs and she is anxious. At first it presented itself as a wonderful prospect – Dossie is so happy, almost effervescent – but now, with Adam asking questions about wills and their future plans, she can see complications. Just supposing Dossie has found the right man at last, and she suddenly decided to set up a new home with him – or move in with him – then Pa’s newest idea, that The Court should be left to Dossie, might not be such a good one after all. If Dossie doesn’t want to live at The Court then there is no good reason why it shouldn’t be left equally to her and Adam.
Mo spoons tea into the tea-holder and puts it into the large blue and white Whittard’s teapot. But just supposing the relationship doesn’t work out? After all, none of the previous attempts has been successful. Well, then: if she and Pa died Dossie could still use her share of the proceeds from the sale of The Court to buy a place of her own. And if one of them or both of them were still alive then she can simply come home again. But how terrible if, by then, The Court had already been sold and Dossie couldn’t come back to it; and, of course, it wouldn’t be there for Clem or Jakey if they should need it.
The kettle boils and Mo makes the tea, caught up again in the tangle and anxiety of her indecision. Pa is getting tired of these endless discussions. He wants to leave The Court to Dossie and all other disposable assets to Adam, and that is that. The trouble is, she doesn’t dare tell Pa that she believes that there is a new man in Dossie’s life. He would charge in at once, questioning her. If only she could tell what lay ahead then they could make this final important decision. Leaving The Court to Dossie only makes sense if things go on exactly as they are now.
John the Baptist’s tail begins to beat upon the floor; the door opens and Pa comes in.
‘So there you are,’ he says. ‘Woke up and wondered where you’d gone. It’s a bit early for you, isn’t it?’
‘It was the thrush,’ she says, reaching for a mug from the dresser so as to pour him some tea. ‘Its singing was just so beautiful and the sunrise was magical. I simply couldn’t stay in bed. And, anyway, we used to be up early with the B and B-ers, didn’t we? Six, at the latest.’
He sits down opposite, yawning, hair on end. ‘God, I miss it,’ he says. ‘All the coming and going. Kept us young, Mo.’
‘I don’t miss certain bits of it,’ says Mo more cautiously, ‘but I agree that it seems very quiet sometimes.’ She watches him compassionately: he is alert and fit. Only the tremor in his right hand – a legacy from the stroke – betrays the fact that he is not as young as he looks. ‘We’ll invite a few of the old chums down again this summer. Dossie’ll fix it.’
‘I know she will.’ He picks up his mug, holding it with both hands, elbow on the table to give him security and disguise the shaking. ‘So what’s she up to, Mo?’
She starts, almost spilling her own tea, and he snorts derisively.
‘Did you think I hadn’t noticed? Dashing about like a demented chicken that’s just won the lottery. Never letting that damned mobile phone out of her reach. Always peering at it and checking it. Hurrying out when she gets a text. I’m not blind. It’s a man, I suppose.’
‘I hope so,’ says Mo drily. ‘It usually is.’
They look at each other anxiously.
‘Not very good timing,’ he observes, ‘in view of our new plans. Of course, it might be nothing.’
‘It’s never “nothing” with Dossie. She’s always so wholehearted when it comes to men,’ says Mo, resigned. ‘But there’s nothing we can do until she’s ready to tell us.’
‘We can ask her,’ Pa says. He brightens at the prospect. ‘Why not? It’s normal to take an interest in one’s child.’
‘She’s not a child,’ says Mo at once. ‘That’s just the point. Just because she lives with us doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t respect her privacy.’
‘But you worry about her,’ he says cunningly, ‘don’t you, my darling? Isn’t it best to make certain that she’s not doing anything foolish?’
Mo looks at him narrowly. ‘Don’t try to wheedle me. And don’t you dare to say a word to her.’
‘Oh, really!’ Pa rolls his eyes; sighs weightily. Suspecting ructions, John the Baptist struggles into a sitting position and watches him warily.
‘Look,’ Mo says, ‘I know we want to make the decision: get it all settled. I want it just as much as you do. It’s just that it’s a bit tricky leaving The Court to Dossie, only to find that she’s about to settle down somewhere else. After all, if we leave it to Dossie and her new man, why not to Adam and his new woman?’
‘Exactly my point!’ Pa exclaims in a kind of whispered shout. They’ve both instinctively lowered their voices, leaning across the table towards each other. ‘That’s why we should have it out with her.’
John the Baptist’s tail begins to beat against the table leg and Mo and Pa instinctively turn towards the door. Dossie comes in. She wears pretty flowered pyjamas, her fair hair is fluffed up around her head and she looks radiantly happy.
‘What are you up to?’ she asks brightly. ‘Bit early, isn’t it, for plotting over the teapot?’
‘Plotting?’ begins Pa, flustered by her sudden entrance. ‘How d’you mean? Plotting?’
Mo kicks him, not gently. ‘You’re up early too,’ she says to Dossie. ‘Was it the thrush singing? He disturbed us and then we simply had to get up to see the sun rise. It was wonderful. We were just making plans for today, weren’t we, Pa? Deciding what to do.’
She stares at him, daring him to contradict her. He breathes in through his nose and pours some more tea, his lips tightly compressed. John the Baptist goes to sit beside him and lays his heavy head consolingly upon Pa’s knee.
‘So, then,’ says Dossie cheerfully, fetching a mug, pouring tea. ‘What are these plans for today?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ says Pa blandly. ‘How far had we got with the plans, Mo?’
Mo sits up straighter. Her eyes sparkle challengingly. ‘We decided that we’d go over to Chi-Meur, and have a chat with Clem, persuade him to make us some coffee, perhaps, and then go to the Eucharist. It’s so peaceful and the Sisters always love to see us. That was as far as we’d got, wasn’t it, darling?’
Pa, who has already decided on a delightful pottering sort of day in the garden, is silenced.
‘Sounds great,’ Dossie is saying. ‘And then you can have a pub lunch and take the dogs for a walk on the cliff.’
‘And what about you?’ asks Pa suddenly, ignoring Mo’s look of warning. ‘What are your plans? Anything exciting?’
‘Take some freezer meals over to a holiday cottage at Port Gaverne,’ she answers. ‘Make some phone calls to clients. Work out a menu for a lunch party. Catch up on a bit of paperwork. Usual sort of day. I thought you were working in the garden today, Pa, rather than going off on a jolly.’
‘So did I,’ says Pa grimly.
‘Plenty of time for both,’ says Mo brightly. ‘You can easily get a couple of hours in before we go off to Chi-Meur. Better hurry up and get some clothes on, though.’ She beams upon him. ‘You can take first go in the shower. What luck that the thrush woke us so early, wasn’t it?’
‘I wonder now,’ says Clem, ‘whether I got it all wrong. I should have continued with my training.’ He glances at Father Pascal, hoping for a response but the old priest remains silent. ‘The problem was,’ he continues almost defensively, ‘it just seemed utterly crazy with a baby. Even with a nanny, and I’m not sure how on earth that would have worked in a theological college. The distractions would have made studying and working impossible.’
There is a longer silence. Sunlight slants through the cottage window, picking out the colours of the books on the shelves and sliding over the paintings on the walls.
‘Why, then,’ asks Father Pascal placidly at last, ‘do you feel that you got it wrong?’
Clem sighs; a kind of angry, groaning sound. ‘Because I can’t see where I’m going. I love it here, actually, but I’ve never seen it as my life’s work. I thought something would evolve out of it. Something to show me clearly where I should be going.’
‘But how do you know it won’t?’
Clem leans forward in his chair, staring at his hands clasped between his knees. ‘I suppose all this worry about what will happen at Chi-Meur is unsettling. I thought that I’d have the time, you see, to make a plan rather than just waiting for the blow to fall.’
‘But waiting is essential to the spiritual life. And waiting on God demands patience. But it need not be a passive patience as if you’re waiting for the rain to stop, or a bus to come along. We wait in expectation, living each moment fully in the present. You know that as disciples we are always waiting. During Advent we wait for the birth of Jesus, at Easter we wait for the Resurrection and now, during Pentecost, we wait for the coming of the Spirit. You know this, Clem.’
‘It’s not just me, though,’ Clem protests. ‘I have to think about Jakey too. I don’t intend to stay on here if Chi-Meur becomes a hotel, even if Mr Brewster were to offer it. I think I’d like to go back to college but I don’t know how I’d manage it with Jakey.’
‘Would you consider leaving Jakey with Dossie and Mo and Pa during the term-times? Would they be able to cope?’
‘I don’t know. He’d have to change schools, of course, but he’d have to do that anyway if I went back to Oxford. And I couldn’t afford a nanny for him this time.’
‘And afterwards? How do you see your ministry?’
Clem sits back in his chair. He relaxes; his attractive bony face brightens. ‘Well, what I have discovered is that I love Chi-Meur best when it’s packed with guests and retreatants. The vibes are terrific. And people talk to me, you know, when they see me around and it’s utterly amazing to talk to people who regard a conversation about God as normal. Some of them are just so strong in their faith and others have been shaken by some disaster and are dithering, and they sometimes wander round with me as I work and we discuss it.’
Father Pascal studies him thoughtfully; he knows that some of the guests have spoken with great respect of Clem. ‘Have you ever considered being a chaplain?’ he asks.
Clem stares at him. ‘What, in the Services, d’you mean?’
Father Pascal shrugs. His shrug is a Gallic one: shoulders, hands, even his face shrugs. ‘Not necessarily. There are other kinds of chaplaincy. Universities, prisons, hospitals, retreat houses. They all have chaplains.’
Clem thinks about it. ‘A retreat house,’ he answers at last. ‘That would be really good. Are there many? You mean like Lee Abbey over on Exmoor?’
‘That kind of thing. I’m not certain how many there are but I know one or two that are attached to monasteries …’
The thought occurs to them at exactly the same moment: they stare at each other.
‘A retreat house,’ Clem says softly. ‘Why not? Could it be done?’
Father Pascal can hardly speak; his heart hammers. ‘It must be done. This … this, Clem, is what we have been waiting for, I feel sure of it.’
Without being aware of rising they are on their feet, almost breathless with excitement.
‘But how does it start?’ asks Clem. ‘Who would actually run it? What has to be done?’
‘Much,’ is the answer. ‘But it’s so right. You feel it too?’
Clem nods. ‘Will the Sisters agree?’
Another shrug. ‘If it is right. Go away now, Clem. I need to be alone. To think and to pray. You do the same. I shall be up to the Eucharist later and we’ll speak again then.’
Clem nods, glances at his watch. ‘Pa and Mo are coming over,’ he says. ‘I must dash anyway.’ He hesitates. ‘But it will be OK, won’t it? I mean, it’s just such a perfect answer.’
He looks almost beseeching, and for a brief moment Father Pascal is reminded of Jakey pleading for some treat. He touches the tall figure lightly on the shoulder.
‘Go and see Pa and Mo,’ he says gently. ‘Come to the Eucharist and pray for guidance but don’t speak of it yet to anyone.’
He opens the front door. Clem ducks beneath the low beam, exchanges one last excited look with the old priest, and hurries away up the steep hill to Chi-Meur.
‘Butterfly cakes,’ Dossie says, ‘because I’ve been doing a children’s party. But I thought that we needed a moment. We haven’t had one for ages, have we? Gosh, the lavender smells wonderful.’
She gives the cake tin to Janna and bends to run her fingers through the lavender’s scented spikes. The caravan seems to rest amongst a flowerbed: pots of varying sizes and shapes containing herbs and flowers are piled around its base. Dossie touches first this one and then that, pausing to sniff luxuriously at her fingers. Janna watches, delighted to see her: in her faded jeans and baggy white cotton shirt Dossie looks young and pretty and happy.
‘I love butterfly cakes,’ Janna says. ‘And the timing is just right. We’ve got some oblates staying and they’re giving me a bit of a holiday by taking on some of the work, so I’ve got a day off. Cuppa?’
‘Mmm, yes, please. Camomile and lemon would be good with the cakes.’ She straightens up and looks at Janna. ‘How are you?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ She tries to conceal her anxiety about Chi-Meur, about her future, knowing that Dossie has no idea of what is happening. ‘’Tis good to have a bit of help. The people who come here are just amazing, you know. ’Tis like they’re part of the community. Like family. ’Course, they’ve been coming for years so I suppose they are family. Hang on, I’ll get the kettle on.’
She brings out a little folding canvas chair, sets it beside the lavender for Dossie, and goes back inside to make the tea. After a few minutes she reappears with a tray, which she puts on the grass, and then sits down again on the caravan step.
‘I love it here,’ Dossie says dreamily, eyes closed in the sunshine. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it, that the grounds have exactly the same atmosphere that you have in the chapel. It’s like there’s some kind of spell over the whole place. You’re not frightened, sleeping out here on your own?’
Janna shakes her head. ‘Sometimes I even leave the door open when ’tis hot at night. The top half, anyway. I’ve felt more frightened in a street full of people than I’ve ever felt here on my own. It’ll be difficult—’ She stops, biting her lip, reaching for her mug.
‘What?’ asks Dossie idly, eyes still closed. ‘What’ll be difficult?’
‘Nothing. Just thinking about managing when the oblates go home. Some of the women come up from the village to help when they can, though, so it’s fine really. So what about you? You look fantastic.’
Dossie opens her eyes. ‘Do I?’ she asks, delighted. ‘Really? I feel rather good at the moment.’
‘So what’s it all about then? Got a new fella?’ teases Janna, and is taken aback when Dossie turns her head to look at her and says, ‘Actually, I have.’
She laughs at Janna’s expression. ‘Crazy, isn’t it? But, listen. Don’t say anything, will you? Nobody knows yet. It’s just I’m not ready yet to talk about it. Pa will start questioning me – you know what he’s like – and Mo will fuss. And Clem …’ Her voice trails away. ‘It’s always a bit tricky explaining to your son that you’re … Oh, well.’
‘I can see that. But Clem would be pleased if you’re happy, wouldn’t he?’
‘Yes, I’m sure he would, but the truth is I haven’t got a very good track record for picking men. That’s why I’m not telling anyone, even my old friends. They always want to remind me about the last time. It’s never quite worked out, you see, and I always feel such a prat afterwards. This time, though …’
She sips her tea and Janna casts about for something to say that will be encouraging without seeming nosy.
‘He’s nice, is he?’ she asks lightly. ‘Does he live locally?’
Dossie shakes her head. ‘He’s rather peripatetic. He’s got a portfolio of properties including some holiday cottages, mostly on the south coast. He lives in the one he’s doing up at the time and then buys another and moves on. He’s never long in one place.’
‘Sounds good,’ Janna says enviously. ‘Does he need a mate?’
Dossie laughs. ‘I’m hoping so.’
Janna grins. ‘I didn’t mean like that. What was that word you said? Perry-something? It means moving about, does it? Sounds better than being a traveller. I’ll remember that one.’
‘Peripatetic. Really, it means living on the edge. He seems very happy, anyway.’
‘And would you like that?’ asks Janna curiously. ‘Moving about and never having a real place of your own?’
Dossie frowns. She puts her mug down on the grass and selects a butterfly cake, peeling off its paper cup. ‘Sometimes the thought of it seems like heaven. No responsibilities. Now here, now there. Seeing each place come together must be very satisfying. And then again …’ she shrugs. ‘I’ve lived at The Court for nearly all of my life, and I’d miss it dreadfully. I can’t really imagine living anywhere else. I suppose a change would be exciting, though I’ve no idea how on earth I’d tell Mo and Pa. And how would they manage? I’d feel so selfish.’
‘Maybe,’ Janna suggests, ‘if you get together, this man might decide to settle down somewhere near to them. He could still do places up, couldn’t he? He doesn’t have to live in them?’
‘His name’s Rupert. I’ve thought about that too. I just wish I knew how he really feels.’
‘About you, d’you mean?’
‘Mmm. I mean, we get on really well, and he seems keen. Phones up and texts, suggests pub lunches, and he’s shown me the place he’s working on and another one he hopes to buy, but we seem to be a bit stuck, if you know what I mean. He’s really easy to be with, and great fun, and he’s affectionate and … well, he says nice things, but we’re not moving on very quickly.’
Janna takes a cake too. ‘It could be that he’s had a bit of a bad time and he’s being cautious. Is he divorced?’
‘His wife died not that long ago. He doesn’t talk about it, just goes a bit grim and silent. Someone else told me.’
‘Well, then. That could be it, couldn’t it? He might just be feeling guilty about falling for you. Sort of callous when she’s died, poor thing. I can understand that.’
Dossie brightens. ‘I’d wondered about that too.’
‘Perhaps he just needs time to sort of fix it with his conscience.’ Janna pauses, feeling anxious in the role of confidante. After all, what does she know? ‘So Mo and Pa haven’t met him?’
‘Heavens, no!’ Dossie speaks vehemently. ‘It’s all so difficult because of living with them. I always feel like a kid taking home a boyfriend. Obviously they’ll have to meet him sooner or later but just for now I’m trying to be low key about it, and Rupert doesn’t ask. He knows the situation and I think he’d be as embarrassed about it as I am. I’m hoping that it will happen sort of naturally, somehow. You won’t say anything, will you?’
‘’Course I won’t. I promise. I’m just glad you’re happy. The rest’ll sort it itself out.’
‘I know.’ Dossie finishes her cake. ‘So how about you? No gorgeous men coming on retreat?’
‘Actually, it does happen sometimes. Generally, though, they’re married priests, although there have been one or two others. Widowers, generally.’
Dossie raises an eyebrow. ‘Bit old for you, I should have thought.’ She hesitates. ‘Pity you can’t fall in love with Clem, that’s what I think.’
Janna chuckles. ‘I couldn’t agree more. I love him but just not like that. He’s the same about me.’
‘Funny, isn’t it, this old chemistry business? You simply can’t manufacture it, can you?’
Janna shakes her head. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever really been in love. I don’t just mean the sex thing. That’s easy. But the real passion; I’ve never known that one. Is that what you’re feeling now?’
Dossie blushes and Janna laughs. ‘No need to answer. I can’t wait to meet him.’
‘You may have to,’ retorts Dossie. ‘I’m not going to introduce him to a gorgeous young creature like you until I’ve got him well and truly hooked.’
Later, walking down to the beach, Janna wonders what it must be like to be Dossie: to be in love but unable to talk about it. She can imagine how hard it would be for Dossie to tell Mo and Pa that she would be leaving them, and to explain such emotions to Clem. It is so sad, though, that she has to hide her happiness instead of sharing it. It seems that everyone has secrets just at the moment. As she begins to climb the cliff path, Janna wishes that she could share her own secret with Dossie; but the fate of Chi-Meur isn’t just her secret. Clem and Jakey are involved, and Dossie would be anxious about them.
The lark’s song, bubbling up and up and followed by the swift descent into silence, distracts her. Here, on the sheltered path, plump pink cushions of thrift flower; above them, on the rough granite walls, delicate white rockroses clamber amongst clumps of red valerian. She crouches down, gathering her red cotton skirt around her knees, so as to examine a nest of scurrying ants who work busily in and around the base of the wall by the root of a mallow. How organized they are; how committed: fetching and carrying and guarding their home. She teases them for a while with a long grass stalk, smiling to herself but impressed, too, as they rear up and wave their pincer-like forelegs fearlessly at this intruder.
Out on the cliff the strong wind seizes her, battering her; still cold despite the sun’s warmth. As she draws nearer to the cliff’s edge she can hear an unusual sound: a high-pitched noise like the crying of a thousand babies. Curious, she looks out to sea where a white sail thrashes on the turquoise-green and inky-purple water, and tall, white-topped waves race in to smash themselves in flying spray against the steep, glittering-grey walls of the cliffs.
The crying is coming from somewhere below her and, looking down, she sees a strange sight: hundreds of seagull fledgelings are crammed in rows in the rocks’ crevices, all screaming for food. The parent birds dive and plunge below the rocks, landing and taking off again in a frenzy of providing. Suddenly the gulls are all around her in a whirling white storm of beating wings, and Janna steps back, instinctively raising her arms to ward them off. She moves away from the cliff’s edge, half frightened, half exhilarated by the encounter, struggling against the force of the wind and turning on to the path again. It will be better down on the beach. Tucked into the shelter of the rocks, she can sit in the sunshine and sleep.
‘Surely,’ Sister Ruth is saying, ‘surely it would be more sensible for us to go to the Sisters in Hereford rather than open Chi-Meur to strangers. To move out of our own quarters into the Coach House would be an enormous upheaval. How would we manage?’ She looks at Sister Nichola, who seems to be listening intently to something that nobody else can hear. ‘How would she cope? She’s been very restless again lately, disappearing on her own, and I’m sure it’s because of all this worry.’
Ruth feels the situation is slipping beyond her own control. She knows that Sister Emily will welcome it – she’s always been a radical – and that Magda will dither anxiously, trying to make certain everyone is happy. Can’t they see, she asks herself crossly, the unsuitability of cramming themselves into the Coach House?
Father Pascal waits for Mother Magda to speak but when she remains silent, he says: ‘Any change is going to be an upheaval. Surely, if it could be arranged, it would be less of an upheaval to move across to the Coach House than to go to a completely strange place. I know that you communicate regularly with the Sisters in Hereford but, even so, it would be a very big change.’
‘I think,’ says Sister Emily, eyes shining, ‘that it is a wonderful idea. To stay here and to see Chi-Meur still used for the spiritual comfort and guidance of many, many people. Even to have a small part in it. Oh, what a gift it would be.’
She opens her cupped hands, as if already receiving the gift, and Father Pascal tries to suppress the uprush of affection and joy that she always invokes in him.
‘But,’ says Sister Ruth rather desperately, ‘surely this would all take time? It seems rather a risk. And if it doesn’t work? What then? We might still have to move, and think what a toll that would take on Sister Nichola.’
‘I think, if we were able to ask Sister Nichola, she would want to stay here if it were at all possible,’ says Sister Emily. ‘She was born and brought up here, after all. Her relatives visit her regularly. Think how much she would miss them.’ She raises her chin, in the imperious way she has, and beams upon her old adversary.
Sister Ruth stares back. She would like to smack Sister Emily very hard. This is not a new sensation and she wills herself to sit still, reluctantly acknowledging that it is an important point. The fact that she has been trying to ignore this aspect of the move to Hereford simply makes her feel guilty about Nichola and even more resentful towards Emily.
Father Pascal watches them, aware of Sister Ruth’s muddled emotions; still he waits for Mother Magda to speak. He knows that she is very taken by the idea of Chi-Meur becoming a retreat house, though she is anxious – Mother Magda is always anxious – about how it is to be done.
‘Try not to worry about the nuts and bolts of it,’ he said, when they first talked about it. ‘Just try to think about it as a whole, and pray about it, and then we can speak to Emily and Ruth and Nichola.’
‘It sounds a wonderful solution,’ she said cautiously. ‘We could remain a community but still have a part in this greater movement.’
‘Exactly!’ He was barely able to contain his excitement. ‘You could live in the Coach House and keep the orchard for your own use. You’d still be quite private and self-contained. Naturally there would have to be some small changes to the Coach House to make it easier for Nichola – perhaps a stair-lift – but I’m sure it could be sorted out. And Chi-Meur could continue its tradition with people coming on retreat and on courses, and you could still be part of that but not responsible for it.’
Now, as he waits, she gathers herself to speak, her thin, lined face intent with the need to say the right words: to convince, to encourage. Suddenly he remembers the young Magda who looked after the small herd of dairy cows in the days when the convent was much more self-sufficient. How she’d loved those quiet, gentle creatures; she’d hurry from the milking parlour, coming in late to the early Office with wisps of straw on her habit, boots kicked off at the chapel door, her face rosy and peaceful. How sad she’d been when keeping the farm had no longer been an option.
‘I believe that this is something we must think about most carefully,’ she says now. Her fingers nervously pleat and repleat the skirt of her habit. ‘It could be a very great opportunity to see our community growing rather than shrinking. We’ve been unsuccessful in finding any other group to join us and some of us are unwilling to leave Chi-Meur and allow it to become an hotel. Who knows? Out of the retreat house we might find vocations being discovered and novices wanting to join us …’
‘In the Coach House?’ Sister Ruth speaks sneeringly, and Mother Magda is silenced.
‘Yes, if necessary.’ Father Pascal is firm. ‘All things are possible with God. And this kind of movement is much more likely to attract young women than the older, more retired ways would. You must be prepared for change.’
Sister Emily takes a deep, happy breath. ‘And Clem and Jakey and Janna could stay with us.’
‘If they wish to, and I feel certain that Clem will.’ Father Pascal hesitates, choosing his words carefully. ‘You all know that Clem was selected for training and hoped to go on to ordination. It was only the tragic death of his wife that made him postpone it so as to bring up Jakey. Perhaps, now, he could start his training again. In my opinion he would make an excellent priest and warden. Of course, I would still be here, and so would you. It is you who would be laying the foundation stones.’
‘And if Janna would stay we would be very grateful to have her,’ adds Mother Magda.
‘We’d certainly need her,’ says Sister Emily bluntly. ‘We’d need someone who knows our ways and whom we trust and feel safe with.’
‘And Jakey?’ asks Sister Ruth sarcastically. ‘I suppose we need him too?’
‘He balances us,’ answers Sister Emily. ‘We who are so old and Jakey who is only four. It is refreshing to see things through his eyes and to hear his thoughts and ideas. Yes, I think that Jakey could be contained within it all, don’t you?’
‘If Clem stays, then Jakey stays, and we certainly need Clem,’ Father Pascal says strongly. ‘They could stay in the Lodge, of course. Nothing need change there.’ He looks around at them. ‘We have much to think about and to pray about, I know that, but it gives us a fresh hope and the prospect of a new beginning. I am reminded of that verse from Isaiah: “Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you … Nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn.”’
‘As long as we can manage it all. If only we were younger …’ Mother Magda still looks anxious; Sister Emily is radiant and Sister Ruth judicious. Sister Nichola gets up from her chair and shuffles across the room to stand beside Father Pascal. She bends towards him.
‘“Have you not known?’” she quotes softly. ‘“Have you not heard? Those who wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength: they shall mount up with wings as eagles, they shall run and not be weary, and they shall walk, and not faint.”’
They sit for a moment in silence and then Father Pascal smiles up at her. ‘You do right to quote Isaiah, too,’ he says. ‘A prophet of vision and of great faith. Shall we have a prayer to close?’
‘I like butterfly cakes,’ Jakey says contentedly. He sits on the grass outside the caravan door. Stripey Bunny is propped against the leg of the canvas chair and the Peter Rabbit mug stands beside him on the picnic rug. ‘Shall I have another one?’
‘Why not, my lover? You should eat Stripey Bunny’s. I don’t think he likes them much.’ Janna is stretched out on the grass beside the rug. ‘Is Daddy coming back for a cuppa?’
‘He said he would.’ Jakey peels away the paper carefully and licks some crumbs from it. ‘He’s happy again now.’
‘Is he?’ Janna shades her eyes with her hands and looks across at Jakey. ‘That’s good, then.’
Jakey nods, eating his cake. ‘Auntie Gabriel came in the night and then Daddy was happy again.’
‘Auntie Gabriel?’ Janna half sits up, propping herself on her elbow. ‘Isn’t she the angel you had at Christmas standing on the bookcase?’
Jakey licks his fingers and wipes them on the grass. ‘She comes and watches us in the night. She looks after us.’
‘Watches you?’
‘She stands outside but I can see her when I look out of my bedloom window.’
‘And then what happens?’
‘I wave to her.’
‘And does she wave back?’
Jakey shakes his head. ‘She has her hands together like this.’ He clasps his hands. ‘She’s holding her heart so she can’t wave back.’
Janna sips her tea thoughtfully. She remembers the large, delightful angel with her string hair and fragile crown; and now, too, she remembers the red satin heart that Auntie Gabriel holds between her hands. Janna guesses that it must have been a particularly vivid dream.
‘As long as you weren’t frightened,’ she says.
‘No. I love her,’ he says. ‘She’s not flightening. She watches over us. Look! Here’s Daddy.’
Clem comes striding towards them through the orchard, the pretty grey and gold banties scattering before him; he looks strong and confident and purposeful. Janna watches his approach with a mixture of surprise and wariness: it is clear that he’s heard some news. Instinct warns her that great change is imminent for all of them and her heart beats faster in trepidation.
‘We saved a cake for you,’ Jakey is crying to him, delighted to see him. ‘You can sit there, in the chair.’
Clem folds himself into the small chair and smiles at them both. Janna stands up, still wary, examining the excitement that shines in his eyes.
‘You look like you’ve won the lottery,’ she says lightly. ‘Want a cuppa?’
‘Oh, yes, please. Just ordinary stuff, if you’ve got some.’ He accepts the cake that Jakey presses upon him and looks again at Janna, who hesitates at the bottom of the caravan step. ‘I’ve just seen Father Pascal.’ He speaks quietly. ‘Good news. It seems we might not have to go, after all. Can you come down and have some supper after I’ve put Jakey to bed?’ She nods and he smiles at her reassuringly. ‘It sounds really good,’ he promises, and then Jakey flings himself upon him, wanting attention, and Janna climbs up into the caravan to make the tea.