SISTER NICHOLA SQUEEZES THROUGH the half-open door and waits for a moment. If she were to sit here, right at the back, just inside the door, nobody will see her. She likes to do this; slipping into the chapel just as Compline begins and watching the Sisters at Night Prayer. The sanctuary light glimmers in its stone niche, and candles have been lit in the terracotta bowl at the feet of the statue of Our Lady.
Mother speaks the familiar opening words: ‘“The Lord grant us a quiet night and a perfect end.”’
There are owls calling and the faint scent of Michaelmas daisies mingles with the traces of incense. Sister Nichola breathes deeply, happily. How pure and sweet is the face of that young novice in her stall beside Our Lady, half hidden in the gathering shadows: how happy she looks and how clear the voices are as they begin to sing the evening hymn together.
‘Before the ending of the day, Creator of the world we pray,
That you with steadfast love would keep Your watch around us while we sleep.’
Sister Nichola closes her eyes and her thoughts drift. Memories shift like smoke: ‘I would never make a nun! I’m far too passionate, too greedy, too intolerant. But I should like to live in the little stone lodge by the gates at the end of the drive, working in the big, walled garden and helping in the kitchen. Simply living on the edge of the community: I might manage that much and, perhaps, some touch of grace would rub off on me. I could slip into the chapel, like this; sitting just inside the door, joining in with the psalm.’
That girl, that young novice, how wise she looks, how single-minded. How wonderful it must be to be so confident. She must be sure that she’s been chosen. God has touched her on the shoulder and said, ‘You are Mine!’ Watching her and listening to the owls remind Sister Nichola of Con; darling Con.
‘Live at the convent gates if you must, Nicky,’ he’d cried. ‘I don’t care where it is as long as we are together. I’ll work in the gardens, too. I’ll grow the best vegetables the nuns have ever tasted.’
Sister Nichola smiles, remembering as clearly as if it had been only yesterday. He would, too: he could do anything, could Con! He is so strong and cheerful and single-minded – and so good-looking. Yet there is some barrier between them: something holding her back.
I love Con, she thinks, confused. Of course I do. Who wouldn’t love Con? He’s so exciting – but there’s something I want even more than I want Con and the little lodge at the end of the drive.
The chapel is the heart of the convent. She loves the big, busy kitchen with the delicious smell of home-made soup simmering on the range and bread baking in the oven; and she loves the high, cold refectory, too, with its long polished table and a lectern set at every place. The library, with its shelves of books and mullioned windows facing south and west, always seems full of sunshine, but the chapel, simple and clean, with its plain stone altar, is the very heart of the community; drawing her back again and again to listen to the Word in the silence.
It is very strange but the novice in her shadowy stall has disappeared: quite gone.
She thinks: I must slip away now, quickly, quickly, before I am seen. How heavy the door is tonight. I can hardly push it closed behind me, but I must hurry now. Too late! I know this nun who approaches and takes me by the arm.
‘It’s very naughty of you, Sister Nichola,’ Sister Ruth says reproachfully. ‘You’re supposed to be in bed. You’ll catch a chill, just in your nightgown.’
And when she looks down she sees that indeed she is in her nightgown, though she has a soft, silk shawl too. Her hands are mottled with freckles, an old woman’s hands, and suddenly she feels shaky and frightened. Where is the young girl who loves Con but not quite enough to marry him; who can’t believe that she could become a nun but wants to live in the little lodge at the end of the drive so that she can come into the chapel and sit in the shadowy stall near the statue of Our Lady?
Sister Ruth puts an arm about her, wrapping her warmly in the pretty shawl, and they go out together.
‘We feel rather anxious about Sister Nichola,’ Mother Magda says.
She stands in Father Pascal’s room, looking about rather vaguely as though she is wondering why she is there. He notes the familiar lines of anxiety drawn in the thin face and remembers once again the much younger Sister Magda and how she feared the responsibilities of being Mother Superior. Even now she prefers to be called ‘Sister’ rather than ‘Mother’.
‘I don’t often see you here,’ he says warmly, taking her elbow in his hand and guiding her to an armchair. ‘Have you time for some coffee? Or tea?’
She subsides into the chair with a sudden sigh, as if she is abrogating all her worries.
‘I should love coffee,’ she says gratefully. ‘Yes, please. And I am here because I want to speak in complete privacy and confidence without anyone seeing us and jumping to conclusions.’
He goes to make coffee, calling back through the open door to her: ‘Sister Ruth?’
‘Yes.’ She sighs, almost guiltily. ‘I am anxious that Sister Nichola is getting too much for her but she simply won’t have it. She becomes defensive and angry if the subject is even broached. You heard how Sister Nichola came down to Compline in her nightgown? Well, what can one do? We can’t lock her into her room, after all, but it has been decided that it is simply too late for her to be up at night now. After all, she is ninety-two, and not strong.’
Father Pascal comes back into the room whilst the kettle boils. He leans against the doorjamb. ‘Now this is an instance where it would be better if you were in the Coach House with Janna. She could keep an eye sometimes, couldn’t she?’
‘She could,’ agrees Mother Magda. ‘In fact, she already does. Sister Ruth has her own work and duties, and then the rest of us step in, but she is like a hen with one chick. She feels that nobody is quite as capable as she is.’
‘Surely this little escapade has shown her that she must accept that she’s not quite managing?’
‘She was humiliated.’ Mother Magda gives an involuntary snort of amusement, remembering. ‘We heard a noise and there was Sister Nichola in her nightie and Janna’s shawl, wrestling with the chapel door. Poor Sister Ruth was almost apoplectic.’
Father Pascal makes a pot of coffee and carries it in. ‘Perhaps she’s aware of the excitement,’ he suggests. ‘Maybe it’s unsettled her. Next year she will be celebrating seventy years of her profession.’
Mother Magda watches him pouring the coffee, smiling a little. ‘And all of them here at Chi-Meur. She was born in Peneglos. She told me once how she was in love with a local farmer’s son and she wanted to marry him and live at the Lodge, but then she realized that she loved God more than the young man and she broke off the engagement. Apparently he took it very badly and went out to New Zealand. You probably know that? It isn’t a secret.’
He nods. ‘I know the story. It seems half the local people are related to her and were very hot under the collar at the prospect of her not ending her days here. They’re all thrilled that you’re staying on. They told me that he used to send her photographs of him with his new love and their children so as to underline what she was missing.’
‘And she used to show them to everyone so proudly. She was simply relieved that he was happy. “Yet I loved him so much,” she used to say, gazing at his picture. And, in a way, I think she still does.’
‘But not enough,’ says Father Pascal, passing her a mug.
Mother Magda shakes her head; she sips her coffee appreciatively: real coffee is a luxury in which the Sisters do not indulge.
‘So what is to be done?’ he murmurs. ‘We need a tiny crisis, not too serious, which will enable Sister Ruth to accept Janna’s help.’
‘That would indeed be a miracle.’
‘Surely Sister Nichola’s need is greater than Sister Ruth’s pride?’
‘Oh, yes, but it will take something more than this to help her acknowledge that it is her pride that is causing the barrier.’ She watches as Father Pascal pours his own coffee.
‘Then we must pray for another miracle.’
She smiles at him and raises her mug as if in some kind of toast or pledge. ‘After all,’ she says, ‘in our line of work it is our job to expect miracles. By the way, I’ve had another letter from Mr Brewster urging us to reconsider his offer. I think it’s quite in order for us to tell him that the retreat house is not just a hope but a very real possibility, don’t you?’
‘I think it will be quite in order,’ Father Pascal says. ‘It would have to be some very great disaster to stop us now.’
Sister Emily and Jakey are picking apples. Stripey Bunny is perched in the fork of a low branch, watching them. The higher branches have been shaken from a vantage point a few steps up on the ladder and now Jakey approaches each windfall cautiously, turning it with the toe of his shoe lest a wasp should be lurking. He places each apple carefully into Sister Emily’s basket whilst she reaches into the lower branches to pick any remaining ripe apple with a quick, deft twist of the wrist.
Janna, who has done the shaking – ‘Not too hard,’ cries Sister Emily, ‘we don’t want bruising’ – has retired to make refreshments for the workers and now appears at the caravan door to call them.
‘We’ve done thlee tlees,’ says Jakey contentedly as he climbs the steps. ‘There are lots and lots of apples. Can we be outside, Janna?’
‘Not today, my lover,’ she answers. ‘’Tis too wet after the rain last night.’
‘What a gift to have this sunshine.’ Sister Emily appears at the door and beams up at them. ‘This is a proper St Luke’s little summer.’
‘Why is it?’ asks Jakey, eyeing the picnic with professional approval. ‘What is St Luke’s little summer?’
‘It’s when we have unusually warm weather in October. St Luke’s special day is next week, you see.’ She beams at Janna. ‘A lovely Feast Day.’
Janna shakes her head. ‘She’s a terrible lady for her food,’ she says to Jakey.
He scrambles up onto the little moquette-covered bench, not really understanding but simply happy to be with these two people, reaching for a scone.
‘Oh!’ He puts his hand over his mouth. ‘I’ve forgotten Stripey Bunny. He’s still in the tlee.’
‘He’ll be fine,’ Janna says. ‘He can watch over the apples while we have our picnic.’
Jakey hesitates, considering, then shakes his head. ‘He needs some tea too,’ he says, and climbs down, squeezing past Sister Emily and running out into the orchard.
Sister Emily nods approvingly. ‘He is faithful to his friends,’ she says.
Janna puts milk into the Peter Rabbit mug and stands it by Jakey’s plate. Sister Emily sits down gratefully; she loves apple-picking but it is hard work.
‘Clem’ll be along in a minute,’ Janna says. ‘He can do some picking and carry the baskets. It’s a really good crop. Obviously your apple trees like nice wet summers.’
Jakey reappears, clutching Stripey Bunny, and wriggles up beside Sister Emily.
‘He’s been stung by a wasp,’ he announces, holding him up for inspection, checking to make sure that they are properly horrified. ‘On his poor leg. Look.’
He holds out the long stripey leg, while Janna and Sister Emily cluck and commiserate, and then he seizes the Peter Rabbit mug.
‘He needs some tea,’ he says, putting the stripey arms around the mug, pretending that Stripey Bunny is holding it himself; but somehow it slips between the knitted paws, bounces on the table and falls to the floor, spilling the milk and cracking the handle from the mug.
There is a horrified silence. Jakey stares from the broken mug and the spilled milk to Janna’s startled face, his eyes wide with shock. Sister Emily waits, holding her breath.
‘It’s bloken,’ Jakey says miserably. ‘The Peter Labbit mug. I’ve bloken it.’
There is one brief, silent second before Janna slides out of her seat; her concern is for Jakey: ‘You couldn’t help it, my lover,’ she says gently. ‘’Twas an accident.’
He looks at her tearfully, his cheeks scarlet. ‘It was your best mug,’ he says.
She shakes her head, touches his cheek. ‘Not any more,’ she says. ‘’Twas once but not now. Not for a while. Let’s get that milk cleared up.’
He picks up the mug and the handle, trying to fit them together. ‘Daddy could mend it,’ he suggests hopefully. ‘He mended my mug when it got bloken.’
‘Of course he can,’ says Janna cheerfully. ‘Mind your feet now while I wipe up. Sit up by Sister Emily, that’s a good boy, and have a bit of scone.’
He wriggles back onto the seat, looking at Sister Emily anxiously. ‘Stripey Bunny’s very sad about it,’ he says. ‘He didn’t mean to do it. He liked the Peter Labbit mug too.’
‘We all liked it,’ she says soothingly. ‘But, in the end, it is only a mug. Janna has many other precious things now. Things that won’t break so easily or vanish in the face of reality.’
Janna, crouching by the table, looks up at her questioningly, almost fearfully; Sister Emily looks back at her challengingly. Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, Janna bursts out laughing.
‘Don’t overdo the sympathy,’ she says.
‘A much overrated reaction, I always think,’ says Sister Emily calmly. ‘Rather disabling, especially in large doses.’
And Jakey, feeling relieved by this odd exchange, reaches for a scone and is happy again.
‘We were wondering,’ Mo is saying, ‘whether you and Natasha and the girls would be coming down for Pa’s birthday. Dossie’s planning a bit of a gathering, just a few friends. I mentioned it a couple of weeks ago, if you remember, and you said that you might manage it. We thought tea, because of Jakey being able to come to it, but we’ll have a family supper later, of course, if you—’
‘Hang on,’ Adam says. ‘Just a sec.’ He puts down the phone and shouts, ‘Turn that music down!’ The music ceases suddenly and there is a burst of mocking laughter. He picks up the phone again. ‘Sorry. Yes, I remember you mentioning it, and I did talk about it to Tasha, but it’s a bit tricky, actually. One of the girls has got something on that weekend. You know how it is. Makes it a bit difficult, but I’m sure Pa will understand. I mean, it’s not a big one, is it?’
‘How,’ asks his mother, ‘do you define “a big one”? Anything after one’s three score years and ten is a big one, I suppose. Especially if you’ve had a stroke. Pa will be seventy-three.’
‘Well, of course, I didn’t mean …’ He feels irritated. She’s just trying to put him in the wrong. ‘I was thinking if it was his seventy-fifth, for instance …’
‘Oh, I see. That’s “a big one”, is it? Well, perhaps you could pencil in his seventy-fifth so as to be sure you get down for it.’
‘Come on, Mo. No need to be like that. It’s difficult juggling everybody’s needs …’ His voice heavy with irritation and self-pity, he reminds her that he and Natasha both work full time, and the girls have lives too, and that it is unfair to make him feel guilty …
‘I do understand,’ she breaks in. Suddenly her voice is warm, friendly. ‘Of course I do. And it doesn’t matter a bit. Goodness, it’s only a little birthday party. Now, I must hurry away. Wait, though. Did we tell you that we’re starting up the bed and breakfast again in the spring? So much to do and lots of bookings pouring in. It’s so exciting. Pa’s got a second lease of life but then don’t they say that seventy is the new fifty? Well, then …’
‘Hang on; hang on!’ He’s almost shouting. ‘When did all this happen? You haven’t said anything to me about this. It sounds like utter bloody madness. How can you possibly cope with all that again?’
‘Well, it’s Dossie who will be doing most of the coping, and she says that cooking breakfast for six or eight people is a doddle after catering for dinner parties and weddings. She’s really excited about it and so are we. It’ll be so good to see all the old faces again and so many of them are keen to come back. It’s rather touching. Of course, the house is still virtually all set up for it so there’s hardly anything to do but take the bookings.’
‘I just can’t believe this,’ he says quietly. ‘One minute we’re talking downsizing—’
‘No, no,’ she interrupts him. ‘You were talking downsizing, Adam. We never were. This is our home and we love it. Because of Dossie we’re able to stay in it and so is she. For as long as she needs to. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Wait,’ he says, as though he is speaking to a fractious child. ‘Now just wait. First you imply that Pa is getting old and we ought to be coming down for his birthday because, having had a stroke, he might keel over at any minute, and the next minute you say that you’re opening up The Court for business again. Isn’t this a bit irrational? Can’t you see the strain it’ll be on you and Pa? Never mind that Dossie’s cooking the breakfasts, just having people there, coming and going all the time, is enough to give anyone another stroke.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Mo says. ‘You never have. We love having people here. Pa adores having someone to chat to, to have a drink with; and we’ve known some of these friends for more than thirty years. It’s not a stress for us, especially with Dossie doing the real hard work. It’s giving us something to look forward to and to plan for and enjoy. Can you try to understand that, Adam?’
‘I think it’s a terrible mistake,’ he says stubbornly. ‘It’s like trying to regain your lost youth; it’s simply bound to end in disappointment. I know that Natasha will agree with me.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ Mo says affably. ‘As long as someone does. Now, I really must go. Sorry we shan’t see you at the party but we quite understand. ’Bye, darling.’
She puts the receiver down and he waits for a moment and then slams the phone on the table.
‘What is it?’ Natasha has come into the room. ‘What’s going on?’
The girls are close behind her and he wonders if it will ever be possible to have a conversation without these two listening in; watching; giggling in corners.
‘You’ll be glad to know,’ he says vindictively, ‘that your behaviour has finally done the trick. Because of your refusal to go to Pa’s party you and your children have done me out of my inheritance once and for all.’
‘Oh, honestly.’ Whatever next? She is getting really, really tired with these silly dramas. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means that because you never ever do anything you don’t want to do they’ve given up on me. They’ve decided to go back to doing bed and breakfast with Dossie in control, and I suspect that this will be the end of it.’
Natasha frowns incredulously, and then laughs; the girls move closer to stand one each side of her.
‘Are you seriously telling me that because we can’t go down for your father’s birthday he’s disinheriting you? You must be joking.’
‘No. I’m not joking, and it isn’t just that and you know it.’
‘You didn’t want to go either,’ says one of the girls. ‘It wasn’t just Mum.’
‘It’s no good trying to blame us,’ says the other.
He loses his temper. ‘I’m not talking to you,’ he shouts. ‘For God’s sake just clear out, will you?’
The girls move closer to their mother, as if they are afraid of him, and she puts an arm around each of them. She has made her decision, she’s known for quite a while that she and Adam don’t have a future together, and now he has played into her hands. She and the girls can manage very well without him.
‘If there’s any clearing out I think you’ll be doing it,’ says Natasha calmly. ‘Maybe you’ve forgotten that this is my house and these are my children. Since you seem to imagine that we are rotting up the brilliant relationship with your wonderful family then I suggest you clear out now.’
The girls stare at him. Their eyes are bright with malice and triumph as he storms past them, out of the room and up the stairs.
Through the window she can see Wolfie playing on the lawn whilst John the Baptist watches him. She sees that Wolfie has got old Jonno’s bone and he is racing round in circles with it, dropping it temptingly, and then seizing it again before Jonno can grab it, and dashing away with it.
Dossie comes in behind her. ‘So what did he say?’
‘They can’t make it.’ Mo doesn’t turn round. ‘He’s cross about the B and B-ing.’
‘Well, that’s hardly a surprise.’ Dossie stands beside her. ‘What else?’
‘Nothing else. He thinks we’re crazy trying to regain our lost youth.’
Dossie laughs. ‘He simply doesn’t get it, does he? But then he never did. I simply don’t know where he came from. Weird, isn’t it?’
Mo nods. ‘Weird, and very sad. We love him; he’s our son. And he’s a complete stranger. It seems impossible to connect and I can’t see what we did wrong.’
‘Why do you think you did anything wrong? It’s just a genetic cock-up, that’s all. There’s nothing any of us can do about it. Look, we still speak, we stay in touch and he can come down any time he likes. We simply have to accept that it’s all we’re going to have.’
‘But try to imagine how you would feel if it were Clem. Or even Jakey. That you’d given birth to someone you can’t recognize, and who doesn’t understand you, and yet you still love him terribly even if you don’t like him very much.’
‘Sorry.’ Dossie puts her arm round Mo’s shoulders and gives her a hug. ‘I didn’t mean to be clever about it. Really I didn’t. It would break my heart, of course it would. It’s just that he makes me cross and I hate it for you.’
They stand together watching the dogs. John the Baptist has made an attempt to retrieve his bone from Wolfie and the two of them are rolling together, play-fighting, barking with excitement.
‘I must go and rescue poor old Jonno,’ says Mo. ‘That will be doing his arthritis no good at all, though he seems to be enjoying himself. Perhaps he’s trying to regain his lost youth, too.’
Dossie watches Mo as she crosses the lawn, shouting to get the dogs’ attention. She persuades Wolfie to give up the bone, drops it into a bag and disappears out of view with both dogs at her heels. Dossie continues to stand at the window, staring at the empty lawn, wondering how Rupert will get on with Mo and Pa. She spent ages planning just how to raise the subject with them and in the end she did it rather clumsily, standing up from breakfast and saying: ‘Oh, by the way, I thought I’d bring one of my Fill the Freezer clients to your birthday bash, Pa. He’s rather nice. Recently widowed. I think you’ll both like him.’
They both looked up, Pa from the Sudoku and Ma from a letter she was writing, and stared at her. She knew at once that only rigid discipline was preventing them from nodding at one another and saying: ‘I told you so.’ There was no surprise; she detected only a certain amount of relief in their reaction.
‘Well, good, that’s good,’ Pa said vaguely, whilst Ma smiled and said: ‘We’ll look forward to that. What’s his name?’
She felt rather foolish, as though she were a teenager again, and mumbled an answer and then said she must go up and check emails. Neither of them has mentioned it since.
Dossie can’t decide whether she is pleased that her announcement has been received with such a startling lack of interest or whether she’d rather there were a few animated questions: ‘So where did you meet? Where are his holiday cottages?’ or, ‘So what is he like and how old is he?’
The truth is, she guesses, they’ve suspected that there is someone in the background – it’s a bit naïve to think otherwise – and they are simply relieved that they’re going to meet him at last and that he isn’t married. She is sure that they would like him – how could they not? – but much more to the point is how he and Clem will get along. She hasn’t yet mustered up the courage to tell Clem about Rupert; she can’t quite find the words to explain their relationship. And this is a real problem because she doesn’t quite know how to define it even to herself. For instance, they aren’t an item; neither takes the other for granted or assumes that a date or plan can be made without consultation. There remains a slight formality between them that she’s been unable to break down. One of the difficulties is that she has no place of her own where she can invite him for supper or for a barbecue, or any casual date. They have the cottage, of course, but it means it’s always his call. At least she’s made the big step of inviting him to meet Pa and Mo – and he’s perfectly happy about it.
Rupert is on the phone to Kitty.
‘… And I know you can’t get home this weekend,’ she is saying, ‘but I’ve got the next one planned round Mummy’s birthday on the Sunday. She’s really thrilled about it. Of course we all know it’s going to be the last one so it’s got to be special …’
She chatters on but he isn’t listening. Leaning forward to look at his diary he’s just seen that next Saturday is Pa’s birthday and he’s promised he’ll be at The Court for tea. He’s been dreading it, wondering how he’ll handle it but now it looks as if he’ll have to cry off. He can’t cancel a second weekend with Kitty, and though a part of him is deeply grateful for this excuse he has no idea what he will say to Dossie. She still thinks he has a mother in Bristol and he’ll use her as the excuse. After all, it’s not too far from the truth …
Kitty, sensing his distraction, is asking him if he is OK; whether something has turned up.
‘Just looking at the diary,’ he says. ‘I was supposed to pick up some stuff this morning in Bodmin and I’d completely forgotten it. Look, I’d better dash, sweetie. I’ll call you later. ’Bye.’
He lays his mobile down and curses below his breath. He can’t disappoint Kitty or her mother, but he needs some very good excuse to get out of this one. Dossie is going to be upset. It’s getting difficult, trying to keep his two worlds separate, but he’s reluctant to give up on either. Dossie has become important to him; she’s the perfect companion just now and he sees no reason why this particular boat should be rocked. He’ll have to be careful, though, to keep an important date with his ‘mother’ at the root of his excuse. He’s learned that it’s always best to have a seed of truth in the middle of a lie. And anyway, dear old Mummy has indeed been like a mother to him since his own died, so it’s a kind of truth. He’ll have to box clever, though. After all, he’d hardly forget the date of his mother’s birthday. No, it needs to be some other kind of celebration; some kind of family event involving his sister, perhaps. He’ll think of something – and meanwhile he has to tell Dossie.
Sister Ruth gives the flowers a last twitch and glances round the small West Room. Guests are being asked to bring their own sheets and towels these days, but there are one or two exceptions that include elderly visitors of very long-standing. This is one of those cases and so the bed has been made up and towels hung beside the basin, and the little room looks clean and fresh and inviting.
She’s picked the last of the sweet peas and some purple hebe for the green pottery vase that stands on the well-polished table, and is pleased with the effect. It is good to be hospitable, though she can never quite let herself go as Sister Emily does, and Mother Magda, welcoming their guests with hugs and kisses. She was taught to be restrained and self-effacing and she’s never been able to be demonstrative. Only very occasionally with Sister Nichola can she relax a little and give her the good-night kiss that the elderly Sister expects and looks for, or to hold her hand sometimes when they sit quietly together. Caresses and overt affection have never come naturally to her as they do, for instance, to Janna with Jakey.
Sister Ruth runs her duster once more over the wooden framed armchair. Of course, her own upbringing was a strict one; children were kept firmly under control. To be fair, Jakey is a good child but in some odd way she feels threatened by him. She fears that if he were to be disobedient or rude she might not have control over him, which frightens her. He is so quick and determined, unhampered as yet by social mores. The others love this childlike spontaneity and find it funny: only she finds it threatening. It’s always been the same: she needs to feel that she has control over events and people or she is overcome by panic and by fear.
When it was suggested that she should be Sister Nichola’s ‘carer’ she’d been torn between pleasure – and surprise – that she’d been chosen and anxiety lest she should fail. Sometimes it seems that Sister Nichola is the one in control because the elderly nun’s calm sweet temper is like a balm on the fretted edges of her own nervousness, gently enabling and smoothing her into her carer’s role. She is grateful for it, encouraged by her ability to ‘manage’ Sister Nichola so successfully, proud of her special status, and the suggestion that this privilege of caring is now to be shared with Janna fills her with dismay and jealousy.
Folding the tartan rug and placing it at the foot of the narrow bed, she is aware of a tensing of the muscles and a twisting of the stomach at the mere thought of Janna. Like Jakey, the girl is an unknown quantity. Neither of them is bound by the natural rules of a good upbringing and a formal education: Jakey because he is too young to have yet acquired them properly and Janna because she’s never been exposed to either. And now there is the daunting prospect of all this change: moving to the Coach House, and Chi-Meur becoming a retreat house. Panic flutters her heart and she sits down on the edge of the bed, pressing her hand to her breast. Perhaps it would be best simply to go to the Sisters at Hereford where she trained as a novice all those years ago. Even back then she’d been fearful; keeping herself to herself and suspicious of her fellow novices.
‘I expect we’d all prefer to have a relationship with God on our own terms,’ the Novice Mistress said to her once. ‘He requires us to mix with the oddest and most unsuitable people, doesn’t he?’
She stands up and bends to smooth the duvet cover and pick up the duster and polish. With one last glance around the room she goes out onto the landing and down the stairs. There are several guests in the hall and she passes them quietly with a little nod and heads for the kitchen, where Janna is making lunch and looking after Sister Nichola. The old nun smiles with delight as she comes in and holds out a hand in her easy affectionate way and Sister Ruth takes it and holds it for a moment, smiling back at her.
‘She misses you,’ Janna says warmly, observing the little scene, and Sister Ruth mutters, ‘Nonsense,’ but she is pleased. Janna is wearing the T-shirt that has ‘Jesus loves you but I’m his favourite’ printed on it. Sister Ruth finds this almost offensive: we are all equal in the eyes of God. However, when Janna offers her some coffee she fights down all the usual antagonism and says that perhaps she would like just a small cup, thank you.
* * *
Later, Janna slips away. She crosses the courtyard to the Coach House where work is in progress to adjust it to the Sisters’ requirements. The kitchen needs modernizing, a stair-lift put in, and an interconnecting door to the chapel, as well as the spiral stairway in the end room. The bedrooms, with their small en-suites, are larger than the nuns are used to, a definite improvement. One of the sitting-rooms next to the kitchen will make a very satisfactory refectory and the other a good-sized library and parlour combined. This leaves two smaller rooms and Janna’s rooms at the end of the building.
The workmen have gone home and she stands for a moment, simply listening and letting the atmosphere take hold of her. It is a happy place, she decides. The guests who have stayed here have left an impression of friendly goodwill and there is a homely feel. She goes swiftly along the hall and into the room that Clem showed her. To her surprise – and alarm – the spiral staircase has already been installed. She stands at the bottom, her hand on the wrought iron, staring upwards. She feels an uprush of anger; as if Clem has forestalled her by acting so swiftly though she knows that, if she were to leave, whoever has these rooms will need a certain amount of privacy and that the alterations would have been made anyway.
Nevertheless, the changes unsettle her, and she climbs the staircase, almost reluctantly, rising into the bedroom above it, which is bright with the glow of the sunset. She goes straight across to the window, drawn as usual by the great expanses of cliffs and sea and sky, and stares westward. Immediately the peace and the sense of the infinite calms her, and she tries to imagine standing here with the Sisters in the house around her, working, reading, going to and fro to the chapel and to the house for meetings and courses.
The caravan has been her first real home; somewhere that is hers alone and where she can be truly independent. She’d had live-in jobs in pubs and hotels, and dossed on friends’ sofas and, for a while, she’d used Nat’s cottage as a bolt-hole when things were really tough; but the caravan was her first taste of privacy. It delights her to offer her own particular brand of hospitality and to come and go as she pleases. After having a beer with her friends in Padstow, or popping into the pubs to see old mates, it is good to come back to the isolation and peace of the caravan.
She leans her forehead against the cold glass, wondering why the quietness of such an existence holds no terrors for her; why she isn’t worrying about missing out on the life her contemporaries are leading.
‘We’re alike,’ Clem said once. ‘Sometimes I get a bit frustrated but I don’t miss London or Oxford. I’m very happy here with Jakey and with lots of work to be done, especially now with the new challenge of the retreat house. It sounds as if the drink and drugs scene was never quite your thing any more than it was mine, and we’re a bit oddball but very content to be so. And what’s wrong with that? We see our friends; we can surf and swim and sail. Why not simply accept that we’re where we are supposed to be, if we’re content with it? What else would you be doing?’
Janna straightens up: what indeed? She goes down again into the room below, which has a compact kitchen corner and a breakfast bar, a very small wood-burning stove and a French window that opens on to the courtyard. It is charming; hardly any bigger than the caravan but offering her a certain amount of independence. She could still welcome her friends and have Jakey to tea and, after all, where else would she go and what would she do?
She knows that it is the prospect of responsibility that irks and frightens her, and something more: something that presses in, gently but firmly, demanding some kind of commitment that she can’t quite understand.
The bell for Vespers is ringing and she has a sudden longing to be there, in her little corner in the chapel, absorbing the deep-down peace and listening to the quiet voices of the Sisters at prayer and worship. She goes out, shutting the door gently behind her, and hurries across the courtyard.
Later again, after Vespers and supper, she is slipping down the drive to the Lodge, opening the door very quietly and calling out ‘Hi’ to Dossie, who is doing the early baby-sitting shift whilst Clem is at an evening training course.
By now, Jakey has had his bath and is in bed, and Dossie is watching a cookery programme. She stands up and switches it off as Janna comes in and gives her a hug.
‘Eight o’clock and all’s well,’ she says. ‘He was fast off when I had a look just now.’
‘How are you?’ Janna looks at Dossie critically. Her face is strained, her eyes darkly shadowed. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ Dossie answers sharply. She shakes her head, as if Janna doubts her. ‘Nothing,’ she repeats. ‘Why?’
‘You don’t look right,’ Janna says. ‘Come on. You can’t fool me.’
Dossie takes a breath, looks around as if for guidance, and then shrugs. ‘It’s Pa’s birthday. I’d got it all planned and then Rupert tells me he can’t come after all. He said he would be there and I’d told them and everything, and, well …’ She shrugs.
‘No! What? Why not?’ Janna cries indignantly – and immediately puts her hand to her lips and glances upwards. ‘What’s he saying, then?’
She speaks more quietly and Dossie answers in the same way, both of them conscious of Jakey asleep in the room above.
‘He said that he hadn’t really taken the date on board when we made the arrangement and his mother’s planned a family event involving his sisters and their children. He says he simply can’t disappoint her and it’s been arranged for ages and he simply forgot. His mother isn’t terribly well and he feels there’s nothing he can do.’
Janna looks sceptical and Dossie makes a face. ‘Well, I can see the problem,’ she says reluctantly, ‘and he was really sorry but … oh, I don’t know. I’m just really gutted about it and I don’t quite know why.’
‘’Tis a bit more than that, though, isn’t it?’ Janna asks shrewdly.
Dossie looks so disconsolate that Janna’s heart is wrenched. ‘Bloody men,’ she says. ‘He’s still holding out on you, isn’t he?’
Dossie nods reluctantly. ‘He is a bit. I still can’t quite get beyond first base. He’s sweet and kind and fun, but there’s some kind of invisible barrier that I never manage to cross.’
Immediately Janna is reminded of Nat. ‘He’s not gay, is he?’
Dossie stares at her in surprise. ‘No,’ she says at once. ‘No, he was married, I told you.’
Janna grimaces. ‘So? Lots of married men are gay. No children?’
‘No, but that doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Not necessarily, but it’s just interesting.’
‘Is it? Anyway, I’d be able to tell if he were gay.’
‘Would you? Nat’s mum never guessed. Most people didn’t. We made love, just once, and I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t known, if you see what I mean. He would’ve liked to have been straight if he could’ve. But he just couldn’t cross that barrier.’
‘No, no. That side of things is fine, really good, I promise you. It’s just he won’t commit in any way to a settled relationship. It’s like we’re stuck and I can’t see why. Look, I must be off. You’ll be OK?’
‘’Course I will. No problems.’
Dossie goes out quietly and presently Janna hears the little car pull away. She sits down, heaving a frustrated sigh. She hates to see Dossie looking like that yet she has a horrid suspicion that something is wrong and the sooner Dossie knows what it is, the better it will be for her. She channel-hops for a while and then turns the television off, feeling restless. Clem has lit the fire and she gets up to put on another log from the basket beside the grate.
She glances at the clock: Compline is over and the convent will be in silent mode with the nuns in their rooms, writing or reading or already getting ready for bed. Their day is a long and busy one, and their guests will have retired too, lights shining out from their bedroom windows. Clem’s little sitting-room reminds her of Father Pascal’s parlour: bookshelves lining the walls, a few paintings, the table beside the sofa overflowing with newspapers, more books – some of them Jakey’s – and a few magazines.
Janna sits down again at the end of the sofa and picks up a couple of small books. Presently she is absorbed by Little Grey Rabbit, Squirrel and Hare. The charming Margaret Tempest illustrations fill her with delight: the indigo blue of the night sky with its brilliant stars; Fuzzypeg in his tattered smock with his hedgehog spikes sticking through; the cosy interiors. She’s read these stories many times to Jakey but she reads them again, almost able to taste on her tongue the delicious chill of sucking long icicles on a winter morning and experiencing the thrill of horror as the skating party return home to discover the terrible Rat asleep in Squirrel’s bed. Jakey especially enjoys that bit: ‘And he’s eaten up all their picnic supper!’ he cries, round-eyed with horrified delight, willing her to be properly shocked. The Alison Uttley stories have not been a part of her childhood and now she loves these books, which once belonged to Dossie, as much as Jakey does.
She has no idea how long she’s been absorbed when she hears the patter of footsteps in the room above. She raises her head, listening. Jakey doesn’t call out; there is simply silence. She gets to her feet and swiftly climbs the stairs, all her senses alert. Gently she pushes his bedroom door more fully open and peers inside. He’s drawn back the curtains and she can see him on tiptoe at the window, outlined in the moonlight, looking out.
‘Jakey.’ She barely more than whispers his name, frightened of scaring him and wondering if he is sleepwalking. ‘Are you all right, my lover?’
He turns towards her quite naturally, fully awake, pleased to see her.
‘Has Dossie gone?’ he asks.
She nods. ‘Shouldn’t you be in bed in the warm?’
‘It’s Auntie Gabriel,’ he says, gesturing towards the window. ‘She often comes when the moon shines. I knew she’d be here tonight.’
Janna moves quickly to the window, slipping an arm around him, looking out but keeping in the shadows. She can see the figure, pale and rather bulky amongst the silvery trunks of the trees.
‘She never waves because she’s holding her heart. See?’ He waves but the figure doesn’t move, simply an inclination of the head, which reminds Janna of something. Her own heart beats fast and she wonders what she should do: she mustn’t frighten Jakey.
‘I want her to come in so that I can talk to her and see her ploperly,’ he is saying. ‘Will you go and ask her to come in, Janna?’
‘No, no, my lover,’ she says quickly. ‘You can’t treat angels like ordinary people. ’Twouldn’t do at all. She’d simply disappear. She’s just come to make sure you’re all right and to wish you sweet dreams. Now give her another wave and get back into bed. You’ll get cold.’
He waves obediently but rather sadly, and pulls the curtains together. ‘I wish she would, though,’ he says. ‘She’ll be cold out there and we could make her some tea.’
She tucks his quilt round him. ‘She wouldn’t want any tea. Angels are funny like that. Can you go to sleep?’
He nods, pulling Stripey Bunny close, putting his thumb in, whilst she crouches beside him and smooths the pale blond hair. Presently his eyelids droop and his breathing grows slower and more regular. Janna stands up and takes a few steps away from the bed, still watching him. He doesn’t stir and very gently she lifts the corner of the curtain: the figure is still there.
Janna goes swiftly downstairs, into the kitchen and out by the back door. She passes noiselessly around the corner of the house, crosses the drive in the shadows by the gate and approaches the figure from the side. Gently she takes Sister Nichola by the arm, embracing her and murmuring to her, and the old nun looks surprised and pleased to see her, though she still holds her stick firmly between her two hands, leaning on it and gazing at the Lodge.
‘Come,’ murmurs Janna, glancing anxiously at Jakey’s window. ‘Come with me, Sister. You know me, don’t you? ’Tis Janna. Come on now, but very quiet.’
Sister Nichola seems reluctant to approach the cottage but Janna persuades her, talking gently, helping her along, until she is safely in the kitchen.
‘There now,’ she says, weak with relief, praying that Jakey won’t come downstairs. ‘There, Sister. That’s better, isn’t it? I’m going to make you a cup of tea. How about that? We need one, don’t we, after standing about in the cold?’
Sister Nichola draws Janna’s shawl more closely around her and smiles vaguely. She seems puzzled but content. Janna makes the tea and they sit at the table, clasping their mugs, with the teapot between them. They are still sitting there together when Clem arrives home.
‘Hi, Phil. Hang on, mate.’ Mr Caine leaves the bar and goes to stand outside in the darkness. ‘Sorry. In the pub. Thanks for getting back to me. The good news is that the dear old Rev Mum has come up with the goodies with that letter. The bad news is that the boyfriend is now bottling out and wondering whether it’ll stand up in court, after all. Seems he’s taken advice and the fact that the nuns are still there and operating, as it were, means it could be a long-drawn-out expensive business … Hang on. Someone coming out … Yeah, so that’s how it stands. Legally, he reckons he can use the terms of the old will to get them out but it might take time and money … I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes if he succeeds, mind. He won’t be popular round here, I can tell you that. Hello? You’re breaking up … Lost you. If you can hear me, I’ll try again later.’
He puts his mobile in his pocket. Beside the wall a shadow seems to swell and shrink again and he peers into the darkness. He’s holding his breath. Is there someone there? He feels oppressed, fearful. Suddenly a car pulls up and there are footsteps and voices out in the road, and he breathes again. Christ, he’ll be glad when he’s out of this place for good. He goes back into the brightness and warmth of the pub.
‘I simply don’t know what we can do,’ says Sister Ruth despairingly for the third time. ‘Several times she’s appeared at Compline and we’ve agreed that we cannot lock her in her room. But to think that she’s been going out at night …’
She picks up her mug of camomile tea and sets it down again, her expression anguished.
Janna looks at her with compassion, the shock at finding Sister Ruth standing at the bottom of the caravan steps subsiding a little.
‘It was good of you,’ Sister Ruth says, ‘to come to find me last night instead of going to Mother Magda. Not that it should be a secret, of course.’
‘Why not?’ asks Janna. ‘Nobody need know except you and me and Clem. Jakey will continue to think it was Auntie Gabriel, like I told you, and the others don’t have to know what happened.’
Sister Ruth is silent. She picks up her mug and sips a little of the tea. She was almost indignant to find Janna knocking softly at her door last evening but, before she could demand a reason, Janna drew her along to Sister Nichola’s room and explained privately what had happened. Her relief that nobody else knows is just as great as her horror that the elderly nun has been roaming the grounds at night, and this knowledge makes her feel ashamed. And that it should be Janna who found Sister Nichola simply heaps coals of fire upon her shame.
‘The important thing,’ Janna is saying now, ‘is that we stop her opening that back door. But I see your point about needing to get out if there should be a fire in your wing. If the key is taken out and put somewhere safe it could be a real problem in an emergency. And, anyway, everyone would want to know why. ’Tis a pity she can reach the bolt.’
She is aware of Sister Ruth’s dilemma and feels very sorry for her. She remembers the look almost of outrage on her face last night when she opened her door, and the shock that swiftly replaced it. It was a shock for Janna, too, to see Sister Ruth in an ancient plaid dressing gown and her hair free of its veil. Her hair was the biggest shock: thick and dark and curling round the well-shaped head. She looked much younger, more vulnerable without the veil, and Janna for the first time saw her simply as another woman, and a woman who was frightened and at a loss.
She followed Janna quickly, gazing at Sister Nichola, who was now tucked up in bed and deeply asleep, listening to Janna’s story in disbelief.
‘But how often has Jakey seen her? Anything might have happened to her. She might have fallen or wandered into the lane. Thank goodness the evening was warm and dry.’
‘I think ’tis all to do with the full moon.’ Janna tried to reassure her. ‘Jakey says she comes when the moon shines. It probably wakes her, as it does him, and she gets up and goes down to the Lodge. Wasn’t there something about her being engaged to a local boy and they were planning to live there?’
Sister Ruth nodded, her frightened eyes still fixed on the recumbent form. ‘It was so long ago but her memory plays tricks.’
‘She’ll sleep now. I’m sure of it. We’ll think about what can be done. Clem won’t talk about it and neither will I unless you say so.’
Sister Ruth nodded again, biting her lips, and Janna knew that the nun wouldn’t get much sleep but would remain alert to the sound of a door opening and footsteps in the long passage.
Now, looking at her unhappy, weary face, Janna feels another surge of compassion. She can’t forget the sight of that same face – vulnerable and younger-looking – with its short cap of dark curling hair.
‘’Twill be easier in the Coach House,’ she suggests gently. ‘You’ll all be upstairs, for a start, and you could put one of those children’s gates across the stairs at night. Everyone knows that she wanders so ’twould simply be a sensible precaution. And if she has a room between yours and mine at least there’d be two of us on watch.’
Sister Ruth looks at her quickly, eyebrows lifted. ‘You’ll be staying then?’
Janna takes a firmer grip on her mug. ‘Sounds like it, doesn’t it?’ she asks ruefully. ‘I don’t know what to do, to tell the truth.’
She waits for some negative response but Sister Ruth remains silent. Outside the banties bicker in the warm sunshine and the old orchard is filled with soft golden light.
‘I love it here, see,’ Janna continues, moved to say more, to reveal something of herself – albeit reluctantly – to the woman who sits opposite at the little table. ‘I feel a bit independent. People can come and see me and I don’t feel we’re disturbing anyone else. I’ve never lived in a place that’s really private like this. It’s been quite special.’
Another little silence. Sister Ruth stirs, staring down into the mug.
‘But those rooms in the Coach House – your rooms – wouldn’t there be privacy there?’
Janna shrugs. ‘Sort of. They’re really lovely and I’d be lucky to have them but ’tisn’t the same. When Jakey comes we sing and play and make a bit of noise and nobody can hear us. ’Twouldn’t be quite like that, would it?’
‘Perhaps,’ Sister Ruth says with an obvious effort, ‘perhaps we might like to hear you and Jakey singing.’
Janna laughs. ‘Come off it,’ she says cheerfully. ‘You know we drive you mad. Both of us.’
To her amazement, Sister Ruth raises her eyes and smiles at her. ‘I deserved that,’ she answers honestly, ‘and it’s quite true. I am uneasy with children. I don’t know how to behave with them, and I have no experience of them. No younger siblings, no nephews and nieces. I was brought up to be seen and not heard. Actually, Jakey is a good little boy and I was very touched when you told me about Auntie Gabriel and how he wanted her to go inside and have some tea to warm her up. It’s a wonder that he didn’t recognize Sister Nichola.’
‘She was standing among the shadows of the trees and he wouldn’t be expecting any of the Sisters about at night. And she was always in that cream-coloured dressing gown and a shawl and no veil.’
‘And he wasn’t afraid?’
Janna shakes her head. ‘He expected an angel and that’s what he saw.’
Sister Ruth smiles again and finishes the last of her tea. ‘Perhaps that should be a lesson to us all,’ she says.
‘A miracle.’ Sister Emily is waiting at the vestry door, beaming with delight. ‘A miracle has occurred. It seems that Janna has almost definitely decided to stay with us.’
Father Pascal gives a little cry of pleasure. ‘Oh, but that’s wonderful. Did she tell you so?’
‘She told Sister Ruth.’
His expression changes almost ludicrously. ‘Sister Ruth?’
Sister Emily nods, enjoying the drama. ‘That’s the real part of the miracle.’
‘She told Sister Ruth?’ He still can’t believe it. ‘But why? I mean, how did it happen? I believed that they never communicated at that kind of level. There’s usually too much antagonism between them to imagine such confidences.’
‘Something has happened,’ Sister Emily says. ‘So far it is only a hint that Sister Ruth dropped by mistake. We shall find out in due course when she is ready to tell us the whole truth.’
He frowns, puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t quite know,’ she answers serenely. ‘That will be the final part of the miracle.’
He shakes his head. ‘You’re talking in riddles today.’
She smiles mischievously. ‘Those inner angels are being unpacked; layer by layer they are being revealed.’
She whisks out of the vestry into the chapel and Father Pascal, baffled, begins to prepare himself for the Eucharist.
Pa’s party is being a great success. The continuing warm weather allows the tea party to be held in the garden, and he is enjoying himself enormously, surrounded by old friends and by his family. Sister Emily, looking oddly Bohemian in smart narrow navy trousers and a loose cream linen shirt, with a small scarlet cotton handkerchief tied gypsy-fashion over her fine white hair, converses eagerly, totally at ease.
‘You look great,’ Dossie told her when she arrived, driven by Clem, with an excited Jakey in the back of the car. ‘It’s so odd to see you in ordinary clothes.’
‘Mufti.’ Sister Emily regarded her outfit with pleasure. ‘I’ve put that nun away in the cupboard for the afternoon.’
She turned away to greet Pa and Mo, and Dossie found Clem beside her, wearing his usual enigmatic expression.
‘She has a niece,’ he murmured, his eyes still on Sister Emily, ‘who lives in London. It’s a wealthy family, you know, and the niece passes on one or two rather smart bits of designer-label gear to her old auntie.’
Dossie grinned. ‘She looks smarter than Mo.’
Clem grinned too. ‘Wouldn’t be difficult. She’s never been a dresser-upper, has she, our Mo? So. Are you OK?’
He continued to stare out at the people milling about in the garden, but she was aware of his attention focused on her. She felt moved by his caring, and tears pricked the backs of her eyes.
‘Of course I am,’ she said. ‘Absolutely. Just a bit tired getting all this organized.’
‘Mmm.’
He didn’t sound convinced, though he still didn’t look at her, and she had a childish longing to burst into tears and tell him everything.
‘Go and mingle,’ she ordered him. ‘Be a good grandson. Jakey can hand round. He likes that.’
Clem gave a snort. ‘People telling him how good and clever he is. He revels in it. He’s in danger of becoming a spoiled monster.’
She laughed. ‘Good luck to him,’ she said. ‘It’ll soon pass. Let him enjoy it while he can.’
He was smiling as he went down to join Pa’s friends, and she watched him go, her heart full of love for him, suddenly seeing his father in Clem’s tall, long-limbed grace. She bit her lips, the tears coming quickly now, and turned away into the house, hurrying into the kitchen.
Now, she closes the door behind her and stands holding the Aga rail, trying not to weep with the sensations of loss and frustration. It is odd how Rupert’s excuses have hurt her. She tries to believe him, to make allowances for the explanation of a former arrangement with his mother, but it has simply brought to the fore the things she’s been trying to ignore. Perhaps he’s just using her and has no intention of considering any kind of future with her apart from this present friendship.
Dossie picks up a tea cloth, twisting it to and fro, trying to decide what she should do about Rupert. She hears footsteps running across the hall and quickly wipes her eyes with the cloth. Jakey bursts in, eyes gleaming with excitement and importance.
‘Mo says we need more tea. More tea, Dossie,’ he shouts gleefully.
She takes a wavering breath, trying to smile brightly, but he comes closer, his own smile fading a little.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks anxiously. ‘Are you clying, Dossie?’
‘No, my darling, of course not,’ she says, though his concern makes her want to weep even more. ‘No, I just burned my hand a little bit on the Aga and it made my eyes water. Isn’t that silly? I’m absolutely fine. Go and tell Mo that more tea is on the way. I’ll put the kettle on.’
He hovers, some instinct telling him that she isn’t being truthful, but she swiftly picks up a plate of small cakes and turns to him.
‘Now,’ she says seriously. ‘Do you think you could carry these out into the garden without spilling a single one? What d’you think?’
He grows solemn at once, taking the plate carefully and going out with them, his eyes fixed on the plate. Dossie watches the small earnest figure and is obliged to quell another urge to burst into tears.
‘Honestly,’ she mutters. ‘What is the matter with you? Get a grip, for God’s sake!’
It’s a relief that Janna hasn’t been able to come to the party; there are rather a lot of guests staying at Chi-Meur for St Luke’s Day tomorrow and she is just too busy. Dossie knows that she wouldn’t have been able to hold on to her composure under Janna’s sharp, compassionate gaze.
John the Baptist comes wagging in, panting with the exertion of being fussed over by so many people and having been given rather too many little treats. He seems almost to be laughing with the fun of it all and she can’t help smiling back at him; tugging at his ear and smoothing his head.
Quickly she takes her mobile from her pocket and checks it for messages: nothing. She’s sent a couple of texts to Rupert but has had no reply: obviously he is far too busy with his mum. Her heart weighs like lead in her breast and she makes a little face at John the Baptist.
‘No go, old chap,’ she murmurs.
The kettle is starting to sing and she picks up a big teapot and makes the tea.
Mo watches her come out onto the terrace and put the big teapot on the table. Her heart aches too. She knows that Dossie is unhappy, that her explanation for Rupert’s absence has been much too brittle and bright, and her heart is wrung with pain for her daughter.
‘Parents are only as happy as their saddest child’– she’s read that somewhere recently and has been struck by the truth of it. Her gaze wanders over their guests. Pa is in his element: nothing he loves more than being surrounded by friends and dispensing hospitality. Presently the gin and tonics or wine will be poured, and Dossie’s delicious little nibblies will appear, and the party will trundle on into the evening; some of the guests will inevitably be invited to supper. Dossie has planned for that too.
Mo sighs: oh, how she longs for Dossie to be truly happy. And she believes that she has been happy with this Rupert, but something has gone wrong. She watches Clem, tall and elegant, laughing with an elderly couple, and is sharply reminded of his father. How often this must happen to Dossie; and how does she cope with this constant reminder of her loss? And there is little Jakey, weaving his way in and out of the chattering groups, pausing to offer cakes and to receive praise and pats on his head, as if he were old Jonno. How does Clem manage to contain the pain of his wife’s death whilst bringing up their child?
She drops her hand and feels old Jonno’s head beneath it; she strokes him gratefully, accepting his silent comfort. Pa glances around, spies her, and raises his arm in a cheerful gesture that says, ‘Come here. Come and join me,’ and she steadies herself and makes her way across the grass with the old dog plodding behind her.
Dossie takes a step back from the little group, and then another, and stands alone though ready to smile or nod if required. She looks around at the familiar scene. The sun is still hot and the sweet scent of new-cut grass lingers in the heavy, warm air. Scarlet fuchsia blossoms hang delicate and bell-like on their arched stems and the leaves of the sumac trees burn like fire against the faded blue October sky. Michaelmas daisies, smoky blue and pinky-purple, stand in tall clumps against the grey stone walls.
‘Isn’t the weather heavenly?’ Sister Emily is beside her. ‘St Luke’s little summer is lasting a long time this year.’ Her eyes twinkle at Dossie. ‘His Feast Day tomorrow. What fun!’
Despite her heavy heart, Dossie bursts out laughing. ‘And don’t I know it, what with Janna pestering me for something special for you all to eat.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ says Sister Emily contentedly. ‘I do enjoy a surprise.’
‘And how will poor Janna manage when the new retreat house opens for business?’ asks Dossie, still smiling.
‘Our dear Penny is coming back.’ Sister Emily rises onto her toes and falls back again, as if she is unable to contain her pleasure. ‘She is quite recovered from that debilitating shingles disease and she will be back in the kitchen, and her married daughter is going to help with the other work. We’re hoping to involve the village more fully as we progress – to find jobs, that kind of thing.’
‘I see.’ Dossie watches her affectionately, comforted simply by her presence. Even in her unfamiliar clothes she remains essentially Sister Emily. ‘But there must be quite a lot of other things to think about. I know that Clem will be fully involved once he’s trained but who actually runs the show and deals with the nuts and bolts?’
‘We shall all work together,’ Sister Emily answers. ‘That is Chi-Meur’s way, but we are fortunate to be supported by a wonderful group of oblates and alongsiders. One of our oblates, a widow who lives in Padstow, has offered to be our secretary and administrator. It will be organic, of course, and we shall make mistakes, but we have plenty of helpers to whom we can turn. We are very lucky.’
‘Yes,’ says Dossie. ‘Yes, but you have earned it.’
‘And you?’ asks Sister Emily.
‘Me?’ says Dossie. ‘How d’you mean?’
‘I hear that you are starting a new venture, too. Or, at least, taking up where Mo and Pa left off. That’s very exciting.’
‘Yes,’ she answers rather dully. ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’
Sister Emily watches her for a moment, then touches her lightly on the arm. ‘Thank God for work,’ she says gently. ‘Courage, ma brave.’
She goes away, smiling first to one group and then another, and then Pa appears at Dossie’s shoulder and says: ‘I think it might be drinks time, Doss. What d’you say?’ and she goes with him into the house.