SISTER EMILY IS WRITING a letter. Sitting at her small table, her papers and letters in neat piles, she is finding it difficult to concentrate her mind. She is not yet accustomed to the view and she is secretly shocked by her lack of discipline and by the frequency with which she gets up from the table simply to stare out across the grounds to the cliffs and the sea. Hitherto, their ground-floor rooms looked into the kitchen garden and there was little temptation to stand dreaming. Now, the huge expanse of sea and sky draws her back again and again to gaze out on the constantly shifting light. Light: the word occurs so often in the scriptures, and even now she is writing to a woman whose son is struggling against the darkness of drugs and addiction and fear.
Instinctively, Sister Emily puts down her pen and goes again to the window for inspiration. The sun is already setting, balanced at the sea’s rim, splashing the choppy surface with gold and crimson fire. As it sinks, the fleecy clouds glow briefly, rose pink and creamy yellow, and then fade as the shadows grow more dense. Evening settles gently on the land, drawing its wings of darkness inexorably across the brightness in the west. The light is being extinguished; but, even as she watches, a tiny pinpoint of light flickers over the cold grey glimmer of water, and then another, and another. The stars are shining in the darkness.
Texts flicker like the starlight in her mind.
The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it … Let your light so shine before men … I am the light of the world … We are the children of light …
She goes back to her table, switches on the small lamp and continues to write.
… Yes, I agree. The hand-to-hand battle between good and evil, between darkness and light, is constant. It doesn’t let up for a moment, but isn’t it encouraging that he is talking to you about it and trying to let you help him? Joyful news that you can come to us next week for a few days! You will be able to rest and allow Chi-Meur to support and refresh you …
She continues to write whilst it grows quite dark outside, and she finishes with a phrase from the Collect for Advent: Let us then lay aside the works of darkness and put on the armour of light.
She puts her pen down with a little sigh of frustration at her inadequacies. This poor woman, who has been coming to Chi-Meur for twenty years, is watching her beloved son being drawn down by addiction. How can she help them? Suddenly she remembers a conversation between Father Pascal and Clem regarding a counselling course being given on this very subject, and how such courses could soon be held at Chi-Meur.
Sister Emily makes a note about it on a long list of things to do and picks up the next letter to be answered. The bell begins to ring for Vespers and she looks at her bedside clock with surprise. Remonstrating with herself for wasting time at the window, she adjusts her veil and hurries out. Alone on the landing, unable to resist, she sits down on the little seat of Sister Nichola’s stair-lift, presses the button and is whisked down to the hall. It reminds her of sliding down the banisters as a child, only rather more sedate. As she stands up, straightening the skirt of her habit, Janna comes out of the kitchen. Two spots of guilty colour burn in Sister Emily’s cheeks and Janna grins sympathetically.
Silently, in spiritual harmony, they go along the hall together to the chapel.
Kitty is packing an overnight bag. Everything is prepared for the next day. She will set off after an early lunch, hoping to arrive at the cottage by about three o’clock. She doesn’t want to be driving through the lanes in the dark. For the third time she checks that she has the cottage key; Rupert always insists that spare keys, one for each of the properties, are kept at the flat in case of emergencies, each with its name printed on a small luggage label.
She tucks Rupert’s birthday present into the corner of the bag and stands up. He hasn’t guessed that she intends to surprise him, even though she tried to find out, when she phoned him earlier, what his movements will be tomorrow. He is almost certain that he’s got tenants for the cottage, he told her, and he will be taking them out to lunch after they’ve had another look around the cottage in the morning. He was very confident, very cheerful, and she longed to tell him that she’ll be down in time for tea; instead she hugged the surprise to herself, imagining his face when he sees her.
He was so sweet the last time he was home that she broached her idea about moving into a house they both really love within easy distance of Clifton, whilst buying something suitable to renovate for student accommodation. She was absolutely firm about staying in Bristol but ready to compromise about his having some project that he would really enjoy.
Now, Kitty switches on the television for a weather report and opens the map book to recheck the route. She’s made her point and he hasn’t rejected it. She thinks that she can make the trip to Cornwall without feeling that she is giving in, and it is going to be such fun.
Rupert, having spent the day rebuilding the stone wall at the edge of the lawn, is feeling tired. It’s rained, gently but persistently, all day and he was soaked through and covered in mud by the end of the operation. He wants to get the wall finished and tidy up the garden before his new tenants arrive in the morning to measure up, and he’s very ready now to take a shower and drink a beer. As he worked he thought about Kitty’s proposition: move to a bigger house just across the Suspension Bridge and buy a terraced cottage in the city that he can work on gradually.
As he pulls on clean clothes and goes down to the kitchen to pour his beer he is experiencing a faint sense of excitement at the prospect, though he refuses to consider letting any house he has lovingly restored to students: that’s just not on. But an old Georgian terraced house, for instance, might be a worthy challenge. Anyway, it was a good weekend and he is beginning to feel ready to meet her halfway.
He’s seized with a pang of guilt. He wishes he hadn’t told her that he’s taking the new tenants out for lunch tomorrow. It was a stupid thing to do and he doesn’t know why he said it. After all, Kitty won’t know what he’ll be doing at lunchtime. He supposes it’s because he’s feeling guilty that he’s meeting Dossie. He told her that it was his birthday and she said, ‘Well, in that case we must celebrate. What about lunch?’ and he couldn’t see any reason why they shouldn’t. He still can’t, except that he knows that he’s leading Dossie on in allowing her to believe that there might be some kind of future for her with him.
Feeling irritated and anxious, he goes into the sitting-room to light the wood-burner. He’ll leave it on overnight so that the cottage is warm and welcoming for his tenants in the morning. As he lays the kindling and searches for matches he tries to rationalize his relationship with Dossie; to reassure himself that he hasn’t actually misled her. Of course he should never have allowed her to believe that he was a widower, and the moment has come when he should have it out with her. He is very fond of Dossie, they’ve had a great summer, but he knows that the time has come to ring down the curtain on their little show.
Rupert lights the fire-lighter and stands up, watching the flames take hold, blue and orange tongues licking hungrily at the kindling and the logs. Tomorrow he will tell Dossie the truth. She deserves to hear it from him, and he must face up to it. But his heart is weighted with anxiety and his gut churns at the prospect.
‘Happy birthday.’ Dossie raises her glass to Rupert. ‘I won’t ask how old you are.’
He smiles but doesn’t answer, touching her glass lightly with his own. She is aware of a tension, a look in his eyes, which is making her uncomfortable so that the ease that usually flows between them is missing. The pub is half empty on this gloomy, wet afternoon and the atmosphere is rather hushed and solemn, though the fire in the big inglenook is blazing cheerfully. On one side of it two late-season holiday-makers in their walking boots study maps whilst their dog, some kind of collie-cross, lies quietly at their feet, occasionally rolling a hopeful eye at their plates.
Dossie has already made friends with the dog. She bags the other table on the opposite side of the fire and then crouches down to talk to him whilst his owners beam approval. They start a conversation – where they come from, where they are staying, their proposed walks – so that, by the time Rupert arrives, a relationship of a kind has sprung up and now one or other addresses a remark or a question to Dossie from time to time, which is making any kind of intimacy with Rupert even more difficult.
‘Oh, I never admit to my age,’ he is saying now with an attempt at jollity, but his response hangs heavily between them and Dossie, feeling quite desperate, smiles back at him and pushes her plate aside. She knows that the proximity of the friendly couple is inhibiting him and this is odd; he is usually quite capable of taking such a pair in his stride, happy for them to be part of the moment – but not today.
He goes up to the bar to order coffee and she watches him with misery in her heart. His mobile bleeps and he takes it out, glances at the screen and presses the button.
‘Hi, mate.’ He turns away from her and the girl behind the bar, as if shielding himself from them, and Dossie tries to pretend she isn’t interested, though she is listening. He comes back to their table wearing an expression of irritation and relief.
‘Problems,’ he says briefly. ‘I’m going to have to go down to St Mawes. Damn nuisance.’
‘What, now?’
‘The damage assessment bloke’s turned up unexpectedly. Remember I told you that a holiday-maker had fallen over on the path and was claiming damages? That was Trevor, my manager. I’m going to have to go and sign some forms. Look, I’m really sorry, Dossie. D’you mind?’
‘Of course not.’ She makes a huge effort to smile naturally. ‘I quite understand. Will you bother with the coffee?’
He hesitates and then shakes his head. ‘Sorry, I’d better get a move on. Look, thanks for my birthday lunch. I’ll be in touch.’
She can see that he is trying to decide whether he should kiss her or not, and then the coffee arrives and she says, ‘Yes, text me,’ to him and, ‘Thanks,’ to the waitress, and he stands indecisively for a moment and then nods and goes out.
The friendly couple send commiserating little smiles and she smiles back but, even as she smiles and drinks her coffee, she is making her mind up. It is too painful to continue like this, too humiliating to be the one who loves too much yet is allowed no rights or privileges. She will take a chance and make her own investigation.
She stands up and collects her things, pays for the lunch, and with a smile to the couple and their dog, she leaves.
She drives slowly to the cottage with Joni Mitchell keeping her company, singing ‘You’ve Changed’. It is after three o’clock when she arrives and parks in the lean-to. She knows where Rupert keeps the key hidden, just in case unexpected deliveries or the plumber or the electrician should turn up whilst he is out somewhere, and she goes round the side of the cottage to the back door. The key is under a stone behind the dustbin.
‘It’s such an obvious place,’ she said to him, and he shrugged. ‘There’s nothing worth breaking in for,’ he answered. ‘And hardly anyone ever comes down this lane, anyway.’
So now she picks up the key and comes back again to the front door and opens it, leaving the key in the lock. All the while her heart is beating very quickly and she is breathing fast, as if she’s been running. Supposing Rupert were to come driving down the lane now; what would she do?
Dossie shrugs, bracing herself to courage. She has nothing to lose. She stands in the little hall, staring up the steep stairway, letting the silence fill her ears and slow her breathing. She peers in through the doorway of the sitting-room, trying to take it in: the comfortable old armchairs and the small portable television; a table standing under the window with a book and some newspapers stacked tidily on it; no pictures on the walls. She can see a flickering of flame through the wood-burner’s glass doors, and the room is warm but impersonal. She remembers that Rupert told her that he’d keep the fire on overnight so the cottage will be warm when his tenants come round: that’s why the room is so tidy.
She goes back through the hall and into the kitchen. Some birthday cards are piled on the table. Dossie moves them gently, pushing them apart to look at the pictures, and then opening them to see who has sent them. Several are signed by couples – probably his sisters and their husbands – and inside one is a photograph. She picks it up, her heart jumping: Rupert is standing with his arm around the shoulders of an attractive dark woman, whose arm is round his waist. They smile out at the camera looking easy and happy together. Another couple stand beside them: a fair, pretty woman with a stocky, cheerful-looking man. Dossie turns the photo over but there’s is nothing on the back. The card, however, carries its own message: ‘We thought you might like this photo of us all at the club a few weekends before Kitty’s mum died. Kitty says you’re back this weekend so we’re hoping to see you to drink a belated birthday toast.’ The card is signed ‘Sally and Bill’.
Dossie stares at the photograph: is the dark woman Kitty? Has he been with Kitty at the weekends when he’s been unavailable, unwilling to commit himself? Clearly he has a separate life in which he and Kitty go to clubs with Sally and Bill – and it is to Kitty that he is going this weekend to celebrate his birthday. She looks at the other cards. One is an amusing cartoon from the New Yorker and inside a more personal message: ‘Happy birthday, darling. I shall be keeping your present for the weekend! All my love, Kitty.’
Kitty. There is no point in looking any further. Feeling sick and angry and unhappy, Dossie closes the card and goes out into the hall. Her stomach is churning. So, all this time that she and Rupert have been meeting, there has been this other person: someone who is missing him and to whom he was going at weekends.
As she opens the front door she can hear a car’s engine. Heart thudding, she closes the door behind her, takes the key out and runs round to the back, pushing the key under its stone with trembling fingers. She’s just reached the path again when a small car pulls up in front of the cottage.
The woman who gets out is thin and dark and elegant: Kitty, the woman in the photograph. She reaches back into the car for her bag, slams the door and approaches Dossie with a frowning smile that is almost arrogantly interrogative. Her attitude is so confident that Dossie’s legs can barely support her. There is no doubt that the newcomer believes she holds all the rights of ownership.
‘Can I help you?’ she calls. Her voice is clipped and cool, and Dossie has to summon every ounce of courage to smile back, quite calm and collected.
‘Hi,’ she answers casually. ‘No, not really. I was wondering if Rupert was around.’
‘Oh?’ The sharp question is almost offensive. ‘I’m his wife. Is there anything I can do?’
‘Wife?’ Dossie is shocked out of her fragile composure. ‘But Rupert’s wife is dead. At least …’
It’s clear that the woman is as shocked as Dossie now. ‘Dead?’ She falters over the word, looking almost frightened, as if something terrible has happened; as if Dossie has cursed her. She looks so appalled that Dossie somehow needs to reassure her. She tries to regain some kind of control.
‘It was just some rumour I heard when a mutual acquaintance told me about him,’ she says, pushing her trembling hands into her pockets. ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea whether it was true or not.’ She tries to think quickly, unable to scream the truth at this woman with the white, horrified face. ‘I’ve been trying to contact him but without success. Maybe his email’s down. I’ve been doing a Fill the Freezer option for people who have holiday homes and I’ve done a few for Rupert. I’m giving it up as of now and I wanted to let him know.’
The woman still looks shocked and hostile, but Dossie’s anger suddenly flares again. ‘Perhaps you can tell him? Dossie Pardoe. He’ll know the name.’
She steps round her to reach her own car, desperate to get away now. She climbs in, has a moment of panic when she can’t see her bag – has she left it in the cottage? – and then picks it up off the floor and fumbles for the keys, which are still in the ignition. She backs out, manoeuvring around Rupert’s wife’s car, and drives away much too fast and shivering violently with reaction.
Kitty watches the car out of sight before she goes in and shuts the door behind her. She is shaken by the encounter. The sight of the woman has given her a shock. Blonde, pretty, shapely, she is the sort of woman Rupert likes, though he always denies it. Kitty stands in the hall, biting her lip, hardly taking in her surroundings. Why has the woman come here to the cottage? How does she even know about the cottage? There are no visitors here who might want her Fill the Freezer facility. And all the while the word tolls like a bell in her mind: dead. Why should she think Rupert’s wife should be dead? Who would have said such a terrible thing?
Dossie Pardoe. Dimly Kitty recalls Rupert mentioning the Fill the Freezer idea way back but he hadn’t talked about the woman. She pushes open the sitting-room door. She’s glad that the fire is alight. She needs comfort and warmth, and she opens the door of the stove and puts on some more logs.
Crossing the hall she goes into the kitchen and immediately sees the birthday cards and the photograph. Clearly Rupert has not been hiding them from the sight of any pretty, blonde visitors. Even so, her anxiety and horror will not go away. She goes upstairs, checking out the work he’s done and keeping a sharp eye for evidence of any other kind, but there is nothing. Nevertheless, all her instincts are working overtime and her suspicions are aroused, but it is much worse that that. Dead. Could Rupert possibly have told that woman that she, Kitty, was dead? The horror of such a thought affects her oddly. She feels weak, as if she has been dealt a fatal blow, and shocked even beyond anger.
She glances at her watch, wondering where Rupert might be. She will make some tea and sit by the fire, waiting for him and planning her reception.
When he pulls in, much later, he is alarmed to see the small Golf parked in the lane and lights on in the cottage. He peers at the car in the darkness, his stomach somersaulting with apprehension, trying to remember whether Dossie’s car is this dark colour. The front door swings open as he reaches the porch and with a shock that is part horror and part relief he stares at Kitty.
‘Good God!’ he says, trying to laugh. ‘Are you trying to give me a heart attack or something? I wondered who the hell had broken in.’
She smiles briefly, stepping back and opening the door wider, but he knows at once that something is wrong. This ought to be a moment of excitement on her part; she should be enjoying his surprise. Instead he sees the brittle quality of her smile and feels the tension in her shoulders as he embraces her.
‘Happy birthday,’ she says coolly. ‘I thought I’d come and celebrate with you.’
‘That’s wonderful.’ His mind leaps to and fro, wondering if there has been anything she’s seen to make her suspicious. ‘I just wish you’d told me. Terry phoned at lunchtime and I had to dash down to see him. It was to do with that claim. If I’d known you were coming I’d have tried to put him off somehow.’ He thinks guiltily of Dossie; he would have put her off, too, if he’d known.
‘I wondered why you were so late.’ She goes ahead of him into the kitchen. ‘Let’s have a drink.’
He silently gasps a breath, still recovering from the shock. ‘Thanks.’ He takes the glass of wine she gives him. ‘And thanks for coming down.’
She raises her own glass and says again, almost ironically, ‘Happy birthday.’
He is puzzled by her contained, cool behaviour. ‘What a great present.’ He sips, sets the glass down and puts his arms out to her. ‘And I thought you said you were keeping it until I got home.’
She moves into his arms, still holding her own glass, and he knows that something is very wrong. He kisses her, but she draws away quickly, still on edge and smiling the same brittle smile.
‘I brought some supper with me,’ she says. ‘I hope you’re hungry. Or were you planning to go out?’
‘No,’ he answers. ‘I’d probably have made myself a sandwich. I had lunch at the pub.’
‘Oh?’ she says quickly. ‘I thought you were lunching with the new tenants?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘That’s it. At the pub. And then Terry phoned. What time did you arrive?’
‘About three o’clock. Earlier than I’d allowed. There was a woman here.’
‘What?’
His reaction is too extreme and she looks at him, eyes wary, chin raised. ‘A pretty blonde woman. She was looking for you.’
His heartbeat almost stifles him. Dossie, here, looking for him when they’d only just separated and she knew he was on his way to St Mawes? He shrugs, manages a little chuckle.
‘Really? Well, lucky old me. Pity I missed her. Who was she?’ He takes another sip from his glass, trying to look indifferent. His brain clicks busily from one possible scenario to another.
‘Her name is Dossie Pardoe. She said she’d been trying get in touch with you.’
‘What about?’
‘The Fill the Freezer thing.’ A pause. ‘Or so she said.’
He knows at once that Kitty’s instinct has gone straight to the truth of the matter and it is with great control that he frowns slightly and says, ‘Dossie Pardoe? But why on earth would she come out here? She phones or emails usually.’
He sees that his calmness has thrown her just a little, cast a tiny doubtful shadow on the searching beam of that infallible instinct of hers, and he makes haste to build on it. ‘She came out here once, way back in the spring,’ he says. ‘We had coffee on the lawn and she showed me her menus. She’s been quite useful, actually. The punters love it.’ He drinks some more wine, makes a face, half puzzled, half indifferent. ‘Wonder what she wanted.’
‘She said that she was stopping it – the Fill the Freezer thing. She said she’d tried to get in touch and couldn’t, and that she didn’t want to let you down over Christmas.’
‘My email was down for a bit,’ he says idly, hiding his relief. ‘It might have been that. But it was good of her to come over in that case. We have got some people in for the New Year who were asking about it, and it could have been embarrassing.’
His brain seethes: what on earth has Dossie been doing? And what if she comes back?
‘It just seems odd,’ Kitty is saying, arms crossed over her breast, glass held up in one hand, ‘for her to come here.’
‘It’s a pity she’s giving up,’ he muses, trying to deflect her. ‘I expect those batty old parents of hers have persuaded her back to the B and B-ing.’ He laughs. ‘I’ve never met them but Dossie’s parents are one of those old Cornish families who have lived for ever on the peninsula and they’ve been running a bed and breakfast, which they had to stop when they got a bit creaky. And they’re always trying to persuade Dossie to give up her own catering thing and run it again. She lives with them, apparently, in this big old house over Padstow way. She’s a widow.’ He pauses. ‘Her son’s a local priest,’ he adds casually, ‘widowed very young too, and there’s a grandson. Goodness, it’s like some soap opera. They all sound mad as hatters.’
‘You seem to know a lot about her from just one meeting.’
‘Oh, I’ve met her a few times, obviously, when she’s taken things down to St Mawes. She’s a great favourite with Terry, actually, but I’ve seen her there a few times and she’s talked about her family.’
‘But you’ve never told her about yours?’
‘What?’ He is taken aback. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘She said she thought I was dead.’
For a moment he cannot speak. He feels the blood beating in his cheeks, his chest is constricted, and he knows – absolutely knows – that he has given himself away. Kitty’s eyes are bright and cold, but her mouth shows that she is in pain.
‘So you did tell her that?’ Her voice is corrosive with contempt, her look tells him that he disgusts her, but still she cannot disguise the pain.
‘No,’ he cries. He sets down his glass and holds out his arms, but she steps back from him with a gesture of rejection.
‘You’ve been having an affair with her.’
‘Look,’ he says, dropping his arms. ‘Wait.’ Desperately he tries to muster some measure of control. ‘It’s exactly like I said, honestly, only Dossie’s one of those women who enjoys a bit of a flirtation with their work and well, you know what it’s like, love.’ He spreads his hands, puts on his naughty-boy expression; a ‘how can I help it if women fancy me?’ look that expects understanding, forgiveness.
She stares at him. ‘So you told her I was dead.’
‘No,’ he shouts. ‘No. I told you …’
‘OK. You allowed her to believe it.’
‘No. How do I know what she believed? We never talked about it.’
‘Have you been to bed with her?’
‘What? Oh, for God’s sake …’ His blustering isn’t working. She turns away, picks up her bag. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going back to Bristol. I can’t bear the sight of you another moment.’
He bars her way. ‘Don’t be so silly, darling. This is crazy. Please, just listen for a moment.’
‘I don’t want to hear any more. You disgust me. And I don’t want you at the flat.’
He stares at her, shocked. ‘What are you saying? For God’s sake, Kitty. I’m telling you that nothing happened. There was nothing except one of those silly flirtations that often spring up when you work with a member of the opposite sex. Ask anyone. I flirt with Sally and you don’t mind that.’
She hesitates just for a moment, and he knows that he’s touched a nerve. What will she say to Sally? How will she explain this to her best friend?
‘Look,’ he says rapidly, ‘just don’t get this out of proportion. I can see it’s a shock, Dossie turning up here. But I promise you that she means less than nothing to me. You can’t destroy our marriage on the strength of a silly flirtation.’
‘I’m not destroying anything,’ she says. ‘You are the destroyer. I’m going now and I don’t want you following me.’
She slams out and he hears the engine start up and the car draw away. He stands still, knowing that it would be foolish to follow her and to force another confrontation. He must give her time to cool down, to get over it. He has admitted nothing and, clearly, neither has Dossie. His gratitude is tinged with shame and he wonders what she is thinking and what she will do.
He goes back into the kitchen and refills his glass: ‘Happy bloody birthday,’ he mutters. ‘What the hell happens now?’
Dossie can’t stop crying. It is shock, she tells herself, rubbing her cheeks with tissues, doubling up again with the pain. Shock and humiliation and disappointment squeeze her heart, forcing the tears into her eyes.
Pa and Mo are out with the dogs when she arrives home and she simply shuts herself in her room, still shivering with shock and reaction and, sitting down on her bed, she begins to cry. It is so demoralizing to know that he’s simply been treating her as a kind of stop-gap, a comfort break, while he is away from his wife. From Kitty. She speaks the name silently, bitterly in her head. Kitty.
So he was married all the time and he’d allowed her to believe that his wife was dead. Liar, she thinks fiercely. Cheating, lying bastard. She is suffused with shame and humiliation, burning with this overwhelming sense of being betrayed. He knows – of course he knows – that she loves him, and he’s just played her along and then gone back to Kitty at weekends. How he must have laughed up his sleeve at her readiness to accept the position of waiting and hoping; how he must have congratulated himself on her willingness to take what she was given and not ask for more.
She weeps again with loss and fury. And now there is nowhere to go – and nothing to look forward to any more. No more dates and meetings; no more plans and picnics and unexpected texts. The future stretches emptily ahead.
Exhausted, Dossie pushes her hair back from her wet cheeks. Still slumped on the edge of the bed, she hears the car returning and Pa and Mo getting out, releasing the dogs and coming into the house. Hastily she gets up and goes to the little basin in the corner of the room. She turns on the cold tap and, bending over, she splashes water onto her hot cheeks. She is filled with resentment that she is not to be allowed even an hour’s grace to recover; that she must pull herself together so as to face them. Fresh anger seizes her, but the moment passes.
Raising her head, she stares at herself in the glass above the basin. She’s been here before and she knows the score. Deep in her heart she is glad that there was someone to go downstairs to; people to talk to, for whom she must make an effort to cast off the pain and the self-pity. Mo and Pa will ask no questions; they are too wise for that. They will simply be there.
She picks up a towel, blots away the signs of weeping and begins to repair the damage. There is a little scratching at the door. She stands quite still for a moment, and then goes to open it. John the Baptist is waiting for her, tail wagging very slightly and ears flattened, as if guessing her mood and doubtful of his welcome. She strokes his head gratefully, swallowing back more tears, and allows him to escort her downstairs.
On a bright cold morning a few days later, Mother Magda is checking through the articles for the Advent Newsletter before they are sent down to the village, where a kind friend who organizes the parish magazine will assemble the contributions into a coherent whole and print it off. The most important news, of course, is the plan for the retreat house. She and Father Pascal have collaborated over this and she is very pleased with the final result. Clem has contributed a piece about his new training, and Sister Emily has been very conscientious over creating a diary of the events that have taken place at Chi-Meur over the past year. There is a charming photograph of Janna’s caravan garden at its prettiest to be included, and another of a group of oblates taken in the orchard during the special oblates’ weekend in October, and a copy of Father Pascal’s uplifting and thought-provoking homily for the Feast of Christ the King.
Mother Magda shuffles the pieces of paper into the right order and then writes a last important note for inclusion on the back page:
Although we are very appreciative of your kindness at this season we would like to remind any of you who are thinking of sending chocolates, biscuits or sweets to the community that we now number only four, one of whom is diabetic!
‘Don’t,’ warns Sister Emily, ‘discourage the delightful fellow who sends the case of claret each year. That Château Labat was very, very good. Father Pascal really appreciated it. And so did Bishop Freddie.’
Mother Magda chuckles to herself, remembering: Sister Emily had appreciated it too. She pushes all the pieces of paper into a large envelope and goes out to find Janna, who will probably enjoy a walk down to the village on this sunny winter morning. She finds her in the kitchen with Sister Nichola who, wrapped about with Janna’s shawl, is sitting at the table carefully cutting up old Christmas cards – nothing is wasted at Chi-Meur – and pasting the pictures on to plain white cards on which the sisters will write their own greetings. She works painstakingly, and very slowly, and Mother Magda suffers a little pang as she remembers the beautiful little pots and bowls and candle-holders the older nun used to make, and how deft and clever she was.
Janna, who is making a fish pie, smiles a welcome, points questioningly at the coffee jar. Mother Magda hesitates – it is rather luxurious to be stopping to drink coffee when there is so much to be done – but she gives a little sigh of acceptance and relaxes into a chair at the table. She watches Janna moving about and wonders if she has any idea how much they all value her youth and strength and cheerfulness. Today she is wearing an apron on which is printed: ‘Hard work never killed anyone but why take the chance?’
Mother Magda sits peacefully, drinking her coffee, watching Sister Nichola cutting and pasting, making Christmas cards that will be sent out to the community’s vast number of friends and supporters. Presently she holds up the big brown envelope.
‘Do you think you could take this down to the village, Janna dear? It’s the Advent Newsletter. We’re a little bit late this year, I’m afraid.’
‘I’ll be finished in a minute,’ Janna says, ‘and Sister Ruth will be back soon. I’ll enjoy a walk.’
They smile at each other in complete understanding and then Mother Magda stands up, takes her mug and washes it up, and goes back to her work.
‘So it really is all over. Whatever it was,’ says Pa. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m sorry, though I’m just so sorry for poor old Dossie.’
Mo is silent. ‘It’s all over,’ Dossie told her. ‘He was married but I didn’t know, and I’m gutted and I don’t want to talk about it.’
It is very cold. The ghost of a new moon hangs low in the sky and the sunset light is dying rapidly. The dogs potter ahead, noses to the hard, frozen ground; their paws crunch in the thick frost beneath bare thorny hedgerows where small birds roost, shifting uneasily and twittering anxiously.
‘Anyway,’ Pa is saying, ‘at least she’ll be able to concentrate now. She’s been away with the fairies these last few weeks. Poor old Doss.’
Mo’s heart aches for Dossie and she slips her hand under Pa’s arm as if seeking comfort in its warmth. He presses his elbow against her hand, responding to her gesture.
‘She’ll get over it,’ he prophesies. ‘She always does. Thank God I took that decision about The Court. She’s got a home, Mo, and she’s told us how much she’s looking forward to making a change and not having to dash about all over the county. And Christmas will be fun. We’ll see to that. It’s good that there are some extra people coming. Always a sound move to have friends as well as family at Christmas. Keeps everyone civilized. Pity about Adam, though.’
They walk for a while in silence. Both are reluctant to talk about Adam. Adam has told them that he won’t be down for Christmas. He and Natasha have split up, he tells them, it just hasn’t worked out, and his company is transferring him to London. He’s got a lot to sort out in his new office, and then there’s the move into the flat he’ll be renting. Perhaps in the New Year he’ll get down to see them …
Mo agrees to everything, sad that he won’t be with them but not sorry that they’ll never have to see Natasha and her children again. He refuses to disclose the reasons for the break-up, although he says he doesn’t think he’s cut out for fatherhood, and that he’ll be in touch. The now familiar guilt surfaces and she struggles to remain cheerful. She concentrates her mind on Christmas Day. It will be fun to have guests, and Jakey and Clem will be coming to lunch, and afterwards they’ll listen to the Queen and have presents from the tree. Clem will be his usual comforting source of strength, and Jakey will certainly keep everyone in good spirits. Yet still she thinks about Adam, longing for him to be happy.
‘After all,’ says Pa, ‘he can always come back to us if ever he needs to.’
They turn for home, calling to the dogs, trying to feel more hopeful.
‘All right, Mo?’ Pa asks as they near the gates to The Court, and she is able to answer truthfully.
‘I’m fine,’ she says firmly. ‘It’s going to be a good Christmas. Come on, let’s get in and light the fire. I’m frozen.’
Kitty wanders from room to room in the flat, moving small ornaments, staring out of windows. Her feelings of anger and pain occasionally give place to a sense of loss and loneliness. Mummy’s spirit still inhabits the flat and Kitty misses her terribly; now, when she remembers her, all she can think of is how much Mummy loved Rupert and how he joshed with her and teased her. What would Mummy have said to all this? Once, she remembers, way back when Rupert was being a bit silly with a rather attractive acquaintance, and Kitty had complained about it, Mummy had said: ‘Well, you wouldn’t want a man nobody else wanted, would you?’ It had been a bit of a shock, frankly, and Kitty had felt almost as if she’d been silly to mind.
But this is different; quite different. How can she possibly ever forgive him for allowing that woman to believe that she, Kitty, was dead? It’s almost as if he were wishing that she were – and she can’t forget it or forgive it.
‘Can you get it into your head that we never discussed you at all?’ he shouts during one of the telephone conversations that have taken place during the last few days. ‘We talked about work … Just listen, will you? That rumour came from Chris at Penharrow. He completely misunderstood that you’d simply gone back to Bristol when your father died so suddenly and he’d got it into his head that it was you … Yes, I know it’s horrible, but you can’t blame me if Chris heard some kind of rumour and elaborated on it. He must have mentioned it to Dossie Pardoe when she checked up on me after I asked him about the Fill the Freezer thing when I saw it on his website. He was the link. For God’s sake, Kitty …’
Rupert is lodged in one of their cottages at St Mawes. He has nowhere else to go. Perhaps he is seeing Dossie Pardoe – but no, Kitty shakes her head. Remembering the shock on Dossie’s face, Kitty instinctively knows that whatever was going on between them is over. Such deception is unforgivable.
Kitty raises her chin and hardens her heart. She is prepared now for Sally, who has been away visiting her daughter and is now home, and who is arriving any moment for a cup of tea and to catch up on the news.
Sitting over the tea cups – Mummy’s lovely delicate old Worcester – Kitty summons all her courage and tells Sally that she thinks that Rupert and she might be going their separate ways. Sally is utterly shocked.
‘He simply can’t face the idea of living in the city,’ Kitty says bravely, ‘and I can’t face going back to scrubbing down walls and camping. It’s a complete impasse and neither of us will back down.’
‘But I thought you were going to buy a house out near us in Leigh Woods and Rupert was going to renovate old properties for student lets.’
Kitty is ready for this one. ‘He says that doing up houses for scruffy students simply isn’t his idea of restoration. He needs to be creative.’
‘Well, yes, I can understand that when you look at his work. But, Kitty! You can’t seriously be considering giving up on your marriage over this. There must be other compromises.’ She looks at Kitty, a ‘come on, you can trust me’ look. She leans forward a little. ‘It’s not just that, is it? What’s happened?’
Beneath the caring expression Kitty sees a glimpse of the dreadful glee and she knows very well that her dear old friend has sniffed at the truth. For a terrible moment Kitty imagines the gossip – ‘You’ll never guess …’ ‘Well, we all know old Rupe, don’t we … ?’ ‘Poor old Kitty. Imagine how humiliating …’ – and she has to stiffen her spine and stare down Sally’s spuriously sympathetic gaze.
‘It is exactly that,’ she says firmly. ‘I’ve realized that those years with Rupert were like having a long holiday, though it was hard work too, and when I came back to look after Mummy I suddenly felt that I’d come home. It’s wonderful to be back in the city and in this lovely flat. To be able to go to the theatre or see a film and have a social life again is heaven. If Rupert wants to be creative out in the sticks then he can do it all on his own. We’ve both learned to live apart over the last year and now we find we rather like it. After all, it was you who said I shouldn’t give in on this one.’
‘Well.’ Sally sits back in her chair, startled, put out, now that Kitty has challenged her. ‘Yes, I know I said that … but even so. Still, if it’s what you both want … but I think you’re being rather extreme.’
Kitty suspects that Sally doesn’t really believe her, and that she will say as much to Bill, but suddenly she doesn’t care. Having spoken the words she is filled with a terrible desolation and she wants to be alone so that she can burst into tears.
‘Bastard!’ Janna says. ‘I can’t believe it. Honestly!’
Dossie tries to smile. ‘Your language hasn’t been improved by living with nuns,’ she says.
Janna makes a face. ‘Can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, but Sister Emily’s working on it. Honestly, though, Dossie. I’d’ve stayed there that evening and made a big row.’
Dossie shakes her head. ‘No you wouldn’t. That’s not your style any more than it’s mine.’
‘No.’ Janna looks sombre. She is remembering just such a scene that she unwittingly precipitated between Nat and his mother. How hateful it had been! ‘No,’ she says again. ‘You’re right. I hate rows. But what will you do? Apart from taking him off your Christmas card list.’
‘What can I do? I suppose I just forget him and pretend it never happened. I’ve dumped him very explicitly by text though it seems there’s nothing to dump.’
‘And you haven’t heard anything?’
Dossie shakes her head. ‘Nothing. I thought he might at least text back.’
‘Coward!’ Janna says fiercely. ‘Wouldn’t I love to tell him what I think! What about Mo and Pa?’
‘It’s just as well they never met him. I’ve told Mo that it’s all off, and both of them are being painfully tactful. Luckily they’re being distracted by excited people writing or emailing to book their holidays and making plans for next year. And then one of Pa’s old chums has been recently widowed and he asked if he could come for the New Year. We weren’t going to start until around Easter-time but we talked about it and then asked him if he’d like to come for Christmas. He was so grateful it was really touching. And we’ve got one of Mo’s cousins coming too, as well as Gran’mère and Gran’père, so I foresee it working up into a very big jolly by the time we’ve finished.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ Janna says. ‘Isn’t it?’
Dossie nods. ‘I’ll be busy and it’ll be fun … But I still miss him. I can’t seem to stop the way I feel about him. Apart from anything else I was such a fool. I should have guessed.’
Watching her downcast face, Janna is filled with rage and compassion. She hates feeling so helpless when Dossie is suffering. Not knowing what else to do, she gets up, refills the kettle and rinses out the empty mugs.
‘Let’s have some more tea,’ she says. ‘What about Clem? What does he say?’
‘Nothing,’ says Dossie firmly. ‘He never knew anything about it. It’s just you, really. You’re the only person I can talk to. Sorry about that. Anyway, let’s forget about Rupert for a while. How’s it going? Are you really settled in? It all looks very comfortable and you seem very relaxed. No regrets?’
‘You know ’tis weird, but I feel really happy here. Having taken the decision all those awful terrors kind of melted away. I’m really busy, mind, but I like that, and I still get time to get out on the cliffs or down into Padstow to meet up with a few mates. I just feel I’ve dropped into a ready-made family but without the in-fighting real families seem to have. And ’tis great having you and Clem and Jakey. You’re all part of it.’
‘And Sister Ruth?’
Janna laughs. ‘Sister Ruth needs me just now so we’re OK. She’s not so bad really, and Sister Nichola is there like a …’ She hesitates, searching for a word.
‘A buffer state?’ suggests Dossie.
‘Yeah! That’s it. She keeps us nice and polite to each other.’
‘Sister Emily and Mother Magda must be thrilled to bits with you.’
‘I shall get a gold star,’ Janna says contentedly. ‘It’ll be my Christmas present. Talking of which, I shall need some ideas from you for a very special Christmas Day lunch. Sister Emily is already dropping hints.’
Rupert sits in the pub, staring at his pint. He’s just had another totally fruitless telephone conversation with Kitty and he’s feeling at the end of his tether. She’s told him flatly that she can’t see a future for them, that she certainly has no intention of moving from the flat or of buying any other properties. She’s in a position to call all the shots. Now that Mummy’s dead, Kitty is a wealthy woman.
He picks up his glass and sips reflectively. If they separate she will be entitled to half of his properties and income – but, by the same token, he will be entitled to half of hers. He thinks about it: pretty much six of one and half a dozen of the other. Neither of them will lose financially but he feels angry and hard done by: nothing much has happened, after all. Yet Kitty is quite happy to walk away from their marriage without giving him the benefit of the doubt. She is prepared to wreck it all because of Dossie’s chance remark.
Rupert thinks about Dossie. He’s had a furious text from her, which he has not answered. He doesn’t blame her for sending it but for the last few days he’s been trying to convince himself that there’s a very faint chance that she might be able to forgive him. If he’s honest, he knows in his heart that he’s completely finished as far as Dossie is concerned, but he hasn’t wanted to face it. Even if Kitty is really serious – and he still can’t quite believe that she is – he knows that he doesn’t have any future with Dossie.
He finishes his pint. Suddenly he doesn’t give a damn about either of them. He has property, money, and he can find himself a new exciting project: something that will thoroughly occupy his thoughts and his imagination, something he can work on and to which he can give all his mind and his energy. He imagines his future – if he has one – in Bristol, endlessly paying back for his little lapse by humbly following Kitty around to her parties and bridge clubs and being patronized by Sally and Bill. Kitty will demand retribution and he shudders at the price he will have to pay.
If Kitty’s father hadn’t died so suddenly, if they hadn’t been apart so much during this last year, perhaps none of this would have happened. All those arguments and wasted weekends, during which they bickered about whether he should give up his work and move into the flat, have weakened them. The separation has shown up cracks in the relationship. Kitty values city life and her friends more than she values her marriage. If there was ever a chance of compromise it is over now, and he knows that she will never return to their former life together.
As for him, he is certain that he cannot live a life with no mental challenges, no work, no structure to his day – and especially not in a city. He remembers his relief each time he returned to the cottage; his satisfaction at the end of a productive day. Clearly they have reached an impasse.
Unexpectedly he is seized with a terrible sadness. He thinks of Dossie, of her generously loving approach to life, and how he belittled and demeaned her to Kitty in an effort to protect himself. He remembers Kitty, his exciting, enthusiastic companion of those early years of their marriage – how happy they’d been – and how he has implicitly denied her to Dossie. Now he has lost them both.
He sets down his empty glass. His anger has passed and he feels diminished, ashamed, and very lonely.
In her room, Sister Emily is packing Christmas presents. During the year the generosity of the guests and friends of Chi-Meur is manifested in gifts. Some send practical things that they know the Sisters will enjoy using: packets of pretty notelets and postcards; scented soap; pens and pencils; warm socks. The Sisters share these gifts, putting the contents of a parcel on the table in the library and each carrying away one or two objects – depending on the largesse of the parcel – to use or hoard to give as presents in their turn. The Sisters are given individual Christmas presents, of course, and from these the wrapping paper is carefully taken and smoothed out, Sellotape neatly sliced off, tags removed, so that the paper can be reused.
Now Sister Emily examines her little cache of possible gifts. For Sister Nichola, who has a sweet tooth, there is a box of sugared almonds; for Mother Magda, who suffers with arthritis, she has set aside a pair of knitted fingerless mittens. Sister Ruth is more difficult: she is rather a Puritan when it comes to the giving and receiving of gifts and it must either be especially practical or have spiritual properties. Sister Emily’s hand hovers over a simply framed postcard: a print of Rublev’s painting of the Holy Trinity. They have recently had a study day on this icon, led by a Benedictine, and Sister Ruth was much taken with the large print of the painting, which was placed on an easel during that day.
There is a knock at the door, and she swiftly covers the little hoard with her old black shawl before she turns and calls, ‘Come.’
Sister Ruth is standing there with a parcel in her hand. She looks rather awkward, defensive even, and Sister Emily is intrigued.
‘What is it?’ she asks. ‘What can I do for you?’
Sister Ruth closes the door behind her and holds up the parcel.
‘My cousin has sent me this,’ she says, ‘and I’ve been wondering if it might do for Janna’s Christmas present. It’s much too fine for me.’
Sister Emily’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise and a small spot of red burns on each of Sister Ruth’s cheeks. She pulls aside the tissue paper and a pashmina the colour of blackberries, and threaded through with fine strands of scarlet and gold, flows over Sister Emily’s outstretched hands.
‘Oh,’ she cries softly. ‘Oh, how beautiful it is.’
Her old thin hands tenderly smooth the soft fabric whilst Sister Ruth watches, her habitually guarded expression softening into a faint smile.
‘I thought it would be from us all,’ she says, ‘since Sister Nichola has appropriated Janna’s own shawl. Janna need not know where it has come from. I hope you approve. Mother thinks it’s quite in order.’
‘It’s perfect,’ says Sister Emily, ‘and completely solves my problem of what to give Janna. She’s working so hard for us all and this will utterly delight her. It’s a wonderful and generous gift. Your cousin won’t mind?’
Sister Ruth flushes brightly and in that moment Sister Emily knows that, whilst it is no doubt true that the cousin has sent the pashmina, it has been at Sister Ruth’s request.
‘It’s perfect,’ Sister Emily repeats quickly. ‘Thank you very much. Do you have some paper to wrap it in?’
Sister Ruth folds it back into its tissue and glances at Sister Emily’s little pile of Christmas wrapping paper.
‘Perhaps you might do it? I think I shall have to beg some paper this year.’
‘Of course I will.’ Sister Emily hesitates; if this had been Mother Magda they would have had a little hug and a shared pleasure in the prospect of Janna’s delight. This is impossible with Sister Ruth, who would be embarrassed by transports of joy and awkward to embrace. She gives a little nod and glides out, and Sister Emily watches her go with affectionate exasperation. It’s sad that they cannot celebrate such a generous idea but she must respect Sister Ruth’s feelings.
Eagerly she begins to select a suitable piece of wrapping paper.
The Christmas tree has been brought home to the Lodge and put in a large ceramic pot. Clem has strung it about with the lights which, by some miracle, are in working order and Dossie has driven over amidst snow showers so that she and Jakey can decorate it together. By lunchtime there are two or three inches of snow and Dossie says that it is time to get back to The Court. She checks the freezer, kisses them both and drives away very slowly and carefully.
As she peers through the windscreen, the wipers sweeping little piles of snow before them, she is aware of the dull ache in her heart; the emptiness where once there had been the prospect of Rupert.
The car slides a little, skidding on the bend in the snow and she grips the wheel more tightly. She switches on the CD and Joni Mitchell: ‘I Wish I Were in Love Again’. She makes a little sound that is a mix of a groan and a kind of sob, and makes an effort to fix her mind on all that she loves and values: Pa and Mo at The Court; Clem and darling Jakey at the Lodge. And Janna. Odd how the positions have reversed and that it is Janna, once so insecure and uncertain, relying on her treasures and terrified of commitment, who is now the comforter, the strong one.
She is glad to get home at last, to turn in through the gates, and to see Pa hurrying out into the snow to meet her with John the Baptist at his heels, tail wagging furiously.
‘Thank goodness you’re back,’ Pa is crying. ‘Mo was worrying. More snow to come, they say. It’s going to be a white Christmas, Doss,’ and she shuts the car door and they all go into the house together.
Jakey is rapt with joy that it should be snowing just in time for Christmas. He waves goodbye until Dossie’s little car is out of sight and then goes back inside to admire the tree and all the familiar decorations: the little carved wooden figures – the drummer boy, the snowman and the small boy with a lantern – and the fragile glass baubles: the owl, and the clock and the bell. Clem follows more slowly, thinking about Dossie and hoping she’ll recover from her heartbreak. Of course, he’s said nothing about it – and neither has she – but he’s been well aware of her heightened emotions through the summer and autumn, and he hopes that something good might come out of it all.
Watching Jakey staring up at the tree, he wonders whether either he or Dossie will ever find that special person. It seems unlikely to have such luck twice in a lifetime. Jakey crouches down to examine the brightly wrapped parcels that Dossie has put under the tree and Clem feels all the usual emotions: love, pride, sorrow and responsibility.
‘Look,’ he says silently to Madeleine. ‘Look at him. Am I making a good job of this without you?’
Jakey glances round, sees him standing there and immediately looks guilty.
‘I’m not touching them,’ he says defensively. ‘I wouldn’t.’
‘I know,’ Clem says. Loneliness smites his heart: he will never be able to share the joy of their son with the girl he loved so much. ‘Of course you wouldn’t. Look, shall we get out the Holy Family and put them on the table? I know we don’t usually get them out until Christmas Eve but there’re only a few days to go. Would you like to do that?’
Jakey beams with delight. ‘I’ll do it,’ he cries. ‘I can do it on my own. Oh! And Auntie Gabriel.’ His eyes shine as he remembers her. ‘Can I do Auntie Gabriel, Daddy?’
‘“May I?”’ mutters Clem automatically. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll get out the stable for you. Hang on a minute.’
He goes to the merchant’s chest, opens the heavy bottom drawer and takes out the open-fronted stable. Beside him, Jakey reaches for the old linen shoebag. Clem stands the stable on the low table beside the tree.
‘There you are,’ he says. ‘Can you manage?’
Jakey nods, clutching the bag. ‘I’ll do it on my own,’ he says, ‘and then you can come and look when I tell you. It’ll be a surplise for you, Daddy.’
Clem is fighting an uncharacteristic urge to burst into tears. ‘OK,’ he says lightly. ‘I’ll be doing some work while you’re at it. Call me when you’re ready.’
He goes out into the kitchen, pulling the door closed behind him. There are times even now, with his future full of exciting challenges, when he longs for more certainty, more conviction; a strong, unquestioning faith in the mysterious ways of God. Fighting his sense of loss, he sits down at his computer and opens it. His tutor has given him a title for an essay and he stares at it thoughtfully. It is a quotation from The HitchHiker’s Guide to the Galaxy: ‘Who Is This God Person Anyway?’
Jakey slowly draws open the neck of the shoebag and looks inside. They are all there: the Holy Family and their attendants. As he takes the small figures from the bag he remembers how they fit into their stable. Gently he places them: the golden angel standing devoutly behind the small manger in which the tiny Holy Child lies, swaddled in white. His mother, all in blue, kneeling at the head, opposite a shepherd who has fallen to his knees at the foot of the crib, his arms stretched wide in joyful worship. Joseph, in his red cloak, with a second shepherd – carrying a lamb around his neck as if it were a fur collar – both standing slightly to one side, watching. A black and white cow curls sleepily in one corner near to the grey donkey, which stands with its head slightly bowed. And here, just outside this homely scene, come the Wise Men in gaudy flowing robes, pacing in file, reverentially bearing gifts: gold, frankincense and myrrh.
And all the while, as he is setting out the Holy Family, he is thinking about Auntie Gabriel; remembering her clumsy wooden shoes, and the white papier-mâché dress and golden padded wings; her hair that is made of string and her scarlet, uptilted thread of a smile that is compassionate yet joyful. The clumpy feet might be set square and firm on the ground but when he places the golden wire crown upon the tow-coloured head then there will be something unearthly about her. And, held lightly between her hands, the red satin heart: a symbol of love, perhaps?
At last, filled with happy anticipation, Jakey lifts the big bundle out of the drawer and puts it carefully on the sofa. Kneeling down, he begins to unpack the angel.