At first Conor hadn’t been all that impressed by God’s Garden, the book that Oliver the dog man had found in the nuns’ bookcase. It was a kind of Herbal, a collection of information about herbs and flowers, how to grow them, and what illnesses they cured. But the layout was really boring and the photos were black and white. Conor couldn’t find a credit for the author or the photos. He couldn’t find the name of the publisher either, so maybe it had been privately printed back in the day by the nuns.
In any case, it was definitely about the convent. There were line-drawn plans as well as photos, and one showed the school building with its entry from the courtyard on one side, and the convent with its nuns’ entrance round the back. The parking lot with its little gate from the courtyard and its big exit onto Broad Street wasn’t there. Instead there were high walls around the whole plot enclosing a garden in the middle. As he turned the pages Conor found that looking at the plans was like watching a film in which the camera pulled in tighter and tighter, revealing more detail. And after a while he’d got sucked in.
Then a couple of the girls who’d been chatting at the corner table came over to say goodbye and one of them asked about the book. By that stage Conor was reading about how herbs had one and sometimes two names in English and one in Latin. Apparently most of them were medicinal, which meant that they could be dangerous. So the different names were written in the book in big print, with a photo and the relevant information beside them, presumably so you wouldn’t end up putting poison in your soup.
“That’s really cool.” One of the girls leaned on the desk and squinted over Conor’s shoulder, and a woman who’d been looking for a book on the shelves came over and joined them. She had no idea that the nun’s garden was so big, she said. She remembered it being there when she was at school but no one was allowed to go into it. The girl grinned and said that was no wonder if they were all in there brewing poisons.
“It sounds like an Agatha Christie.”
The woman, who was about Miss Casey’s age, laughed. “I don’t know about that but I do remember my mother saying they used to make great cough medicine. With rose hips or hyssop or something. And I remember they had different-colored flowers for different feast days. And lavender and rosemary to keep moths out of the altar cloths. I used to be bored to death in the chapel myself, but it always used to smell great.”
Conor turned the pages back to where there was a list of saints. He didn’t know the names of half of them but they each seemed to have their own flower. On the opposite page there was a plan showing all the garden beds with little paths between them and the names of plants written on the beds in tiny handwriting.
When he was closing the library he took the book back to the bookcase and carefully replaced it on its shelf. Unlike the big, leather-bound book with the amazing paintings of Italy, it didn’t seem very old and its pictures were pretty boring. It was kind of interesting, though, and he’d thought about taking it home to finish it. But it belonged in the glass-fronted bookcase and he didn’t want an earful from Miss Casey.
The following day, to his surprise, people had been into the library all morning asking about it. First it was the woman who’d seen him reading it yesterday. Today she wanted to borrow it for her mother. Then, as Conor was explaining that she couldn’t because it wasn’t actually in the library’s collection, another woman arrived. Her daughter, who was the one who’d said the book was cool, had texted her straight after breakfast suggesting she ought to drop in. At that point Miss Casey came over to see what was happening. Conor explained about Oliver the dog man finding the book and people now wanting to borrow it, and Miss Casey said he was absolutely right. They couldn’t go lending a book that wasn’t catalogued. Then, when the women got all upset, she said Conor could put it on a table and they could look at it there. Since it wasn’t library property, he was to be the only one to handle it, and he’d better make sure his hands were good and clean. So he’d done that and when the women were asking questions about it a couple of men came over to listen. Then somebody started sending texts and more people began to wander in for a look at the book. Conor had felt like a bit of an eejit turning pages as if it was The Book of Kells, and, actually, there wasn’t much to look at, but everyone loved the story of how it had turned up. As the last person left at closing time she looked back over her shoulder and smiled.
“Talk about a real hidden treasure! And it’s all about our own place, too. God, it’d make you think, wouldn’t it, about how things were in the old days?”
Conor’s feet hadn’t touched the floor after that. It was early-closing day and as soon as they’d pulled down the blinds and set the alarm, Miss Casey had put God’s Garden in a padded envelope and said they were going round to see Sister Michael. When they reached the convent door she ignored the huge knocker and pressed a bell, which had an intercom beside it. It was only a minute before they heard Sister Michael’s voice and moments later she ushered them in.
It wasn’t at all like Conor had imagined it when he’d thought of the deserted convent. Instead of cobwebs and candles there was a sofa and a couple of easy chairs, a sideboard, an old-fashioned TV set. There were also lots of statues and holy pictures and piles of Daniel O’Donnell CDs. But no more than you’d get at your granny’s. Sister Michael was wearing a V-necked pullover and skirt under a businesslike stripy apron. She’d been vacuuming Sister Consuelo’s bedroom, she said, so they’d have to excuse her appearance. Sister Consuelo turned out to be the other ancient nun who was still living in the convent, and, as far as Conor could gather, Sister Michael was her full-time caregiver. He could see that Miss Casey was surprised when she heard that, but Sister Michael said thank God she still had her health and her strength and all her marbles, while, these days, poor Sister Consuelo hardly knew her own name. Sister Michael cooked and cleaned for the two of them and the district nurse dropped in regularly. So that was grand. It was nice to see them now though, because she didn’t get many visitors, and what could she do for them?
Hanna drew a book out of the padded envelope. “This turned up in the library yesterday. It looks like a history of the convent garden so I wondered if you knew anything about it?”
Sister Michael took the book and opened it.
“Would you look at that? Last time I had this in my hand I’d spend half the day scrubbing floors, the other half digging in the garden, and I could still be up at midnight scouring pots. God, you had to be a fit woman to work in this place, I can tell you.”
She knew the book well, she said, because she’d used it herself when she’d worked in the nuns’ garden.
Conor thought it sounded like she’d done an awful lot of work. But Sister Michael shook her head. She was a farmer’s daughter, she said, and working with lovely sweet-smelling herbs and flowers beat lifting spuds or chopping mangold beets on the side of a windy hill. Looking at the elderly nun’s rheumatic hands, Hanna imagined her as a teenage lay sister scrubbing and digging in the kitchen and the garden, and wondered if she ever got time to pray. She didn’t speak her thought aloud but Sister Michael turned and smiled at her. There were some lines of poetry at the end of the book, she said, about being nearer to God in a garden than anywhere else on earth. Hanna half-remembered the quotation, which came from a sentimental, rumpty-tumpty Edwardian poem and still turned up on plastic plaques in garden centers.
“Do you think that’s true?”
Sister Michael folded her hands on her stripy apron and shrugged. Wherever God was, she supposed, He or She might be found out in a garden as well as anywhere else.
“I don’t know at all, girl, and I don’t be wasting time thinking about it. I’ll be dead soon enough, and I’d say I’ll have my answer then.”
Laying the book on the coffee table, she fixed her eye on Hanna.
“So, why don’t we drop the theology, and talk about why you’re here.”
“Well . . .” Determined not to sound overexcited, Hanna nodded at God’s Garden. “It could be that we’ve found our ‘Big Thing.’”
Sister Michael got up and walked purposefully to the sideboard. They’d have a small sherry each, she said, and Hanna could tell her all about it.
According to Miss Casey, the idea had come to her this morning when she’d seen the response to God’s Garden.
“People are finding it fascinating. They’re identifying with it because it reminds them of their past.” Miss Casey set down her glass and spoke to Sister Michael. “I thought the library might put on a talk.” As she went on Conor could see that she was really excited, though she was trying to keep her cool. “No one could say that the venue was inappropriate. You’d be giving a talk about a book.”
Sister Michael blinked. “I’d be giving it?”
“Of course. Conor found the book. People were asking questions. Conor asked you and you said you’d give a talk.”
Conor blinked. “I asked her?”
Miss Casey looked at Sister Michael. “Am I right? Is this the Big Thing? You said I’d recognize it when I saw it.”
Sister Michael looked back at her and nodded. “I think it is.”
Suddenly Miss Casey looked deflated. “The trouble is that I can’t see where it leads us.”
Conor couldn’t either. But Sister Michael wasn’t bothered. It was the right start, she said, and that was what mattered. And there was never any point in second-guessing the future. Sure you could get up in the morning and be dead by the afternoon.