Obedience (12 page)

They were awkward together. Thérèse reached to take the plant as he thrust it towards her; it caught her in the face. They both had to step back.

‘I was going to write. I promised I would,' said Thérèse. ‘I'm sorry.'

It was by the slenderest of chances that they had kept in touch since the death of Thérèse's sister fifteen years before. But Thérèse prayed for Claude and his family every day and loved him better than anyone else on earth.

‘I'm glad you came,' she said. ‘God is good.'

Claude grinned at her from behind the pink plant, waiting.

‘Would you like some coffee?' Thérèse asked.

‘I'd love a coffee.'

‘Right. Good.'

Bernard had stacked her papers on the small table in the snug. She saw the plant approaching and was surprised that behind it was the fat nephew with big ears.

‘You must both come and be comfortable,' she said. ‘You should come and join me.'

‘I had thought we would go to the refectory… to let you…' Thérèse sighed the slightest of sighs.

‘As you like, Sister,' said Bernard.

And Thérèse could not refuse her then. ‘I'll bring the coffee through, when it's ready,' she said.

Bernard praised the plant as Claude set it carefully on the floor. Three flower heads, loosened by their journey, dropped gracefully onto the tiles where they lay like cartoon butterflies.

‘It's quite rare, I'm told,' said Claude. ‘I thought she'd like it. To brighten things up.'

‘I'm sure she will.'

Claude coughed a breathless cough. ‘You must be sad to leave, Sister,' he said.

‘I am, very sad.'

‘You have been here…?'

‘Seventeen days short of seventy-six years.'

Claude could not imagine the monotony of this. ‘A long time,' he said.

They heard Thérèse drop something in the kitchen; the thin metallic echo was like bells.

‘It must have been a very different place when you were first here, Sister Bernard.'

Bernard thought about it, recalling with absolute clarity the day the convent had finally accepted her father's meagre dowry offer and she had waited by the front steps for someone to find her there, too afraid to knock. She recalled the smell of bread and blood and soap. She had thought, at first, that it was the smell of sanctity, but had soon realized that it was merely the stench of communal living.

‘No,' she said. ‘It was much the same, I think. I can hardly remember – I feel the same.'

‘Life's like that,' said Claude, wanting his coffee.

Thérèse brought in the small glasses on a round tray. They trembled slightly, clinking.

‘Isn't it a beautiful plant, Sister?'

‘Beautiful,' said Bernard.

‘It's nothing,' said Claude. ‘Just a little gift.'

‘It's very kind,' said Thérèse. She set the glasses on the table. ‘We're not disturbing you, Sister,' she said as she sat down. ‘Sister Bernard is going through her papers,' she added to Claude.

‘I haven't started,' said Bernard. ‘Would you like the television?'

‘We're fine,' said Claude.

The smell of the coffee was somehow out of place. They held their glasses away from them and a light steam rose into the cold air. They talked for a while about the weather and Claude's work. Bernard predicted that rain would come in a day or two, and high winds from the coast. Claude entertained them with tales of his new computer.

‘There's a change, anyway,' said Thérèse suddenly.

They thought she hadn't heard their conversation. Claude leant forwards, closer to her.

‘I'm not going,' said Thérèse, not looking at him. ‘To Les Cèdres. I'm not going there after all.'

For a moment, Bernard thought something had happened to save them.

‘You have heard from the diocese, Sister?'

‘But you said you were going tomorrow,' said Claude.

Thérèse shook her head at them both. ‘No, no,' she said, but neither was quite sure if the answer was for them. ‘You see – look, I'm sorry… I'm going to live in town, with Corinne.'

Bernard said nothing. She was not even sure, not yet, what Thérèse might mean. She watched as Thérèse smiled at her nephew and explained, her cheeks flushing. She heard her tell him about Corinne's apartment and how much nicer it was than the room assigned to her at the rest home.

‘I couldn't do it. Not finally. Not when I thought about it – I couldn't end up in that place,' she said.

Claude threw back his head and laughed.

Bernard hated him.

‘I thought it would be all right. I thought I could make a new start. But in the end… well, you have to live, don't you?'

It did not seem an odd question. Claude beamed at his aunt.

‘Of course you do. You've been shut up here long enough, I'd say. Take a break for a while – see a bit of the world.'

‘It'll just be… it'll just be a change, that's all. Not to be in an institution.' Thérèse knew she could not explain. ‘I'm looking forward to it.'

Bernard moaned.

‘We should leave Sister Bernard to her papers,' said Thérèse, as lightly as she could. ‘We shouldn't disturb her. We'll go next door for a moment. We'll be better talking there.'

And Claude followed his aunt into the refectory, taking the tray of glasses. Bernard heard the rattle disappearing.

When Claude left the convent half an hour later he was still laughing a little, his mouth wide and his words springy. He took Thérèse by the shoulders and kissed her, holding her afterwards for longer than he needed. As she watched him walk down the long drive, she knew that what she was doing was right.

‘Sister Marie's bag is by the front door,' she said brightly when she came back into the snug. ‘Claude found it; he nearly tripped over it.'

‘If you go into town with that woman—' Bernard began.

‘I'm leaving the convent, Sister, one way or another. They're making me leave. It's not my choice. What difference does it make where I go? Everything's changing, breaking up – I can't help that.'

‘I didn't imagine going on my own,' said Bernard.

Thérèse pretended she had not heard. ‘Yes,' she said. ‘The bag. Sister Marie's bag. It's by the front door.'

Bernard rocked back on her heels, unsteady. ‘The hospital rang about it,' she said.

‘Nursing home, Sister. It's not a hospital.'

‘They rang to say she didn't have it. I told them we'd put it on the minibus.'

‘No, Sister, it's by the front door,' said Thérèse, narrowing her eyes.

Bernard could not believe this. She presumed Claude had made a mistake.

‘You think it is still here?'

‘Yes. Here. I saw it just now.' Then, as if making a concession, she continued. ‘I went to wave Claude off, and as he was leaving, that Dutchman came to pick up the cultivator from the yard.'

Bernard started at the thought of the Dutchman.

‘But I have the instructions. I wanted to give him the instructions,' she said.

She had mended the cultivator herself for the last twelve years since the mechanic's workshop in the village had closed. She knew now, after much trial and error, exactly how the engine worked. She knew what to do when it threatened to stall and with what care it needed oiling after each use. Only she knew all this. So when a small ad had been placed in the free local paper, and a sale agreed, she had written instructions and scratched out a few diagrams, working on them with great care over several weeks. Thérèse had watched her compile them.

‘Claude helped me start it up and we ran it round and then the Dutchman put it on his trailer,' said Thérèse. ‘And when he'd gone, we stood in the porch for a moment, to say goodbye, and that's when Claude saw Sister Marie's bag. He joked about it being a bomb.'

‘Did he give you the money?' asked Bernard.

Thérèse frowned. ‘The Dutchman? I thought you'd already done that.'

‘No, Sister. We agreed the sale, that's all. He was to pay us when he came to collect it.'

‘Well then – no,' Thérèse huffed. ‘He didn't. I didn't know.' She thought Bernard was about to cry. ‘Don't worry, Sister. I'm sure he'll bring it. I'm sure he simply forgot.'

She wanted to put an arm round Bernard's sloping shoulders, but she did not dare, and then Bernard stepped away.

‘I wouldn't have known how much you'd agreed, anyway,' said Thérèse.

‘You should have fetched me. I could have done it.'

It seemed an enormous treachery suddenly, and Thérèse was ashamed.

‘I'm so sorry,' she said.

‘It was for the parish fund,' said Bernard stiffly.

Thérèse nodded. ‘What shall we do about Marie's bag?'

‘I told them we had put it on the minibus.' Bernard could not bear the thought of another mistake. She imagined God's spluttering dismay. ‘I told them.'

‘I thought it might be Claude's. But he had the plant. He couldn't have carried anything else.'

‘I'll have to ring them.' Bernard started for the telephone, but a sudden thought stopped her. ‘Did you give him the spare spark plug?'

‘For the cultivator? No.'

‘He'll need it.'

Thérèse waved away the thought of this. ‘He looked a capable man.'

‘He's Dutch,' said Bernard. It sounded like an indictment but neither of them was sure exactly what it might mean for the future operation of the convent's only piece of agricultural machinery.

*

The girl at the nursing home knew nothing of the search for Sister Marie's bag, but she went away for a long while and came back to the telephone with cheerful confidence.

‘Will you be there later this afternoon?'

‘At what hour? We haven't got much time. We're moving soon. Tomorrow,' said Bernard.

The girl went away again.

‘Our deputy director has an errand near you. We can call her and she can stop at your house for the bag on her way back to town,' she explained carefully when she returned to the telephone. ‘Where do you live?'

Bernard gave the address.

‘That's a convent!'

‘Yes.'

There was a pause.

‘Please ask her not to be late. We're very busy, with everything,' said Bernard.

Thérèse was in the snug cleaning the mud from her shoes onto a piece of newspaper.

‘They're coming later for the bag,' Bernard said.

‘All right. Good.' Thérèse poked hard at the treads of the soles with the blade of a kitchen knife.

‘I said we couldn't wait, because of the minibus.'

‘We can always leave it out under the porch.'

Bernard hadn't thought of this. ‘I'd rather not,' she said.

She picked up a sheet from her pile of papers.

Thérèse looked at her. ‘Sister…' But she could not think how to explain. ‘I didn't mean you to be alone,' she said at last.

Bernard unfolded a letter and laid it flat against her hand.

‘We always have God, Sister,' she said.

Thérèse knew this was true, but something about it did not satisfy her.

Bernard glanced at the handwritten address. It was nothing, a brief note from the daughter of a Spanish woman she had met through the church cleaning circle. For several years they had been on the same rota. Bernard had mopped and swept, while the other woman had dusted and refreshed the flowers. Afterwards, although this had never been agreed between them, they would share a biscuit and some coffee from a flask that the Spaniard would bring, sitting in the annex at the back of the church, tidying the piles of hymn books and missals while they talked. Mostly they would discuss next week's dirt. They had in common a devotion to vinegar as a cleaning fluid. When her husband had retired, the Spaniard had moved south to be closer to her family. She had died a little over a year later. That was why the daughter had written. Bernard had forgotten to reply and had not attended the funeral, but she had included the woman specifically, by name, in her prayers for the dead. She put the letter on the floor to one side of her chair.

Thérèse was watching.

‘You're doing well, Sister. With your papers,' she said, as she rolled the newspaper deftly around the mud from her shoes, careful not to spill any onto the floor.

‘I have very little time. I should have started earlier.'

‘Everything seems like that, at the end. A rush. When
we've known for months that we'd have to go,' said Thérèse.

Bernard took the next sheet from the pile. ‘Yes.'

Thérèse could not believe there was nothing more to be said. ‘It didn't seem – when they told us – it didn't seem that it would be like this.'

Bernard did not look up. ‘We must obey what is meant for us, Sister.'

‘Meant by God or by the diocese?' returned Thérèse, sharp.

But Bernard could not answer this. And when Thérèse came back from throwing away the muddy newspaper, she was stiffly bright again.

‘What have you decided to keep, Sister?' she asked, bending towards Bernard.

‘Very little. There's no need. But I would like to keep that photograph of Rome. I would have liked to go to Rome.'

‘You should ask Sister Marie. You know she went twice? To the Audience? I'm sure she would tell you about it.'

Bernard knew Marie would have no memory of it.

‘I will, Sister,' she said.

She picked up the next sheet, a scrap of newspaper, clearly torn out in haste.

‘And that next one. The newspaper. Are you keeping that?' asked Thérèse, eager, envious for a moment of the chance to sort and classify and choose, to arrange things.

The scrap was dated April 1986. The rest of the date, giving the day itself, had been torn off. It was part of an obituaries column, two or three complete entries, each
bordered in thick ink. One of the entries included a picture of a man in late middle age, unsmiling under a magnificent moustache.