The Christmas Angel (22 page)

Still singing the canticle Sister Emily whisks onwards, unable to prevent an uprush of joy, even with her fear for Janna so much in her thoughts. After dreary days of rain, of thick soft cloud from the Atlantic rolling over the
headlands
and lapping at the windows, the sun is shining again.

‘I suppose,’ she said tentatively to Mother Magda, ‘it would be impossible for Janna to remain in her caravan once we move into the Coach House.’

The anxious little frown returned between the feathery brows. ‘Is it a problem?’ Mother asked. ‘Oh, yes, I see. How foolish of me. Yes, dear Janna must be feeling a little bit nervous at the prospect of living with us. And I know that Ruth isn’t keen on it either, though she’s been used to having a nurse or a carer in our wing when we’ve had problems with sick and elderly Sisters.’

‘Janna is neither a nurse nor a carer officially,’ Sister Emily pointed out, ‘though she’d make an excellent one. But we’ve agreed that she is necessary to us and
we
are necessary to
her
.’

‘I quite see that,’ Mother Magda answered gently, and Sister Emily felt relieved; not that she really doubted Mother’s great wisdom and insight, but it was good to be assured that they were all thinking – and praying – along the same lines.

‘But,’ Mother Magda went on, ‘we shall need the orchard for our private use. It is essential that we are able to retain some kind of privacy. You do agree?’

‘Yes,’ Sister Emily answered reluctantly. ‘I do agree, but we need some solution to Janna’s fear.’

‘We shall pray for it,’ Mother answered with that quiet, gentle spiritual certainty that springs from her own inner angel when she allows the veils of anxiety to be drawn back from it.

We have come before God … we have come before Jesus
…

Peace flows into Sister Emily’s soul as she finishes dusting
the
library and opens a window wide to the blustery sunny day. She can see Clem mowing the grass and, beyond him, the flick of scarlet on the path to the beach: Janna escaping to the freedom of the cliffs. Yet this does not make her anxious now. The peace continues to hold her heart in quietude. She closes the door behind her and goes through the hall and along to the kitchen where breakfast has been cleared and lunch is already prepared: a special lunch for the Feast.

Sister Emily smiles in anticipation, puts away the polish and prepares to wash out her duster.

We are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken: so let us give thanks
…

Out on the cliff Janna wanders in the golden blowy air. Below the wall, adders are hatching: writhing gold bootlaces are side-winding away over the sandy grass. The mallows and the thrift have finished flowering but pale pink convolvuli climb amongst the granite stone, and there are bright red poppies growing amongst the rain-drenched barley on the wide headlands. The great gull-spaces of clear blue sky are empty but she can see the flocks wheeling down low over the sea: shining white against the bright green, then black against the brilliant dazzling surf. If she were to lie on the grass with her ear to the ground she would hear the booming echoes of the sea-tide surging and retreating in the secret hollow chambers far below.

Walking quickly, with her face to the west, she tries to grapple with the problem of the future, but she is simply too tired to think clearly. She feels herself being drawn inexorably along on a great tide of change and just at present she has no strength to swim against it. Nevertheless, she has no intention of letting herself be carried away by it. When
the
moment comes she must harden her heart and fight for her freedom.

A middle-aged couple come striding towards her, dressed in shorts and T-shirts and sunhats, and carrying rucksacks. They greet her cheerfully. ‘Glorious, isn’t it?’ they cry, gesturing to the sun, the sea, the dramatic stretch of coastline, and she nods and answers in return that yes, it is glorious; wonderful. They all beam approvingly at one another and pass on their separate ways. Beside a smooth grey boulder is the man whom she knows now is called Mr Caine and is supposed to be writing a book about the north Cornish coast. He sits staring out to sea, his mobile clamped to his ear, and she slips past him unnoticed.

On the cliff above Trevone she looks down at the children playing on the beach, at their parents tucked behind gaily coloured windbreaks; at the surfers, crouched and swaying on their boards as they skim the long steep rollers that pour in between the headlands. She wonders if she might know any of them, whether they are the same group with whom she cadged a lift from Padstow that day last autumn when she first went to Chi-Meur.

She stands watching them, seeing their cars and vans parked on the beach, with other surfers changing, drying themselves, talking. Suddenly she longs to be down there with them, idle and easy, following the surf – yet she knows that they won’t remember her. She always sat too loose to the people she met to make real friends; here one day, gone the next. Even with Nat, whom she loves, she guards her freedom. This is the first time she’s had anything like a real home and a family who truly love her: Father, Mother, Sisters: Clem and Jakey …

Janna hesitates. She can go down the cliff path to the
beach
, chat to the surfers, make friends, cadge another lift, or she can return to her family. Suddenly it seems that she hears Sister Emily’s high clear voice in the blowing wind. She is singing the grace that she always chooses when it is her turn, emphasizing certain words in her own inimitable way:

God bless to us our
bread

And give food to those who are
hungry

And a hunger for
justice
to those who are
fed
.

God bless to us our
bread
.

Today is a Feast Day and Sister Emily, as usual, is looking forward to her lunch. Janna draws a deep sighing breath. She hears Clem’s voice saying: ‘… please promise you won’t do a runner’ – and she turns away from the beach and the surfers, and begins to walk home.

‘You have got to be joking,’ Mr Caine is saying. ‘You mean she’s actually written to you saying, “Goodbye and thanks for all the fish”? Jesus! His Royal Highness will go ballistic when he hears this. And what’s a retreat house, anyway? … Bloody hell, Phil, how am I going to tell him? He thought it was in the bag … Yeah I know that’s what I get paid for. Thanks for that. There’s no possible doubt, I suppose? … Where are you now? London? Well, lucky you… Nah, I’m still stuck in this wilderness. I get away when I can, mind … I’d better do a bit of earwigging before I phone him; see what I can find out. It might not be absolutely cut and dried.’

He sees the girl from the convent go whisking past and slips down a bit lower behind the boulder until she’s out of sight. He’ll go back down to the village and see if he can pick
up
any odds and ends. The old priest might be in the pub for a lunchtime pint; they’ve got quite matey now and he might get something out of him. He stares out to sea: he’s still got that bad feeling and he wishes he was anywhere but here.

Dossie walks in the lane with the dogs; last outs before bed. She keeps her hand over her mobile phone in her pocket, hoping and waiting for a message from Rupert. Tomorrow he is away again for the weekend, checking out his properties on the south coast, and she is hoping that he might have time for a quick moment on his way. John the Baptist chugs along beside her, pausing briefly to check out a scent here and there, but Wolfie is far ahead on a rabbit’s trail and she follows him, her brain busy with ideas.

Ever since Pa’s conversation about having B and B-ers again at The Court she’s been thinking of little else. Almost at once she could see the advantages: she knows that it might be some time before Rupert can be persuaded to change his way of living but he might, in future, look at properties to convert near at hand so that they can spend more time together. She’ll be able to keep her weekends and evenings free, instead of dashing about doing weddings and dinner parties, and one day, way ahead, perhaps he might live with her at The Court.

She pauses in a gateway to give Jonno a breather before the long plod back, and stands looking out across the pale stubble of the new-cut fields. One small star is tangled in a long fleece of cloud and she can see a ghostly illumination running like pale fire along the black edge of the distant horizon. The moon’s bright curved rim appears above the long low hills and it seems as if she can feel the movement of the earth as it tilts towards it. Holding her breath, she
watches
as the moon rises: full and mysterious and magical. The deep silence is broken only by the querulous cry of an old ewe, the settling and stuttering of small birds in the hedges, and two owls calling.

When her mobile vibrates with its double ring, her hand closes on it with shock. She stands for a few moments, still entranced, before taking it from her pocket and reading the message:

Early picnic midday my place
?

She smiles with relief and anticipation, sends a reply and puts the mobile away. Calling to Wolfie, patting old Jonno’s head, she turns back towards home.

That night Jakey sleeps restlessly. He’s spent the day with Pa and Mo, making a little house in the garden which he can have for his own during the summer holidays. It was once a wood store but the logs got damp so Pa keeps them in the barn instead and now the little lean-to shed is almost falling to pieces. He and Pa worked very hard, making it dry and tacking some felt on the sloping roof, and Mo found a little stool and an old card table to make it look like a proper house. John the Baptist was persuaded to come inside and lie down on an old blanket but Wolfie simply wouldn’t. He barked and got silly and dashed round in circles on the lawn.

Jakey dreams fitfully: the house has grown much bigger and all his friends have come to tea but Wolfie stays outside barking and barking …

He wakes suddenly, surprised at how bright it is and thinking it is morning, and then realizes that it is moonlight streaming into his bedroom. He climbs out of bed, a certainty in his heart, and goes to the window. She is there, as he knew she would be: Auntie Gabriel, standing amongst
the
trees across the drive. She is looking up at his window with her hands clasped as usual, though he can’t see the red satin heart that she holds. He can see her white dress, though, gleaming in the moonbeams that shaft down like tiger-stripes between the smooth boles of the trees.

Jakey raises his hand and waves to her. She doesn’t return the wave, she never does because of holding the heart, but he knows that she is smiling at him. He sees that she bows her head a little, in acknowledgement, and he waves again. He wonders whether to go out to her but he knows that Daddy will be cross if he goes outside without telling him. He watches her hopefully, wishing that she would come inside, and then he gives one last wave with both hands to show that he loves her and climbs back into bed, clasps Stripey Bunny, and falls asleep.

Kitty stands at the sitting-room window watching Rupert getting into the Volvo. It is a dull, drizzling day and the trees look weighty with the burden of their leaves. As she waits while he puts his bag in the car she is prey as usual to a whole muddle of emotions: sad that he’s going, yet certain that she mustn’t allow herself to be coerced. Rupert slams the tailgate and opens the driver’s door. He glances up and raises his hand in a last farewell. The car disappears and Kitty moves back into the room, arms crossed, trying to will away her feelings of anxiety and guilt. For the first time in their married lives, a real battle is joined and she knows that she must continue to fight her corner.

She stares up at the large, gilt-framed oil painting that hangs above the fireplace: an atmospheric seascape full of drama, and evoking memories of her gypsy life with Rupert. A bank of thrift on a stony headland bows before the wind
that
carries the sea birds on its thermals and whips up long curling breakers to crash upon the sandy shore. Just for a moment she can hear their cries above the restless sighing of the sea and her heart contracts with pain, as if she’s lost something precious, and then her mobile rings and she runs to answer it, longing for it to be Rupert, knowing it isn’t.

‘Kitty.’ Sally’s voice. ‘I expect Rupert’s just gone and I wondered if you were feeling a bit miz and if you’d like me to pop in. I’m just down in Whiteladies Road.’

‘Oh, Sal, I’d love it.’ Kitty seizes on this distraction with relief. ‘Honestly, it’s so weird. Rupert was really sweet this weekend, and now I feel guilty. It sounds crazy but it’s almost easier when we argue about it all. No,’ she pushes her free hand through her hair, ‘no, I don’t mean that. Oh hell …’

‘Hang on. I’ll be with you soon.’

Kitty hurries about, tidying, checking on Mummy, who is dozing in her chair in the little sitting-room, making coffee.

‘It’s a waiting game.’ When Sally arrives she is firm. ‘You simply can’t give in and go back to living like a gypsy. He’s got to compromise a bit. He doesn’t have to do it all himself, does he? He could still keep his hand in a bit and spend much more time with you here.’

‘I don’t think he likes the flat much. I think Rupert still feels like a guest, especially with Mummy in the state she is now. It’s OK for a weekend but it’s not really home.’

‘But that’s the whole point, lovey, isn’t it? You and Rupert never
had
a home.’

‘I suppose not.’ Kitty heaves an irritated sigh. ‘It could be such fun to think that at some future point we could relax and enjoy ourselves but I just wonder if he’ll ever be happy doing that.’

‘At least he could give it a try,’ her friend cries. ‘
You
were
prepared
to fall in with
his
way of life, to follow him around and never have a settled place of your own. Well, now it’s
his
turn to give
you
a chance, for a change. At least he could try it out before he denounces it.’

Kitty is silent: she feels slightly uneasy when Sally is so forceful. Sometimes she wishes that she hadn’t been so open about the ongoing problem between her and Rupert. Sally has never quite believed that her dear old friend could have been quite as happy as she’s always claimed in such uncertain and peripatetic circumstances. It is as if, now, those fears have been justified and Sally cannot quite hide her glee.