Vow of Chastity (7 page)

There was no doubt, thought Sister Joan as she was bustled to a long table groaning with food, that Mrs Holt could talk Sister Gabrielle off her feet any time. Despite the array of food, the cheerfulness, the air of having a big family to look after, she was aware that Mrs Holt’s manner covered past heartbreaks – three babies in the local cemetery before Tim had survived, and two miscarriages afterwards. Her chatter was her
way of dealing with grief, her constant stream of grumbles her way of hiding the intense protective love with which she regarded her son.

‘Well, now this is a rare treat.’ Mr Holt, as big and ungainly a man as his son was a boy, took his place at the table. ‘It’s not often we get the Sisters over, is it, love? And Tim’s doing all right at the school, is he? Got a good head on his shoulders that lad – when my time comes I’ll be leaving the farm in good hands. Now, who’s for a bit of pie?’

‘William.’ His wife was scarlet. ‘We’ve not said grace yet.’

‘We never – oh, yes, of course.’ Mr Holt who was not a Catholic put down the serving spoon and looked rather at a loss.

‘Bless this food to our use and us to Thy service,’ Sister Joan said, ‘and keep all safe here and everywhere. Amen.’

Mother and son crossed themselves in unison with the Sisters and Mr Holt picked up the serving spoon again and plunged into the fluffy potato crust with an air of relief.

The conversation centred on the intended project, Timothy volunteering several bright ideas of his own. When he made them his parents listened avidly, Mrs Holt exclaiming softly under her breath, ‘Well, the lad has a point there, I must say. Yes, indeed.’

It was surprising, in view of the way they felt about him, that he was turning out to be such a nice boy, Sister Joan thought. She had no doubt that the farm would be in good hands one day.

‘Not another bite, honestly.’ She put up her hand as Mrs Holt started passing out tarts with a bowl of ice cream. ‘I am full of your marvellous pie. Sister Margaret won’t be happy until she has coaxed the recipe out of you, Mrs Holt.’

‘Oh, it’d be a pleasure, Sister,’ their hostess said promptly. ‘The secret’s in the marinade – lemon juice with a touch of sugar. It gives the fish just that touch of flavour.’

‘Ah, that explains it then,’ Sister Margaret said. ‘Very subtle amounts I think, but you were going to watch your serial. I’d not wish to spoil your enjoyment.’

‘There’s a repeat on Saturday,’ Mrs Holt said. ‘Tim’ll watch it though while I show you how I make the dish.’

Timothy, with a muttered apology, slid thankfully from the table and bolted into an alcove where a large television set was enthroned rather like a monarch on his throne.

Sister Joan, setting her empty cup back in its saucer, looked up to meet Mr Holt’s steady regard.

‘We’ve a new calf, Sister Joan, if you’ve a mind to see.’ He spoke gruffly, giving a little jerk of his head towards the door.

‘Well I don’t – yes, I should like to see it very much,’ Sister Joan said, impelled to acceptance by something unspoken at the back of his mild grey eyes. They walked across the darkening yard towards the barn, he pausing to take a lantern from a hook on the wall as they reached the barn.

‘Animals prefer the softer light. I find they give richer milk if they’re not always in glare.’

He lit it neatly with his big, calloused hands and they passed on into a high, vaulted place with the smell of milk, and straw and the unmistakable smell of birth.

‘Dropped her calf two nights since. Nice little thing. I’ve a fondness for small creatures – why I’ve held out against factory methods, I suppose. Not that I’m
sentimental
, and there’s nothing like a good steak but at least give the creatures the chance to see a bit of sky first, eh, Sister?’

‘I’m sure you’re right, Mr Holt.’ Sister Joan moved to the rail of the stall and looked at the long-legged,
large-headed
baby, now suckling contentedly. The mother turned a larger head, curiosity in the brown eyes, but seeing or smelling the human she knew lost interest.

‘She’m a good old maid,’ Mr Holt said, dropping the standard English he had been speaking for a moment, as he leaned to scratch the cow’s rump. ‘Why did you really come here this evening, Sister?’

‘To talk about the project,’ Sister Joan said. ‘You know, being a nun it is often difficult for me to get out to meet the parents of my pupils as often as I’d like. I hope you don’t –’

‘Mind you coming? Glad of it. Never had any particular faith myself but the wife sets store by her church and I’d no objection to having Tim reared in the same faith. Point is, Sister, I know that prayer you said before we ate and there’s nothing in it about keeping folks safe. I thought as how you were hinting that you wanted a private word, like.’

‘No, honestly, I wasn’t. I don’t know why I put that in,’ Sister Joan said, feeling suddenly foolish. ‘It was an impulse.’

‘A good one I’m thinking.’ Mr Holt drew back from the cow and frowned down at his smaller companion. ‘I thought as how you might have picked up the scent that’s been in my nostrils these past weeks.’

‘Scent?’

‘Evil,’ said Mr Holt flatly and smote his hand lightly against the rail to emphasize his point. ‘That’s an unfashionable word, isn’t it? Well, I’m not a clever bloke – all I know’s farming, but I know evil too. It’s around, Sister. I can smell it on the wind, but I can’t tell you where it is or the way it’s coming. I can only tell you that it is coming. I’ve no enemies that I know, but evil takes no count of that. And I tell you frankly, Sister, that if anything harmed the wife or my lad –’

‘Mr Holt?’ She stared at the big, clenching hands.

‘I’d kill,’ he said with a terrible simplicity. ‘I’d kill, Sister. Shall we go in?’

Lifting up the lantern again he stood aside politely to let her pass out of the barn.

‘You added something to the Grace this evening,’ Sister Margaret remarked when they were back in the car. ‘A very kind thought, Sister. It’s clear they dote on that boy.’

She turned to wave to the trio standing at the door as they drove away. The recipe for stargazy pie reposed in her bag and her face was irradiated with quiet content. Not for one second had Sister Margaret been aware of the creeping presence of anything.

‘You should have come to look at the new calf, Sister,’ Sister Joan said. ‘It was so sweet.’

‘I’m afraid that I always get a guilty feeling before anything else when I see small creatures,’ Sister Margaret said. ‘Before I entered the religious life I was quite partial to the occasional lamb chop. Even now I do occasionally wonder if we ought to eat fish, but then I read an article once that said lettuces scream and eggs faint when you start preparing them. So I reckon we have to eat something.’

They had turned on to the track that ran towards the area of the moors known locally as the greenway, an area where bracken and ling gave way to deep, soft earth and a natural windbreak formed by a deep and wide dip in the landscape through which ribbons of tiny streamlets watered the fertile ground. The light had quite faded, but the scent of wild verbena drifted through the open window of the car.

‘Is that where the Olives live?’ Sister Margaret gestured ahead to a dark bulk set back from the flowering grass. ‘It’s the old Druid place, surely? That
was before your time, dear, but a brother and sister owned the place. Quite reclusive in their ways, so it was generally rumoured they were exceedingly rich, and a nephew – or was it a niece? I forget which and it really doesn’t matter – he or she started coming over to visit the couple, hoping for something, I daresay, but when they died – influenza, the virulent kind – they found out there was no money at all. The place stood empty for years and then the niece – or was it nephew? – sold it and it’s passed through a series of owners since. Funny, but despite the land being so fertile and rich nobody’s actually got down and cultivated it properly. But it’s a beautiful spot, and it is rather refreshing to see somewhere that hasn’t been tamed for commercial purposes.’

It looked lonely, Sister Joan thought, as they stopped the car – Sister Margaret having heroically refrained from speeding along the deserted track – and walked up to the sprawling mass of stone with its Victorian additions in the shape of cupola and turrets outlined against the evening sky. The black stone loomed against the dark night and the square of light in the windows did nothing to dispel the sudden and disturbing impression that the house crouched on the flowerstrewn moor like some wild beast waiting to spring.

She frowned impatiently at her own foolishness, deciding that while a vivid imagination was all very well in an artist it was out of place in a woman vowed to the religious life. And the impression had been erroneous anyway, since the main door opened as they neared it and a flood of cheerful light illumined Samantha’s small frame.

‘Do come in, Sister. I was afraid that you weren’t going to come,’ she invited.

‘I hope we’re not too late. This is Samantha, Sister. Sister Margaret is lay sister at the convent.’

By the time she had finished the introduction they were in a square, panelled hall and Mrs Olive, her slender figure enhanced by tight black trousers and a
white shirt, was on her way down the stairs with outstretched hand and a manner very different from her previous languid one when she had first brought her daughter to the school.

‘Sister Joan, how pleasant to see you again. Sister Margaret, how do you do? I was beginning to think that Samantha had got hold of the wrong end of the stick but she insisted that you’d be coming.’

‘Only a brief visit, I’m afraid.’ Sister Joan glanced at the small steel fob watch pinned to her belt. ‘We had other parents to see and overstayed our welcome.’

‘Oh, surely not. I can’t imagine your outstaying your welcome anywhere. Come into the warmth and sit down.’

The long drawing-room was warmer than would have been comfortable in the depths of winter. Both the nuns flinched slightly as they were met by a blast of hot air from every direction at once. Not only central heating warmed the room but a huge fire burned in the cavernous fireplace above which a large photograph of Samantha, taken some years before, smiled coyly down, clutching a pink rabbit.

‘Coffee? Tea? I don’t suppose that I dare offer you a cocktail?’ She moved to a smart cabinet that looked small and incongruous against the faded grandeur of the room.

‘The point is that we wouldn’t dare accept it,’ Sister Joan said lightly. ‘All I came about was to enquire if we can ask for your co-operation in the matter of the school project.’

‘It’s a local project, isn’t it?’ Mrs Olive looked politely attentive. ‘Naturally my husband and I will give all the help we can, but as newcomers there isn’t very much we can add to the knowledge that people already have. We’re still finding our way round ourselves, you see. But if it’s a question of money –’

‘No, it really isn’t.’ Sister Joan felt the familiar blush of shame at the realization that most people associated nuns with collecting boxes.

‘Then I really don’t – my husband is fond of
photography. He could take some photographs of local beauty spots, I suppose. He took that one of Samantha on her fifth birthday. We’ve always loved it.’

‘If the parents actually do the project it won’t be the children’s work,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I was hoping that we might have an open day at the school – invite people to come and see what the pupils themselves have produced.’

‘It sounds very exciting, don’t you think so, Samantha darling?’ The green eyes, so like the child’s save that they looked out between heavily mascara’d lashes, turned to where Samantha stood.

‘Yes.’ A flat monosyllable devoid of expression.
Samantha’s
lively welcome had flared and died.

‘Perhaps a folder about this house with drawings? I believe it’s quite an old building?’ Sister Joan suggested.

‘Now that’s a splendid idea,’ Mrs Olive said. ‘The house is eighteenth century, I believe. My husband is very keen on that period. He’s writing a book set in the – oh, darling, I was just about to boast of you.’

She had turned as a man entered the room.

‘Then it’s fortunate that I came in to put an end to it,’ he said, advancing with outstretched hands to where the visitors still stood. ‘I’m Clive Olive, Samantha’s father. You will be Sister Joan and –?’

‘Sister Margaret. How do you do?’

‘As well as can be expected.’ He glanced down with raised eyebrows.

Sister Joan, following his glance, found herself staring at a built-up shoe. A club foot? An accident?’

‘Sit down, won’t you?’ He nodded towards the
armchairs
scattered about the room. ‘Has anyone offered you anything yet?’

‘We did, Daddy, but they have to go,’ Samantha said.

‘But you will come again?’ His thin, clever face had bright, squirrel eyes. The greyish hair that grew thickly on the long head had the aspect of a squirrel’s pelt.

‘If we need help with the project,’ Sister Joan said. ‘As I was explaining to your wife the idea is for the children to produce work that can be mounted in a small school
exhibition. Nothing very elaborate.’

‘It sounds charming.’ The squirrel eyes moved slowly over her. ‘Doesn’t it sound charming, Julia?’

‘We’ll certainly give Samantha all the encouragement we can,’ his wife said.

‘Fine. Then we won’t detain you any longer.’ Sister Joan turned away slightly from the probing, stripping gaze. ‘Samantha seems to be settling down in school very well.’

Nobody had asked but she thought she might as well throw in the information.

‘Samantha is infinitely adaptable,’ her father said. ‘Aren’t you, darling?’

‘Yes, well – thank you again,’ Sister Joan said, wondering what exactly she was thanking them for. ‘Sister Margaret?’

‘Good evening.’ Sister Margaret, who had stood dumbly, gazing round, came to life again.

‘I’ll see you out.’ Mrs Olive moved, thin and graceful, to the door.

At the back of the hall a long passage stretched past the wide staircase, presumably to the kitchen quarters. Sister Joan, glancing back, saw someone standing there. She caught a glimpse of hair so fair that it looked almost white, a classical profile, a lean, athletic body clad in jeans and sweatshirt. Then Mrs Olive turned her sleek head, saying in a raised voice, ‘In a moment, Jan.’

A side door was opened and closed. The nuns came out to the front step.

‘Au pairs can get so bored in the country when there isn’t anywhere to go,’ Mrs Olive said deprecatingly.

‘But I thought – I assumed that your au pair was a girl,’ Sister Joan said.

‘Oh, Kiki got bored too and left us. Jan was recommended through the same agency so I’m hoping that the same pattern won’t repeat itself,’ Mrs Olive said.

‘Through a local agency?’ Sister Joan asked.

‘One in Bodmin – Foreign Companion Helps – something like that. So far he seems to be settling down, but one can never tell.’

The car that picked up Samantha from school always stopped at some distance. She had never bothered to look closely at who was driving it. Not that it was any of her business if the Olives chose to fill their house with male au pairs. Handsome male au pairs, Sister Joan amended, and rebuked herself for being narrow minded.

‘Next time you must stay longer,’ Julia Olive said. The languidness was back in her voice.

‘It would be most interesting to see something of such an old house,’ Sister Joan agreed.

‘Most of it is in very bad repair,’ Mrs Olive told her. ‘The basement is very damp and the foundations quite unstable. It will require a lot of work on it before it can be put right, I’m afraid. Good evening again, Sisters.’ Without waiting to see them into the car she turned and went back into the house.

‘We shall have to hurry or we’ll be late for chapel,’ Sister Joan said. ‘We’ve missed recreation already.’

‘So we have.’ Sister Margaret gave herself a little shake and got hastily into the car.

‘You were very quiet in there, Sister. Was anything wrong?’ Sister Joan glanced at her companion as the latter started the engine.

‘I was looking at the dirt,’ Sister Margaret said, ‘and wishing that I had a bucket of hot soapy water and a scrubbing brush. Of course one cannot blame the poor lady. It is an enormous house to clean.’

‘It didn’t strike me as particularly dirty,’ Sister Joan said, puzzled. ‘A bit faded and some of the furniture didn’t suit the room too well, but hardly dirty.’

‘Very dirty,’ said Sister Margaret with unusual firmness and gripped the wheel as the engine sprang into life.

Whatever occupied her mind had at least emptied it of the desire to break speed records, Sister Joan reflected, as they rode home at a moderate speed. Her own mind was a ragbag of impressions which she would have to sort out later.

‘I’ll put the car away, Sister. You hurry on into
chapel,’ Sister Margaret said as they swept up to the convent.

Chapel, Sister Joan thought, is exactly what I need. This round of visits has muddled me terribly.

She walked briskly to the side door and let herself in, the thought crossing her mind that the habit of leaving the door open was not perhaps a very wise one. Anyone from the laity who wanted to pray in the middle of the night was scarcely likely to come all the way out to the convent in order to gratify their wish. On the other hand a thief or a prowler could easily get in. It might do no harm to have a quiet word with Mother Dorothy on the subject.

‘Oh, there you are, Sister! Did you have a pleasant evening? Pleasanter than mine, I’m sure.’

Sister David, snub nose twitching violently as was her habit when agitated, met her at the door of the chapel.

‘Is something wrong, Sister?’

‘The holy water in the stoup has all dried up,’ Sister David said plaintively. ‘It is always refilled on Wednesdays as you know and now there isn’t a drop left. I can’t for the life of me understand it. I checked the stoup for cracks but there aren’t any, and in any case the floor would have been wet had it leaked. It looks as if someone actually drank it all up and that’s too ridiculous to contemplate.’

‘What have you done about it?’

‘Fortunately there is sufficient for the blessing and tomorrow morning we must ask Sister Margaret to take the water cans over to Father Malone so that he can bless them as soon as they’re filled. I did suggest to Mother that we telephone and ask Father to come here for the blessing, but she said we couldn’t expect him to come rushing backwards and forwards when we were the ones who had been careless – but I am certain that I was not careless, Sister. The stoup was full otherwise I would naturally have asked Father to bless the next batch of water after he had heard confessions this afternoon.’

Little Sister David sounded near to tears.

‘I’m sure it will be sorted out‚’ Sister Joan said warmly, wishing she was as sure as she sounded, and went on into the chapel, sliding to her knees with a sense of relief.

Prayers and the nightly blessing that immediately preceded the grand silence were effective barriers against discussing the matter further that night. She put the other questions firmly into the storage cupboard at the back of her mind and concentrated on her Maker.

Morning brought a light shower of rain that was refreshing to the spirits even though it meant she would have to don the unwieldy gaberdine over her habit to protect herself against a wetting. When she went out to the back to saddle up Lilith she bumped into Sister Margaret who looked less than her normal cheerful self.

‘Mother Dorothy has told me to go to the presbytery with the water cans so that Father can bless a new batch of holy water‚’ she said. ‘It seems there isn’t any left, which seems quite extraordinary to me. I do so dislike driving in the rain. Lampposts are apt to leap up at one, you know, and the car skids on the wet track.’

‘Wait until it clears up. It is only a light shower‚’ Sister Joan suggested.