Vow of Penance (3 page)

‘Come on, Alice. Walkies!’ she said loudly, striving to banish the ghost from the past that still occasionally obtruded itself into her thinking.

Alice who had evidently decided to understand certain words jumped up happily, and submitted to having her lead put on. Sister Joan walked round to the front of the building where green turf stretched to the walls with the great wrought-iron gates fastened back and the track that led over the moor towards Bodmin beyond.

There were no locks at the convent save those the nuns operated themselves last thing at night. There was nothing to prevent her from going beyond the gates, from taking to her heels and running free, the wind catching her short white veil and sending it flying out. She was a prisoner only of her own desire. And Jacob was long gone, probably married by now to a comfortable little wife who had given him a couple of children.

Alice was jerking at the lead, uttering short, sharp little barks of frustration.

‘Five minutes then,’ Sister Joan said, stooping to unfasten the lead. ‘And straight back here again when I call you.’

Alice gave her a look of dewy-eyed innocence and shot through the gates, Sister Joan sat down on a large block of stone just within the entrance, bunching her skirts beneath her in approved convent fashion,
clasping her hands in her lap, one part of her mind toying with the idea of giving Alice freedom for the decade of a rosary, the other flying to the little school building where up to the previous autumn she had taught the local children too young to go to the schools in Bodmin. She had had only a handful of pupils drawn from local farmers and from the Romany camp high on the moors, but she had grown fond of them, had relished being able to slip a pair of jeans under her habit and ride Lilith to and from the solitary building. It was a great pity that the education authorities had closed it down and now bussed the children into town. Padraic Lee who supplied the convent with fish sometimes had told her on his last visit that truancy had increased.

Alice was running back before being called, barking furiously, and trying to catch her tail in her mouth as she tried to run circles on the same spot.

‘Good girl!’ Sister Joan captured her, clipped on the lead and straightened up to find herself looking into the deepset, burning eyes of a white-faced, grey-cloaked individual who stood, tall and solid, against the light.

Alice barked more furiously.

‘Quiet girl,’ Sister Joan said, speaking automatically out of a suddenly dry mouth. ‘She – she won’t hurt you – only a puppy. May I help you?’ This last was purely out of mechanical politeness since the woman facing her looked as if she were capable of dealing with any situation.

‘I am Sister Jerome,’ the other said. Her voice in contrast to her height and her strongly marked features was light and thin.

‘Sister Jerome. Yes?’ Sister Joan felt completely at a loss. Mother Dorothy hadn’t mentioned that a visitor was expected.

‘From the London house,’ the other said. ‘Lay sister.’

‘You mean you’ve come to be lay sister here?’

‘This is the Order of the Daughters of Compassion?’
There was deep suspicion in the tone as if Sister Jerome feared she might have landed among the Carmelites by mistake.

‘Yes. Yes indeed, this – you’ve certainly come to the right place,’ Sister Joan said hastily, ‘but I – we were not aware that anyone had been sent.’

‘I understand a letter was sent from the London house.’

‘Then it hasn’t arrived yet. Our postman doesn’t come all the way up here every day. How did you get here?’

‘I came on the train and got off at the station,’ Sister Jerome said.

‘You walked here – all the way from Bodmin?!’

‘I am used to walking,’ Sister Jerome said. ‘I carried my overnight case and my trunk is being brought tomorrow. I trust that’s satisfactory.’

‘Yes, of course, Sister Jerome.’ Sister Joan had regained some of her poise. ‘Do forgive me for sounding so muddled but you arrived so – so unexpectedly. I’m very happy that you’re here. We’ve had no lay sister proper for some months and I’ve been filling in – I’m Sister Joan. This is Alice.’

‘The rule allows pets? I wasn’t aware of that,’ Sister Jerome said.

‘The rule doesn’t forbid them,’ Sister Joan said shortly, wondering if she liked Sister Jerome very much. As a sister it was her duty to love her but liking fell into a different category. She added, ‘She’s being trained as a guard dog. The local police thought it advisable. You may have heard of the events here last—’

‘Not, I think, a subject for discussion during Lent,’ Sister Jerome said.

‘No. No, of course not,’ Sister Joan said. ‘We are not a large convent here but then our Order isn’t one of the larger Orders, is it? Mother Dorothy is prioress and Sister Hilaria mistress of novices and the others you’ll meet in due course. You’ve arrived just in time for
supper and recreation.’

‘As lay sister I am not entitled to join in the recreation of the fully professed,’ Sister Jerome said repressively.

‘No, but you won’t be taking up your duties until tomorrow,’ Sister Joan said. They had reached the front doors and she was immensely relieved to see Mother Dorothy emerge, hand outstretched.

‘Sister Jerome? I just received a telephone call from Mother Agnes enquiring whether or not you had arrived. Apparently a letter was sent but hasn’t yet been delivered. Surely you didn’t walk from the station?’

‘Sister Jerome is accustomed to walking,’ Sister Joan said.

‘Even so.’ Mother Dorothy ushered the newcomer within. ‘Come into the parlour, Sister. Sister Joan, bring us two cups of tea, will you? Sister Jerome must be in need of one.’

Sister Jerome looked as if she were in need of nothing but disappeared silently in the wake of the prioress.

Sister Teresa was chopping up cabbage when Sister Joan went into the kitchen. Sister Martha grew a great many cabbages, Sister Joan thought, and wished she would curb her enthusiasm for that particular vegetable a little.

‘We have a new lay sister,’ she announced. ‘Sister Jerome has been sent from our London house.’

‘Weren’t you there yourself, Sister?’ Sister Teresa stopped chopping and looked up with interest. ‘Did you know her?’

‘I did my novitiate there. No, she wasn’t there in my time,’ Sister Joan said, switching on the kettle and getting out the teapot.

‘What’s her name?’ Sister Teresa enquired.

‘Sister Jerome.’

‘Wasn’t he a rather grim kind of saint?’ Sister Teresa said.

‘Very grim,’ Sister Joan said feelingly.

Those entering the religious life as a Daughter of Compassion with suitable baptismal names were permitted to keep them. Others chose saints who appealed to them as models. Jerome was not among the most popular. That this sister had obviously chosen the name shed some light on her personality.

‘It will be a godsend for us to have her here,’ she said, blotting out the uncharitable thought.

‘After Easter I will be able to go into seclusion without worrying how you’re going to manage,’ Sister Teresa said happily, continuing to chop.

The tea brewed, she poured out two cups and carried them up the passage and into the prioress’s parlour. It was hard to enter what had been a grand drawing-room without the heart lifting with pleasure at the beautifully moulded cornices and ceiling, with their tracings of gold leaf, at the panels of faded exquisite silken tapestry on the walls, at the parquet floor, polished as usual to shining perfection. The overstuffed couches, the spindly-legged occasional tables, the family portraits had long since gone to be replaced by filing cabinets, a large, uncompromisingly plain desk, hard chairs and a row of wooden stools for the sisters to perch on during religious instruction, but nothing could diminish the intrinsic beauty of the apartment.

‘Dominus
vobiscum
.’ Mother Dorothy gave the
customary
salutation.

‘Et
cum
spiritu
sancto
,’ Sister Joan responded, setting down the tea, kneeling briefly. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Sister Jerome, upright as a statue, seated on the extreme edge of a chair.

‘Thank you, Sister Joan.’ Mother Dorothy began to pour milk. ‘Sister Jerome will take up her duties tomorrow. Sister Teresa is due to enter seclusion after Easter so for the time being she may remain as assistant lay sister. That leaves yourself.’

‘Yes, Mother Dorothy?’ Sister Joan tried not to look
expectant.

‘For the time being make yourself generally useful,’ Mother Dorothy said disappointingly. ‘Sister Jerome will occupy one of the lay cells, Sister Teresa continue to sleep in the other, so you may move your things into your old cell upstairs. Thank you, Sister.’

So she wasn’t yet to be entrusted with the care of the novices. As she withdrew, softly closing the door behind her, Sister Joan caught and fielded a cold, burning glance from Sister Jerome’s deepset eyes. It looked, she mused wryly, as if the lack of liking between them was mutual.

Father Malone, to his great embarrassment and equally great pleasure, was being given a rousing send-off by a small but devoted band of parishioners, among whom Sister Joan stood, charged by the prioress with representing the convent. By rights the other lay sister ought to have accompanied her, but Sister Jerome was mucking out the stable and Sister Teresa not yet permitted to leave the enclosure, so with considerable relief Sister Joan had driven alone over to the station where the platform was crowded with wellwishers and passengers arriving and departing.

‘Quite a turn out, Father,’ she commented now.

‘They’re very likely here to make certain they’ve seen the back of me for a while,’ Father Malone said, eyes twinkling.

‘Father Stephens didn’t come?’

‘He had the hospital visit to make,’ Father Malone said. ‘I went by there last evening to say goodbye.’

‘
Au
revoir
,’ Sister Joan corrected.

‘Thank God, yes! For I’d not want to leave this parish now though, of course, we must go where we’re sent. I’ve made Mother Dorothy promise that she’ll write and keep me up to date with what’s happening up at the convent. I’ve heard already that you have a new lay sister.’

‘Sister Jerome, yes. She seems very efficient.’

‘Faint praise?’ He cocked a bushy eyebrow.

‘I’m sure she will settle in nicely, Father.’

‘You know, Sister, when all the nuns in a convent are getting along splendidly I always advise bringing in a sister who’s a bit of a square peg in a round hole,’ Father Malone said. ‘Does wonders for ridding a place of complacency. Now take good care of yourself, Sister Joan. Make my replacement welcome.’

‘He hasn’t arrived yet?’

‘Later today, I understand. The seminary gave him his train ticket yesterday but he has relatives in Falmouth so it’s possible he stayed overnight there. He’ll be along later I don’t doubt. Ah! here’s the train! Now where are my bags?’

He was surrounded by his congregation, borne along in the midst of them, his bags thrust after him. Someone started up a chorus of ‘He’s A Jolly Good Fellow’. Sister Joan moved back to the waiting-room and stood there, raising her hand in farewell as the train doors were slammed, the final goodbyes shouted through
pulled-down
windows. They would miss Father Malone with his innocent relish for a bit of gossip, his tried and tested homespun philosophies.

The crowd was dispersing. She watched them leave, chatting, thoughts set on the day ahead. One or two acknowledged her with a greeting, recognizing her as one of the sisters from the convent, but not, she guessed, able to put a name to her. Since the school had been closed she had lost touch with many of her former pupils and their parents.

‘Excuse me, Sister?’

A youngish man had emerged from the waiting-room and was giving her a shy, questioning look.

‘Sister Joan. How may I help you – Father?’

Belatedly she noticed the clerical collar.

‘Father Matthew Timothy,’ the other said.

‘Father Malone’s replacement? Oh, but you just missed him!’ Sister Joan exclaimed.

‘He left on the train. Yes, I know. I didn’t wish to intrude on his leavetaking.’

‘He will be disappointed that he missed you,’ Sister Joan said.

‘Oh, I doubt that, Sister,’ Father Timothy said deprecatingly. ‘He might have been so disappointed at the sight of me that he cancelled his trip!’

He smiled slightly as he spoke as if to signal that he was joking, but Sister Joan couldn’t avoid the thought that his jesting concealed a very real feeling of inadequacy. Certainly there was nothing charismatic about this very ordinary man with thin sandy hair who was now lifting his suitcase up and nodding his head towards another one.

‘Books, Sister. I’m afraid they’re my one
extravagance
. Perhaps we could get a porter.’

‘They’re a dying breed,’ Sister Joan said cheerfully, picking up the extra case and finding it lighter than she had expected. ‘If you don’t mind walking for ten minutes, Father, I’ll show you the way to the presbytery.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Sister.’ Father Timothy looked pleased. ‘You won’t get into any trouble?’

‘No, of course not!’ Sister Joan glanced at him in surprise, then remembered that he was newly ordained and this was his first parish. Probably he was still in the state when one anxiously requests permission for everything.

‘I’m afraid your Order isn’t well known to me,’ he confessed as they left the station and began to walk along the busy street.

‘We’re a young Order,’ Sister Joan told him. ‘A young woman called Marie van Lowen, part Dutch, part English. She died in the gas chambers at Dachau but not before she had founded her first convents.’

‘But you wouldn’t have met her personally, Sister.’

‘I wasn’t even born then,’ Sister Joan said with a grin.
‘But every postulant is told the story of Marie Lowen when she enters. We’re always hopeful that the Cause for her Canonization will be introduced but these things take an awfully long time. She’s not been dead for fifty years yet.’

‘The regulations have been tightened up considerably since Vatican Two,’ Father Timothy reminded her. ‘Before that all kinds of unsuitable candidates were being raised to the altars.’

‘Not so many surely, Father,’ Sister Joan began.

‘St Christopher who is now deemed never to have existed in popular legend.’

‘For someone who’s never existed he’s protected a great many travellers!’ Sister Joan said, beginning to feel irritable. The new priest, she feared, was a pedant.

‘And you have a sentimental attachment to him?’ Father Timothy said with a small tight smile which struck her as patronizing.

‘I simply believe that when thousands of people down through the centuries have a great devotion to a
particular
figure then the devotion itself can bring into being a person with the attributes they admire.’

‘It’s all in the mind, eh, Sister?’ He gave her the look reserved for nuns who consider themselves to be
intellectual
and said immediately in a tone of relief, ‘Ah! I see the church just ahead of us. That will be the presbytery next to it.’

‘Father Stephens will probably still be at the hospital,’ Sister Joan said. ‘He went over there this morning. But Mrs Fairly will be at home, I’m sure.’

‘Mrs Fairly?’

‘The housekeeper. She makes Father Malone and Father Stephens very comfortable. “She nags the life out of the both of us,” Father Malone was apt to complain. ‘I never could understand why priests are deemed far too helpless to look after themselves when bachelors all over the country are managing to do it without any trouble.’

His complaints were only halfhearted. Mrs Fairly was one of those slim, harassed-looking middle-aged widows who seem destined to spend their lives answering the door with the phrase ‘I’ll just see if Father’s available’ on their lips. Sister Joan had only met her on a couple of occasions and knew nothing of her background.

Both church and presbytery were small, walls of Cornish granite, the tower of the church square and squat. In a predominantly Protestant area the Catholics were tactful about their continuing presence though old feuds had long since died.

They walked up the short path past the variegated bulbs that were Mrs Fairly’s pride and joy and Sister Joan set down the case she was carrying and rang the bell. A twitch of the muslin curtains had told her that the housekeeper had seen their arrival but considered it uncivil to be seen herself gaping out of the window.

There was a short pause and then the front door opened and Mrs Fairly, a scarf over her greying hair, a neat print overall covering her dress, appeared, a carefully judged smile of welcome on her face.

‘It’ll be Father Timothy? I’m delighted you got here safely, Father. Did you catch Father Malone at the station? I would have been there myself but Father Stephens went rushing out without a decent breakfast this morning so I decided to do a mixed grill. It’s Sister Joan from the convent, isn’t it? Did you see Father off all right?’

‘And met Father Timothy at the station,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I’m afraid he missed meeting Father Malone.’

‘Well, Father Stephens will be along soon,’ Mrs Fairly said. ‘Come along in. You’ll be wanting a cup of tea, Sister. You didn’t walk down?’

‘No, I drove. I should have offered you a lift, Father. I just didn’t think of it.’

‘Please don’t blame yourself, Sister.’ Father Timothy said, giving her a pat on the shoulder evidently
intended to be consoling. ‘The ladies are not always expected to be practical.’

‘I’ll show you your room, Father. Sister, will you brew the tea?’ Mrs Fairly bore her charge away.

Sister Joan went through into the kitchen, vaguely aware that the housekeeper’s request had been a sop to her ego after the priest’s patronizing remark. Mrs Fairly would never in a thousand years have declared herself the equal of men: had she ever thought of the matter she would probably have regarded herself as their superior.

She had just poured the boiling water into the pot when Mrs Fairly reappeared.

‘I’ve left Father Timothy to have a wash and brush up,’ she said. ‘He’s not as young as I expected. Probably had a late vocation.’

‘Like me,’ Sister Joan said.

‘Well, I’ve always felt it was a good idea to see a bit of life first before you made up your mind about anything,’ Mrs Fairly said, setting out cups and saucers. ‘Father get off all right, did he?’

‘With his fan club present,’ Sister Joan said with a grin.

‘Well, he’ll be missed,’ Mrs Fairly said. ‘Not that a holiday won’t do him good. It will give Father Stephens a chance to find out how he can cope too.’

It was the nearest she would allow herself to come in expressing an opinion about the handsome young curate who was, everybody agreed, all set for a bishopric one day.

‘We have a new lay sister ourselves,’ Sister Joan said, remembering. ‘Sister Jerome from our London house.’

‘Jerome. Jerome.’ Mrs Fairly frowned slightly. ‘Now where have I—? Never mind, it’ll come to me, I daresay. Bring your tea into the dining-room Sister. I’ll just check on the oven and add a few more mushrooms for Father Timothy and then join you.’

The dining-room at the other side of the hall with the parlour leading out of it was lined with bookshelves. Glancing at the crowded, much-thumbed volumes, Sister Joan wondered where Father Timothy was going to fit in the books he’d brought with him.

‘Here you are, Sister!’ The object of her musings came in, looking round with the interest of a newcomer.

‘There’s a cup of tea for you, Father.’ Sister Joan handed it to him. ‘Do you take milk and sugar?’

‘Not in Lent, Sister.’ The sandy brows drew together in disapproval.

‘Oh. Yes, of course, Father.’ Sister Joan looked rather guiltily into her own cup.

‘Mrs Fairly mentioned a mixed grill.’ Father Timothy had lowered his voice. ‘Not meat during Lent?’

‘It’ll be grilled herrings with mushrooms, tomatoes and sauté potatoes,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Mrs Fairly knows the rules so well that Father Malone says she could probably advise His Holiness on doctrine.’

The jest had made everybody smile in the convent. Father Timothy merely looked uncomfortable.

‘Father Stephens will be along any time now,’ Mrs Fairly said, bustling in. ‘Shall I unpack for you, Father?’

‘Thank you, but I prefer to do it myself,’ he said stiffly.

‘I have to get back.’ Sister Joan put down her cup and saucer. ‘It was nice to meet you, Father Timothy.’

‘Thank you, Sister Joan. No doubt I will be visiting the convent in due course.’ His handshake was brief and limp.

‘I’ll see you out, Sister.’ Mrs Fairly went ahead to open the door. ‘You’ll give my regards to Mother Dorothy? I suppose you’ll be assigned other duties now the new lay sister has come?’

‘Not yet,’ Sister Joan said. ‘At the moment I’m supposed to be making myself generally useful.’

‘Sister Jerome.’ Mrs Fairly screwed up her eyes and
peered into the middle distance over Sister Joan’s shoulder. ‘I’ll recall where I heard that name if I don’t consciously think about it. Good morning, Sister. Drive carefully.’

She undoubtedly sent Father Malone off every morning with the same injunction, Sister Joan thought, as she went down the path and turned back towards the station.

In Father’s case there was good reason for such a warning since the mild little man laboured under the delusion that he was an undiscovered racing driver and flung his ageing vehicle about with the beatific smile of one who believes he’s an expert.

Unlocking the door of the convent car, sliding her small, trim person behind the wheel, Sister Joan hoped her own standards of driving were somewhat higher. Still it was nice to know that somebody cared. Mrs Fairly, whom she scarcely knew at all, was a pleasant woman. She wondered how she’d get on with the fresh out of the seminary Father Timothy. And how on earth would Father Timothy react to the urbane Father Stephens who wore his cassock as if it were a silk robe and filled his sermons with obscure quotations?

‘It’s nothing to do with me anyway,’ Sister Joan informed her reflection in the driving mirror, turning off on to the moorland road that wound its wide, dusty ribbon between the high banks of winter bleached heather and gorse.

She would have liked the excuse to drive over to the Romany camp and ask after her former pupils but she had no valid reason for going there, so put the desire to the back of her mind, and concentrated on the faults she’d be confessing soon at the Sacrament of Penance. After seven years as a religious the list of her faults seemed to get longer, she thought wryly. Not that there were any serious infringements of the rule to regret. Instead there were a multitude of small omissions, tiny
deviations from the practice of charity and obedience, like pebbles in a wall which would be washed away from the solid base and cause the wall itself to tumble if she didn’t take care.

A tall figure shambled across the track, causing her to brake sharply.

‘Luther, take care!’ She slowed further, putting her head out of the window to shout a warning.