Finishing Touches (4 page)

No doubt the divine David would be there. What a gorgeous man he was. Perfect for Cassie. Judy sighed, wishing that she and Drew were as close as Cassie and David. But her husband was always
out. Flitting here and there. Entertaining clients. Going to rugby matches, playing squash. Drew had never subscribed to the notion that marriage was a partnership. She sighed again, deeply.

‘Are you listening to me?’ her mother demanded furiously, reminding Judy that she was still on the phone.

‘Of course, Mother. But I’m afraid I have to go now. Andrew will be home soon and I want to pop his dinner in the microwave. I’ll see you some evening next week.’

‘Next week!’ shrieked Angela.

‘Next week,’ said Judy firmly, hanging up the phone. Smiling at her bravery, she walked towards her bedroom to decide what she would wear to Cassie’s launch. If Drew
didn’t come, well, too bad. She was a woman of the Nineties now; she could walk into a party alone.

Nothing is so strong as gentleness, and nothing is so gentle as real strength.

Ralph W Sockman

The last few chapters were always the worst, the grind almost over, the end in sight. David Williams sighed as he typed up the chapter heading ‘The Resignation.’
More of a push than a resignation, he reflected, as his fingers flew over the keys of his word processor. Margaret Thatcher’s going had certainly been ignominious. But then, that was politics
for you.

He typed steadily, referring to the files of notes on his desk as he required them. David had been working on this biography for the previous two years and was ahead of the posse. It
didn’t stop his publishers from putting on the pressure, though, and he was beginning to feel extremely weary.

It was at times like this that he understood why his marriage to Danielle had broken up. He found it hard to live with
himself
when he was nearing the final stages of writing a
book.

Cassie had coped with it, but then Cassie Jordan was no ordinary woman. David smiled thinking about her. Meeting Cassie Jordan had been the best thing that ever happened to him, that and buying
his little haven in Port Mahon. Was it fate that had brought him to her home town? God knows. All he knew was that he loved this beautiful gutsy woman and she loved him.

The chiming of his grandfather clock startled him out of his reverie. Eleven-thirty already and he still had a couple of thousand words to go to get his quota in. As soon as his manuscript was
safely in the hands of his editor, he was taking Cassie away for a week, at least. If he had his way, he’d take her away for six months, but this business of hers was consuming her and if he
got her to agree to a week’s holidays, he’d be lucky. She had been through a hell of a lot and God knows she needed the break. Still, he had never seen her look so well. That awful
drawn pallor was gone and her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm and vivacity, now that she had determined to put the past behind her and said to hell with Barbara and the rest of them.

David’s mouth tightened into a grim line as he thought of Barbara and the grief she had caused Cassie. Barbara Jordan Murray was a bitch who thought she was a top-notch journalist, when in
reality she was just a third-rate hackette writing for a third-rate excuse for a paper. If she didn’t make him so angry over her treatment of Cassie, David would have found her amusing. She
was pathetic, really, with her airs and graces. Cassie might forgive her for her past behaviour but David knew
he
wouldn’t. Nobody treated Cassie the way that woman had and got away
with it. If she
were
at the launch of
Finishing Touches
, although he doubted she would be, David would be keeping an eye on her. She knew better than to take him on and he
fully intended to keep things that way. From now on, Cassie Jordan was going to do whatever she wanted with no interference from members of her family. He’d make damn sure of that.

‘Girls! Girls!
Girls!
’ Mother Perpetua’s stentorian tones belied the little nun’s frail appearance. The entire class of 3S gave a great
communal sigh.

Mother Perpetua harangued the thirty girls standing on the steps of the stage in front of her. ‘You’re like limp lettuce-leaves. For goodness sake, girls, put a bit of enthusiasm
into it. I had 2H here an hour ago and they were superb. You’re not going to let a class of second years do better than you, surely!’

Cassie suppressed a yawn. Today she just wasn’t in the humour for choir practice.

‘Catherine Jordan, am I
boring
you?’ the choir-mistress snapped.

‘No, Mother,’ Cassie said hastily, not wishing to draw the wrath of Mother Perpetua down on her. Mother Perpetua was one of the most feared nuns in Saint Imelda’s College.

‘Well, straighten up, girl, and stop yawning. And that goes for the rest of you, too.’ She waved her baton imperiously. ‘Listen to how I want the second line sung. Queen of the
Ang . . . els . . . Draw it out, please.’

‘Queen of the Ang . . . els,’ 3S sang dutifully.

‘That’s better!’ approved Mother Perpetua. ‘Once again from the beginning.’

Not again, thought Cassie wearily. They must have sung the hymn twenty times already and she was heartily sick of it. It was so warm in the concert hall. The noonday sun shone in through the
stained-glass windows, dappling the heads of 3S in a rainbow of pinks and greens and purples. The heat was making them even more lethargic than they would normally be on a Friday. Usually Cassie
loved Fridays. Choir before lunch, after lunch a double cookery class and religion with Sister Eileen, who was their favourite nun. Then they were free for the weekend. Hearing the bell go at
four-fifteen on a Friday was wonderful.

A trickle of perspiration dampened Cassie’s neck where the collar of her cream cotton blouse was bound by her blue school tie. Opening the top button, Cassie loosened her tie a little.
That was better. It was an awful nuisance having to wear a tie. It must be terrible for men having to wear them all the time. At least she could get rid of hers after school. A bee droned lazily
against one of the windows and the heavy scent of lilac and wallflowers wafted in on the breeze. She was looking forward to her stroll around the nuns’ garden with Laura, her best friend. It
would be so much nicer than being stuck in here with the sun shining on their red faces, watching Mother Perpetua waving her baton around pretending she was Leonard Bernstein or some other great
conductor.

Laura had looked terribly worried that morning and had been late for school, which was most unlike her. Cassie knew something was up. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, as discreetly
as she could. ‘You’ve a face as long as a fiddle.’

As Laura took her place beside her friend during French, she whispered, ‘Something’s happened. I’ll tell you at lunchtime. I don’t want the rest of them to know.’
Poor Laura, she thought; she was always having hassle at home. Where Cassie was the eldest in her family, Laura was the youngest in hers. Both positions brought their own problems. Ah well, she
would hear all about Laura’s latest problem in an hour or so.

Five sharp rings of the bell interrupted Cassie’s reverie and grins of relief passed along the three lines of ten pupils on the steps of the stage as the girls recognized Mother
Perpetua’s call sign. What a stroke of luck, her getting a call in the middle of class. It so rarely happened.

‘Girls, I have to leave you for a few moments. Please excuse me and remain quiet until I return.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ they chorused.

They obeyed her command for five minutes and then, stretching limbs, they started chattering happily as they let off steam. Aileen O’Shaughnessy, the class wit, and one of the most popular
girls in the school, leapt off the stage, fastened her cardigan under her chin in imitation of a veil and picked up Mother Perpetua’s baton. ‘Girls, you’re like limp
lettuce-leaves,’ she announced in perfect mimicry of the little nun. ‘Straighten up, please. Button those cardigans!’

‘Like this, Mother?’ giggled Margy Kane, buttoning her cardigan on to that of her neighbour.

‘What other way does one button one’s cardigan?’ Reverend Mother Aileen enquired haughtily as, giggling and skitting, the rest of them followed suit until they were all
attached. ‘Now, girls, I know it’s a little out of season but I think we should sing our class anthem.’

A wild cheer greeted this pronouncement as, with a frenzy of baton-waving, Reverend Mother Aileen began to conduct and the class began to sing.

‘More enthusiasm, girls!’ screeched the mad conductor, twirling below them, the sleeves of her cardigan waving wildly around her head.

‘
’Tis the season to be jolly
,’ the rest of the class yelled, giving it their all, thoroughly enjoying themselves. Cassie, jolted pleasantly out of her weary stupor,
was singing as loudly as any of them. Even Laura, attached to her by her cardigan buttons, was laughing heartily beside her.

‘
Stuff Perpetua’s hole with holly
,’ they bellowed lustily, so intent upon their fun that they did not see the petite figure of the nun slip through the big mahogany
doors at the end of the concert hall.

‘How dare you!
How dare you!
’ Mother Perpetua trembled with anger before them. Aileen halted in mid-twirl, her mouth an O of dismay. The others stood stunned, trying to
smother their horrified giggles at the sight of Aileen, with her cardigan around her head, baton frozen in the air as she stared at the furious nun.

‘You brazen hussy, Aileen O’Shaughnessy. But what can you expect from free education? It’s the likes of you and riff-raff like you, the dregs of society, Aileen
O’Shaughnessy, that’s what you and this . . . ’ She turned to face the rest of the class. ‘ . . . this crowd of juvenile delinquents are. You are not fit to wear the uniform
of Saint Imelda’s. Guttersnipes! Guttersnipes, the lot of you. Up to the big parlour with you. We’ll see what Reverend Mother has to say about this!’

In the horror of the moment, forgetting that they were attached to one another by cardigan buttons, the class of 3S made to leave
en masse
. Blue buttons popped all over the floor as
bodies became entangled and Mother Perpetua, almost apoplectic with temper, stabbed at those nearest her with the baton she had grabbed from Aileen.

Ten minutes later thirty girls stood under the cold eye of Reverend Mother Patrick, the principal of Saint Imelda’s.

‘Aileen O’Shaughnessy, as you seem to be the ringleader you will repeat for me the . . . ditty . . . you were singing when Mother Perpetua caught you.’

‘Me, Reverend Mother!’ protested Aileen, with wide-eyed innocence.

‘You, Miss O’Shaughnessy.’

Cassie bit her lip at the sight of Aileen looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. She was petrified she was going to laugh, even though they were all in serious trouble.
Beside her, she could feel Laura trembling with the effort not to break into hysterical giggles.

‘I couldn’t, Reverend Mother,’ their classmate said.

‘Why not, pray?’ Reverend Mother Patrick enquired coldly.

‘I’ve forgotten the words,’ Aileen said weakly.

‘Repeat it!’ came the stern command.

‘It’s a bit . . . vulgar . . .’

‘Immediately, if you please.’

Taking a deep breath, Aileen stood up straight, and, ever the actress, flung her head back and with perfect diction repeated every word right down to the final tra la la. 3S listened in
horrified admiration. A muscle jerked at the side of Reverend Mother Patrick’s mouth, but otherwise her face seemed carved out of stone.

‘Disgraceful. I’m shocked! Shocked at such vulgar unladylike behaviour. That girls of Saint Imelda’s should behave as you have is unthinkable.’ Her gaze swept over the
class like a cold shower. ‘You will apologize to Mother Perpetua and carry out whatever punishment she gives you and you will, all of you, come to school tomorrow morning. You will spend the
morning in complete silence, studying in the library. Another offence like this and you will all be expelled. Dismissed!’

Despondently the girls of 3S filed out, aghast at the thought of spending a precious Saturday morning in school. They were even more devastated to find that they had to write out the words of
the hymn they had been singing one hundred times. That was Mother Perpetua’s punishment.

In the big parlour, Reverend Mother Patrick wiped the tears of mirth from her eyes. She had never seen Perpetua so angry. That Aileen O’Shaughnessy was a hilarious character, just the sort
to give the bumptious choir-nun a run for her money. Pride comes before a fall and Mother Perpetua had plenty of pride. No wonder the girls made up such parodies. Heaven knows what they said about
her
. Reverend Mother Patrick had been running a school long enough to know that girls would be girls. Composing herself, she glided out of the big parlour, then began to walk as briskly as
dignity would allow.
The Woman in White
by Wilkie Collins was being dramatized on the radio and she had been following it. It was coming to an extremely exciting part that she didn’t
want to miss. Glancing right and left, she saw the corridors were empty. With a sigh of satisfaction Reverend Mother Patrick slipped through the door that divided the school and convent and headed
up to her private sitting-room.

The nuns’ garden was a haven of tranquillity. The lilac and cherry-blossom were in bloom and along the pathways beds of pansies and a host of other flowers lifted the
heart. The cares of the world always seemed to be left behind when one entered the nuns’ garden. No-one would ever dream of larking around there – that was an unspoken rule in Saint
Imelda’s. Boisterous behaviour was fine in the schoolyard and classrooms but the nuns’ garden was a place of peace where the nuns walked around saying their Rosaries silently to
themselves, the only sound the rhythmic clicking of the big wooden beads as they slipped through their fingers.