Vow of Chastity (4 page)

Sister Joan strolled towards her, attitude casual.

‘It is a lovely view, isn’t it?’ she said, reaching the child’s side. ‘When I am troubled I like to stand and look out over the grass and the heather to where the land meets the sky. It makes my own worries seem very small.’

‘Does it, Sister?’ A polite, indifferent little voice, the profile unyielding.

Sister Joan sighed, saying, ‘You are still settling in here, I daresay. In a few weeks it will feel as if you’ve always lived here. Let me see. Your parents took over Farren Farm, didn’t they?’

‘Yes, Sister.’

‘Do your parents like the district? It must seem very quiet after the city.’ The Olives weren’t farmers but had come originally from up north somewhere. The child still had the flat vowel sounds of Lancashire in her voice,
though they were scarcely perceptible. She came from what might be termed an upper-class background, Sister Joan thought, remembering the slim, stylish woman who had brought Samantha to school.

‘My husband has a fancy to write a book or something of that nature.’ Mrs Olive had possessed a languid, die-away voice. Her eyes, green between mascara’d lashes, had held a tolerant amusement at the idea of her husband writing a book. Or that was how Sister Joan had interpreted it at the time, feeling a sudden sympathy for the absent Mr Olive. Now she wondered if Mrs Olive hadn’t been laughing at her, a woman the same age as herself but so differently clad in an ankle-length grey habit with short white veil and white wimple, her legs encased in black tights and sensible laced shoes, the narrow gold band on her left hand a symbol of her spiritual marriage. In contrast Mrs Olive wore a suit that was probably a Chanel with a green scarf that echoed her eyes, her long ash blonde hair coiled and folded like wings at the back of her sleek head. Only her skin detracted from her looks, pitted with the tiny marks of severe teenage acne. Sister Joan had instinctively put up her hand to her own smooth, glowing complexion and then felt ashamed. Personal vanity had no place in the life of a Sister of the Order of the Daughters of Compassion.

‘It would be possible for me to take Samantha to the school in Bodmin but I like the idea of a little rural school,’ Mrs Olive had continued. ‘It will ease her more gradually into country life.’

‘She is eleven, isn’t she?’ Sister Joan had frowned slightly. ‘You know, she has to go to the State School when she’s twelve at the latest. We simply don’t have the staff or the facilities here to provide a complete senior education.’

‘A couple of terms will suffice.’ Mrs Olive had sounded more bored than ever. ‘Our au pair will be dropping her off every morning and picking her up in the afternoon.’

Now, glancing at the child’s remote little profile,
Sister Joan said, ‘Is everything all right at home, Samantha? Your parents are well?’

‘Yes, thank you, Sister.’

‘And you like it here? With the other children?’ Getting information was like wading through deep mud with heavy boots on.

‘I like it very much, Sister.’

For the first time there was a lilt in the cool, dry voice, a quick flash of a smile.

‘You don’t have any brothers and sisters, do you?’ Sister Joan said.

Samantha shook her head briefly.

‘Then it must be pleasant for you to have companions,’ Sister Joan said, wondering where to go from there. Was there, indeed, anywhere to go? There was no accounting for the direction a young
imagination
might take. She recalled that as a schoolgirl herself she had spent one whole summer copying the epitaphs from gravestones and lulling herself to sleep with pleasant fantasies of herself, suitably pale and beautiful, dying of a broken heart or sliding into a decline like Beth in
Little
Women.

‘Oh yes, Sister,’ said Samantha.

‘Then perhaps we ought to start a game or something,’ Sister Joan said, conceding victory to her – ridiculous to think of an eleven-year-old Kid as an opponent. She reached out, took a small, limp, unresponsive hand and started back towards the others, saying in the loudly hearty tones of a particular games mistress she recalled from her own schooldays.

‘We’ll be indoors again soon enough, so let’s play rounders for a while. Conrad, go into the cupboard and bring out the stumps. Billy, you help him. We can mark out the ground with a bit of chalk.’

To her relief something like childish enthusiasm returned to the children. For the next half hour they ran, hit out at the ball, argued scores like normal youngsters. Which, she reminded herself firmly, was exactly what they were. This unusual meekness was a phase and instead of worrying about it she ought to be
thanking her stars that she had managed to instil the rudiments of good conduct into so diverse a group.

‘You were out that time, Samantha.’ She pulled her thoughts back to the present, waving towards the girl.

‘She was in,’ David said. ‘She was in, Sister.’

‘No, dear. She was definitely run out,’ Sister Joan said.

‘Was I?’ Samantha asked not her own side but the opposing side. There was the earnest desire to know on her small, plain face.

The Romanies shifted their feet, hesitating. Then Hagar called, ‘In. Samantha was in.’

‘Out,’ said Sister Joan and was instantly engulfed in protest from both sides.

‘All right, all right. In, if you insist,’ she said at last in exasperation, ‘but if this is a ploy to spin out break time it won’t work because I’d already decided to make this a games period anyway.’

And don’t forget to make a note of that for your next general confession, she advised herself silently.

Samantha’s team won which was hardly surprising since Samantha herself was never run out even by the long legged Petroc, and her wildest swipes at the ball were all acclaimed as hits. Perhaps it was the children’s way of making a newcomer feel welcome, but Samantha had already been at the school for several weeks, and in any case Sister Joan had never before noticed any signs of excessive kindness to new pupils in any of the others. For the moment the riddle would have to remain.

The dinner-hour and the rest of the afternoon passed. The children ate their sandwiches and drank the cups of tea that she brewed up on the table at the back of the classroom – it ought to have been milk, she supposed, and made a mental note to order more. She talked about Sir Philip Sidney with the uneasy feeling that despite her efforts most of the boys still regarded him as a bit of a sissy; set the older ones to labelling some blank maps while she gathered the little ones around for a simple spelling bee; reminded them about the project she’d mentioned earlier, and saw the hands of the clock
stand at 3.30 with more relief than she’d have thought possible at the beginning of the day.

‘Time for the afternoon prayer, children.’ Her tone was joyful.

‘A simple morning and afternoon prayer, Sister Joan‚’ Mother Dorothy had instructed. ‘Not all the children are Catholics. Nothing unconventional or novel.’

The children rose, virtue shining on their faces. Too much virtue for small souls to bear. She composed her own face, bowed her head, recited the short prayer and crossed herself, some of the children following suit. Samantha, she noticed, was not among them. There was no surprise in that since the Olives weren’t Catholic. All the Romany children crossed themselves though she suspected that they all forgot their Catholicism the moment they were out of the school door.

Hooting from the track announced the arrival of the pick-up truck in which some of her pupils rode home. Further off a sleek car had drawn up. Samantha headed towards it, not running and tumbling but walking sedately. A nicely brought up child, Sister Joan reflected, and turned to greet the wiry dark man who jumped down from the truck.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Lee. I haven’t seen you in quite a while.’ She shook the hard, dark hand.

‘Been inside, ain’t I?’ the man said. ‘Three months of picking up something that the magistrates wouldn’t have paid ten pence for on a good day. Injustice.’

‘It fell off the back of a lorry, I suppose?’

‘Aye, something of that nature.’ He grinned, one rebel acknowledging another. ‘You know, Sister, I’ve told you before if you ever need anything cheap – cigarettes now –’

‘I don’t smoke.’

‘And quite right too, Sister. Nasty, unhealthy habit,’ he agreed. ‘But if you ever were to fancy a nip of whisky, say? Just tip me the wink.’

‘If I ever do I will,’ she promised, ‘but it’s doubtful. It’s very doubtful, Mr Lee.’

‘Well, if you do, let me know. Come on, kids. Home’s
the word. Hope they’ve been good, Sister.’

‘Perfectly good‚’ Sister Joan said.

‘Then there’s mischief brewing‚’ said Mr Lee. ‘Depend on it, Sister.’

He saluted her and turned to chivvy the Romanies into the truck. Further off Samantha had reached the car and ducked into the back seat. The au pair brought her and picked her up every day. Sister Joan had glimpsed blonde hair and a very short skirt and allowed herself to wonder briefly if Mr or Mrs Olive had engaged her. Not that it was any of her business.

The other children went out, running and shouting. At least their docility didn’t carry on after school hours, she thought. Didn’t carry on once Samantha Olive was out of the way. Silly to think there could possibly be a connection.

Tidying the classroom, wiping the board, took only a few minutes. She locked up, went to the lean-to shed to get Lilith who greeted her with a whinny of pleasure. She would ask for permission to visit the children’s parents, she decided. To call upon the Olives alone would be to pick out Samantha, focus attention on her. There was no need to lie to Mother Dorothy. The project she had envisaged might well lead to a small exhibition, a Parents’ Day, something of that nature, and the parents themselves might well be involved.

Mounting up, thinking of the trousers that had been promised with renewed gratitude, she rode back to the convent. Around her the moors were quick and green, with the wild harebells that carpeted them already dancing in the breeze and the berries of the rowan tiny rubies against the darker green.

The convent had been a stately home for the local squires. She never tired of that first gracious view of the mullioned windows sparkling in the grey, ivy clad stone, the high enclosure wall where honeysuckle hung its yellow-cream fingers with their tips of scarlet. Her Mother House, where she had done her postulancy, her novitiate, been received for first temporary and then final vows, had stood in a narrow street. From the
garden at the back she had seen only the sky with no open vistas. With luck she would spend the rest of her life here, be laid finally to rest in the convent cemetery where other nuns slept their deep and dreamless slumbers.

Dismounting at the main gates, always held hospitably open, she looped Lilith’s rein over her arm and walked up the drive, trying to attain the happy medium between unseemly haste and idle loitering. After her recent shocking transgressions it behoved her to move carefully. Her mouth quirked into an irrepressible grin as she recalled the shock on the other faces as she made her confession. Her faults had certainly put everybody else’s in the shade – which was certainly no cause for self congratulation.

‘Did you have a good day, Sister Joan?’

The prioress again. Mother Dorothy, despite her age, was not the sort of woman who sat in her own quarters, and letting the even tenor of convent routine flow around her was clearly inimical to her nature. She preferred to bustle round with it – unless she had decided to keep a close eye on Sister Joan for fear she take it into her head to do something really scandalous.

‘A very good day, thank you, Mother Dorothy.’

‘Don’t forget to get yourself measured for the riding trousers.’ The sharp face peered up at her from between the rounded shoulders.

‘No, Mother. Thank you, Mother.’

‘They are for modesty’s sake,’ Mother Dorothy said severely, ‘not a personal indulgence.’

‘Of course not, Mother.’

‘Lilith enjoys her outings, I think.’ The other stroked the velvety nose. ‘Of course her name is most unfortunate – but then as she was named a long time ago I daresay she would not respond to anything new.’

‘She doesn’t always respond to her own name,’ Sister Joan said, with a grin. ‘This old mare can be obstinate when she’s a mind.’

‘Then you must suit each other very well,’ Mother Dorothy said, the dryness of her tone indicating a joke.

‘Mother, would it be possible for me to visit the parents of my pupils?’ Sister Joan took advantage of the momentary relaxation.

‘For what reason?’

Sister Joan explained carefully about the project she had in mind.

‘Rather ambitious, don’t you think?’ The prioress frowned. ‘Will it advance their education?’

‘I believe so, Mother. To learn something about local history will make them use their eyes and ears more alertly, and of course as there will be some extra work involved – some of the children will require some help from their parents. And if there is to be a Parents’ Day, naturally I would appreciate the co-operation of the adults.’

‘If it doesn’t interfere with your religious life, Sister, then I have no objection,’ her Superior said. ‘In fact the idea appeals to me. So few children come to the school now and the value of the original Trust Fund has not kept pace with modern inflation, that within the year I may close the school altogether.’

‘Yes, Mother Dorothy.’

Though it was news she had expected she was unable to summon a smile.

‘We shall find some other useful occupation for you, Sister,’ the prioress said.

‘Thank you, Mother.’ Sister Joan led Lilith into the stable.

Feeding the mare, rubbing her down, washing her own hands took up the next half hour. It was past 4.30. At this hour the Sisters were generally in their cells, examining their consciences. Sister Joan turned instead in the direction of the chapel. She hadn’t lied to Mother Dorothy about the reason she wished to visit the parents but she had certainly withheld a part of the truth, if it was truth and not merely her own overstrained imagination. Remembering her dream of the previous night she feared that some very odd things were going on in her subconscious.