The Christmas Angel (16 page)

Now, away in the east, the world’s rim flames and dazzles and suddenly the whole landscape burns into brilliance as the sun rides up clear of the earth. The garden is a magic place: trembling with a soft radiance; flashing with jewelled brightness; filled with the pure, unearthly sound of mounting notes and trills and cadences as other birds join the thrush to welcome the morning.

The dogs come back to her, pushing against her cheerfully, eyes bright, and she bends to stroke them.

‘Much too early for breakfast,’ she murmurs, ignoring John the Baptist’s hopeful gaze. He sits down and offers his paw. ‘Well,’ she relents, ‘perhaps a tiny biccie each while I have my tea.’

Back in the kitchen she leans against the Aga waiting for the kettle to boil, thinking about Dossie. Every instinct tells Mo that there is a new man in Dossie’s life: she can recognize the signs and she is anxious. At first it presented itself as a wonderful prospect – Dossie is so happy, almost
effervescent
– but now, with Adam asking questions about wills and their future plans, she can see complications. Just supposing Dossie
has
found the right man at last, and she suddenly decided to set up a new home with him – or move in with him – then Pa’s newest idea, that The Court should be left to Dossie, might not be such a good one after all. If Dossie doesn’t want to live at The Court then there is no good reason why it shouldn’t be left equally to her and Adam.

Mo spoons tea into the tea-holder and puts it into the large blue and white Whittard’s teapot. But just supposing the relationship doesn’t work out? After all, none of the previous attempts has been successful. Well, then: if she and Pa died Dossie could still use her share of the proceeds from the sale of The Court to buy a place of her own. And if one of them or both of them were still alive then she can simply come home again. But how terrible if, by then, The Court had already been sold and Dossie couldn’t come back to it; and, of course, it wouldn’t be there for Clem or Jakey if they should need it.

The kettle boils and Mo makes the tea, caught up again in the tangle and anxiety of her indecision. Pa is getting tired of these endless discussions. He wants to leave The Court to Dossie and all other disposable assets to Adam, and that is that. The trouble is, she doesn’t dare tell Pa that she believes that there is a new man in Dossie’s life. He would charge in at once, questioning her. If only she could tell what lay ahead then they could make this final important decision. Leaving The Court to Dossie only makes sense if things go on exactly as they are now.

John the Baptist’s tail begins to beat upon the floor; the door opens and Pa comes in.

‘So there you are,’ he says. ‘Woke up and wondered where you’d gone. It’s a bit early for you, isn’t it?’

‘It was the thrush,’ she says, reaching for a mug from the dresser so as to pour him some tea. ‘Its singing was just so beautiful and the sunrise was magical. I simply couldn’t stay in bed. And, anyway, we used to be up early with the B and B-ers, didn’t we? Six, at the latest.’

He sits down opposite, yawning, hair on end. ‘God, I miss it,’ he says. ‘All the coming and going. Kept us young, Mo.’

‘I don’t miss certain bits of it,’ says Mo more cautiously, ‘but I agree that it seems very quiet sometimes.’ She watches him compassionately: he is alert and fit. Only the tremor in his right hand – a legacy from the stroke – betrays the fact that he is not as young as he looks. ‘We’ll invite a few of the old chums down again this summer. Dossie’ll fix it.’

‘I know she will.’ He picks up his mug, holding it with both hands, elbow on the table to give him security and disguise the shaking. ‘So what’s she up to, Mo?’

She starts, almost spilling her own tea, and he snorts derisively.

‘Did you think I hadn’t noticed? Dashing about like a demented chicken that’s just won the lottery. Never letting that damned mobile phone out of her reach. Always peering at it and checking it. Hurrying out when she gets a text. I’m not blind. It’s a man, I suppose.’

‘I hope so,’ says Mo drily. ‘It usually is.’

They look at each other anxiously.

‘Not very good timing,’ he observes, ‘in view of our new plans. Of course, it might be nothing.’

‘It’s never “nothing” with Dossie. She’s always so wholehearted when it comes to men,’ says Mo, resigned. ‘But there’s nothing we can do until she’s ready to tell us.’

‘We can ask her,’ Pa says. He brightens at the prospect. ‘Why not? It’s normal to take an interest in one’s child.’

‘She’s not a child,’ says Mo at once. ‘That’s just the point. Just because she lives with us doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t respect her privacy.’

‘But you worry about her,’ he says cunningly, ‘don’t you, my darling? Isn’t it best to make certain that she’s not doing anything foolish?’

Mo looks at him narrowly. ‘Don’t try to wheedle me. And don’t you dare to say a word to her.’

‘Oh, really!’ Pa rolls his eyes; sighs weightily. Suspecting ructions, John the Baptist struggles into a sitting position and watches him warily.

‘Look,’ Mo says, ‘I know we want to make the decision: get it all settled. I want it just as much as you do. It’s just that it’s a bit tricky leaving The Court to Dossie, only to find that she’s about to settle down somewhere else. After all, if we leave it to Dossie and her new man, why not to Adam and his new woman?’

‘Exactly my point!’ Pa exclaims in a kind of whispered shout. They’ve both instinctively lowered their voices, leaning across the table towards each other. ‘That’s why we should have it out with her.’

John the Baptist’s tail begins to beat against the table leg and Mo and Pa instinctively turn towards the door. Dossie comes in. She wears pretty flowered pyjamas, her fair hair is fluffed up around her head and she looks radiantly happy.

‘What are you up to?’ she asks brightly. ‘Bit early, isn’t it, for plotting over the teapot?’

‘Plotting?’ begins Pa, flustered by her sudden entrance. ‘How d’you mean? Plotting?’

Mo kicks him, not gently. ‘You’re up early too,’ she says to
Dossie
. ‘Was it the thrush singing? He disturbed us and then we simply had to get up to see the sun rise. It was wonderful. We were just making plans for today, weren’t we, Pa? Deciding what to do.’

She stares at him, daring him to contradict her. He breathes in through his nose and pours some more tea, his lips tightly compressed. John the Baptist goes to sit beside him and lays his heavy head consolingly upon Pa’s knee.

‘So, then,’ says Dossie cheerfully, fetching a mug, pouring tea. ‘What are these plans for today?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ says Pa blandly. ‘How far had we got with the plans, Mo?’

Mo sits up straighter. Her eyes sparkle challengingly. ‘We decided that we’d go over to Chi-Meur, and have a chat with Clem, persuade him to make us some coffee, perhaps, and then go to the Eucharist. It’s so peaceful and the Sisters always love to see us. That was as far as we’d got, wasn’t it, darling?’

Pa, who has already decided on a delightful pottering sort of day in the garden, is silenced.

‘Sounds great,’ Dossie is saying. ‘And then you can have a pub lunch and take the dogs for a walk on the cliff.’

‘And what about
you
?’ asks Pa suddenly, ignoring Mo’s look of warning. ‘What are
your
plans? Anything exciting?’

‘Take some freezer meals over to a holiday cottage at Port Gaverne,’ she answers. ‘Make some phone calls to clients. Work out a menu for a lunch party. Catch up on a bit of paperwork. Usual sort of day. I thought you were working in the garden today, Pa, rather than going off on a jolly.’

‘So did I,’ says Pa grimly.

‘Plenty of time for both,’ says Mo brightly. ‘You can easily get a couple of hours in before we go off to Chi-Meur. Better
hurry
up and get some clothes on, though.’ She beams upon him. ‘You can take first go in the shower. What luck that the thrush woke us so early, wasn’t it?’

‘I wonder now,’ says Clem, ‘whether I got it all wrong. I should have continued with my training.’ He glances at Father Pascal, hoping for a response but the old priest remains silent. ‘The problem was,’ he continues almost defensively, ‘it just seemed utterly crazy with a baby. Even with a nanny, and I’m not sure how on earth
that
would have worked in a theological college. The distractions would have made studying and working impossible.’

There is a longer silence. Sunlight slants through the cottage window, picking out the colours of the books on the shelves and sliding over the paintings on the walls.

‘Why, then,’ asks Father Pascal placidly at last, ‘do you feel that you got it wrong?’

Clem sighs; a kind of angry, groaning sound. ‘Because I can’t see where I’m going. I love it here, actually, but I’ve never seen it as my life’s work. I thought something would evolve out of it. Something to show me clearly where I should be going.’

‘But how do you know it won’t?’

Clem leans forward in his chair, staring at his hands clasped between his knees. ‘I suppose all this worry about what will happen at Chi-Meur is unsettling. I thought that I’d have the time, you see, to make a plan rather than just waiting for the blow to fall.’

‘But waiting is essential to the spiritual life. And waiting on God demands patience. But it need not be a passive patience as if you’re waiting for the rain to stop, or a bus to come along. We wait in expectation, living each moment
fully
in the present. You know that as disciples we are always waiting. During Advent we wait for the birth of Jesus, at Easter we wait for the Resurrection and now, during Pentecost, we wait for the coming of the Spirit. You know this, Clem.’

‘It’s not just me, though,’ Clem protests. ‘I have to think about Jakey too. I don’t intend to stay on here if Chi-Meur becomes a hotel, even if Mr Brewster were to offer it. I think I’d like to go back to college but I don’t know how I’d manage it with Jakey.’

‘Would you consider leaving Jakey with Dossie and Mo and Pa during the term-times? Would they be able to cope?’

‘I don’t know. He’d have to change schools, of course, but he’d have to do that anyway if I went back to Oxford. And I couldn’t afford a nanny for him this time.’

‘And afterwards? How do you see your ministry?’

Clem sits back in his chair. He relaxes; his attractive bony face brightens. ‘Well, what I
have
discovered is that I love Chi-Meur best when it’s packed with guests and retreatants. The vibes are terrific. And people talk to me, you know, when they see me around and it’s utterly amazing to talk to people who regard a conversation about God as normal. Some of them are just so strong in their faith and others have been shaken by some disaster and are dithering, and they sometimes wander round with me as I work and we discuss it.’

Father Pascal studies him thoughtfully; he knows that some of the guests have spoken with great respect of Clem. ‘Have you ever considered being a chaplain?’ he asks.

Clem stares at him. ‘What, in the Services, d’you mean?’

Father Pascal shrugs. His shrug is a Gallic one: shoulders, hands, even his face shrugs. ‘Not necessarily. There are other
kinds
of chaplaincy. Universities, prisons, hospitals, retreat houses. They all have chaplains.’

Clem thinks about it. ‘A retreat house,’ he answers at last. ‘That would be really good. Are there many? You mean like Lee Abbey over on Exmoor?’

‘That kind of thing. I’m not certain how many there are but I know one or two that are attached to monasteries …’

The thought occurs to them at exactly the same moment: they stare at each other.

‘A retreat house,’ Clem says softly. ‘Why not? Could it be done?’

Father Pascal can hardly speak; his heart hammers. ‘It must be done. This …
this
, Clem, is what we have been waiting for, I feel sure of it.’

Without being aware of rising they are on their feet, almost breathless with excitement.

‘But how does it start?’ asks Clem. ‘Who would actually run it? What has to be done?’

‘Much,’ is the answer. ‘But it’s so right. You feel it too?’

Clem nods. ‘Will the Sisters agree?’

Another shrug. ‘If it is right. Go away now, Clem. I need to be alone. To think and to pray. You do the same. I shall be up to the Eucharist later and we’ll speak again then.’

Clem nods, glances at his watch. ‘Pa and Mo are coming over,’ he says. ‘I must dash anyway.’ He hesitates. ‘But it will be OK, won’t it? I mean, it’s just such a perfect answer.’

He looks almost beseeching, and for a brief moment Father Pascal is reminded of Jakey pleading for some treat. He touches the tall figure lightly on the shoulder.

‘Go and see Pa and Mo,’ he says gently. ‘Come to the Eucharist and pray for guidance but don’t speak of it yet to anyone.’

He opens the front door. Clem ducks beneath the low beam, exchanges one last excited look with the old priest, and hurries away up the steep hill to Chi-Meur.

‘Butterfly cakes,’ Dossie says, ‘because I’ve been doing a children’s party. But I thought that we needed a moment. We haven’t had one for ages, have we? Gosh, the lavender smells wonderful.’

She gives the cake tin to Janna and bends to run her fingers through the lavender’s scented spikes. The caravan seems to rest amongst a flowerbed: pots of varying sizes and shapes containing herbs and flowers are piled around its base. Dossie touches first this one and then that, pausing to sniff luxuriously at her fingers. Janna watches, delighted to see her: in her faded jeans and baggy white cotton shirt Dossie looks young and pretty and happy.

‘I love butterfly cakes,’ Janna says. ‘And the timing is just right. We’ve got some oblates staying and they’re giving me a bit of a holiday by taking on some of the work, so I’ve got a day off. Cuppa?’

‘Mmm, yes, please. Camomile and lemon would be good with the cakes.’ She straightens up and looks at Janna. ‘How are you?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ She tries to conceal her anxiety about Chi-Meur, about her future, knowing that Dossie has no idea of what is happening. ‘’Tis good to have a bit of help. The people who come here are just amazing, you know. ’Tis like they’re part of the community. Like family. ’Course, they’ve been coming for years so I suppose they
are
family. Hang on, I’ll get the kettle on.’