Vow of Chastity (6 page)

The old, pipe smoking woman who had made the sign against the evil eye in their direction had left the steps of her wagon and approached them. Close to she was even older than at first appeared, her face monkey wrinkled, what showed of her scant hair from beneath the coloured scarf a dirty white. On her hands a number of very beautiful and incredibly dirty rings gleamed in the setting sun.

‘Are you also named Hagar?’ Sister Joan asked, resisting the temptation to take a step backwards.

‘Hagar Boswell,’ the old woman nodded. ‘The Boswells was royalty once – Romany royalty. You heard of the Boswells?’

‘Yes indeed. My name is Sister Joan and this is Sister Margaret. We are from –’

‘I knows where you’m from,’ the old woman interrupted impatiently. ‘That convent place where them old maids is locked up.’

‘On the contrary we choose the life.’ Sister Joan prepared to argue.

‘More fools you then,’ Hagar Boswell said
contemptuously
. ‘Young Hagar Smith’s off again, preparing herself for a bad end – she’s her dad in her that one. Feckless. We’ve troubles enough without a couple of nuns bringing bad luck here. Evil we’ve got. Evil crawling and creeping.’

‘Oh, I hardly think so,’ Sister Margaret began.

‘Oh, I hardly think so.’ The other mocked her in a high, bitter voice. ‘Wrapped in cottonwool like babes come afore their due date you lot be. There’s evil here. Black evil, my fine ladies. If you don’t believe me then walk on to the willows and you’ll see.’

Muttering angrily she drew her shawl about her and went off, her scarved head bobbing up and down.

‘She is possibly a little touched in the head,’ Sister Margaret said in a low voice.

‘Possibly.’ Sister Joan stared after the retreating figure for a moment, then added, ‘All the same I think we ought to stroll on towards the willows.’

‘To seek out evil?’ Sister Margaret looked nervous. ‘Dear Sister Joan, do you think that entirely wise? We are taught that evil seeks us constantly.’

‘Then perhaps we ought not to flee but turn and face it,’ Sister Joan said.

‘Of course you are right.’ Sister Margaret looked unhappy. ‘Or perhaps we may find the poor old lady is a little lacking in her wits. So sweet of her to bless us.’

‘Bless us?’ As they continued their walk Sister Joan looked at her companion in some perplexity.

‘That curious gesture she made with finger and thumb – a Roman blessing, I suppose, and all the while being really rather discourteous.’

‘A Romany blessing – yes,’ Sister Joan said.

They were approaching the circle of willow strees that screened the pool from any casual glance. The setting sun still made a glory of the sky but their shadows were long and thin behind them on the trampled grass, and the trees seemed to lean together, the young cages of
their scarcely leaved branches stark against the landscape. Behind them lights had glowed forth in the windows of several caravans and the smell of cooking had grown stronger.

By mutual consent they had both fallen silent, their shoes quiet on the grass as it grew longer, starred with the pale lace of meadowsweet. At a little distance the splashing of water came to their ears. Sister Joan stepped on to a narrow path that wound down between the willows. At this point the trees were mixed with sturdy oak and ash, the latter trembled slightly as the rising wind caught its silvery leaves.

In the pool two figures were swimming, heads diving down, heels kicking upwards in flashes of spray and bare white skin. The two nuns paused, themselves shielded by the deep gloom cast by the trees, and looked at a scene of sylvan loveliness. The two young creatures in the water dived and broke the surface and dived again, then playfully wrestled like clumsy little bears, then shook water out of their eyes and dived again, becoming on the instant mermaid and merboy with legs straight as arrows and black hair streaming. At the other side of the pool the water shallowed and a rock broke the surface.

Hagar swam to it and mounted the stone, arms raised, ripe young breasts and hips dyed scarlet as the sun dipped lower. Petroc – it was Petroc, she saw – reached the rock and clung to it, head back, childish laughter changing to something else. Something pagan and primitive. Then the moment fled and he gripped her ankles and tumbled her into the water again, the two shapes becoming one as the silver of the pool became darker and was rayed by one beam from the climbing moon.

In complete silence the two nuns turned and walked back to the car, Sister Joan’s face dyed with colour. She craved palette and brush and canvas – anything to capture and hold that unearthly loveliness. She also craved oblivion. Of all the companions she might have had then Sister Margaret was the most unsuitable. Sister
Margaret had been so innocent and yet she had brought her here. If brandy were needed she rather feared the lay sister would be the one in need of it.

‘So wicked,’ Sister Margaret said, fumbling with the controls of the car once they were safely belted in.

‘Perhaps not wicked,’ Sister Joan said desperately.

‘It is a strong word, Sister, and perhaps I am wrong to use it,’ Sister Margaret said, ‘but I do feel quite strongly – of course the poor old lady is very likely touched in the head. But how one could so twist the playfulness of those two children – well, words fail me.’

At that moment words also failed Sister Joan. She could only sit staring at her fellow nun’s indignant profile as the car leapt forwards.

‘You didn’t think –?’ she said at last.

‘Oh, they are not without blame,’ Sister Margaret said, bumping over the gorse. ‘The boy was supposed to stay with his cousins while Padraic saw to his poor wife. The habit of strong drink is a curse, Sister. How thankful we must be that we are not afflicted.’

‘Yes indeed,’ Sister Joan said automatically.

‘The problem is that she is quite well educated,’ Sister Margaret said. ‘Padraic is proud of that. He sets great store by education, but there are other things required if one is to be a good wife and mother. On the other hand she has much to try her, poor soul. The law can be quite harsh on men like Padraic and his brother. I do hope they won’t catch cold. Not exactly a warm night for swimming.’

‘And without bathing suits,’ Sister Joan said dryly.

‘It reminded me of Eden,’ Sister Margaret said
wistfully
. ‘Sometimes I wonder what it was like to be there – before the serpent came. Such joy, don’t you think? All the garden to play in, and all nature at one’s command. And the Father to come for a chat in the cool of the evening. Something wonderful to look forward to every day. Do you want to visit any of the other parents this evening, Sister? The light is almost gone but it would be quite an adventure to drive in the dark.’

‘I thought we might have another little expedition
tomorrow,’ Sister Joan said.

‘Oh, splendid! After Father Malone has heard our confessions? I must clear my conscience before I venture forth again.’

‘What of?’ Sister Joan asked in astonishment.

‘My dear, have you forgotten that I broke the grand silence?’ There was sorrowful reproach in the other’s voice. ‘Mother Dorothy was so kind about it, even suggesting that I accompany you on this round of visits. One feels like a good stiff penance to redress the balance, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose.’ Sister Joan felt shame rising.

‘And we must both pray for poor old Hagar Boswell. So sad to lose one’s wits and see evil where there is only innocence.’

Sister Joan nodded silently. Her conscience – that over-active conscience about which Jacob had so often teased her – was nagging her again. Spiritual pride, she thought uneasily, was probably her besetting sin. She had been so certain that Sister Margaret would be shocked by the unselfconscious nudity, so sure that innocence was generally paired with a narrow mind. Narrow minds were usually dirty minds. She blamed herself for having forgotten that simple fact.

‘Anybody for the brandy?’ Sister Perpetua greeted them jokingly as they got out of the car at the back door.

‘Everything went very well,’ Sister Margaret said happily. ‘You know I believe I am really getting the hang of this driving business. I may ask leave to try out the car in the middle of town very soon.’

‘May the saints preserve Bodmin,’ Sister Perpetua said fervently.

‘I made a start on supper, Sister.’ Sister Teresa came to the door. ‘It won’t be as tasty as it usually is, but I thought you might be tired after the driving.’

‘Now that is thoughtful of you, Sister.’ Sister Margaret beamed. ‘What a lovely treat, to make a pleasant visit and then come home to find one’s work done for you. Really, this has been quite a day. And we were given a very stimulating mug of tea too. People are very kind.’

Some of them are, Sister Joan thought, standing stock still. But not all of them, Sister. We have been in the presence of evil tonight and I don’t know its source. Not in the old woman or in the kids swimming, but someone. Reaching out to cast a shadow that has no shape. Evil, but I can’t put a face to it or a name.

And the bell just then ringing she thrust the certainty to the back of her mind and followed her sisters.

At school the next day the Romany children had chattered excitedly about ‘Sister’s visit.’

‘And there was two of them come,’ Petroc was announcing. ‘One in a black veil, and Sister Joan in her white. Why’s that, Sister?’

‘Sister Margaret is a lay sister,’ she explained. ‘That means she goes out more into the world than we do. She does the shopping and posts the letters and things like that.’

‘Then she ain’t a proper sister,’ Billy said firmly.

‘Indeed she is.’ Sister Joan was equally firm. ‘She keeps the rule just as we all do. In many ways her job is harder because she has more distractions.’

‘But you come out?’ Tabitha said, looking puzzled.

‘Only with permission,’ Sister Joan said.

‘What’s this rule then?’ Conrad enquired.

Sister Joan hesitated. They were about to embark on a geography test and she knew a red herring when she saw one, but on the other hand it was probably wise to tell them something of the life a nun led, to dispel some of the more grotesque misconceptions that got into people’s heads.

‘When we enter the religious life – become Daughters of Compassion,’ she said, ‘we have to train for it, you know, the way one trains for everything. So we spend two years as what is called a postulant – we learn what it means to give up everything for God. Then we take vows that last for one year and after that, if we still want it and if the other sisters agree we take vows that last for the rest of our lives. Vows are promises we make to God.’

‘What promises, Sister?’ This from Samantha Olive who leaned forward, her green eyes alight with interest.

‘Poverty – that means not owning things; chastity – that means being pure; obedience – you know what obedience is; and then in our order we take a vow of charity – of love and kindness.’

‘If you can’t own anything, and you can’t get wed and you have to do as you’re told and go round being nice to everybody it can’t be much of a life,’ Hagar said.

‘I think it sounds lovely.’ Samantha’s plain little face was wistful.

‘Most of the time it is, but you have to be suited to the life. You have to really want to do it and live it and be it.’ Sister Joan smiled at her.

‘I think I’d rather get married, Sister,’ Madelyn Penglow said apologetically.

‘Getting married is fine too, if you choose the right person. Now, how about that geography test?’

‘I’ve been thinking, Sister,’ Petroc said sweetly, ‘that God’d be real upset to see us all inside working on a morning like this. I think He’d say, “Run out and enjoy yourselves”.’

His black eyes met her own blue ones with a look of limpid innocence; in his ear the customary gold hoop glinted against black curly hair.

In fewer years than I care to count, Sister Joan thought, with a spasm of amusement, you will be a heartbreaker, my lad.

‘The Creator,’ she said aloud, ‘has expected people to work ever since they had to leave the garden of Eden. Now Madelyn will give out the papers and Edith will give out the pencils. Some of the questions are going to be too hard for the younger ones. Don’t worry about it but do what you can.’

The test proceeded smoothly with no more than the normal amount of cheating. She rode back to the convent in the afternoon, her mind reaching ahead to the evening’s visits. It was a pity that the other parents would have had warning by now. She had particularly wanted to meet the Olives when they were unaware.
Their daughter had an aura about her – not of loneliness. Of apartness. Yes, that was the word. She was set apart in more ways than being a newcomer to the district. The other children who usually teased newcomers for a few days before admitting them into the group had always held aloof from Samantha; yet in some odd fashion they craved her approval, covering up for her when she was, as she frequently was, slow at games, their voices dying into a mumble when Samantha spoke. If it hadn’t been a ridiculous notion Sister Joan would have said they were afraid of her.

On Wednesdays Father Malone came to hear confessions and stay on for a bite of tea and a bit of a gossip. The nuns fluttered round him, relishing the only breath of masculinity that entered their lives. Father Malone was elderly and unambitious, unlike his curate Father Stephen who rushed everywhere at top speed as if he were already chasing after a bishop’s mitre.

‘A very spiritual young priest,’ old Sister Mary Concepta said in some bewilderment when she had made a confession to him on one occasion, ‘but a little thoughtless, I fear. He kept asking me what else I had done that was on my conscience, and he didn’t seem to understand that being confined to the infirmary with rheumatism doesn’t give very many opportunities for occasions of sin.’

‘Being nearly eighty doesn’t make for many
opportunities
either,’ Sister Perpetua had boomed. ‘Man’s a young idiot.’

‘Oh, no, Sister.’ Sister Mary Concepta’s sweet, old face had looked distressed. ‘He was quite right to press me, but Father Malone makes one feel more comfortable, you know. Always finishes off his visit with a nice little joke. So amusing.’

After that, though nothing was said in Sister Joan’s hearing, she noticed that Father Malone came nearly always to hear confessions. Not that he was lenient. One was apt to find oneself on one’s knees for a good long while after absolution. This Wednesday the fifteen
decades of the rosary she had been handed out for penance kept her on her knees for a good three quarters of an hour. She could have saved up the penance for later, but there was no point in doing that with Sister Margaret rooted to the floor in her own place.

By the time they both rose tea was over and Father Malone had driven off in the car that was even more battered than the one into which Sister Margaret now inserted her plump frame.

‘All ready, Sister Joan? I can wait while you get a bit of bread and butter from the kitchen,’ she offered. ‘It’s another fine evening.’

‘We’ll probably be offered a snack,’ Sister Joan said, buckling herself in and preparing to hold her heart in her mouth.

It was not only in her mouth but practically jolted through the top of her head by the time Sister Margaret had scraped along the wall and set the vehicle against the wide open gates as if she were ramming the barricades in the French Revolution.

‘She’s flying like a bird today, isn’t she?’ she carrolled happily above the screeching of tyres. ‘Mind you, she usually does when I’m in a good humour.’

‘Sister, I’ve never known you in a bad humour,’ Sister Joan said.

‘Oh, I can have my misery moments,’ her companion insisted, ‘but a good penance always cheers me up. Isn’t it odd that the saying of prayers should be called penance, when the worst penance would be to be forbidden to say any at all? Now where are we off to this evening?’

‘The Penglows, the Wesleys and the Holts in that order,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Then if we could make a detour on the way home we could call in at the Olives.’

‘I don’t believe that I’ve heard that name?’ Sister Margaret looked enquiring.

‘They only arrived in the neighbourhood a couple of months ago. Their daughter, Samantha, joined the school for a term or two before she starts at Bodmin.’

‘Such a pity that you lose them all to the big schools,’ Sister Margaret said. ‘It must be very stimulating to have youngsters about one.’

‘Also exhausting,’ Sister Joan said wryly. ‘The Penglows live on the north ridge.’

‘I believe that I bought eggs here once when our own chickens refused to lay.’ Sister Margaret drew up with a triumphant flourish almost level with a white painted gate on the top of which Madelyn and David sat solemnly side by side.

‘Good afternoon, Sister.’ Their mother, trim in a flowered overall, had come out of the house beyond. ‘I’ve hot scones and a pot of tea ready. The children were telling me about this project you had in mind, so anything we can do to help – get down and open the gate for the Sisters, children.’

Brother and sister solemnly descended and opened the gate. Though they had both obviously been playing out after tea their hands and clothes were spotless. Behind them the house gleamed with fresh white paint and the scent of warm cooking wafted gently from the kitchen as they went in. Sister Joan, while
acknowledging
the pristine neatness of everyone and
everything
couldn’t help wondering if anything as original as an idea ever penetrated the gleaming heads of the Penglows.

‘Now, you just sit down, Sisters, and there’ll be tea and hot scones in a jiffy,’ Mrs Penglow said. Her voice was quiet and slow. She gave the impression of never hurrying herself for any reason. Sister Joan found it vaguely irritating, but reminded herself that haste didn’t mean better – it only meant faster.

‘My husband will be in soon, so if you needed to see him –?’ their hostess began, bringing in scones and tea.

The room into which she had ushered them was so tidy that anyone else might have suspected that she had actually rushed round to prepare for them but Sister Joan, who had had occasion to visit the house once before when both children came down with light cases of chickenpox, had found the same placid order then.

‘There really isn’t any need to trouble Mr Penglow,’ she said. ‘The children have told you about the project so there isn’t much for me to add, except to enquire if you think you’ll be able to help out if necessary. I mean if we have a small exhibition or something of that nature?’

‘I can give Madelyn some old Cornish recipes and help her bake a few samples,’ Mrs Penglow said. ‘David
fancied
making a timetable of the local buses – drawing it up neatly with changing prices over the years. His dad will help him with that.’

‘But that’s a marvellous idea,’ Sister Joan said, with unflattering surprise. ‘I would like the children to do the bulk of the project themselves, of course.’

‘My husband and I will merely lend a helping hand. More scones, Sister?’

Sister Joan hesitated, then declined. The scones were delicious, very light with just the right hint of saltiness, but she resolved on a private penance to remind herself that it was extremely wrong to make superficial snap judgements about people. Underneath their bland,
conventional
exterior the Penglows were probably seething with originality. Sister Margaret, who never made
judgements
, had accepted a second scone with a clear
conscience
and was gazing about the trim, bright room with an expression of happy approval.

‘Getting on all right at school, are they?’ Mrs Penglow allowed a faintly anxious frown to cross her smooth brow. It was obvious that she had no real qualms about her offspring. They would turn out as perfectly as her scones and the homemade bilberry jam she was now pressing upon Sister Margaret.

‘Very nicely. When they go to the senior school they ought to get on very well,’ Sister Joan said. She had planned to mention that it might not be a bad thing for brother and sister to be put in different classes so that each might develop a more independent personality, but such a suggestion wouldn’t have achieved any result. In the end they would turn out to be mirror images of their parents, a thought that depressed her for no coherent reason.

They rose to leave when Sister Margaret had wistfully but heroically refused a third scone. Mr Penglow, driving up as they reached the gate, saluted them with the slightly formal politeness of a non-Catholic who isn’t absolutely sure he likes nuns cluttering up the threshold.

‘Such lovely scones.’ Sister Margaret let in the clutch with a triumphant grinding sound. ‘Do you think it would have been very bold of me to ask for the recipe?’

‘I think she’d have been flattered,’ Sister Joan
reassured
her. ‘I’ll ask Madelyn to get it from her mother, if you like.’

‘That would be very kind. Such a treat for us all to have on Sunday. Did you say Wesleys next?’

‘Please, sister – though I’ve a feeling that nobody will be in. The Wesleys are rumoured to be allergic to any notions of anything resembling work, and I’m afraid Billy is dedicated to keeping up the family reputation.’

In that prophesy she was proved right. When they drew up outside the cottages where the Wesleys lived they were greeted by a neighbour hanging over her gate and calling that everybody at Number Six was out.

‘Gone to the pictures in Bodmin. It’s
Rambo
,’
she informed them.

‘Rambo must mean good, I suppose,’ Sister Margaret said, backing up the street. ‘I never can keep up with current idioms.’

‘I think it’s the name of the film, Sister. It’s a series that’s popular.’

‘Like the Doris Day films,’ Sister Margaret said. ‘I saw all the reissues. Most enjoyable. Did you say the Holts next?’

‘The big farm over towards Druid’s Way. The Olives live about a mile further on, so we can cut back across the greenway if that suits you, Sister?’

‘Sounds splendid. I so seldom get the chance to drive up to the greenway,’ Sister Margaret said happily. ‘There are no shops up there and no excuse to go, but all that level ground would give one a wonderful chance to drive fast without worrying whether or not one was going to hit something.’

Sister Joan, feeling slight surprise that her companion did actually fret a little about the safety of her driving, said nothing but reminded herself to tighten her seat belt when the visit to the Holts was over.

Timothy, as she had guessed, was with his father, the two of them emerging from a barn as the nuns stopped the car and approached the house.

‘’Evening to you, ladies. Tim said you’d be calling and staying for a bite of supper, I hope? The wife makes a tasty fish pie.’

‘Oh, I do hope she will give me the recipe,’ Sister Margaret whispered as they went into the big house where a comfortable shabbiness prevailed and Mrs Holt, her hair scraped back from an unexpectedly pretty face, waited to greet them.

‘Nice to see you, Sister Joan.’ She shook hands heartily. ‘Sister – Margaret? We have passed briefly once or twice out shopping. Tim, go and wash your hands. That lad’d spend his entire life mucking out if he wasn’t chided. Supper’s ready and there’s plenty for guests so I’ll not take a refusal. This project now – it sounds like a very good idea, doesn’t it, William? It might focus attention on the way people do actually live out here – not all farmers are millionaires, not by any means. You’ll not object to the telly being on. We’re following a serial – I’ll fill you in on what you’ve missed but first I’ll dish up. Stargazy pie and apples and ice-cream to follow. And plenty of seconds. Tim, will you get your hands washed? That boy is never happier than when he’s grubbing in the soil or scratching the pigs’ backs or doing something that’s sure to make work for me.’