‘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.’
