‘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.
The chapel was quiet and sunlit. Slipping into her pew, kneeling with bowed head, she felt her own restless thoughts slow and mellow. Perhaps she had allowed her keen interest in the school to override her detachment. The dismay with which she had heard the pronouncement that it might close sooner than she had expected had been out of proportion to the effect it ought to have had on her. When the school closed the pupils would move on and quickly forget her, and she would be given work commensurate with her talents and the needs of the order.
But please not sorting the laundry, her lips moved silently.
She raised her head to the sunlit altar and stared at the empty space on it. Not spiritually empty as it had seemed during her penance but physically denuded of the heavy silver crucifix that stood between the twin candlesticks. Behind it was the locked cupboard where the Host was kept. At mass Father Malone moved the crucifix to one side in order to unlock the door. Sister David cleaned and polished everything in the chapel twice a week — on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Today was Monday and there was no reason for anything to be missing.
She rose from her knees and went rapidly across to the unlocked side door which gave access to the visitors’ side of the parlour and thence into the side yard through which one gained the bridle path beyond the wall. The doors were kept open from early morning until the grand silence. Though the order was semi-cloistered any member of the public who felt the need to pray in the chapel was free to do so. Very few availed themselves of the privilege since the parish church was more conveniently reached.
She would have to tell someone what had happened before someone else came in and discovered the loss. The thought that Sister Hilaria might have borrowed the crucifix while in one of her ecstasies occurred to her and was as swiftly dismissed. Sister Hilaria was delicately made, incapable of lifting anything heavy without help.
She hurried back into the main hall in time to see the door of Mother Dorothy’s room close firmly. The merest whisper of voices reaching her through the oak panels reminded her that at this hour the Prioress instructed the postulants who were escorted from the separate building they occupied beyond the disused tennis court for an hour’s spiritual consent. Nothing short of fire or sudden death was allowed to interfere with that. She stood irresolutely for a few moments, then turned back. The crucifix was missing and nothing was likely to make any difference to the situation if she waited an hour. An hour’s wait would also be good discipline for her. Sister Joan, who knew only too well that she was apt to rush in where no self-respecting angel would venture, drew a long breath and walked slowly the length of the chapel corridor into the chapel again, genuflecting to the altar, raising her head to see the sunlight beaming down on the large crucifix which shone as brightly as if it had never been missing at all.
Three
‘If you occasionally stopped to think,’ she had been told more than once by her novice mistress in the days before her final profession, ‘you would find life easier, Sister.’
So think! Daffodils taken from the Lady Altar and not returned, too many candles being used, a heavy crucifix taken and put back. For what possible reason? Go on thinking! Schoolchildren who suddenly begin to behave like angels, a verse written by an eleven-year-old that has
