‘Would that,’ Sister Joan enquired, ‘have been the salmon we had last week? On the occasion that Mother Dorothy said she didn’t know how you contrived to stretch the housekeeping allowance so far?’
‘Oh, that was Mother Dorothy’s little jest, Sister,’ her companion said. ‘She knows very well that Padraic sometimes brings a little present over — so kind of him.’
‘Very.’ Sister Joan wondered whether it would be tactless to enquire as to whether Padraic Lee had a salmon fishing licence and decided that it would be.
They had reached a large caravan, its door closed. As Padraic hesitated Sister Margaret said, ‘There really isn’t any need to disturb Mrs Lee. There is nothing nicer than a drink of tea in the open air.’
‘Coming right up, Sisters. Also two good solid chairs, none of your canvas rubbish. The girls are playing somewhere. Petroc! Go and get Tabby and Edie and then come along yourself. I’m about to brew up so it’ll be good and hot.’
Also strong, Sister Joan thought, choking slightly over the mug. There must have been several spoonfuls of sugar in it but the milk carton had scarcely been tilted.
‘Now this gives one energy‚’ Sister Margaret said happily. ‘Are these your little girls, Padraic? How pretty they are.’
Tabitha and Edith, approaching shyly, were duly introduced. Sister Joan talked about raffia baskets and dried flower posies; Petroc slouched up and volunteered to collect different sorts of rocks from all round the district; the caravan door stayed firmly closed.
‘Are your parents around?’ Sister Joan enquired of Petroc.
‘Mum’s gone north and Dad’s inside,’ Petroc said, with no particular emotion.
‘My brother,’ said Padraic sadly, ‘was framed. An innocent, Sisters. A true innocent, but given to hitting policemen when he’s wrongfully accused. It don’t do to get on the wrong side of the law. I tell Petroc here that if you ever get picked up you act polite. That’s right, ain’t it, Sister?’
‘Manners maketh man,’ Sister Joan quoted.
‘A rare way of putting it! You hear that, Petroc?’ He frowned towards his nephew.
‘It wasn’t actually my quot—’ Sister Joan began.
‘Shakespeare,’ Padraic said. ‘Lovely way with words that man had. My wife can read that kind of thing something lovely.’
‘Actually it comes from—’ Sister Joan jumped violently as the caravan door was suddenly flung open and a figure wrapped in a brilliantly patterned bedspread swayed on to the threshold, yelling in far from dulcet accents, ‘Padraic, where the bloody hell are you? My stomach’s sticking to my backbone.’
‘Just seeing to supper, Madge.’ He had risen to move between the door and the two sisters. ‘Five minutes, my sweetheart. Petroc, take the girls over to your place. I’ll be along later. I’m terribly sorry, Sisters. I figured as how Madge’d sleep longer, but when the sickness is on her it’s not so certain. Reads lovely she does when she’s feeling herself. Bit of a comedown for her really, getting wed to a man without education. I tell my girls — I tell them constant — get an education and get a man with education so you won’t have cause to feel ashamed.’
‘I am sure that your girls will grow up to be very proud of their father‚’ Sister Joan said awkwardly.
‘Jesus, no! — begging your pardons. I’m reliant on them having better taste than that‚’ Padraic said in alarm. ‘You’ll be wanting Ginny Smith now, I daresay. Last wagon on the right. Nice little woman but she can’t cope. Just coming, Madge.’
‘Wonderful tea.’ Sister Margaret rose, lifting a hand in farewell as he darted up the steps. ‘Wonderful man too. Sorely afflicted, which is always a sign of grace.’
They walked away, Sister Joan at least being uncomfortably aware of peering eyes, of an old woman smoking a pipe outside her wagon who circled finger and thumb in the ancient sign of protection against the evil eye.
‘So interesting to see where they live.’ Sister Margaret avoided a suspicious looking puddle. ‘I often feel that Our Dear Lord would have felt very much at home with Romanies. Is this the Smith caravan, Sister?’
‘Last in the line. It must be.’ Sister Joan hesitated as the door opened and a tiny woman came out, peering down at them uncertainly.
‘Mrs Smith? I’ve come to have a chat about the school project.’ She raised her voice encouragingly. ‘Perhaps Conrad or Tabitha told you about it?’
‘Conrad did mention—’ Mrs Smith came further down the steps, pulling her dress as straight as crooked seams could make it. ‘He went over to the village to do some odd jobs for a lady there. The money comes in handy since — my Jeb isn’t home yet, you see.’
Her Jeb, Sister Joan thought with irritated compassion, was never likely to come home but Ginny Smith evidently believed in keeping up appearances. Theoretically that was, since what could be glimpsed of the interior of the caravan was a jumble of blankets, cushions, soiled underwear strung on a line, and a cat shedding hairs over everything that hadn’t been ruined in any other way.
‘We’re having a school project about this district‚’ Sister Joan said. ‘Posters and folders and perhaps a school exhibition.’
‘Well now I don’t know — really I don’t.’ Ginny Smith looked more harassed than ever. ‘With my Jeb not being home and so many chores to do — of course Conrad will be all for it. Bags of energy that lad. Yes, he’ll enjoy that — project you said? Hagar too. She needs a hobby does Hagar. Misses her dad, you see. A man about the place makes all the difference, don’t you — but then you wouldn’t, would you? Being vowed to chastity and all. Will you take a mug of tea?’
She looked round vaguely as if she expected it to materialize out of
