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 carolled 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
