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.’
There was no doubt, thought Sister Joan as she was bustled to a long table groaning with food, that Mrs Holt could talk Sister Gabrielle off her feet any time. Despite the array of food, the cheerfulness, the air of having a big family to look after, she was aware that Mrs Holt’s manner covered past heartbreaks — three babies in the local cemetery before Tim had survived, and two miscarriages afterwards. Her chatter was her way of dealing with grief, her constant stream of grumbles her way of hiding the intense protective love with which she regarded her son.
‘Well, now this is a rare treat.’ Mr Holt, as big and ungainly a man as his son was a boy, took his place at the table. ‘It’s not often we get the sisters over, is it, love? And Tim’s doing all right at the school, is he? Got a good head on his shoulders that lad — when my time comes I’ll be leaving the farm in good hands. Now, who’s for a bit of pie?’
‘William.’ His wife was scarlet. ‘We’ve not said grace yet.’
‘We never — oh, yes, of course.’ Mr Holt who was not a Catholic put down the serving spoon and looked rather at a loss.
‘Bless this food to our use and us to Thy service,’ Sister Joan said, ‘and keep all safe here and everywhere. Amen.’
Mother and son crossed themselves in unison with the sisters and Mr Holt picked up the serving spoon again and plunged into the fluffy potato crust with an air of relief.
The conversation centred on the intended project, Timothy volunteering several bright ideas of his own. When he made them his parents listened avidly, Mrs Holt exclaiming softly under her breath, ‘Well, the lad has a point there, I must say. Yes, indeed.’
It was surprising,
