‘Mother Dorothy, I haven’t driven for years — not since I entered the religious life,’ Sister Joan said in alarm.
‘Did you keep your licence up to date?’
‘Yes, Mother, but only because Mother Agnes was of the opinion that I’d be foolish to let it lapse when in the future I might need to drive somewhere.’
‘That was most far-sighted of Mother Agnes,’ Mother Dorothy approved. ‘You see, the necessity has arisen. You may take Sister Hilaria to the dentist and, at the same time, buy yourself a pair of neat trousers to wear under your habit when you ride the horse. It appears that shop-bought trousers are superior to anything that can be run up here. I understand that the cost will be in the region of thirty pounds which does seem very high, so if you can manage to bring me some change I’ll be very grateful. However don’t get inferior workmanship; that’s a false economy.’
‘No, Mother. Thank you, Mother.’ Accepting the money Sister Joan felt bound to add, ‘But as to driving — I am dreadfully out of practice.’
‘I imagine it is rather like swimming or bike riding,’ her superior said briskly. ‘Once learned the accomplishment is never forgotten. You understand that this is a privilege, Sister? Sister Margaret will continue to drive on all ordinary occasions.’
‘Yes, Mother.’ Sister Joan genuflected respectfully and somehow or other got herself out of the parlour.
Sister Hilaria whose expression as she ate the midday meal proved that she was trying to conceal the fact that she was in considerable pain, waited for her afterwards, looking with her vaguely distracted air rather like a large, absent-minded child about to be taken out for a treat. She had the slightly prominent eyes of the mystic and big clumsy hands at variance with a delicate Modigliani face. Her voice, breathless and husky, had a singsong quality. It was as if she were so unsuited to everyday living that her mystic experiences, of which she seldom spoke, had been given to her as a special grace to compensate for her inadequacies in every other direction. Sister Joan, having thought that, immediately reminded herself that Mother Dorothy had retained Sister Hilaria as novice mistress and that the other must have capabilities not visible to general view.
‘It is very good of you to relieve Sister Margaret and take me into town,’ she said as they went round to the back. ‘I would not have complained but Mother Dorothy noticed the swelling in my cheek, so under obedience I was constrained to tell.’
‘You should have told anyway, Sister. There’s no merit in hiding pain,’ Sister Joan said, adopting the faintly scolding tone that everybody unconsciously picked up when talking to Sister Hilaria.
‘It seemed so unimportant’, Sister Hilaria said vaguely, ‘but it will be a relief to have it fixed. Isn’t it sad to think how dependent we are on our bodies?’
‘Since we’re in them we might as well treat them properly,’ Sister Joan argued. ‘Oh, Sister Margaret, may I please have the car keys? Did Mother Dorothy tell you—?’
‘Just before dinner, Sister. I gave the seats a bit of a polish,’ Sister Margaret said cheerfully, handing over the keys. ‘Now don’t worry about your driving. Just trust in Our Dear Lord and you’ll come safe home. Sister Hilaria, if you get a draught in that tooth you’ll know about it. Put your scarf around your mouth.’
‘You don’t think the effect might be a little — gangsterish?’ Sister Hilaria asked anxiously as she complied.
‘Don’t worry, Sister,’ Sister Joan advised as they climbed into the car. ‘When people see the standard of my driving I’m the one who’ll be mistaken for a gangster. Fasten your seatbelt.’
She turned the ignition and let in the clutch gingerly, wishing as she eased the vehicle out of the yard that Sister Margaret hadn’t crossed herself and said, ‘God and the blessed saints bring you safely back,’ with quite so much fervour.
Yet within a few minutes she had settled comfortably enough into the rhythm of driving again, skirting the gateposts without mishap and taking the moor road that led across the greenway towards the huddled roofs of Bodmin. Neither could she stop herself from glancing around as she drove, hoping to see a dishevelled young boy waving at her. Nothing human met her roving gaze. Only sheep, their lambs close to their sides, cropped the turf. It was always possible that Petroc was already safely back at the camp, but her instincts doubted it.
They had reached the greenway with the chimneys of the old Druid place crowding the skyline. Slowing down she found herself wondering why the Olives had chosen to settle in such a remote house. Perhaps Clive Olive intended to farm the land but there was no sign of any activity that would have suggested planting or sowing; perhaps they were very rich and wanted to live a quiet rural life, but they had done very little to renovate or furnish the little she had seen of the interior. Neither had there been any evidence of domestic staff apart from the beautiful young man.
As if thought had conjured him he emerged from the front gate, causing her to brake sharply.
‘Sister Joan! Sister Joan!’ Samantha ran out behind the young man, waving her arm. Sister Joan stopped and wound down her window.
‘Good afternoon, Samantha. You got home safely then?’
‘Mr Lee took everybody,’ Samantha said. ‘He’s a very agreeable man for a gypsy.’
‘Indeed he is.’ Sister Joan nodded, reminding herself that a lesson on the evils of racial discrimination might not come amiss in the near future. ‘Is this the new au pair?’
She
