It was past four. Though her watch was in her cell she knew the time by the faint lightening of the sky through the stained-glass windows. In an hour the rising bell would clang as Sister Margaret clumped upstairs on her flat sensible feet. There was nothing other-worldly about Sister Margaret, unlike Sister Hilaria, the novice mistress, who floated through her days on a cloud of ecstasy. There had been grave doubts expressed about allowing her to remain as novice mistress.
‘A saintly soul,’ Sister Gabrielle had opined, ‘but not the type to knock all the romantic nonsense out of the heads of the postulants.’
Reverend Mother Dorothy had, however, continued as before and Mother Dorothy was a sharply intelligent woman who presumably knew what she was doing. At any rate it was none of her business, she decided, and realized that the companionship had faded as her thoughts had wandered. Not abruptly or angrily but softly like a lover who is content to wait until the beloved recollects again.
A faint sound at the door made her turn her head. A plump figure, coifed and veiled, had entered and, genuflecting, seated herself in her own place, hands comfortably folded, broad face upturned as her lips moved silently.
What in the world was Sister Margaret doing in the chapel before rising bell time? Did she too, beneath her placid exterior, suffer the devils of sleeplessness? Sister Joan finished her own prayers in a somewhat distracted manner and rose, glancing towards the other, who seemed unaware of her presence.
It would be charity to wait, to find out if any human sympathy were needed. She moved to the Lady Altar and stood there uncertainly, noticing with some surprise that the vase at the feet of the Madonna statue was empty. Sister Martha was always very punctilious about keeping the vases filled even in winter, searching far afield for berried sprays and some hardy blooms, and this was spring.
Sister Margaret was getting up, genuflecting, turning towards the door, giving a slight start as she noticed the other.
‘Sister, is anything wrong?’ She hesitated before she spoke, mindful of the grand silence, but obviously regarding the presence of Sister Joan as sufficient excuse for the occasion to constitute an emergency.
‘I thought something might be wrong for you,’ Sister Joan said.
‘Me? Oh no, Sister, I’m fine.’ Sister Margaret smiled with evident relief. ‘No, I like to pop in here before the day starts — just for a little chat with Our Dear Lord, you know. I don’t get much time for a heart to heart with all the cooking to be done — not that cooking isn’t a joy. But sometimes it can get a mite lonely with no other lay sister, so a bit of a chat works wonders.’
She nodded towards the altar, her eyes serene in the plain, practical face.
Odd, Sister Joan thought, feeling suddenly much smaller, but the idea of Sister Margaret having intimate chats with the Divinity had never entered her head. Sister Margaret was the convent mainstay, managing to produce two meals a day on a limited budget, constantly on the go, her large feet clumping along the corridors.
‘Do you mean He—?’ She paused, unsure how to proceed.
‘Visions and stuff?’ Sister Margaret looked amused. ‘Never a one. Why, I’d be scared out of my wits, I think. Not spiritual enough yet, I suppose. But we get along, He and I. Are you all right, dear?’
‘Yes, thank you, Sister.’
And that’s not true either. I’m so puffed up with my own concerns that I feel an insulting astonishment that a lay sister should enjoy such intimacy with the unseen that she needs no ecstasy.
‘Then I’ll get on.’ Sister Margaret paused, looking at the empty vase. ‘Oh dear, what happened to the flowers — ever such nice daffodils they were. I remember thinking at Benediction how Our Dear Lady must be enjoying them. I’ll pop out later and put some more in. Sister Martha will be upset if she sees they’ve gone.’
‘Gone where?’
‘One of the postulants likely spilled the water and disposed of the flowers,’ Sister Margaret said, looking slightly uncertain. ‘While I’m about it I’d better jot down a note to buy more candles. Sometimes I think we must eat candles — they vanish so fast.’
‘Do they?’ Sister Joan cast a frowning look towards the box where the candles were kept and followed the lay sister into the corridor.
‘I do beg your pardon, Sister,’ the other said, pausing suddenly, ‘but I caused you to break the grand silence by talking to you. Happily there’s general confession this evening so I won’t have it on my conscience for too long. Just one other thing. I’d take it very kindly if you didn’t mention the little chats — I’d not want anyone to think that I was setting myself up to be singular or anything like that. So, now for the new day.’
She clumped ahead, lifting the large bell from its hook by the door, beginning to ring it as she mounted the main staircase, her cheerful voice booming, ‘Christ is risen.’
‘Thanks be to God,’ Sister Joan responded automatically, following, closing the door of her cell behind her just as the scattered voices began to chorus their sleepy replies.
She felt sleepy herself now but two hours’ prayer lay ahead before the night’s fast was broken with a cup of coffee, a slice of bread and a piece of fruit, eaten standing according to the rule. She sloshed cold water over her face, dried it on the small towel, cleaned her teeth, wriggled out of nightgown and dressing-gown and into the ankle-length grey habit and exchanged the cotton nightcap for coif and short veil, marvelling as she always did that she could achieve perfect neatness without the aid
