At recreation, the slow-growing knitting in her hand, she listened to Sister David rattling on about her day at the school —
‘—really I had forgotten how tiring the profession is. But the children were very good. Quite apart from the present sad circumstances I am sure that Sister Joan has established discipline among them in a way that I never could.’
Sister Joan hastened to disclaim the compliment. ‘They’ve been good ever since term began. If I knew the recipe for it I’d bottle it.’
‘Speaking of which—’ Sister Perpetua leaned forward, reddish eyebrows working. ‘There is a rumour that after this evening’s culinary demonstration the postulants are going to be let loose in the kitchen to cook the evening meal. I hope Reverend Mother can dispel the rumour else I shall have to lay in extra stocks of bicarbonate of soda.’
Her little joke made she uttered a sharp bark of laughter and was silent.
‘The postulants may turn out to be very good cooks,’ Mother Dorothy said, smiling slightly. ‘However you need not fret, Sister. They will help Sister Margaret only when their spiritual duties permit. Sister Katherine, your reading tonight was most eloquent. I find myself always so deeply moved by the recognition in the garden. Grief transmuted into the promise of resurrection.’
‘I wonder if that poor child thought of that when he was dying,’ Sister Martha murmured, sounding unwontedly cross.
‘The child’s funeral is to take place on Monday,’ Mother Dorothy said, picking up the subject but ignoring the comment. ‘Sister Joan and Sister David will accompany me to the requiem mass and to the funeral service. I think that on that morning private prayers for all the faithful departed should be the burden of our devotions.’
Conversation languished. It was difficult to make pleasant little jokes and sprightly conversation when the murder of a child hung on the air.
‘It is time for chapel.’ Mother Dorothy folded up her own work and put it into the canvas bag. ‘The grand silence has already been delayed on one evening this week. I’d not wish to repeat the fault.’
Hardly a fault, Sister Joan thought, putting away her own knitting with relief, since reporting the finding of Petroc’s body couldn’t be left until the following morning. At least Mother Dorothy hadn’t mentioned that the grand silence had also been broken earlier on in the week.
‘The battery’s running out in my hearing aid,’ Sister Gabrielle was grumbling.
‘I’ll get it for you, Sister. Sister Teresa is helping Sister Mary Concepta,’ Sister Joan said.
‘I can see that perfectly well,’ Sister Gabrielle enjoined her irritably. ‘That’s why I mentioned it to you.’
Sister Joan turned in the direction of the infirmary where the spare battery would be in Sister Gabrielle’s locker.
Coming out with it in her hand she almost bumped into Sister Hilaria who was escorting her charges out of the kitchen. With their dark blue smocks and white bonnets they both looked like a pair of wooden dolls clad in peasant costume. From the kitchen the scent of baking wafted.
‘We have been Marthas,’ said Sister Hilaria. ‘I fear that my cake didn’t turn out very successfully — I beat the mixture for too long.’
The postulants, cheeks scarlet from the heat of the oven and eyes lowered, had primmed up their young mouths, in an effort, Sister Joan suspected, not to giggle. She wanted to reassure them that giggling was not a mortal sin, but the rule forbade her to speak to them save under the most extreme necessity.
‘Is it prayers already?’ Sister Margaret emerged, pulling off her apron and looking flustered. ‘I am all upside down and back to front today. Sister Hilaria said something that suddenly caused me to remember — but it must wait until tomorrow.’
‘Sister Margaret!’
The lay sister had hurried past her, composing her face, anxious not to break any more rules.
‘Remembered what, Sister?’ Sister Joan persisted, catching her up in the corridor.
‘The dirt and my broken beads,’ Sister Margaret hissed. ‘So clear now, and yet I still cannot believe—’
‘When you are quite ready, Sister Margaret — Sister Joan, we will begin evening prayers,’ Mother Dorothy said icily from the door.
And after the prayers the blessing and the grand silence folding them round. She had expected to dream but her sleep was empty of images, a peaceful blackness out of which she rose into the consciousness of morning.
Dawn or the middle of the night? Her senses told her the former but the sound of a rhythmic snoring from the cell next to her own hinted at the latter. She sat up and groped for her slippers and dressing-gown, padded to the door and opened it. The dim light from the corridor illumined the tiny hands of her fob watch. 5.15? No bell for rising had sounded which could only mean that Sister Margaret had spent rather too long chatting to her Dear Lord.
Another door opened further along the passage and Sister Perpetua stuck out her night-capped-head, hissing, ‘It’s terribly late. Grand silence should have been over fifteen minutes ago. Run down and find out what on earth Sister Margaret thinks she is doing, if you please, Sister.’
Sister Joan tied the cord of her dressing-gown, adjusted her own nightcap, and went swiftly across the landing and down the staircase. Outside she could hear the first twittering of the birds.
‘Sister Margaret?’ She risked a low call as she went along the chapel corridor. Not much of a risk, since from above she caught the sounds of other doors opening, of muffled whispers.
The chapel was empty. Having expected to see Sister Margaret there she paused, biting her lip. Above the altar the crucifix glowed softly in the light from the sanctuary lamp. Flanked by — only one candlestick? What
