A Vow Of Chastity

hair and blue eyes making them look like twins drawn in a child’s storybook. The polite manners and pleasant smiles couldn’t really compensate for the fact that the Penglows were dreadful little prigs, Sister Joan thought. She had a softer spot for Billy Wesley who was as mischievous as a cartload of monkeys but had twice the Penglows’ intelligence. Next to him Timothy Holt was already fidgeting, his eyes wandering to the clock on the wall. Tim considered any lessons that didn’t have a direct connection with agriculture to be a waste of time. The odd one out in the ‘farming’ group, as Sister Joan thought of them, was the newcomer, Samantha Olive. She had been scarcely a month in the school and still sat slightly apart, shifting her desk slightly before she sat down in the morning as if to emphasize her isolation. A plain child, though not so plain that her face became interesting, only the cat-green eyes alive as they watched from a curtain of thick, pale lashes. Sister Joan realized there was something unnerving about that unwavering, eleven-year-old scrutiny.

The Romanies sat across the aisle, though ‘sat’ was a relative word, since they preferred to slide down on to the floor or squirm their legs around their chairs as if they were poised for instant flight. For a wonder the five of them were present, even thirteen-year-old Conrad sitting upright with shining morning face. His sister, Hagar, jet pigtails touching the desk before her, sat next to him. Hagar ought to start going to the Bodmin school, Sister Joan thought. She was twelve and looked older, her breasts already well developed, a certain knowing look in her eyes that deepened when they were turned on any of the boys. Hagar, however, was devoted to her brother and certainly wouldn’t attend regularly at any establishment where he refused to go.

The Lees, cousins and rivals of the Smiths, completed her small quota of pupils. Petroc sprawled at his desk, already yawning — the result, probably, of a night’s illicit rabbit snaring; Edith and Tabitha huddled side by side, looking like two of the rabbits that Petroc regularly hunted. At six and seven they were still greatly in awe of anything to do with education — a happy state of affairs that Sister Joan knew from experience wouldn’t last long.

She drew the homework books towards her and gave what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

‘I asked you to write about your favourite flowers,’ she began, ‘and the work that was handed in pleased me on the whole. Petroc, you’ll have to copy yours out again, I’m afraid, because you got the inkwell muddled up with the paper. Conrad, it was thoughtful of you to explain why you didn’t hand in any work, but the explanation won’t do. This week I shall be telling you about Sir Philip Sidney who was a very brave soldier and a poet — also married. Madelyn, your work was very neat but you copied the poem from a book, didn’t you?’

‘No, Sister.’ The blue eyes were limpid. ‘David copied it and then he read it to me.’

‘You both copied the same poem? Then where is David’s work?’

‘We didn’t want to hand in two the same, Sister, in case you got bored,’ David said pedantically, ‘so I tore the pages out of my book.’

‘Logical, I suppose,’ Sister Joan said, ‘but in future I’d like you both to work by yourselves and try to compose something of your own.’

The twins, unable to contemplate a separate mental existence, stared back at her blankly.

‘Timothy, your drawing was very good though it wasn’t quite what I’d asked for.’ Sister Joan nodded at the child pleasantly. He had drawn what he saw, neatly and unimaginably dully, but she had a soft place in her heart for those who expressed themselves in paint rather than words. Tabitha had also sent in a drawing — less neat and accurate but infinitely more colourful. Edith hadn’t sent anything in. She told her gently that she must try to do the homework, aware that any harsher scolding would bring the tears flooding to the little girl’s sloe-black eyes, and spoke rather more sharply to Hagar about her failure to do the set task, knowing that her words were making no impression upon the girl at all. Hagar merely smiled, one side of her full mouth curving in mute contempt, as Conrad said quickly and loyally, ‘Hagar don’t mean to be lazy, Sister. She has lots to do at ‘ome — washing and cooking and the like, and she needs time to enjoy.’

To enjoy what? Sister Joan thought, her eye measuring the jut of budding breasts. There was something in Hagar’s scornful little smile that hinted at pity for herself. She wanted to shake the child, to inform her roundly that the religious life didn’t unsex anyone, but Hagar wouldn’t have understood.

‘Try to enjoy doing a little homework occasionally,’ she advised. ‘Billy, one of these days you are going to astonish us all by actually doing some homework. Could you make it soon?’

‘Can we write about something else next time?’ Billy asked promptly.

‘This coming week you can all write — write not draw — a few sentences about the person you admire most — admire means wanting to be like them, Edith. Just a few words, of your own and not copied.’

‘Alive or dead?’ Billy enquired with as much interest as if he were actually going to do the homework.

‘Whichever you like,’ Sister Joan said. ‘Samantha, did you read the poem you sent somewhere in a book?’

‘No, Sister.’ The voice was neat and precise.

‘It was — unusual,’ Sister Joan said cautiously. ‘Nicely written and spelled, if a bit — morbid. Perhaps you should try to write happier pieces?’

‘Yes, Sister.’ The green eyes held her own blue ones for a moment and then were lowered.

‘So!’ Mentally resolving