Quiet As A Nun Part 7

She marched away. A happy warrior. A general whose troops had just won a skirmish. But what was the victory?

'Mother Ancillaa"' I called after her.

She did not stop. Perhaps she did not hear me. Nuns like ordinary women were capable of growing deaf around seventy and Mother Ancilla would be further handicapped by the head-dress blocking her ears.

Later in the morning Sister Lucy and I watched the funeral procession together out of the high thin Gothic window of the infirmary. The line of nuns, strung out, single file, paused silently under our gaze out of the chapel door in the direction of the cemetery.

'What a tiny coffin!' I exclaimed involuntarily. I had forgotten the touching smallness of that rabbit-like figure.

'Sister Edward herself was not much more than five foot.' Even wood was not wasted at the convent.

The tall male figures - her brothers? - behind the coffin looked enormous in contrast to the nuns. The nuns' eyes were downcast. The men were looking about them. But they were not carrying the corners of the coffin. Like the Blessed Eleanor, Sister Edward was being carried to her grave by six black nuns.

'How do they choose the six nuns to carry the coffin?' I enquired idly. 'The six strongest? Or particular friends of the deceased?'

'Not particular friends,' replied Sister Lucy primly. 'Nuns of the O.T.I. have no particular friends. The rule of our foundress is most specific on that point. Particular friendships within the community are not pleasing in the sight of G.o.d since they distract the religious from her work in G.o.d's holy cause and can give scandal to other G.o.dly women.' I couldn't help laughing.

'Oh come on, Sister Lucy. You know that I didn't mean that.' Particular friendships - but had I not meant that? Wasn't a particular friendship what Rosabelle and I had enjoyed: but then Rosa had not been a nun in those days. Nothing against particular friendships at a school, surely.

'I'm afraid I over-reacted,' responded Sister Lucy. She sounded fl.u.s.tered by my teasing. 'As you can imagine, communities have to be very strict about that sort of thing. Even the very innocent sort of particular friendship, as we call it, can cause disharmony. And disruption.' Seeing that I looked still unconvinced, she went on: 'To the partic.i.p.ants themselves, I can a.s.sure you. As well as being displeasing to G.o.d. Think of, well, you were a friend of poor Sister Miriam,' Sister Lucy coughed and stopped.

'I should investigate the topic for my programme.'

'Miss Sh.o.r.e, pleasea"' Now Sister Lucy looked frankly horrified.

'Oh please don't misunderstand me,' I soothed her. We turned our attention back to the procession.

At a distance the noise of the singing was thin, a little sorrow, not a mighty lament as it had sounded in the chapel on All Souls' Day. In keeping with the small size of Sister Edward's coffin, the short span of her life. Even the procession itself from our lofty vantage point was like something seen at the wrong end of a telescope. The little black figures became formalised. That veiled and bowed figure between two women wearing black hats must be Mrs O'Dowd, mother of the lovely Catholic family. No Mr O'Dowd, as far as I could make out. He presumably had died years ago, worn out. Of the four men, two were in priests' ca.s.socks and two in equally priestly long black coats. Doctors, had Sister Boniface said?

On the dull November day, no sun, trees black, there was only a single splash of colour in the procession. One of the women mourners was wearing a bright purple coat. Purple of course was a colour of mourning in the Catholic church as pink was a colour of rejoicing. Purple vestments in Lent, purple coverings for the statues in Holy Week. But there was something about this coat, its cut maybe, its swagger, which did not speak of the funeral. It was also remarkable that of all the mourners, this little purple figure was wearing neither a hat nor a veil. She was wearing shiny black boots - again not particularly funereal - but her head, a head of bubbly fair hair which made it the more noticeable, was not covered.

'Blondes really should not wear purple.' It was a judgement from another world. I said it aloud.

'I agree. Beatrice O'Dowd could have spared Mother Ancilla that at least.' The contained Sister Lucy sounded quite venomous.

My interest quickened sharply. 'So that's the ex-nun. The former Sister John.'

'That's Beatrice O'Dowd.'

A return to the flatter tone. The more you looked at the procession, the head of which was now vanishing down the soggy path to the cemetery, the more flaunting the costume of ex-Sister John appeared. A gesture against Mother Ancilla, so Sister Lucy interpreted it: yet it was hardly reverent to her mother, the priests her brothers, the corpse of her dead sister, if those were your values.

I decided that it was time to talk to Beatrice O'Dowd. In the interests of my programme, as I put it to Sister Lucy: who received the request with an impa.s.sivity which entirely failed to conceal her violent disapproval.

I did not exactly relish the idea of that flaunting purple in the white calm of my little cubicle. But Beatrice O'Dowd proved a pleasant surprise. Close to, detached from the black procession, the purple did not look so garish. Her hair was naturally sandy rather than blonde. She had the long upper lip and slightly prominent front teeth of her younger sister. It was true that the hair-style was over bouffant and the lipstick an unbecoming bright pink. Years in television had given me an automatic eye for such things. For the same reason, I could see through to the homely woman in her late thirties visible within the slightly old-fashioned trappings of glamour.

After all, fifteen years of sombre black under Mother Ancilla's eagle eye was enough to send anyone towards all colours of the rainbow. Under her coat Beatrice O'Dowd wore a tight purple polo-necked sweater (she really did like the colour). Whether nuns wore bras or not - and what a perfect opportunity to find out, from an ex-nun - Miss O'Dowd was certainly wearing one now.

Clothes apart, Beatrice O'Dowd seemed to be a straight-forward, even down-to-earth sort of woman. It was interesting how completely she lacked the demeanour of a nun: there were no cast-down eyes here a la Sister Agnes, no evidence of hysteria a la Sister Edward. She crossed her legs - rather stocky legs in their black boots - as though to the manner born, twitching down a skirt which was once again just slightly too short for the current fashion. Yet you never saw a nun crossing her legs. Rosa once told me that it was a mortal sin for a nun to cross her legs. It was more likely that nuns sat with their knees together because to cross them under the thick folds of the habit would be a difficult manoeuvre.

How odd it must have been for Beatrice O'Dowd to learn such necessary feminine accomplishments as sitting in short skirts after fifteen years' freedom from these cares. Whatever it had cost her, how completely this woman had thrown off the trappings of a nun. Of course it could have been the other way around: perhaps Sister John had never properly adapted herself to them. Hence her desire to leave.

'I wanted to talk to you anyway, Jemima,' said Beatrice O'Dowd conversationally. I did not know that we were on Christian name terms. Still, television intimacy is a phenomenon which all successful performers have to endure. 'So I was glad when you sent for me. In a way it does make more sense seeing you in here.'

'In here?' I thought she meant: sick, in the infirmary.

'Here at the convent. We had discussed contacting you in London. I said: yes. The others said: wait a bit. And then lo and behold you turn up here. As young Ronnie told us. And of course that made absolute sense to us all. We realised that you were one jump ahead of us in your thinkinga"'

'You're going much too fast. I've been ill you know,' I said desperately. 'Why did you want to talk to me? Please begin at the beginning.'

Beatrice looked momentarily nonplussed. Then she leant forward again and said in her conversational style: 'But of course I wanted to talk to you, Jemima. Seeing that Rosabelle Powerstock was such a particular friend of mine.'

It was not, I feared, a phrase that a former nun of the O.T.I. could use by accident.

11.

Will My first reaction to the words of Beatrice O'Dowd was a sudden sharp pang. Irrational annoyance - jealousy would really be too strong a word - seized me. What had this rather plain women with her fat legs - she was plain and her legs were bulging over the tops of her boots - to do with my Rosa? The ridiculousness of my reaction struck me almost immediately. My Rosa was long since gone to her Tower of Ivory. Many years later a middle-aged nun called Sister Miriam had formed a particular friendship with another woman, then a nun: 'Particular friendships can cause scandal to other G.o.dly women in the community' - Sister Lucy's observation. I quoted it aloud.

'Particular friendships! Absurd phrasea"'

'But you just used it.' Beatrice O'Dowd paid no attention.

'Did you know,' she enquired warmly, 'that this convent was founded on a particular friendship? Do you think that an upper-cla.s.s woman like Princess Eleanor would have stuck around in this dump without the particular friendship of Dame Ghislaine le Tourel to cheer her up? And yet we were denied even the simplest of human relationships, and taught to consider them wrong. With your understanding of people, how society really works, you must know what I mean.'

I ignored the compliment.

Dame Ghislaine. She had certainly featured in the life story of the Blessed Eleanor. A devoted Dame d'Honneur. One of the six black nuns who carried her in her coffin to the tower. The nun who was chosen as the next Reverend Mother by the dying wish of the foundress (no nonsense about democratic election in this community). Eleanor and Ghislaine. As Mother Ancilla would say - royalty, that's different.

It was all a very long time ago. Rosabelle and Jemima. Like Eleanor and Ghislaine that too was a very long time ago. Ancient history. Not so Sister Miriam and ex-Sister John. Beatrice's language of denunciation had a strictly contemporary ring. As contemporary for example as the pa.s.sionate phrases of Dodo Sheehy on the subject of the poor. And not altogether unlike them.

'From the first moment I saw your programme,' continued Beatrice as though giving me a prepared lecture, 'I was with Rosa all the way. I like to think I may even have suggested the handover. Be that as it may.' Poor Rosa, was she not even to have the credit of her own generous idea? 'Certainly Mother Ancilla always thought so.'

She managed to get a great deal of dislike into the name of Mother Ancilla. I recalled Sister Lucy's venom in p.r.o.nouncing the name of Beatrice O'Dowd.

'That's when she decided to get me out at all costs. Nothing and no-one stands in the way of Mother Ancilla when she decides to have her own way.'

'But surely you went of your own accord? You didn't want to stay - I mean, listening to youa"' I really wanted to say: looking at you. In your boots with your make-up and your crossed legs and your bouffant hair.

Beatrice O'Dowd sighed.

'Oh in a sense, yes, of course. I was in a state of crisis about the whole thing for years. My vows, I mean. I would have gone sooner or later. I was way ahead of Rosa in that way. Although of course she would have left in the end. If she had lived.'

She sighed again.

'Poor Rosa. No, I wanted to stay here to see the thing through. Go in my own time. The handover of the land - well, you know all about that. I could have supported Rosa through it all, the lawyers, Mother Ancilla, the lot. I was so much stronger than her. She needed my strength. And then they took me away from her.'

A voice from the past. A letter still remembered: 'How strong you are, Jemima. Not needing any props to support you. No religion or belief or anything like that. I need so many props. That's one of the reasons I had to become a nun. To be propped up by G.o.d.'

Even in the convent Rosa had still needed strength.

'There wouldn't have been that ghastly upset,' Beatrice went on, 'that nervous breakdown - that's what it was of course, but the nuns would never admit it. Even her terrible plan to shut herself up in the tower. That would never have happened if they hadn't sent me away, using the excuse of a particular friendship. It was deliberate victimisation.' Another phrase from the modern world.

'Mother Ancilla told me Rosa had been very ill,' I put in mildly.

'Oh she told you that. Too late. And wrapped you round her little finger, I'll be bound. The charm of that woman when she wants to use it. But she didn't fool little Ronnie, my sister Veronica, she knew the truth about Mother Ancilla.'

Beatrice O'Dowd's tone changed abruptly.

'There was another will, you know.'

'Ah.'

'You knew?'

'No. But - a hint was dropped.' 'Who by?' Sharply.

'The girls: nothing specific, just gossiping.' I did not intend to be more explicit until Beatrice O'Dowd showed me a few of her own cards.

'Which girls?' Even more sharply. 'There are over eighty girls here. Counting the junior school.'

'I haven't met anyone from the junior school,' I replied pleasantly. Which was true - except for a brief glimpse of a weeping Tessa Justin, in St Joseph's sitting room. 'Some of the girls who were friendly with Rosa. They seemed to know all about her plans - your plans - to give away the lands. And they as good as indicated to me that there was a second will. Leaving it to the poor and away from the convent, after all.'

'Oh, them. Margaret and Dodo and Co. Oh yes, Blanche and Imogen even witnessed the will. That's how we knew about it in the first place. They didn't read it, but Rosa told them quite frankly what it was. But I hopeda"' She stopped. 'You see, there is a girl here who knows where Rosa hid the will, and Mother Ancilla knows that tooa"'

It was at this point that Beatrice O'Dowd and myself became aware that Mother Ancilla was standing there at the entrance to the cubicle, watching us. She had appeared with a silence worthy of Sister Agnes herself. One of the reasons for this silence might well be the fact that she was holding her black rosary crushed in her hand. So that it would not c.h.i.n.k. So that it had not c.h.i.n.ked.

'Speak of the devil,' was all I could think of saying in a bright voice. It was, under the circ.u.mstances, a singularly inappropriate remark. Mother Ancilla showed no signs of having heard it.

'Dear Beatrice,' she cried. What an actress the woman was. I honestly could not have told the difference between the affection with which she clasped the former nun's hand and the love with which she mantled, say, a princess. 'We're all so pleased you came down to see us, even on this sad occasion. The community are longing to see you.'

I really believed her. I turned towards Beatrice to see how she was taking all this. After fifteen years of Mother Ancilla's sway, I wondered how easy she found it to face her.

The answer was: not easy at all. Beatrice O'Dowd was gazing at Mother Ancilla, fascinated, as a rabbit gazes hopelessly at a snake. Gone was the forceful downright woman who had been instructing me only minutes before. Beatrice O'Dowd, purple jersey, black boots and all, looked frankly terrified. The resemblance to the late Sister Edward was suddenly marked. I remembered that fateful encounter in the school corridor.

'Thank you, Mother,' she mumbled. 'I'll be glad to see them all again.' She picked up the purple coat.

'And how is your work going, my child?' enquired Mother Ancilla, even more tenderly.

'Splendidly, Mother, thank you,' replied Beatrice with an increase of spirit. 'In spite of recent setbacks we think we have found a way round our problems.' She actually gave the Reverend Mother a challenging look. Mother Ancilla tucked in the corners of her mouth. If Beatrice could look like a rabbit, Mother Ancilla could certainly resemble a snake. Her gaze was watchful, cold. But her next words still sounded benign: 'I'm very pleased to hear it, dear Beatrice.. And I mean that most sincerely. Just because your - er - plans did not work out one way, it does not mean they are displeasing to G.o.d in every way.'

'Thank you, Mother.' Beatrice sounded sardonic.

'Often Our Blessed Lord comes to our aid in the most unexpected ways.'

'I will bear in mind what you say.'

'I take it that although your project cannot go ahead in its original form, it will nevertheless go ahead in a different way?'

'You can take it that our project will go ahead, Mother Ancilla,' returned Beatrice with something of the older nun's bland sweetness. 'Rosabelle Powerstock's will shall prevail.' That sounded like a text. 'And now if you'll excuse me, I'll go and look up some of my particular friends in the community. Miss Sh.o.r.e, we'll be in touch.' There was no doubt of the deliberate provocation of her last remarks. And she went, I noticed, in the direction of the school wing, not the nuns'. I waited till the purple coat had disappeared from view.

'What is her project, Mother Ancilla?' But I had already guessed the answer to my own question. It was really no surprise to me to learn that Beatrice O'Dowd now worked for the Powers Estate Projectors. Directly under Alexander Skarbek: his aide.

Alexander Skarbek. I suspected strongly that there had been some contact between Skarbek and that little Sixth Form group. Possibly through Rosa, certainly through Beatrice. How many others? And what orders had he given Beatrice O'Dowd? I might have to swallow my pride, ring up Tom, and make a few more enquiries about Alexander Skarbek.

*I wonder just what Beatrice O'Dowd intends to do now?' said Mother Ancilla meditatively. 'Poor Mrs O'Dowd was telling me that she's still completely under the influence of that dreadful man. She was always so easily led. And oh dear that coat and that jersey! Nuns never have any taste in ordinary clothes, you know. That's why it's so disastrous when they put themselves into short skirts.'

How strange to think that at her age in the world Mother Ancilla would now be dressed as an old lady. In her black habit on the other hand she still appeared as a dominating and formidable figure. A woman of iron will.

Will. It all seemed to come down to a question of will. Will and the will.

Will. There was a great deal of it about. Not only the will of G.o.d but a great deal of other wills including the last will and testament of Rosabelle Powerstock. The will of Mother Ancilla to preserve the convent and its work at all costs. The will of a good many other people - including Beatrice O'Dowd, the outsider Alexander Skarbek, the girls of the Sixth Form - to bring that work in effect to a halt by installing a housing project at the convent walls. The will of the Black Nun, or the sinister forces represented by that phantasmagoric figure. The will of the Black Nun was the clearest of the lot: that Jemima Sh.o.r.e, Investigator, should drop her investigations and get out. Her note in my overcoat pocket had made that amply clear.

I concentrated for a moment on the will of Rosabelle Powerstock, the late Sister Miriam. Or rather the two wills of Rosabelle Powerstock. One, a simple testament made at the time of her final vows, which all the nuns made, leaving her effects and modest possessions to the community. The vast Powerstock Estate, of course, long ago placed in trust and excluded. The other, written many years later, the product of an anguished mind.

The missing will.

A will leaving the lands to the poor, Margaret had hinted. But even a mentally distressed nun would hardly phrase her intentions in the language of the Bible - 'Give all to the poor' in this day and age would probably end up by giving all to the government, not the same thing at all. Or at least not in the way Rosa had intended. The poor in this case were therefore ably represented by the Powers Estate Project. I could safely a.s.sume the Project to be the beneficiary of the missing will.

Yet even here there was a mystery within the mystery. Why had Rosabelle bothered to conceal her new will before her death? Who did she wish to conceal it from? A will was there to express her intentions when she was no longer there to make them clear herself. Yet she had apparently gone to great pains to hide this will. Unless of course someone else had hidden it - after her death.

The will. Will. I continued to propound to myself these problems.

'Wilful,' said Sister Boniface. She was handling her rosary by my bed. Her chest wheezed and the fingers clutching the beads were as twisted as ever. I thought of Keats: 'Numb were the Beadsman's fingers . . . and while his frosted breath etc., etc' St Agnes's Eve: Sister Elizabeth was beginning to have an effect on me. But Sister Boniface's tongue was still vigorous.

'Wilful. That's Tessa Justin for you.' Sister Boniface seldom let a subject go. 'Now she wants to have a private interview with you, Jemima. Those were her exact words. If you please! The little madam. Says she has some private information to tell you. I said: be off with you and don't bother Miss Sh.o.r.e when she's sick. Besides, you were sleeping. She said: but I've got to tell her what I know. I said: you can tell her tomorrow, all in good time. And off she's gone, sulkily, to bed.'

For once I was listening with rapt attention to Sister Boniface.