Quiet as a Nun Read online

  Mother Ancilla was everywhere, kissing and clasping hands, until her fingers finally became permanently entangled with those of a handsome, rather plump, middle-aged woman with black hair in a knot, and a great deal of gold jewellery. I was surprised. She had surrendered the hand of another well-dressed parent, rumoured to be an Austrian baroness 'related to absolutely everybody in Europe'. But when she pounced on me, hand in hand with her new protegee, the mystery was explained:

  'Jemima, you remember the dear princess, you remember Pia.' How satisfied my mother would have been to learn that Pia had allied herself in marriage to an Italian prince of even more exalted birth than her own!

  'Geemima! So wonderful! I'm telling you.' Pia embraced me ecstatically, taking me into her warm bosom, where the softness of her cashmere jersey contrasted with the sharp imprint of her myriad gold chains. She smelt delicious. She was charming.

  'Gianni! Gianni! 'Ere, 'ere.' Pia's English had not improved. And Gianni, whoever he was, husband, lover, son, chauffeur, was not attending. 'Look 'ere, last night I'm sitting in Claridge's and I'm watching television, because we don't go to Annabel's, really so boring every night, and I see you!'

  She was a fan. I wondered just which repeat she had seen in her luxurious suite: not the Powers Estate Investigation, that would be too ironic. Yet it was due to be repeated sometime. I was beginning to think of that as a lethal programme. Perhaps Princess Pia would now become infected and sell all that she had? Looking at her chains I decided that like the centurion she probably had a great deal to sell.

  Mother Ancilla beamed.

  'Isn't it wonderful to think of dear Pia watching you on television?' she cried. I only wished my mother could have survived to hear the news. She too would have thought it quite wonderful.

  I edged away in the direction of Sister Elizabeth. At least she remained sublimely indifferent to the occasion in hand. We managed to have a quick exchange on the nature of Christian pantheism as expressed by Shelley in 'The Skylark' before a parent claimed Sister Liz to discuss the somewhat lesser literary matter of his daughter's essays.

  At the secondhand book stall Sister Hippolytus was presiding grumpily. The books comprised a mixture of lives of the saints and extremely worn paperback Agatha Christies. The Agatha Christies were doing a brisk trade. I could see no way of avoiding my former history mistress; Sister Agnes, whom I wished formally to thank for rescuing me in the chapel, was nowhere around.

  'You haven't bothered to come and see me, Jemima, with your questions about convent life,' said Sister Hippolytus, who made no pretence of being other than cross at her exclusion. 'Yet no-one else here knows anything at all about the history of this place. No-one else here even cares about history.'

  'Tomorrow, Sister Hippolytus,' trying to sound as apologetic as I could.

  'Tomorrow, tomorrow. Today belongs to God, tomorrow may well belong to the Devil. As Blessed Eleanor said to Dame Ghislaine when she was dying and Dame Ghislaine wrote it down. I've written it down too, you know. A new life of our foundress is sadly needed, don't you agree? Besides, I'm making a major historical revelation—'

  I began to edge away to another stall. I could not honestly regard a new life of the Blessed Eleanor as one of the crying needs of modern publishing.

  'God granted me an extra long spell in the infirmary last winter,' said the old nun, deserting crossness temporarily for complacency, 'and I was able to get on with it wonderfully well. I was able to help one or two of the Sisters to a speedier recovery by telling them stories of bygone times at Blessed St Eleanor's. They had never heard such tales before.'

  I believed her, including the miraculous recoveries of those Sisters condemned to the Hippo's historical revelations .. .

  'Anyway history makes much the best television.' That was Sister Hippolytus' parting shot. 'The past. Towers, ancient foundations, secret hiding-places, old buildings, that's what the public likes. You'll see. Not a lot of foolish women talking about themselves.'

  The implication was: to another foolish woman. But for all her crotchety temper, Sister Hippolytus had cleared up at least one matter in my investigations.

  I helped myself to some of Sister Clare's excellent coffee. Sister Clare was presiding behind an urn, aided by Blanche Nelligan and Imogen Smith. Blanche rolled her eyes to indicate how far this coffee would fall below my standards.

  At a nearby stall Sisters Damian and Perpetua had arranged a series of bottles ranging from Worcester sauce to something mysterious and unlabelled in a vast black bottle. For a handsome sum of money, people were entitled to throw hoops over these bottles in an attempt to secure them. As I arrived, the little hedgehog was plucking nervously at her companion's sleeve.

  'Sister, Sister,' I heard her say. 'One of these bottles is alcoholic. What happens if a child wins it?'

  'Ah, never worry, Sister,' replied Sister Perpetua happily. 'They won't win anything at all, and that's a promise. These hoops are all far too small to go over the stands. That's the way we used to do it at home in Ireland,' she explained to me, without a trace of shame. 'You make so much more money that way. After all, it's all for charity isn't it? The poor little black children.'

  The other stalls were run on rather less ruthless lines. The prize goods - clothes and napkins exquisitely embroidered by the nuns themselves - quickly vanished. Whereas a quantity of logs and leaves and ferns sprayed in silver by the junior school still lurked to trap the unwary visitor.

  I even bought one of these festive pieces of nature myself.

  'Miss Shore, can we have your autograph?' A group of giggling juniors, bored with the rest of the proceedings, surrounded me. Some proffered autograph books, others scraps of paper. The last girl lingered. She was tiny, with huge goggling eyes and hair scraped into a thick pony tail.

  'Will you put: For Mandy, Miss Shore?' It was done.

  'And that's my toothbrush holder.' She pointed to a large besilvered log, in which three very small holes had been bored. 'Nobody's bought it. And I took so much trouble—' A frightful expression of woe which did not convince me for a moment: I bought the toothbrush holder. After all, there were unlikely to be two like it in existence. Triumph succeeded woe on the small face.

  'Mandy Justin,' said the voice of Mother Ancilla sharply, 'you should be getting ready to hold the bouquet. Your mother's just going to make her speech. And if you see Tessa tell her to go to the platform too.'

  So yet another member of the Justin family was an adept at improving the shining hour. My attention was caught by a cortege of what were evidently more Justins, shuffling uneasily onto the platform. Another prudent move on the part of Mother Ancilla was to have the so-called opening ceremony performed as a closure when the stalls were more or less empty. This meant that the distinguished visitor, in this case Lady Polly Justin, had to stay to the bitter end, buying for all she was worth. And so did all but the most brazen of the other visitors. It was a bold parent who ran the gauntlet of Mother Ancilla's disapproval by leaving before the speech.

  I studied the Justins.

  I recognised Sir Charles Justin. He was a Conservative MP, enormously stout, very much looking the part of authority. He had once given a drink to Tom and myself on the terrace of the House of Commons when his right wing and Tom's left wing views had somehow brought them into agreement over some matter of individual liberty (Tom), freedom from state control (Sir Charles Justin). He looked remote and intensely gloomy sitting there on the platform.

  I deduced that the proximity of Lady Polly Justin was responsible for much of this catatonic state. Lady Polly looked pretty as a picture in exactly the right furry hat and soft frilly blouse. Her looks, strong nose, heart-shaped face, reminding me of Romney's Lady Hamilton, gave one hope for her daughters. Perhaps Mandy and Tessa would one day turn into swans like this. Nevertheless Lady Polly succeeded in making a speech of quite exceptional incompetence. As a Tory MP's wife, she must surely have become accustomed to such things. Of course the ever-protective Tom never
forced his constituency on Carrie - her nerves would never allow her to make a speech. But he was Labour.

  Tories were known to be different and demanded far more from their wives.

  Yet Lady Polly not only read her speech but lost her place and dropped her notes. She even made a hash of that hoary old play on words - 'a fete worse than death'. This came out as: 'I am sure this is not a death worse than a fete, even though my fate may be, trying to open it, I mean close it.' Quite. Perhaps she did it on purpose to try and gain her husband's attention? If it was a manoeuvre, it failed. Sir Charles showed absolutely no interest in the proceedings whatsoever.

  The lanky young man yawning beside Lady Polly was, I guessed, Jasper Justin of Eton College, Windsor, Berks. There was a miniature version of him sitting beside Sir Charles, equally spindly, in the uniform of some doubtless impeccable prep school. It was difficult to believe that Sir Charles had ever looked quite like that. But perhaps Justins put on weight, with responsibility, as they got older. Mandy Justin duly presented the bouquet to her mother, looking like a little doll, and giving a truly magnificent display of bashfulness. There was no sign of Tessa Justin.

  'You must come and meet Polly,' purred Mother Ancilla in my ear. 'She's such a dear.' Like Lady Polly herself, Mother Ancilla was quite unabashed by the platform performance.

  Not so every member of the audience.

  'Honestly, Miss Shore, did you ever hear such rot?' hissed an indignant voice beside me. It was Dodo Sheehy. Dodo and Margaret had not been much in evidence during the bazaar. No doubt they disdained such things as being both time wasting and class ridden. It was a point of view one could share.

  'Sir Charles Justin is a fascist beast,' she went on. Blanche and Imogen, standing rather languidly by, having abandoned the coffee stall, nodded as though well versed in the horrors of Sir Charles Justin's politics.

  Margaret Plantaganet was standing by herself, over by the door. Her arms were folded. Her face wore its habitual stern expression in repose, what I called her crusader's look. Lady Polly, platform surrendered, stood quite close to her, twittering away and gesturing. I could not hear what she was saying, but the two of them could hardly have presented a more complete contrast in style and looks. I could not imagine Margaret opening a bazaar such as this in ten years' time, any more than she might marry a Conservative MP. That for her would truly constitute a fate worse than death. I had long ago abandoned my fantasy of Margaret among the brides in the Nuns' Parlour arrayed in white.

  I decided to greet Margaret. But on reaching her, I was sucked into Polly Justin's orbit.

  'I can't understand it,' she was saying with great indignation. 'Where is Tessa? I mean where is she? Why isn't she here? Why didn't she come for my speech?' It was tempting to suggest that Tessa Justin might have heard her mother speak before, and decided to keep clear. I resisted the temptation. But as the other parents melted thankfully away, a great deal of agitation was revealed among the remaining nuns. Mother Ancilla, like Lars Porsena, was sending her messengers forth, east and west and south and north, to summon Tessa Justin.

  Mandy Justin was hopping to and fro at her mother's skirt sucking one finger.

  Jasper Justin continued to yawn, while eyeing Dodo Sheehy. Master Justin, evidently a precocious youth, eyed a Fourth Former.

  'I told you the girl wasn't here,' said Sir Charles Justin, fixing me with a belligerent and slightly bulbous eye. 'The trouble with Polly is that she's like a bitch in a thunderstorm when trying to make a speech. No sense at all.' It was the solitary remark I heard him make.

  For all Mother Ancilla's enquiries, for all Lady Polly's fluttery demands, by the time the last parent had vanished, the last girl had returned to the children's wing, the Justins' silver Daimler still sat empty at the front door. By itself it seemed to constitute a great gleaming reproach to the institution which had so carelessly mislaid a member of its precious cargo.

  Tessa Justin, the fact had to be faced, had utterly disappeared.

  An hour later it transpired that she had not after all disappeared without trace. It was Mandy, weeping, who finally disgorged a typed note from her pocket.

  'From Tessa,' she said, between sobs.

  'Dear Mama and Papa,' it read, 'If you really want to know where I am, I have gone to stay with Aunt Claudia. Because I am unhappy here and she won't make me come back. I have got plenty of money. So don't worry. Your loving Tessa.' It was all typed, including the signature. Lady Polly continued her hysterics.

  'Oh isn't that just typical of Tessa? Claudia Justin isn't even on the telephone. She's Charles's mad sister. Yes, Charles, don't contradict me. She is mad. Living in the Lake District and thinking dogs and cats can speak. You know the sort of thing.' But Sir Charles showed no signs of interrupting. He just looked more furious than ever.

  'Why did she do this to me?' ranted on Lady Polly. 'We'll have to drive up there. No, we can't. It's much too far. And we've got the Spanish Ambassador coming to stay. Oh it's too bad of Tessa - Charles, what shall we do?'

  Sir Charles Justin said nothing. He strode forward and got to the wheel of his Daimler. It seemed as good an answer as any.

  It was Jasper Justin who was left saying placatingly: 'Come along, Mama, we'll send a telegram. Mother Ancilla will iron it all out. I'm sure Tessa's perfectly all right. She always is.'

  As I watched the departing Daimler, into which the remaining Justins had piled like the family of Louis XIV going to Varenne, I wished I shared Jasper's confidence. I myself was much less sure that Tessa Justin was perfectly all right. For one thing, I had recognised the typing of the note. And its style. I was positive that the same unknown source had provided all four typed notes; they had certainly been done on the same machine; three to me, one now to the Justins. Unless a ten-year-old had deposited two of the notes on my desk and secreted the third one in my overcoat pocket (which did not seem conceivable), then Tessa's note was a fake.

  In which case, where was Tessa Justin? Kidnapping, I reflected with a sinking feeling, was one of the few experiences which really did justify that overworked phrase, a fate worse than death. Unless it turned out to end in death itself.

  With a heavy heart, I took myself back to that room, the guest room, which I was now beginning to consider as my own personal cell. I tried, as calmly as I could, to consider the possibilities.

  I was interrupted by a knock on my door.

  There were few people I wanted to see at that particular moment. Certainly not Mother Ancilla, nor Margaret and Dodo for that matter. I desperately needed peace for thought before I talked to any of them.

  I went to the door.

  It was Sister Boniface. Her expression was almost as troubled as my own. And she was wheezing hard as she came in: she must have just climbed the visitors' stairs.

  'Jemima, I'm worried,' she began without preamble, sinking down in a chair, a sign of exhaustion. Nuns rarely just sit down like that. 'I've been praying about it in the chapel. Taking my troubles to Our Lady, who lost the Infant Jesus when He went to the temple. And she's told me to come and talk to you.' More hard breathing.

  'That child. Disappearing like that. Leaving a note. I don't like it one bit. She can't type for one thing. They don't learn typing till the Sixth Form. That note was beautifully typed. Sister John couldn't have done better herself, Beatrice O'Dowd I mean, when she was here she taught them typing. She was a trained secretary.'

  The old nun drew breath.

  'Besides, it's not like Tessa Justin. She's a show-off, you know. If Tessa was unhappy, we'd all know about it. She'd paint it on the chapel roof if she could. Not disappear. No fun, that, not seeing all the fuss for herself.

  'Sister Lucy won't listen to me. Talks about a situation of sibling rivalry, I think that's what she calls it, all to do with Mandy presenting the bouquet. Hence Tessa's choice of her father's sister as a refuge. I told her that was all rubbish. But she won't listen. So I prayed to Our Blessed Lady, and she told me to come to you.'

&n
bsp; 'What about Mother Ancilla?' I had to ask that.

  'I see you haven't heard yet. Poor Mother Ancilla. The strain of it all, the bazaar, the child vanishing. She's had one of her attacks. A bad one. She's lying in her cell now. They don't even want to move her to the infirmary.'

  So potent was the aura of Mother Ancilla that for a moment, at the prospect of its removal, I felt quite helpless.

  'I'm acting Reverend Mother. As the oldest member of the community.' Sister Boniface at least did not feel completely helpless. That at least encouraged me.

  'And then - she wanted to tell you something, didn't she? Urgently. A private interview, she said. And I stopped you, Jemima, I'm sorry about that. And now I'm a frightened old woman.'

  Not so strong after all. Another frightened old woman. As Mother Ancilla had been in our first discussion. No, merely that Mother Ancilla had collapsed and the burden had fallen on Sister Boniface's even more ancient shoulders.

  I took a deep breath. It was time to take someone into my confidence. It looked as if my confidante, directed by the Virgin Mary or otherwise, was destined to be Sister Boniface.

  As briefly and unemotionally as possible, I told her of Mother Ancilla's request to me, to uncover whatever might be evil or discordant at the heart of the convent. I did not burden her with the murkier ramifications of the whole affair. And I did not go further into the mystery of the Black Nun and my own terrifying encounter in the tower, beyond saying that there were forces of evil at work in the convent, and forces of good, in which some use was being made of the legend of the Black Nun, and I was not quite sure as yet which was which. God willing (oh fortunate phrase, that came to my tongue) I intended to find out.