Perhaps it was the threat of storm that had given her this feeling of something overshadowing her, of something that hovered just out of sight.
She had moved her things back to the cell she had occupied before she became acting lay sister, leaving the two cells leading off the kitchen for Sister Jerome and Sister Teresa. The professed cells were tiny rooms opening off the narrow corridor which ran above the kitchen wing, each identical with its narrow bed, stool, hooks on the back of the door for clothes, basin and ewer. A shelf against the wall held her Missal and the book in which she noted her own spiritual progress. Since reading it made her feel somewhat miserable she seldom glanced back through the latter. The larger cell which was Mother Dorothy’s domain during her term as prioress was at one side of her own, a vacant cell at the other side. On the other side of the corridor Sisters Perpetua, Katherine, David and Martha slept. The empty cell would be fitted up for Sister Teresa during her year of seclusion. Sister Joan thought of her own year of silence and of solitude, when she spoke only to her priest and mistress of novices, ate alone, wore the dense black veil that cut her off from view and curtailed her own vision of the world. Never again would Sister Teresa be so alone, yet never would she feel less abandoned, buoyed up by the prayers and gentle glances of her sisters. It was when one came into the full community, balancing spiritual with the mundane, that the real loneliness could begin. At which point in her musing Sister Joan dropped into an uneasy sleep in which she walked veiled down endless corridors, hearing somewhere a crying voice seeking help and finding none.
She was relieved when she woke before her usual time and, seeing the first streaks of dawn outside the window, was justified in rising. By the time she had cleaned her teeth, washed, and donned her habit and veil, the threatening images of the night had withdrawn and she picked up the wooden rattle and began her morning rounds with relief.
‘Christ is risen!’
From one cell to the next she made the customary announcement, recalling how the loud whirring of the rattle had startled her from slumber in the early days. From each cell came the customary response, ‘Thanks be to God’, each utterance slightly different as each member of the community struggled into awareness of a new day.
When she entered the kitchen the other two sisters were already up, and there were signs of life from the infirmary. Sister Teresa sent a cheerful morning smile. Sister Jerome kept her head lowered as she drew water for the kettles.
By 5.30 the sisters were in the chapel for the hour of private devotions which preceded early mass. Father Malone and Father Stephens drove up to the convent on a weekly rota basis to offer the mass and occasionally were a few minutes late but this morning, promptly on the half-hour, Father Timothy emerged from the tiny room that served as sacristy and began the service. There was a tiny ripple of interest among the community as he mounted the altar steps and opened the Bible.
He offered the mass with a fervour that surprised her. It was as if, outwardly passionless, he threw all the resources of his soul into the reenactment of the Sacrifice. Somehow or other she had expected something more hesitant, more pedantic.
He had obviously come in by way of the outer door and he departed the same way, not stopping tointroduce himself to the community over a cup of coffee. Even Father Stephens came up to the refectory, she thought, and wondered if the new priest considered such small courtesies unnecessary.
At least it wasn’t raining. She finished her early chores, took the shopping list that Sister Perpetua had written, and went out to the garage. One day they’d have to buy a new car since it was highly doubtful that this one would pass another MOT test. Settling herself behind the wheel, Sister Joan knew a short moment of
She had moved her things back to the cell she had occupied before she became acting lay sister, leaving the two cells leading off the kitchen for Sister Jerome and Sister Teresa. The professed cells were tiny rooms opening off the narrow corridor which ran above the kitchen wing, each identical with its narrow bed, stool, hooks on the back of the door for clothes, basin and ewer. A shelf against the wall held her Missal and the book in which she noted her own spiritual progress. Since reading it made her feel somewhat miserable she seldom glanced back through the latter. The larger cell which was Mother Dorothy’s domain during her term as prioress was at one side of her own, a vacant cell at the other side. On the other side of the corridor Sisters Perpetua, Katherine, David and Martha slept. The empty cell would be fitted up for Sister Teresa during her year of seclusion. Sister Joan thought of her own year of silence and of solitude, when she spoke only to her priest and mistress of novices, ate alone, wore the dense black veil that cut her off from view and curtailed her own vision of the world. Never again would Sister Teresa be so alone, yet never would she feel less abandoned, buoyed up by the prayers and gentle glances of her sisters. It was when one came into the full community, balancing spiritual with the mundane, that the real loneliness could begin. At which point in her musing Sister Joan dropped into an uneasy sleep in which she walked veiled down endless corridors, hearing somewhere a crying voice seeking help and finding none.
She was relieved when she woke before her usual time and, seeing the first streaks of dawn outside the window, was justified in rising. By the time she had cleaned her teeth, washed, and donned her habit and veil, the threatening images of the night had withdrawn and she picked up the wooden rattle and began her morning rounds with relief.
‘Christ is risen!’
From one cell to the next she made the customary announcement, recalling how the loud whirring of the rattle had startled her from slumber in the early days. From each cell came the customary response, ‘Thanks be to God’, each utterance slightly different as each member of the community struggled into awareness of a new day.
When she entered the kitchen the other two sisters were already up, and there were signs of life from the infirmary. Sister Teresa sent a cheerful morning smile. Sister Jerome kept her head lowered as she drew water for the kettles.
By 5.30 the sisters were in the chapel for the hour of private devotions which preceded early mass. Father Malone and Father Stephens drove up to the convent on a weekly rota basis to offer the mass and occasionally were a few minutes late but this morning, promptly on the half-hour, Father Timothy emerged from the tiny room that served as sacristy and began the service. There was a tiny ripple of interest among the community as he mounted the altar steps and opened the Bible.
He offered the mass with a fervour that surprised her. It was as if, outwardly passionless, he threw all the resources of his soul into the reenactment of the Sacrifice. Somehow or other she had expected something more hesitant, more pedantic.
He had obviously come in by way of the outer door and he departed the same way, not stopping tointroduce himself to the community over a cup of coffee. Even Father Stephens came up to the refectory, she thought, and wondered if the new priest considered such small courtesies unnecessary.
At least it wasn’t raining. She finished her early chores, took the shopping list that Sister Perpetua had written, and went out to the garage. One day they’d have to buy a new car since it was highly doubtful that this one would pass another MOT test. Settling herself behind the wheel, Sister Joan knew a short moment of
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