shy. ‘I got a scholarship. The tutors thought I ought to take it up professionally, but I never wanted to play in public. I mean,can you really see me as a member of an orchestra? It’s daft. Coming to Loch Morag was the best thing I ever did. I came on a hiking trip and stayed on. It’s a grand life.’
They had reached the boat and she stepped down into it cautiously from the slippery wooden wharf.
‘I hope those old abbots didn’t give you a shock.’ He took up the oars. ‘I don’t mind them myself, but they are a mite creepy, I suppose. And you were actually touching one, you know.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ she said. ‘The light went out and I was feeling along the wall for a switch and –’
‘They can’t hurt you, Sister.’ He spoke reassuringly as if he were years older than she was. ‘The dead must be the most harmless creatures on earth.’
‘Yes. I know.’ She spoke sombrely, her eyes on the rippling waters as the oars parted them. The dead were indeed harmless, but the hand she had grasped in the darkness of the crypt had been warm, full-fleshed – and alive.
Four
Mondays were pale blue days, Sister Joan thought, when she woke up the next morning. As a small child she had seen time as great swathes of colour – orange for Tuesdays, honey-brown for Wednesdays, green for Thursdays – and Monday had been the palest of blues, clouds stretched across the sky like crisp linen on a washing-line. In that respect Scotland wasn’t disappointing her. When she stepped outside the retreat the pristine freshness of the air went to her head like wine and she found herself singing her first Ave aloud, a song that broke into laughter when a small, inquisitive bird swooped down from above, peered into her face, and took off again, adding its own cry to the melody.
‘It’s good to be alive!’ she exclaimed.
The fears of the previous day had receded and assumed more sensible proportions. Monks were human, she had reasoned, and the presence of a female, albeit a nun, had roused one to curiosity. Perhaps the one who had watched her disapproved of women on the island and had found a way of frightening her off. At that thought she set her jaw in what her family had come to recognize as ‘Joan’s obstinate look’, and resumed her devotions more circumspectly. It was rather a nasty trick for a religious to play, her thoughts ran on, but on the other hand her own besetting sin was that of impulsiveness. She had had no business to go poking around in the crypt.
Having settled the mystery to her own satisfaction she completed her chores, gathered together her painting materials and made her way cautiously down the stone steps and the scree below to the shore of the loch. There were several boats on it this morning, the boatmen crouched overtheir fishing lines. Away on the horizon the sun had risen, gilding the dark rocks and making the surface of the water glisten with a million dancing motes.
‘Good morning, Brother Cuthbert!’ She hailed him cheerfully as she spotted him further along, pulling his boat into shallower water, apparently in blissful disregard of the fact that his legs were soaked almost to the knees and the skirt of his habit clung to his shins like a wet dishrag.
‘It’s a day for rejoicing indeed,’ he returned. ‘Sometimes I think God sends us these days in autumn so that we can remember them when the winter comes. Father Abbot says you may paint what you wish inside or outside the church and you may leave your things in the scriptorium. You won’t want to lug everything over and back again every time you come.’
‘That’s very kind of him.’ She jumped into the boat and sat down, surprising a look of admiring astonishment on Brother Cuthbert’s face.
‘My word, Sister, you’re spry for …’ His voice trailed away.
‘For my age?’ She grinned at him. ‘Strictly between ourselves , Brother Cuthbert, I’m in my mid-thirties, so I do wish you’d stop treating me as
They had reached the boat and she stepped down into it cautiously from the slippery wooden wharf.
‘I hope those old abbots didn’t give you a shock.’ He took up the oars. ‘I don’t mind them myself, but they are a mite creepy, I suppose. And you were actually touching one, you know.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ she said. ‘The light went out and I was feeling along the wall for a switch and –’
‘They can’t hurt you, Sister.’ He spoke reassuringly as if he were years older than she was. ‘The dead must be the most harmless creatures on earth.’
‘Yes. I know.’ She spoke sombrely, her eyes on the rippling waters as the oars parted them. The dead were indeed harmless, but the hand she had grasped in the darkness of the crypt had been warm, full-fleshed – and alive.
Four
Mondays were pale blue days, Sister Joan thought, when she woke up the next morning. As a small child she had seen time as great swathes of colour – orange for Tuesdays, honey-brown for Wednesdays, green for Thursdays – and Monday had been the palest of blues, clouds stretched across the sky like crisp linen on a washing-line. In that respect Scotland wasn’t disappointing her. When she stepped outside the retreat the pristine freshness of the air went to her head like wine and she found herself singing her first Ave aloud, a song that broke into laughter when a small, inquisitive bird swooped down from above, peered into her face, and took off again, adding its own cry to the melody.
‘It’s good to be alive!’ she exclaimed.
The fears of the previous day had receded and assumed more sensible proportions. Monks were human, she had reasoned, and the presence of a female, albeit a nun, had roused one to curiosity. Perhaps the one who had watched her disapproved of women on the island and had found a way of frightening her off. At that thought she set her jaw in what her family had come to recognize as ‘Joan’s obstinate look’, and resumed her devotions more circumspectly. It was rather a nasty trick for a religious to play, her thoughts ran on, but on the other hand her own besetting sin was that of impulsiveness. She had had no business to go poking around in the crypt.
Having settled the mystery to her own satisfaction she completed her chores, gathered together her painting materials and made her way cautiously down the stone steps and the scree below to the shore of the loch. There were several boats on it this morning, the boatmen crouched overtheir fishing lines. Away on the horizon the sun had risen, gilding the dark rocks and making the surface of the water glisten with a million dancing motes.
‘Good morning, Brother Cuthbert!’ She hailed him cheerfully as she spotted him further along, pulling his boat into shallower water, apparently in blissful disregard of the fact that his legs were soaked almost to the knees and the skirt of his habit clung to his shins like a wet dishrag.
‘It’s a day for rejoicing indeed,’ he returned. ‘Sometimes I think God sends us these days in autumn so that we can remember them when the winter comes. Father Abbot says you may paint what you wish inside or outside the church and you may leave your things in the scriptorium. You won’t want to lug everything over and back again every time you come.’
‘That’s very kind of him.’ She jumped into the boat and sat down, surprising a look of admiring astonishment on Brother Cuthbert’s face.
‘My word, Sister, you’re spry for …’ His voice trailed away.
‘For my age?’ She grinned at him. ‘Strictly between ourselves , Brother Cuthbert, I’m in my mid-thirties, so I do wish you’d stop treating me as
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