August by Bernard Beckett Page A

hoped it might be love,’ Grace joked.
    He marvelled at her toughness. ‘The two are not exclusive.’
    â€˜I’m told liking lasts longer.’
    â€˜I have heard that.’
    â€˜Perhaps if God had liked us too, this would have worked out better.’
    â€˜Where did you learn your blasphemy?’ Tristan asked.
    â€˜I was born with it.’
    â€˜Where was it sharpened?’
    â€˜On the streets.’
    â€˜Tell me your story.’
    â€˜I don’t,’ Grace replied. ‘It’s a rule we have.’
    â€˜I think we’re the exception.’
    â€˜All the boys say that.’
    â€˜Don’t.’
    â€˜All right then. You’re the first, and I am so nervous I dare not speak. Is that better?’
    â€˜You’re cruel.’
    â€˜You’re repeating yourself.’
    Her breathing quickened, a series of shallow rapid gasps. Her hand clamped hard to his in terror, reminding him that their talking was a game, nothing more.
    Tristan’s fear grew more solid, its edges sharper. He felt her moving against him and thought of all the times he had dreamt of such closeness.
    â€˜You frightened me,’ she finally whispered, letting the words fall with finality, as if this simple admission was all her story needed.
    â€˜When?’
    â€˜When I first saw you. I thought you were an angel.’
    â€˜You don’t strike me as the believing type.’
    â€˜Things change.’
    â€˜I used to believe that,’ Tristan said. ‘Explain how it happened. Tell me your story.’
    â€˜I’m not good at it,’ she replied. ‘I’m more used to listening.’
    â€˜You don’t have to do it well,’ he said.
    â€˜It’s clear you don’t know me.’
    â€˜Such is my failure,’ he replied, and imagined her smiling.
    â€˜I grew up in a convent,’ Grace began. ‘Not at first. At first there were four of us: me, my grandmother and my parents. But my mother had lied to the authorities, pretending that she had been baptised. She had been a travelling musician and my father had convinced her to stay. They fled when they were discovered. They would have been executed. It was too dangerous to take me with them. My grandmother lied to the nuns. She convinced them to take me. She was old. She was dying…’

Grace’s Story
    The strawberry plants were transferred to the gardens on St Augustine’s birthday. In the warm years the first crop was ready for the summer solstice. Nobody else had managed to grow strawberries in the City and the nuns made the most of it. The fruit was sent exclusively to the tables of the most powerful, and the secrets of the convent’s compost and its prayers were carefully guarded. It was a point of pride with the nuns that no strawberry was ever eaten within the convent walls. The girls spread rumours of the sisters indulging in secret feasts but Grace didn’t believe them. The nuns took more delight in depriving themselves than any simple berry could yield.
    Good fortune saw Grace selected for gardening duty. She was shy and her reticence was easily mistaken for a desire to be good. Her grandmother had kept a small garden on the common and taught her how to tend it. It was enough. Although the work was callous-hard it was simple and left space in Grace’s head for daydreaming. In her third season she was given the honour of preparing the strawberry soil before the compost was added. The success of that year’s crop convinced the superstitious nuns that Grace was smiled upon, and the next year she was promoted to the prized role of garden enumerator. Grace was entrusted with completing a stock-take twice a day; the blooming of every flower was meticulously recorded along with the size and state of any fruit. The data she collected was handed to Sister Anne, who was responsible for the ledger in which the secrets of the strawberry were stored.
    Grace enjoyed