Vow of Penance by Veronica Black Page A

apt to go on about the twilight of one’s days. As Sister Gabrielle had once tartly observed she was at the age when she didn’t need reminding of it.
    ‘Sister Joan.’ He was tapping on the kitchen door.
    ‘I’m sorry, Father. I was just getting started on the vegetables. Please come in.’ Rinsing her hands hastily she opened the door wider.
    It was so unusual for Father Stephens to honour the kitchen with a visit that she stared at him for a moment before remembering to offer him another cup of tea.
    ‘Thank you but no, Sister. The one I had with Mother Prioress was very refreshing. You are still working as lay sister then?’
    ‘I’ve been told to make myself useful wherever I can,’ Sister Joan said.
    ‘No doubt until Sister Jerome settles in properly. I looked in to thank you for showing Father Timothy to the presbytery this morning. I ought to have been there myself but there was the hospital visit and we weren’t sure of the exact time of his arrival,’ Father Stephens said.
    ‘It was no bother,’ Sister Joan assured him. ‘Mrs Fairly was in anyway.’
    ‘Busy as ever.’ He sighed slightly as if the housekeeper’s busyness wearied him. ‘Father Malone will be well on his way now. Father Timothy has requested that he be permitted to share the ministry up here at the convent. I suspect that he feels more at ease with other religious, never having had a parish before.’
    Sister Joan couldn’t imagine Father Timothy being much at ease anywhere but reminded herself that it wasn’t fair to judge on one meeting.
    ‘Well, I must get on.’ Father Stephens was consulting his watch. ‘Thank you again, Sister. No, no, I’ll see myself out. I won’t interrupt your labours.’
    As he went out into the passage again she bit back a heartfelt wish that he would interrupt a task she had never much enjoyed. Preparing and cooking food wasn’t one of her favourite occupations. For an instant her fingers ached for the feel of a brush loaded with colour, the sight of a blank canvas balanced on its easel, and then the painful craving ebbed and she picked up the potato peeler again.
    The afternoon grew stormier, clouds scudding across the pale grey of the horizon. The potatoes were boiling, ready to be mashed and used to cover the boiled cabbage in a cottage pie without meat. Sister Jerome was scrubbing the back steps, careless of the cold as it pierced through habit and veil. Probably she was glad of the chance to do a bit more penance, Sister Joanthought, and ordered herself to tack on an extra decade of the rosary to remind herself to be more charitable in her thoughts.
    The telephone in the passage rang, startling the silence. She hastened to answer it lest the continued noise would disturb the old ladies who were having their afternoon sleep.
    ‘The Convent of Our Lady of Compassion. Sister Joan here.’
    ‘Sister, it’s Mrs Fairly – from the presbytery.’ The voice was distorted by a crackling line.
    ‘Mrs Fairly, what can I do for you?’ Sister Joan asked, crushing down a sense of impending anxiety.
    The housekeeper was the last person to disturb the community with a non-urgent call.
    ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Sister,’ Mrs Fairly’s voice apologized, ‘but I wondered if you were coming down into town this week.’
    ‘I have to come in tomorrow to stock up on a few things,’ Sister Joan said.
    ‘I wondered if we might have a coffee?’ Mrs Fairly said.
    ‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Fairly,’ Sister Joan began awkwardly, ‘but you know this being Lent—’
    ‘You cut down on visits. Yes, I do know, and I wouldn’t ask you but – if you could possibly meet me, Sister, I’d take your advice as to what exactly to do.’
    ‘I could call in at the presbytery,’ Sister Joan said.
    ‘No. Not the presbytery. Perhaps we could have a coffee at the café opposite the chemist. Do you know it?’
    ‘Sister Hilaria and I had a coffee there after she’d been to the dentist,’ Sister Joan