Sister?’ He gave her a puzzled look.
‘Pop concerts are known as gigs these days,’ she explained.
‘Are they really? How very interesting,’ he commented. ‘Not that I am thinking of holding one. A – gig. In my grandfather’s time that referred to a wheeled cart on which dashing young gentlemen escorted their lady friends. More salad?’
Sister Joan shook her head. ‘It’s delicious, but I don’t have a huge appetite,’ she said.
‘We’re largely self-supporting here,’ the abbot told her. ‘The climate can be harsh but the air is remarkably pure as we don’t have to contend with the noxious fumes emitted by cars and lorries, and fortunately one or two of our brothers have green fingers and could make roses grow on a rock. Now we will have a russet apple which is my favourite of all the apples and a cup of coffee. Are you managing in the retreat?’
‘I’m getting used to it,’ Sister Joan said cautiously, biting into a tart russet, ‘but I didn’t really expect to be comfortable. Hermits are supposed to rough it, I think.’
‘I take it you are not a natural hermit, Sister,’ he said, paring skin from the fruit he had selected with a small, silver knife. ‘Fortunately it is now being recognized that nearly everybody requires some form of human contact. Of coursethere are the exceptions who may be honoured but seldom imitated. Your own convent is in Cornwall, is it not?’
‘High on the moors,’ Sister Joan said. ‘We too are largely self-supporting. I’ve only been there for a year. I went from the mother house in London.’
‘Where Mother Agnes is the prioress at present?’
‘Yes, she is. Do you know her?’ Sister Joan felt a surprise that she always felt when two people living far apart proved to be known to each other.
‘Many years ago,’ the abbot said. There was a slight twinkle in his eyes that made her long to ask under what circumstances they had known each other, but she ate her russet and sipped the rather weak coffee demurely.
‘You have sufficient in the way of literature with which to sharpen your mind while you are here?’ he was continuing.
‘Very little, but I hope to do some painting while I am here,’ she said. ‘It has always been a great interest of mine and my present mother Prioress, Mother Dorothy, suggested that I might spend some of the time painting local scenes. I keep reminding myself that I’m here to renew my spiritual life and not to enjoy myself doing what I like.’
Reaching the end of the sentence she blushed as she realized that she could have phrased it more neatly, but the abbot merely nodded.
‘The two are not incompatible,’ he said. ‘Was it not St John of the Cross who, being discovered playing with a duckling, said he was worshipping God? Have you thought of sketching the church here? It’s very ancient as I said and in certain lights quite breathtakingly atmospheric.’
‘Would you mind my doing that?’ Her face lit up. ‘I wouldn’t want to disturb the community but it would be marvellous to try to capture it with the enclosure stretching around it.’
‘Come over when you choose,’ he said kindly. ‘Arrange it with Brother Cuthbert. He can row you over in the boat on the mornings you wish to paint.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
Privately she decided that her first task would be to make a sketch of the church as a small return to the abbot for his kindness.
He was beginning to rise, a flattering degree of disappointment on his strongly-marked features.
‘The brothers will have finished their luncheon by now,’ he said, ‘which means that duty calls me again. Except on the rare occasions when there are visitors I take all my meals with them. If you wish to have another look round the inside of the church please do so. Brother Cuthbert will row you back to the mainland when you’re ready.’
‘Thank you for a wonderful luncheon, Father Abbot.’ Shaking hands with him she surprised another flash of
‘Pop concerts are known as gigs these days,’ she explained.
‘Are they really? How very interesting,’ he commented. ‘Not that I am thinking of holding one. A – gig. In my grandfather’s time that referred to a wheeled cart on which dashing young gentlemen escorted their lady friends. More salad?’
Sister Joan shook her head. ‘It’s delicious, but I don’t have a huge appetite,’ she said.
‘We’re largely self-supporting here,’ the abbot told her. ‘The climate can be harsh but the air is remarkably pure as we don’t have to contend with the noxious fumes emitted by cars and lorries, and fortunately one or two of our brothers have green fingers and could make roses grow on a rock. Now we will have a russet apple which is my favourite of all the apples and a cup of coffee. Are you managing in the retreat?’
‘I’m getting used to it,’ Sister Joan said cautiously, biting into a tart russet, ‘but I didn’t really expect to be comfortable. Hermits are supposed to rough it, I think.’
‘I take it you are not a natural hermit, Sister,’ he said, paring skin from the fruit he had selected with a small, silver knife. ‘Fortunately it is now being recognized that nearly everybody requires some form of human contact. Of coursethere are the exceptions who may be honoured but seldom imitated. Your own convent is in Cornwall, is it not?’
‘High on the moors,’ Sister Joan said. ‘We too are largely self-supporting. I’ve only been there for a year. I went from the mother house in London.’
‘Where Mother Agnes is the prioress at present?’
‘Yes, she is. Do you know her?’ Sister Joan felt a surprise that she always felt when two people living far apart proved to be known to each other.
‘Many years ago,’ the abbot said. There was a slight twinkle in his eyes that made her long to ask under what circumstances they had known each other, but she ate her russet and sipped the rather weak coffee demurely.
‘You have sufficient in the way of literature with which to sharpen your mind while you are here?’ he was continuing.
‘Very little, but I hope to do some painting while I am here,’ she said. ‘It has always been a great interest of mine and my present mother Prioress, Mother Dorothy, suggested that I might spend some of the time painting local scenes. I keep reminding myself that I’m here to renew my spiritual life and not to enjoy myself doing what I like.’
Reaching the end of the sentence she blushed as she realized that she could have phrased it more neatly, but the abbot merely nodded.
‘The two are not incompatible,’ he said. ‘Was it not St John of the Cross who, being discovered playing with a duckling, said he was worshipping God? Have you thought of sketching the church here? It’s very ancient as I said and in certain lights quite breathtakingly atmospheric.’
‘Would you mind my doing that?’ Her face lit up. ‘I wouldn’t want to disturb the community but it would be marvellous to try to capture it with the enclosure stretching around it.’
‘Come over when you choose,’ he said kindly. ‘Arrange it with Brother Cuthbert. He can row you over in the boat on the mornings you wish to paint.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
Privately she decided that her first task would be to make a sketch of the church as a small return to the abbot for his kindness.
He was beginning to rise, a flattering degree of disappointment on his strongly-marked features.
‘The brothers will have finished their luncheon by now,’ he said, ‘which means that duty calls me again. Except on the rare occasions when there are visitors I take all my meals with them. If you wish to have another look round the inside of the church please do so. Brother Cuthbert will row you back to the mainland when you’re ready.’
‘Thank you for a wonderful luncheon, Father Abbot.’ Shaking hands with him she surprised another flash of
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