‘Do you have a light?’
The traveller turned. In front of him was a little woman of advancing years, wearing the blue habit of the Daughters of Charity. She raised her cigarette and, intuiting what he was thinking, she said:
‘Even we nuns have our vices.’
The traveller rummaged in his pockets and took out a lighter. Gripping her wimple to avoid it being whipped around by the wind, Sister Delphine lit her Gauloise, thanked the man, then walked over and leaned against the harbour wall. Above her, the scudding clouds were tinged a blazing pink that proclaimed the bitter cold of late winter. From her coat, Sister Delphine took a sheet of paper which she unfolded:
Delphine, my dear Sister in Christ,
I hope that by the time you receive this letter, your grief will have abated somewhat. All of us here at the Mother House are still mourning Sister Bernadette. In calling her to Himself, the Almighty must have felt that her mission here on earth was complete. It is this thought that consoles us.
I am pleased to inform you that soon you will have company in your lonely mission. One of our most devout sisters is going to join you on the first day of the winter holiday. Sister Anne Alice has been with us at the Mother House for more than twenty years, but her story goes back further still: at the tender age of thirteen, she came to our chapel to pray to the Blessed Virgin. In a way, this house has always been her home. I should perhaps point out that Sister Anne Alice has never ventured beyond the convent on the Rue du Bac, so this mission will be her first. It was she who insisted on going to work alongside you in Roscoff. Perhaps the call of the sea prevailed over humdrum city life! I feel she will be a great asset to our community and your mission.
I entrust her to your care, and I remember you both in my prayers.
Sister Françoise
In the distance, the headlights of an approaching bus shimmered on the wet road. It pulled up at the stop, the doors opened, and the first passengers alighted. Among them was a woman wearing a blue wimple. Sister Delphine tucked the letter back into her pocket and folded her hands in her lap.
‘Hear my prayer, oh Lord, please let her not be a prude or a prig.’
Tossing her cigarette butt to the ground, Sister Delphine straightened up and waved. The other nun eventually noticed her and, picking up her suitcase, left the gaggle of travellers. She did not seem unduly tired after the long journey from Paris: she walked briskly, keeping her eyes on the road, and had no trouble carrying her luggage. She was one of those figures people would notice, though she did not seek attention, still less seem to enjoy it.
‘Hello, I’m Sister Anne.’
She took Sister Delphine’s hand in hers. It was a warm, affectionate gesture. A few crow’s feet lined the corners of pale green eyes that were gentle yet perceptive, inspiring trust and affection. Her veil neatly framed her perfectly proportioned features, but for an unruly lock of chestnut hair that fell across her forehead. Looking at her, one scarcely noticed the dark blue material that symbolized her faith, the white collar that signified a life of self-abnegation, the formless shift that marked her out as one committed to the service of the poor: Sister Anne wore her habit as if it were a second skin.
‘I was much saddened to hear about Sister Bernadette.’
Few things saddened Sister Delphine less than her recent bereavement, the dearly departed having been the most sanctimonious madam she had had to put up with for the past two years. She casually crushed the smouldering cigarette with her shoe.
‘Oh, I have shed many a tear. Shall we go?’
She turned on her heel and headed towards the historic centre of the town. The dark granite facades of the buildings were dotted with strange figures: an angel carved above a wooden door; a saint perched on the corner of an alleyway; gargoyles, shipwrights and dragons peering down from the rooftops of this ancient port where pirates and corsairs had once plied their trade, a city frozen in time for five hundred years that only seemed to rouse itself now that night was drawing in.
As they came to the crossroads, Sister Delphine pointed to a squat ancient building with a small clock tower.
‘That’s the old chapel dedicated to Saint Anne. You’ll see her name everywhere here. Bretons are very attached to their patron saint.’
Glancing over her shoulder, Sister Delphine saw that no one was following her. She was completely alone.
Sister Anne had walked across to the quay and was gazing out at the ancient harbour, her suitcase at her feet. Her eyes scanned the jetty, searching among the moored boats for the vision Sister Rose had foretold a fortnight earlier. One morning, shortly after Lauds, as the other Daughters of Charity were silently making their way to the refectory, Sister Anne was lagging behind, still lulled by the dawn prayers, when a gnarled hand gripped her arm: ‘It came to me in a dream last night – you’ll witness an apparition of the Blessed Virgin in Brittany.’ Turning, she had seen Sister Rose smiling at her, as she always did when night presented her with intimations of the future; as she always did when time proved her predictions to be correct. In her hoarse, gravelly voice, she whispered: ‘I saw it as clearly as I see you standing here.’ When they reached the refectory, the two women fell silent and did not speak of the matter again. Three days passed. Then news of a death in one of the provincial communities had reached the convent: Sister Bernadette had been called to God, leaving only one holy sister, who could not cope alone. A volunteer was urgently needed. The community in question was in Brittany, at the northern tip of Finistère.
‘Sister Anne.’
Looking round, she saw Sister Delphine – teeth chattering and visibly annoyed – beckoning her to follow, so she headed back along the quay. Great looming clouds, coal-black and threatening a storm, now blanketed the harbour and the granite city. It came to me in a dream last night – you’ll witness an apparition of the Blessed Virgin in Brittany. Clutching her suitcase, Sister Anne glanced back at the harbour one last time, as though the promised vision might appear at any moment. I saw it as clearly as I see you standing here. A soft roar cleaved the darkness; a pleasure cruiser coming in to moor alongside the jetty. Dozens of white shapes bobbed and dipped in the harbour, a ballet of ghosts upon the dark waters. The cruiser cut its engine and became one more phantom among a host of others. Night called all things back to land, and all respected its law.
Reluctant to keep the other nun waiting, Sister Anne hurried back up the quay under the glow of the streetlamps.
‘Do you have any plans for the holidays?’
His mother plunged a plate into the sink and scrubbed at it with a dish sponge. Next to her, drying the glass she had just handed him, Hugo gave an amused smile.
‘I haven’t signed up to a gym, if that’s what you’re wondering.’
‘It would do you good to take a little physical exercise. There’s the football club in Saint-Pol-de-Léon. Or you could play basketball.’
She took the plate from the water, rinsed it under the hot tap. Plumes of steam rose, leaving a mist of condensation on the tiles; outside the window, the winding island paths merged in the darkness.
‘Well, if you don’t want to go running around after a leather ball, why not take up a martial art? Judo, maybe? That’s something you might enjoy.’
Glancing over her shoulder, she was unsurprised to see her son’s sardonic smile. Dimples creased his chubby cheeks. The dark peach fuzz that shadowed his upper lip did little to change his boyish features. Some days earlier, Hugo had turned sixteen; he seemed to be coasting through his adolescence, without any need to challenge authority – or resort to the cliché of teenage rebellion – to find his identity. Some rebels found their cause in books.
‘Any sport, it doesn’t matter. It would make your father happy.’
The phone ringing in the next room startled her: she was not expecting a call for at least two days. Hurriedly, she turned off the taps, handed the wet plate to her son, and struggled to remove the rubber gloves as she heard her husband calling out from the living room:
‘It’s Mathias on the phone!’
‘Coming.’
Hugo dried the plate, indifferent to the flurry of excitement created by these phone calls: since leaving home, his elder brother had managed to turn his absence into a virtue.
His mother tossed the gloves into the sink.
‘Can you finish up without me?’
Hugo nodded tolerantly. His mother stepped over and ran her fingers through the thick dark hair that was so like her own.
