“Really?”
I smiled. “Believe me, it won’t be any less comfortable than a convent mattress.”
“But wouldn’t you be frightened, all alone down here at night?”
I almost laughed. “You know, one of the worst things about being a nun is that you never get to be alone. Your cell is a space in a dormitory divided by nothing more than curtains. When you’re not working, praying, eating, or sleeping, you’re expected to sit with the other nuns, sewing or knitting. The number of times I’ve longed to curl up in a quiet corner with a book . . .” I drew in a breath and huffed it out. “It would be sheer bliss to have a place all to myself.”
“Well, all right.” He stood up. “I can bring you sheets and a couple more blankets. You’ll need a nightgown, soap—that sort of thing.” He looked at his feet, as if the thought of what a woman might need embarrassed him.
“Soap—yes, please. And something to brush my teeth with, if possible,” I said.
“What about a mirror?” He glanced around the room. “There’s no mirror in here.”
I couldn’t help smiling at that. “Nuns aren’t allowed mirrors. Even the one in the cabin on the ship had to be unscrewed before I came on board. I haven’t looked at myself since I took my vows.” That wasn’t quite true. As a novice, the urge to see my own face had often got the better of me. I would glance at myself as I passed the large window at the end of the dormitory on the way to vespers, when the darkening sky gave the glass a reflective quality. The same temptation came when I was polishing my shoes, or the brass inkwells in the writing desks. I used to wonder whether the ban on mirrors was really about vanity, or if it was to stop you from looking too deep inside yourself, wondering if you really belonged.
“I didn’t know that,” he said. “I can bring one, if you want.”
“Well . . .” My hand went to my hair. To fit into this new world, I was going to have to make myself look presentable. “Perhaps a small one would be useful.”
He nodded. “I’ll fetch more wood for the stove, too. It can be cold down here at night. And I’ll bring whatever food I can lay my hands on. As I said, things are very tight. Everything’s rationed. We’re luckier than most, with the farm, but it’s a struggle to feed everyone.”
“Please—I don’t want anyone going short on my account. You say there are children living with you?”
He nodded, frowning.
“I couldn’t bear the thought of taking food that they might need.”
“But you have to eat.”
“What you’ve just given me will keep me going until tomorrow.”
“Seriously?”
I gave him a wry look. “It’s Lent. I’ve been keeping a daytime fast for the past three weeks.”
“But you don’t have to do that anymore.”
“I suppose I don’t.” I shrugged. “But soon I’ll be hobbling around. I can go collecting whelks and limpets from rock pools. We used to make soup with them in Ireland.”
“Please don’t—not until you’re stronger. The rocks are treacherous when they’re wet. When you can walk properly, I’ll take you up to the farm to help with the milking. There’s always some of that to spare. We have potatoes, onions, apples—and plenty of eggs.” He looked over his shoulder as he reached the door. “Is there anything else you need for tonight?”
“Could I have something to read?”
“A Bible?”
I hesitated. I didn’t want him to think that I was turning away from all that. But the Bible was all I’d been permitted to read. I longed for something else. Something unfamiliar. “That would make me feel very much at home,” I said, “but could I have some other book, too? Anything you have—it doesn’t matter what.”
This time, when he left me, he didn’t lock the door. While he was gone, I slithered off the heap of sailcloth and got myself into a kneeling position, which allowed me to fashion the jumble of fabric into something resembling a bed. When I’d finished, I glanced at the cobweb-frosted window above my head, wishing I could get outside to open the shutters and let in some light. Was this morning or afternoon? I had no idea how many hours had elapsed since he’d found me. There was no bell to tell me the time.
In Africa my days had been regulated by the mission bell. It began with matins. I never really got used to being torn from sleep when it was still dark, to dress and go to chapel. Then, at daybreak, came the act of praise called lauds. The Divine Office continued at regular intervals until lunchtime, with prime, terce, and sext. At three the bell rang for none—afternoon prayers. Vespers came at five, and the final bell, for the anthem to the Virgin, was at eight o’clock. Whatever you were doing, when the bell rang you had to stop. Often it made me seethe inside. How could God want me to run off to the chapel when I was holding the hand of a patient who was dying?