She was near enough to speak by this time, and she glanced at him in a disinterested way, as if he was no more than a chance visitor to the convent.
‘Good morning, Mr Kendal.’
‘Good morning,’ said Theo. ‘It’s a sharp morning, isn’t it?’
‘It is. Are you recovered from your attack?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
They walked on in their different directions, and Theo wondered would a killer really ask that in such an ordinary voice? Michael had said Sister Teresa believed Mara would find peace and safety at St Luke’s. But had she?
From the start, Mara had found the peace and safety of St Luke’s immensely reassuring. She could still remember how pleased Sister Teresa had been all those years ago when she decided to become a novice. She wrote to Mara to say it was the best outcome of all, and she was sure Mara had a real vocation. There would be many years of quiet contentment, of prayer and study and fulfilling work – in time Mara might become involved in the nursing work at St Luke’s.
In the event, Mara did not take much part in the medical side of the convent. ‘No vocation for that kind of work,’ she said after taking her final vows, and the older nuns agreed. She was by nature a contemplative, they said, an academic. She found contact with others difficult. But everyone had something different to offer. There would be a niche for her and it would present itself in God’s good time.
The niche seemed to become apparent quite naturally and gradually. Mara – now Sister Miriam – found herself looking after the convent’s library, collating information about its past, liaising with the University of East Anglia when post-graduate students wanted to stay at the convent to write a thesis on the county’s famous sons and daughters: the reformers Edith Cavel and Elizabeth Fry, or George Borrow. She began to write a monograph on the medieval mystic, Julian of Norwich. It was deeply satisfying to find that by now she could write smoothly and clearly in English, as if it was her native tongue. The nuns were pleased with her work, and interested in the monograph. A worthwhile study of a remarkable woman, they said, and were happy that this rather withdrawn sister was forging a quiet path of her own. They did not pry into Sister Miriam’s past, but clearly there had been deep unhappiness and suffering. If she should want to talk about it at any time, they would listen and try to help. But Sister Miriam did not talk. She went unobtrusively about her work, devout and obedient, a trouble to no one.
When Mikhail finished his medical training and was a qualified doctor, Mara was immensely proud. It was wrong to be proud on one’s own account – she had learned that at Debreczen, and later in the English novitiate – but it was perfectly all right on behalf of another. Mikhail was now a British citizen, known as Michael Innes. Dr Innes. There was pride in saying that, as well.
The memory of Zoia never quite left Mara. She sometimes dreamed about her. Zoia would have been filled with such anger when Mara escaped her – would she let her go so easily? Would she try to find out where Mara was and follow her? Mara seldom went beyond St Luke’s confines, but on the rare occasions she did, she was careful to keep her head down and not look into the faces of passers-by.
It was Sister Teresa – dear, good Sister Teresa – who managed to put her mind at rest. The nuns liked seeing their fellow-sisters from the other houses, and they especially liked seeing Sister Teresa who came to England every few years. Sister Teresa told Mara that she could feel herself safe. ‘Ceauşescu’s reign is becoming a very troubled one indeed,’ she said. ‘They’re saying his days are numbered, and Zoia Calciu will be fighting for her own survival. She won’t have time to bother about one prisoner who got away from her. So be safe and content and do your work here.’
When, in December 1989, the news reports came of the revolution – of the riots and then the scrambled trial of Nicolae and Elena Ceauşescu – Mara read the newspaper articles, scanning the faces of the crowds in the photographs. Had Zoia been there? Had she seen the disgrace and downfall of that evil pair? If so, what had she felt? But the faces were blurred grey smudges.
After that the years wheeled by, quiet and untroubled, busy and fulfilling. Some of the older nuns died, and new ones came to Melbray. There was a new Reverend Mother and a couple of years later, a new Bursar. They knew little of Mara’s early days, and there was safety in that, too. Life had fallen into a pattern that was orderly and safe and predictable. It should have gone on indefinitely; Mara was daring to hope it would. She began to believe nothing from the past could touch her in this English backwater. No hag-fingered memories could come bonily prodding into this safety, and expose the black mortal sin she had committed.
‘Admit you’re a murderess… confront the sin, unmask it and be penitent…’ That was what they had said in Jilava. Well, she had done all that, and although they had not kept their promise about letting her go, in the end she had got out. She had been in England long enough to feel safe now. It was more than twenty years since Matthew and Michael came into Jilava Gaol and got her out.
And then two things happened.
The first was that her beloved Mikhail came to live and work in Melbray as the GP for Melbray itself and several of the surrounding villages. It was what Mara had hoped and prayed for. She had watched and listened for this very opportunity, writing to Mikhail at once when she heard the existing GP was to retire. Mikhail found a house a few miles away, but Mara did not mind that distance; all she cared was that he was near to her. He often came to the convent’s clinic to treat the patients: he had developed a particular interest in bone damage and injuries. She did not always see him on those days, but she knew he was in the same building and that, too, was a deep delight.
He and Mara did not talk about their relationship although if anyone had asked, Mikhail would certainly have admitted it. He would have seen no reason not to. But the habit of secrecy was still with Mara, and she thought it better if no one knew. People in villages were gossipy. They had been so in Romania and they were the same in England. The new doctor has a sister at St Luke’s, they might say. How interesting. Then the Romanian background might come out and this would be unusual enough for people to talk about it. And talk spread – Mara knew that from her homeland – and it gathered its own information as it went. The information might find its way to official levels, where papers would be checked, documents scrutinized. Her right and Mikhail’s to be in the country might come into question – perhaps they could even be sent back to Romania. Mara felt sick at the prospect of that. So although she would not lie about Mikhail being her brother, she would not volunteer the information. This was reasonable and sensible.
But the second thing, the dreadful thing that was neither reasonable nor sensible, and that threatened to stir greedily at the silt of the past, was that Mikhail met and fell in love with Charmery Kendal.
Mara was never sure when the actual falling in love happened. She had no knowledge of the mechanics of love or romance and, although she supposed Mikhail had had a few adventures with ladies over the years, he had never talked about it and she had never asked. She did not want to know.
He talked about Charmery Kendal, though. How she had come back to Fenn House after several years away. He never thought he would see her again, but she had always been in some part of his mind. And now she was back.
Mara supposed Mikhail had been to bed with Charmery, which did not bother her very much: physical intimacy between two people was not something she could really relate to. It was the thought of a mental intimacy between them she could not bear. She managed to hide her feelings, but she felt as if a spade had been driven into her stomach. And one thing was gradually becoming clear: Charmery could not be allowed to take him away from her. He was Mara’s, he was the one for whom she had done everything: endured Jilava, made that shameful confession.