The following afternoon I went to Sister Monica Joan’s room after lunch, hoping that she would not turn against me as she had against her Sisters. She had enriched my life so much with her friendship, and I knew it would be greatly impoverished if that friendship were suddenly withdrawn.
She was sitting at her desk, alert and busy with her notebooks and pencil. She turned. “Come in, my dear, come in. This will interest you. The hexagon meets the parallel” – she was drawing a diagram again – “and the rays combine here . . . Oh bother!” Her pencil broke. “Fetch me my pencil-sharpener, will you, dear? The second drawer down in my bedside cabinet.” She continued tracing the lines across the paper with her forefinger.
I went across the room to her bedside cabinet, happy that she was not excluding me from her affections. What made me pull open the third drawer down? It was not intentional, but it almost paralysed me, and for several seconds I thought I would choke. The open drawer revealed several gold bangles, two or three rings (one of the stones looked like a sapphire), a small diamond watch, a pearl necklace, a ruby pendant on a gold chain, a gold cigarette case, a couple of gold cigarette holders studded with stones, and several tiny gold or platinum charms. The drawer was only about two inches deep and no more than ten inches wide, but it must have contained a small fortune in jewellery.
Sudden silence can attract immediate attention. She turned round and saw me transfixed, looking into the drawer. At first she did not say anything, and the silence developed an ominous quality that was broken by her hissing: “You wicked girl, prying into my affairs. How dare you? Leave the room immediately. Do you hear? Withdraw, at once.”
It was so shocking, I had to sit down on the edge of the bed. Our eyes met, mine full of grief and hers flashing with anger. Gradually the defiance crumbled away, and her old, old face assumed a tired, almost pathetic quality. She whimpered, “All my pretty things. Don’t take them away. Don’t tell anyone. They will take them all. Then they’ll take me away, like they took Aunt Anne. All my pretty things. No one knows about them. Why shouldn’t I have them? Don’t tell anyone, will you, child?” Her beautiful hooded eyes filled with tears, her lips trembled, and the toll of ninety years descended on her as she crumpled into a sobbing wreck.
It took only a second to cross the room and hold her in my arms. “Of course I won’t tell anyone. No one will ever know. It’s a secret, and we won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
Gradually her tears dried, and she blew her nose and gave me one of her saucy winks. “Those great clod-hopping policemen. They’ll never know, will they?” She raised one eyebrow and chuckled conspiratorially. “I think I will take my tea now. Go, child, and tell Mrs B that I will have some of that delicious China tea.”
“But you didn’t like the China tea.”
“Of course I liked it. Don’t be silly. You are getting muddled up, I fear!”
Laughing, I kissed her goodbye and made my way down to the kitchen to deliver the message to Mrs B.
It was not until later that evening that the awfulness of the dilemma hit me. What on earth was I going to do?
MONOPOLY
A promise is a promise, but theft is a criminal offence, and my pledge to Sister Monica Joan that I would not tell anyone about the stolen jewellery weighed upon me so heavily that I could hardly keep my mind on my work. Purloining a few pairs of silk stockings and handkerchiefs was naughty, but stealing jewels, some of them very valuable, is a serious offence. Normally nothing disturbs my sleep, but this did. If I told Sister Julienne, she would call the police again, and they would search Sister Monica Joan’s room a second time, more thoroughly than before. Perhaps there would be other things hidden away, in a box maybe, or in the bottom drawer of the bedside cabinet. The gravity of the offence might be more than doubled. They might arrest her on the spot, old as she was. I blocked out such a thought. Sister Monica Joan must be protected at all costs. I would not tell anyone.
Antenatal clinic was particularly trying that week. There were too many women, it was too hot, and there were too many small children running around. I felt like screaming. We were clearing up afterwards. Cynthia was cleaning the urine-testing equipment, I was scrubbing the work surfaces.
She said: “What’s up? You’ve not been yourself lately.”
Relief swept over me. Her deep slow voice acted like a balm to my troubled spirits. “How do you know? Is it that obvious?”
“Of course it is. I can read you like a book. Now come on, out with it. What’s up?”
Two of the Sisters were still in the clinic, packing up the antenatal notes and filing them away. I whispered, “I’ll tell you later.”
After Compline, when the Sisters had gone to bed, Cynthia and I sat in her room with an extra helping of pudding left over from lunch. Briefly I told her about the jewellery.
She whistled. “Phew! No wonder you have been quiet recently. What are you going to do?”
“I’m not going to tell anyone in authority. I’m only telling you because you guessed something was up.”
“But you can’t keep it to yourself. You’ve got to tell Sister Julienne.”
“If I do, she’ll tell the police and they might arrest Sister Monica.”
“You’re not being rational. They won’t arrest her. She’s too old.”
“How do you know? This is big stuff, I tell you. It’s not just pinching a few crayoning books.”
Cynthia was quiet for a while. “Well, I don’t think they will arrest her.”
“There you are, you don’t know. You only think, and you might be wrong. If they arrested her it would kill her.”
There was a bang on the door. “I say, you chaps, how about a game of Monopoly, what? No one in labour. All the babies tucked up in bed. What say you, eh?”
“Come in, Chummy.”
Camilla Fortescue-Cholmeley-Browne. Descended from generations of High Commissioners of India, educated at Roedean and polished by a Swiss finishing school, Chummy represented the upper crust in our small circle. She had a voice that sounded like something straight out of a comedy and she was excessively tall, which caused her to suffer much ragging. But she took it all with sweet good nature.
Chummy tried the handle. “But the door’s locked, old bean. What’s going on? Something rummy’s afoot, or I’m a brass monkey.”
Cynthia laughed and opened the door. “We’ve got some pudding in here. If you want some go and get a dish, and while you’re about it, tell Trixie.”
When she had gone, Cynthia said to me, “I think we had better tell the girls. Neither of them is in authority so the police won’t be called, and they might help. Chummy’s father was a District Commissioner or something in India and Trixie’s cousin is a solicitor, so they might know something about the law.”
I agreed. It was a relief to be sharing the responsibility after all my silent anguish.
Both girls came in with a dish and a spoon, Chummy bearing the Monopoly board. We shared out the pudding. Cynthia sat on the only chair and three of us sat on the bed. The Monopoly board was laid out on the bed, supported by books to stop it sagging. I had been against playing Monopoly, but Cynthia said it would help relieve the tension, and she was right.
We sorted out our money and tucked it in piles under our knees while Cynthia told them the story.
Trixie burst out laughing. “What a scream! So the old girl’s been pinching things left, right and centre. Tucking them under her scapular and no one would ever suspect. The cunning old vixen.” She roared with laughter.
“You cat. Don’t you call Sister Monica Joan names or I’ll—”