We reached the top of Steep Street, however, without incident — apart from Adam once trying to climb out of the cart to chase a stray cat and having to be forcibly restrained. Hob Jarrett and his team were leaning on their spades deep in discussion about something or another, so I didn’t disturb them by attracting their attention. I noticed that very little progress in clearing the site had been made in the four days since I had last visited it, and reflected yet again that foreigners’ strictures on the indolence of the English were not without some basis in fact.
At the nunnery I was informed by the Sister who answered my knock that Sister Walburga had gone to visit a sick woman who lived in Saint Michael’s Hill, but was expected to return shortly. If I cared to wait …
I said I did, but in fairness indicated Adam in his cart. The nun stood on tiptoe, peering through the grille, out and down towards my feet. My son immediately stood up, somewhat precariously, and I held my breath, wondering what was coming next. But he only gave her a beatific smile. The door was opened at once and we were shown into the same little bare, whitewashed room where I had spoken to Sister Walburga. There was nothing there that Adam, even if he climbed out of his cart, could wreck. I heaved a silent sigh of relief.
The nun who had admitted us was a small, middle-aged woman with a gentle face and a retiring manner. Her voice was low and hesitant, and I guessed her to be the Sister referred to by Adela as shy and timid. She smiled tentatively at Adam, but then started to edge in the direction of the door with a muttered, ‘I’ll send Sister Walburga to you as soon as she returns.’
‘I see work goes on apace in the graveyard opposite,’ I said, but the heavy sarcasm was lost on my listener.
‘They’re good workers, all three of them,’ she answered, failing to notice my look of incredulity. ‘And now I must …’
‘Tell me your name, Sister,’ I requested, adding mendaciously, ‘My wife thinks she might know you.’
‘Sister Apollonia,’ was the response. ‘In the world, I was Jessica Haynard, but that’s a very long time ago.’
‘You’ve been here a while?’
Her smile lit up her face, making it suddenly beautiful. ‘Since I was sixteen. All of thirty years. Yes, you might say I’ve been here a while.’ She gazed hungrily at Adam. ‘What a beautiful child.’
The beauteous one, I was delighted to notice, had gone to sleep, lolling against his pillow in his usual abandoned manner, arms dangling over the edge of the box, legs splayed anyhow. Sister Apollonia made once more to leave the room.
Some instinct made me detain her.
‘I daresay you’re pleased to see the old graveyard — ’ I jerked my head in what I hoped was its general direction — ‘put to some good use at last, now that Mayor Foster’s bought the ground.’
A slight frown creased the sweet face and she hesitated before replying in her soft voice, ‘One wouldn’t, of course, wish to rob the poor or begrudge them any alleviation of their lot through Master Foster’s generous foundation …’
‘But?’ I prompted.
She sighed. ‘But I could have wished him to find land for his almshouses and chapel somewhere else.’
It was my turn to frown.
‘But why?’ I asked. ‘My understanding is that the graveyard has never been used for the purpose for which it was intended. There are so few of you now — only three Sisters in all, I believe — that, when the time comes for you to exchange this world for the next, burial can be arranged by your families elsewhere.’
The little nun nodded her agreement. ‘Oh, yes. That’s true. And the money payed by John Foster can be, and will be, put to good use. But — ’ she lowered her voice to an awed whisper, so that I had to incline my head to catch her words — ‘the graveyard, you see, was the site of the nunnery’s miracle.’
‘Miracle!’ I exclaimed, so sharply that Adam opened his eyes in surprise and stared solemnly at me for several seconds before falling asleep again. ‘What miracle, Sister? I can’t say I’ve ever heard tell of one.’
‘Oh, it was a long time ago,’ Sister Apollonia told me. ‘Twenty years or maybe more. As you get older, time passes so quickly that much of it flows together in one great stream. But yes, now I think carefully about it, it must have been twenty years, for it was just after Sister Walburga entered the nunnery as a postulant, and that, she tells me, is the length of time she has been here.’
‘What was this miracle?’ I asked.
‘One of our other Sisters, Sister Justina, had fallen very ill. Her life was despaired of. She had received the last rites, and two of the lay Brothers from Saint Michael’s had dug the grave ready for her, in the graveyard. But she was — indeed, still is — very dear to me, and I determined that all prayer could do to save her should be done. I prayed night and day, barely sleeping. And — ’ the little face was suddenly aglow with an inner light — ‘God heard me. In spite of what the doctor said, Sister Justina recovered, and has remained in good health until this day.’
‘But … but that’s hardly a miracle,’ I cavilled, loath to throw a rub in the way of such simple faith. ‘Even the very best of physicians has sometimes been known to be wrong. People do recover from illnesses from which others have expected them to die.’
Sister Apollonia became animated, waving her hands about like two little white butterflies (albeit calloused ones) and her naturally gentle voice even sounded a note of impatience.
‘No, no! Of course I’m not so foolish as to call that the miracle. Although, in its way, it was one, I assure you. But no, the miracle was that the grave which had been dug for Sister Justina filled itself in overnight — the night of her recovery — and was completely invisible by the morning.’
My heart was pounding in my throat as the full implication of what Sister Apollonia was saying hit me. For a moment I was unable to speak and let her chatter on, her shyness forgotten. At last, however, I interrupted.
‘Sister, can you remember exactly which night the grave was filled in?’
‘I’ve already told you.’ She was reproachful. ‘It was the night Sister Justina regained consciousness and started on the long road back to health.’
‘What sort of night was it?’ I persisted. ‘What had the day been like? What time of year?’
She looked astonished by my urgency and the fact that I had actually seized her by the arm and was shaking it. Another woman, Sister Walburga for example, would have given me a sharp set-down, but Sister Apollonia was too sweet and kind for her own good, and wrinkled her forehead in an effort to oblige me.
‘I think the time of year was early spring,’ she said. ‘March, I believe, and nasty, inclement weather. Yes, yes I remember now. We had had several days of wind and rain. I recollect listening to both while I was sitting beside Sister Justina’s bed and thinking of the poor sailors trying to bring their ships up that treacherous river from the Avon mouth. Now, fancy my recalling that after all this time.’
My palms were sweating. ‘Sister,’ I begged, ‘try to remember some more. It’s important or I wouldn’t ask it of you. When exactly did you discover that the grave had been filled in? Are you certain it was the very next morning after Sister Justina had begun to get better? Or was it a day or so later, when you and the other nuns were finally convinced that it would no longer be needed?’
‘It was the following morning.’ She was indignant, or as indignant as one of her gentle nature could be, to think that I could doubt her word. ‘I’ve told you; it was a miracle. It was a sign sent by God, in answer to my prayers, that Justina was going to recover. Because even then, fully conscious at last and managing to drink a little broth, who could have said that she might not relapse into her former state? But as soon as one of the lay Sisters informed me that the grave had disappeared, I knew for certain that God had spoken. Sister Justina would live out her full span of years. And she has!’ The little nun was quietly triumphant.