The Christmas Angel Read Free Page B

all pilgrims,’ Father Pascal said thoughtfully. ‘One way and another, aren’t we? Always searching for something.’
    Janna finishes tying the scarf at the nape of her neck and pauses to do homage to the large pot of winter pansies that stands beside the steps: creamy white and gold and purple, they turn their pretty silken faces to the wintry sunshine. She shivers, wrapping her warm woollen jacket more closely round her. Dossie gave her the jacket. It is almost knee length, soft damson-coloured wool, and elegant, but oh! so warm. This time, when she opened her present, she was unable to hide her emotion, and she and Dossie hugged each other, and Dossie’s eyes shone too, with tears. It was what she calls ‘having a moment’; but Dossie has many such moments: having chocolate cake with your coffee might be having a moment: or dashing into Padstow for an hour in the sunshine and then eating fish and chips by the sea wall: ‘I think we need a moment, darling.’ She celebrates life with these moments and Janna accepts them with joy: she understands this. She, too, has a passion for picnics, for impromptu meals and sudden journeys.
    Her Christmas gifts to them were much more simple: a Thomas the Tank Engine colouring book for Jakey; two spotted handkerchiefs for Clem; a piece of pretty china from the market for Dossie. Janna’s work is not highly paid, though her caravan is rent-free, but she eats well in the convent kitchen and counts herself lucky: much better than working the pubs in the summer season and taking anything she can find during the winter months. She heard about this job when she was working down in Padstow at the end of the season and she wandered up from Trevone one windy afternoon, leaving the surfers she was hanging out with down on the beach, walking over the cliffs in the late September sunshine. She came by the cliff path with the gulls screaming above the ebbing tide and the wind at her back.
    ‘Blown in on a westerly,’ Sister Emily says, beaming, ‘and what a wonderful day for us it was.’
    It’s odd, thinks Janna, how quickly she felt at home. Even as she walked between the two great granite pillars, passing the little lodge house and wandering along the drive, she was aware of a sense of homecoming. The granite manor, set amongst its fields, looking away to the west, with its gardens and orchard surrounding it, was so beautiful, so peaceful. Yet even with the warm welcome she had, and that strange sense of belonging, nevertheless she chose the caravan in the orchard rather than the comfortable bed-sitting-room in the house that they offered her. The caravan is separate; it offers privacy and independence.
    ‘It reminds me of when I was a kid,’ she told the kindly Sisters, eager to welcome her and to make her feel at home, ‘when we were on the road.’
    If they were surprised they showed no sign of it. Warmly, courteously, they gave her the freedom of the caravan and outlined her duties, which are simple: to keep the house clean and the washing and ironing done; and, if necessary, to sit with Sister Nichola who, at ninety-two, is failing.
    ‘We used to be completely self-sufficient,’ Mother Magda told Janna rather sadly. ‘Inside and out. But there were many more of us then, and we were young. We always had a couple in the Lodge that helped us, but the husband died and his wife went to live with her daughter. Now we have Clem, who is a true blessing.’
    ‘And Jakey,’ Sister Emily added, twinkling.
    ‘I’m not certain,’ Sister Ruth said, rather coolly, ‘that Jakey is a great help to us.’
    ‘He makes us feel young again.’ Mother Magda spoke firmly. ‘And he understands reverence.’
    Now, Janna passes beneath the apple trees and crosses the yard, the pretty little bantams, soft grey and warm gold, scattering and running before her. The Coach House is empty; no guests this week. She is glad. It is good just to be themselves. She loves it when they are just family;