The House at Mermaid's Cove(10)

“Er, yes. Your father’s cousin’s daughter . . .” I raked my tufty hair, filled with panic at the thought of putting on an act. And ashamed that the lies I was going to have to tell were the result of my own selfish decision to cast off the past. I ought to have realized that this cover story he’d come up with was unexpectedly elaborate, that he had gone to extraordinary lengths to help me—and that there had to be an ulterior motive. But I was so overwhelmed by the speed at which my life was changing I didn’t question it.

“If you get into conversation with anyone, you’d better refer to me as Cousin Jack.” He drew in a breath. “One other thing, I need to know your surname. You’ll need an identity card. Everyone has one. You have to carry it with you at all times.”

I hesitated, wondering fleetingly if I should make something up. Perhaps it would be easier to play the role he had cast me in if I went under a different name. But that felt dishonest. Jack had done so much for me. I felt I owed him the truth. “It’s McBride.”

He took a pencil and notebook from the pocket of his shirt and scribbled it down. “And your date of birth?”

“The twenty-third of January 1913.”

He glanced up from writing, eyebrows raised. “You’re thirty?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t look a day over twenty-one.” He grunted a laugh. “They should patent the religious life as an elixir of youth. What age were you when you became a nun?”

“I was eighteen when I entered the convent. Twenty when I took my perpetual vows.”

“How long were you out in Africa?”

“Nine years. I went to Belgium first, to the order’s sister convent in Brussels. I studied for eight months at the Institute of Tropical Medicine there. That was my passport to Africa—to what I longed to do.”

An image flashed into my mind of my nine-year-old self in a classroom at St. Brigid’s school in Dublin. I was listening intently to a nun reading aloud from a book with a cover of red and gold. It was the story of Mary Moffat, whose nursing skills saved the life of the explorer David Livingstone when he was savaged by a lion. She married him and spent her life teaching native children and ministering to the sick. That was the beginning of my fascination with Africa.

Jack was writing in his notebook again. “Is that where you learnt French,” he said, “in Belgium?”

“I learnt it at school, but I wasn’t very good. It came more easily living among people who spoke it all the time.”

He went over to the stove and opened the creaky metal door, throwing wood onto the glimmering embers. “I’ve brought more eggs,” he said. “There’s a loaf of bread, some cheese, and some milk. Oh, and apples—they’re a bit shriveled, but they’re nice and sweet.” He took the food from a knapsack on his back. Then he wiped the frying pan with a piece of rag.

“Please . . .” I hobbled across the room. “You don’t have to cook for me—I’m sure I can manage.”

He glanced at me over his shoulder. “I can’t have you frying eggs while standing on one leg—you might end up setting fire to the place.”

“Oh . . . I . . .” I looked down, embarrassed.

“You thought I was being kind.” His voice was matter-of-fact. He was being kind, but there was an air of detachment about him. As if compassion were something to be despised. “I should sit down if I were you—rest that foot. You’ll be of use to neither man nor beast until it heals.”

I couldn’t argue with that. I lowered myself onto the pile of sailcloth and watched him make breakfast.

“Do you always sit like that?” He cast me a curious look over his shoulder.

“Like what?”

“With the tips of your fingers tucked inside the cuffs of your cardigan.”

I glanced down, suddenly self-conscious. I’d done it without thinking. “It’s a habit—pardon the pun.” I smiled. “At the convent, it was ingrained in us that our hands must learn to stay still and out of sight except when needed. They used to be hidden by the sleeves of my robe.”

He laughed. “I don’t suppose you’re any good at bell ringing, are you?”

Now it was my turn to look puzzled. “Well, I did take my turn at it in Africa. Why?”

He flipped the eggs onto a plate. “We’re going to be ringing the church bells on Easter Sunday—for the first time since the war started. Churchill announced it on the radio this morning.” He carved a hunk of bread, holding the loaf in the crook of his arm as he took the knife to it. “Up to now, they were only supposed to be rung to warn of an invasion.”

“Does that mean the war’s nearly over?”

“I wish it did. Things are looking better now the Americans are in—but the Germans aren’t going to give up easily.” He shrugged. “It’s a gesture, I think. Today is Hitler’s birthday, apparently, and the bells thing is Churchill sticking two fingers up at him. Anyway, we don’t have any bell ringers. All the men who used to do it have gone off to fight. I wondered if you could give me some tips—and maybe help if you’re feeling better by Sunday?”

“I’d like that.” I smiled my thanks as he set the plate in front of me. “My father was a bell ringer.”