Free Le Temps des Cerises by Zillah Bethel

coloured thread. She would make some pretties for the baby. She must keep her hands and mind busy at all costs. When she started thinking too much about Aggie and the baby, let alone the father, an abyss opened up at her feet, too wide to contemplate.
    Lighting another candle on her small workbench, Bernadine brought out the wicker basket which contained her coloured threads, scraps of satin and velvet, a wooden darning egg, nippers, a goffering cushion, pins, needles, a bobbin, leaves of green and brown paper and a pastepot. She would make a bunch of violets to welcome the baby into the world. It was a commitment to life, to the future. If she finished a bunch before the night was out then Aggie and the baby would live. She set to work with great diligence, rolling out paper stalks, sewing her satin petals, her fingers lost in the glitter and fragility of the work. It brought back memories of sewing orange blossom wreaths for the first vows, when the white veil was exchanged for the black; when there was no grey, no clouded judgement, just self-abnegation, penitence, a desire for perfection. When time was run by the hours of the convent, the singing of devotions, Prime, Tierce, Sext, None… and the anthem before bedtime, O dulcis Virgo Maria … How they had giggled when their shorn locks littered the Sister barber’s floor – chestnut, gold, black, brunette…
    â€˜All for Jesus,’ they had smiled at each other, almost hysterical. ‘All for Jesus!’
    And the coif that framed the head and made you look like a tortoise poking your face out of a starchy carapace. What a lot of ebullience she’d had to subdue! The little conscience notebook and flail with its ring and five chains to overcome pride and carnal desire, the leather belt of rosaries, the wooden robe worn beneath the scapular to symbolise the yoke of Christ and the bronze crucifix above the heart. A life against nature, her father had said and it was true. But in those days it truly had been all for Jesus. In those days. Before she met him.
    The shy knock broke into her thoughts and she looked up to see Brother Michael creeping into the cell as if he were a fugitive.
    â€˜Brother Michael,’ she smiled. ‘What have you brought this time?’
    â€˜Sister Bernadine,’ he replied, walking over to the workbench after a quick glance at Aggie. ‘I have brought eggs!’ And taking a red knotted handkerchief out of his pocket, he placed it on the work­bench and slowly unwrapped it amidst the paraphernalia of bobbin, silk and pastepot. Four plump eggs sat gleaming in the candlelight, boiled and peeled and sprinkled with what looked like a dash of cayenne pepper.
    Bernadine felt a jolt of saliva come into her mouth and she stared in astonishment.
    â€˜Well, what do you think? Will they do? Will they tempt the invalid back to health?’
    â€˜How on earth…?’ Sister Bernadine began, shaking her head in wonderment.
    Brother Michael grinned in delight, tapping the side of his little snub nose, a nose which turned quite violently heavenward. ‘Easy for them what knows!’ And he proceeded to tell her the tale of how he had travelled far and wide, evidenced by the state of his torn and muddy cassock, the scent of outdoors and smoke about him; his vigil by the chicken coop in the moonlight, holding his breath and fearful of farmers, foxes and pecks from cocks… his hands slithering through the straw until, with a shiver of delight, they came upon the warm, round eggs… the retreat, a flurry of feathers, a dog barking, a farmer brandishing sticks and the perilous journey home, stumbling about through the undergrowth, holding his apron out in front and then just a few moments ago, boiling them hard in the saucepan before the steward was up and nosing about.
    â€˜And how are your struggles with the steward?’ Bernadine asked politely after congratulating him on his great