Bat and peonies on an upper arm

Reverend Father, the bat has come back to the bell tower, and I have decided not to tell Brother Cuthbert, who would answer it with a broom and a psalm in equal measure. You will recall that in the spring I wrote that the peonies beneath the cloister wall had failed. They had not failed. They had only been waiting for the warm weather, and now they hang open like the curtains of a wedding tent, pink as a child's cheek and so heavy that Brother Oswin has propped them with forked sticks cut from the hedge.

The bat hangs upside down in the bell loft all day, folded like a stiff black umbrella, and at dusk it drops from the eaves and spreads its wings against the last of the light. It circles the infirmary lamp, taking moths out of the air with a neatness I have never managed with my own hands. Your letter asked me to clear the garden before the guesthouse builders arrive in the new year, and I have read it many times. I have a spade by the door. I have not yet lifted it.

Last evening I stood at the wall until the bell rope stopped swinging. The bat came down low over the burgundy blooms, so close the outer petals stirred, then settled on the largest flower with its wings drawn round it like a cloak. The peony did not bow, but it leaned, very slightly, the way a man leans when someone he loves has come into the room.

I will dig the borders around them in the morning, Father, and leave the roots where they are. If the guests complain of the colour, you may tell them the garden keeps its own accounts. Pray for my patience, and for the bat's, which I suspect is greater.