‘Arrah, everyone wants to become a nun when they hear the Missionaries speak,’ her mother retorted. ‘I’d like to become one myself, listening to them, instead of having to go and help your father milk the cows on this wicked cold morning.’ She pulled the collar of her good Sunday coat up around her ears.

‘No, I do, Mammy, I really do. I gave my name when you were in the shop getting the paper and the ice cream. They’re going to write to me,’ Brigid assured her earnestly. This was her chance. She must take it or a life of bitter regrets loomed ahead of her.

‘Well for goodness’ sake, Brigid. You can’t make up your mind just like that – sure she can’t, Tom?’ her mother appealed to her husband, who was walking alongside them enjoying his Sunday-morning pipe.

‘I think the best thing to do is see how you feel in six months’ time. You’re excited hearing the Sisters talk about helping the black babies in Africa,’ her father advised sagely.

‘But, Tom, this is nothing more than a figary – you know it and I know it. Don’t be encouraging her,’ Elizabeth said crossly. ‘Honestly, Brigid, you’re up and down like a yo-yo these past few months. Where are you getting your notions from?’ her mother exclaimed in exasperation.

‘It’s not a notion, Mammy. It’s what I want. God is calling me,’ Brigid exclaimed in desperation.

‘Well how come we haven’t heard anything about Him calling you before now?’ Elizabeth demanded. ‘I’ve never heard one word of you wanting to become a nun. Ever.’

‘I felt the Holy Spirit descending upon me at Mass,’ Brigid fibbed, hoping that she would not be struck dead for her lies.

‘Maybe it’s because you’re hungry. When you’re fasting from midnight to go to Communion, the mind can play queer tricks on you. Mass was much longer than usual this morning because of the Missioners,’ Elizabeth said firmly. Brigid knew what was behind her mother’s opposition and could see her chance to escape from Ardcloch diminishing with every footstep they took.

‘Mam, I read the Lives of the Saints every night. I pray to the Little Flower that she will make me selfless like her—’

‘I’m sure the Little Flower didn’t dance around the kitchen singing “Rose, Rose, I Love You”, and “Tennessee Waltz”,’ Elizabeth said drily.

Brigid was stumped. She was so frustrated she began to cry.

‘Stop that nonsense,’ her mother ordered.

‘I can’t help it, I want to become a nun,’ Brigid wept. She cried easily these days. She’d heard Patti Page singing, “I Went to Your Wedding” at the gramophone recital in the parish hall after Christmas and had been so overwhelmed with emotions she’d had to slip out the side door and sob silently behind the gorse bushes, trying hard not to make noise.