Just think of Africa, Brigid told herself firmly, as more tears threatened to fall when she stepped out of her good black and white polka-dot swing dress. It was her pride and joy. Her Aunt Maureen, a dressmaker, had made it on her trusty old Singer sewing machine, copying a dress Lauren Bacall had worn. Aunt Maureen’s sewing room was an Aladdin’s Cave of treasure. Boxes of buttons and beads, swags of material, and Brigid’s absolute favourite, the big book of patterns that she would spend hours flicking through while her mother and aunt chatted over tea in the kitchen. The bridal dresses were what she liked best. She’d even picked out the one she would choose were she ever to marry.

An overwhelming tidal wave of grief washed over Brigid when she pulled on the scratchy black stockings. She would never walk up the aisle in a flowing lace bridal gown with a frothy white veil to marry the man of her dreams. Instead she would walk up the aisle as a Bride of Christ, in a nun’s habit, living a lie, as punishment for her sins. All she could do was try to be as good a nun as she possibly could and hope that ‘The Call’ might yet come and she would be forgiven for her mendacity and the sins that had brought her to this place.

I’ll make the best of it. I’ll stick it out, Brigid vowed silently, slipping the grey tunic shift over her head and tying it with the corded black belt, before the lay sister came back to bring her to the dormitory. She led Brigid along another corridor that smelled of beeswax polish, and up wooden stairs to a narrow passage that had rooms on either side. They walked in silence to the end room and the young country girl, dressed in a habit similar to Brigid’s own, but with a white tunic and white veil and white corded belt, opened the door and pointed to a cubicle whose curtains were open. ‘This is yours,’ she said. ‘Put away your belongings and I’ll bring you back down to Mother Agnes.’

‘It’s so small,’ exclaimed Brigid in horror.

‘Don’t let them hear you say that. Ye’ll get punished. Never give criticism. Don’t answer back. And do as you’re told or they’ll make your life a misery,’ the young nun whispered. ‘My name’s Fausta, in here, and I’ll help you as much as I can.’ Fausta flashed her a shy smile.

‘Thanks, Sister Fausta,’ Brigid whispered back.