When she was finished, Brigid knelt in silence, waiting for the words of condemnation to rain down upon her.

‘My child,’ said the priest. ‘You are greatly loved by God and His Precious Mother. Your sins have been wiped clean. Today you start anew. For your penance, you will carry with you at all times the Miraculous Medal of Our Lady, to remind you of the great love and esteem in which you are held. Make your solemn act of contrition and go in the peace of God and His Holy Mother. Amen.’

‘Oh my God, I’m heartily sorry . . .’ she began her act of contrition, stunned. This was it! No words of condemnation. No excommunication. The priests at home would have excoriated her. Brigid had floated back along Rue de Sèvres feeling that the burdens of the world had been lifted from her shoulders.

Now, lying on the cold marble floor she gave thanks for her second chance. The soaring notes of the nun’s choir touched her so deeply that tears slid down her cheeks and she wished her parents had been with her to share the ceremony of her profession.

When her congregation raised her to her feet and removed the white robe and veil that covered her brand-new habit, before placing the black veil on her head, Brigid felt their pride and love for her. Her thumb caressed the slim gold band on her left finger that signified that she was now a Bride of Christ.

I’ve done it, Brigid thought happily that night, lying in the cell-like room that was would be hers until she left for Africa. She’d stuck it out and become a nun. A nun who was now free of mortal sin. She slept like a log that night.

*

The blast of heat, and the strange new smells, hit Brigid the minute she stepped out onto the silver metallic steps that had been wheeled out to the aircraft. So this is Africa, she thought excitedly, as a welcome breeze lifted her veil. It had rained earlier – this was what they called the rainy season – and the ground was still damp, almost steamy from the heat. Glancing over in the dark at the welcoming lights of the long low terminal building, she saw the high control tower. It reminded her of a water tower near Butlersbridge, where the Order had a holiday home.

She collected her luggage and made her way into Arrivals, struggling to steer the ancient trolley with its wonky wheels. A smiling nun with a round, tanned, lined face under a white veil was there to greet her.

‘Sister Brigid, welcome to Senegal,’ she heard her say in an unmistakable Kerry accent. ‘I’m Maria Goretti, but everyone calls me Goretti,’ the nun introduced herself, holding out her hand. ‘I hope you had a relaxed journey. This is Jakab, our driver; let him take your trolley.’