‘Good,’ I said, ‘I don’t like to think of God watching while I do a wee.’

That set us off sniggering again and got us another telling-off. I didn’t mind. I had a new friend. A boy. And with him came a relief that I wouldn’t get called to be a nun. As Catholics, we’d been told about special people who got the vocation and were called to the life of a nun or priest. It sounded wonderful, like an early X Factor, when a hand would point from on high and a voice would say, ‘You, you are one of the chosen.’ My friend Denise and I talked about it a lot. Would we be amongst the special ones, singled out for a life close to God? It was made to sound like a great honour, but I had my doubts and so did Denise, because we had recently discovered that boys might have something more to offer us than being a bride of Christ and living a life of chastity. In the end, neither of us got the call from above and the notion of it was soon forgotten as our hormones took over and anxieties about how to be a good kisser took precedence instead.

Andrew got detention again soon after his question about omnipresence. It was coming up to Easter and, this time, we were in Father Pronti’s class.

‘So Mike Jameson, and what are you going to give up for Lent?’ the priest had asked one of the boys in the class.

‘Sweets and chocolates,’ Mike replied.

‘Very good, my son. And you Joseph O’Leary?’

‘Watching TV, Father.’

‘Excellent. And you, Beatrice Brooks? I can see that you’re bursting to give us your answer.’

I was. I’d thought long and hard about this one. Nothing as mundane as sweets for me, oh no, I wanted to give up something impressive, and to show Andrew that, like him, I didn’t go along with the rest of them. I waited until the room had gone completely quiet so that my answer would have maximum impact. ‘Please, Father,’ I said as the class strained to hear. ‘I’m going to give up lies and stealing.’

The place exploded in laughter, including Father Pronti. I went scarlet. Why were they all laughing? It wasn’t funny. Not that I made a habit of lying and stealing, but I’d been taught that at times like Christmas and birthdays, it was the thought that counted. Wouldn’t that apply to Lent as well? Surely my ideas for abstention were more along the lines that God was after than giving up Mars Bars or Maltesers, but maybe I’d got it wrong, and cutting out your Cadbury’s was the twentieth-century version of sacrificing a first-born or slaughtering a lamb. Across the room, Andrew gave me the thumbs-up. I knew he’d get it.