I ran a bath, the old pipes clunking as it filled, and then soaked in the cool water, washing off the sweat of the drive. When I was done, I could see out the window that the sun had set and I wasn’t sure what to get dressed into. I’d have to wear my suit again the next day and besides my convent garb, which I couldn’t wear until I got there, I didn’t have any other clothes with me except my nightgown and robe. I’d be taking vows of poverty and so I’d left all my worldly possessions behind.

Deciding that my flannel long-sleeved, floor-length nightgown was modest enough, I pulled it over my head and then knelt with my rosary to pray. I still remember how buoyant I felt in that moment. Despite the stuffiness of the room and the cloying heat of the nightgown, I remember feeling as though every prayer I’d ever uttered had come true.

As my lips moved, murmuring all the gratitude I was filled with, I lost track of the time. My knees were aching when a knock at the door startled me. I whipped my head to the side and felt a muscle in my neck pinch.

Checking through the peephole to make sure it was Father Thomas, I pulled on my robe over my nightgown, wincing as I moved my head too sharply, and unlatched the chain. I opened the door a fraction, hiding most of my body behind it. I expected Father Thomas to pass me my food and then to bid me good night, but instead he pushed the door open. I stepped back to let him pass, pulling the gown tighter around my neck to ensure that all my flesh was covered.

Father Thomas was carrying two parcels and the smell of deep-fried fish and slap chips drenched in vinegar made my stomach growl. There was a small table in the room to set everything down on. He pulled the single chair out and sat on it. I was left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“Sit, Delilah.”

I looked around, unsure of what the etiquette was, and he nodded at the bed. “That will have to do since there isn’t another chair.”

He placed two large parcels of newspaper on the table. Unwrapping each one, he set about dishing up generous portions for us both, spooning out a chunky white sauce on top of each fillet of fish.

“What’s that, Father?”

“Tartar sauce. You’ve never had it before?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You’re going to love it. Here,” he said, dipping his finger in the sauce and then holding it out to me.

When it became clear that he expected me to lick the sauce from his finger, I felt the heat gather at my collarbones and flare upward across my neck and into my cheeks.