Later that afternoon Ros inveigled me into a Catholic church whose only point of interest was a mother-of-pearl altar. Native nacre-work of this kind abounds in Broome, the shell being to the West Kimberleys what Delabole slate is to North Cornwall. Since I disapprove of altars altogether I saw no particular reason to take exception to this one merely because it looked as though it had been stitched together with shirt buttons; but I was anxious to get out of the church for reasons which were no less aesthetic: I could smell a Mass coming. There was a sudden bustle about me. Women with the closed faces of believers were turning up and taking their places. From an ante-room I thought I could hear the blood of the First Fisher of Pearls being decanted. I flew to the door.

But I didn’t have Ros with me. When I turned around to look for her I saw a small, furry, Irish nun entrammelling her expertly in obligation and guilt.

‘And will you be staying for Mass, my dear?’

‘I don’t think so, sister. I think my husband wishes to leave.’

‘Ah, well, there’s no coming between a husband and a wife. Are you a Catholic, my dear?’

‘I was, sister.’ Apology? Did I hear apology in Ros’s voice?

‘I knew it. I knew at once you were a Catholic.’

‘Used to be, sister. I’m not any more.’

‘I’ll pray for your soul, my dear. And I’ll pray that you return to the church.’

‘Thank you, sister.’

‘But if you won’t be staying for Mass I wonder if I might impose upon you to help me with these blinds. The string there – no, not that one, that one – seems to be all stuck. Do you think you can? – there, that’s it . . . you’re taller than me.’

For my own part I had always associated nuns with requests for some favour. You saw a nun, you put your hand in your pocket. But I had never fully realized until I beheld Ros standing on a pew and struggling with the cords of a blind, a new expression of beatitude on her face, a sweet obedience in her eyes, how subtle a snare those nuns could set. In seconds they had bound her, hand and foot, in her past.

The little, furry, Irish nun threw me a quick glance of triumph. From my station at the door of the church I glowered back. Just briefly it was like a struggle between good and evil for the possession of a wavering soul. But then Ros was back with me in the daylight, and good had scraped home by a whisker once again.