Joe wasn’t sure what that meant, nor was he sure why Pierre had taken such a liking to him. Perhaps Pierre was lonely too. Perhaps he was being honest when he thought some of Joe’s grace could rub off on him. No matter. Pierre broke the monotony of the evenings. His cigarettes and brandy were welcome and Joe didn’t ask how he got them. He knew he had one of the trading concessions, but even so. They played rummy in the little parlour of the convent, or swapped stories. Pierre had a fine repertoire and was a good raconteur even though he embroidered the truth and played with the words as if he’d kissed the Blarney Stone itself.

One evening, Pierre put a missal on the table, opened it up. An oblong had been cut in the centre and inside was a small tin of Fisherman’s Friend cough sweets. Joe wondered for a moment whether he had a sore throat, though why he should keep it in a missal was both a mystery and a blasphemy.

Pierre lifted out the tin and prised open the lid. ‘Ever seen one of these before?’

Joe was expecting to see the familiar beige lozenges, but instead he was staring at coils of wire and tiny cylinders. He shook his head.

‘Magic. Here.’ Pierre pulled out a small wire and threaded it out of the window, adjusted a miniscule dial and a faint voice could be made out through the static. This is the BBC Home Service. The nine o’clock news…

‘A crystal set,’ Pierre said, finger to his lips. ‘Present from that Jesuit, Father Rey.’ He spoke with emphasis. ‘So you know what’s going on. Now the Bosch have taken our wirelesses.’ He took the tin from Joe, recoiled the antenna and closed the lid. ‘Father Rey said people need hope, and what better way to deliver it than through a priest.’

Joe pulled a face. ‘I beg your pardon?’

Pierre opened his brandy flask, offered it to Joe. ‘He said you’d know what he meant.’ He shrugged. ‘Pass on news, through the confessional. Or on your travels. Tunisia fallen. Ruhr bombed. Short and sweet. That sort of thing.’

Planes took off and landed all the time. The rattle of a Focke-Wulf, the howl of a Messerschmitt. Joe was sure the war wasn’t going well for the Germans. He looked at the tiny wireless.

‘He said stack it on the shelf between the Bible and your breviary. No one would guess. He said they wouldn’t search a convent.’