‘This was God’s plan for me and I felt it keenly.’

‘Don’t you want to marry?’ she said.

‘Why should I marry?’

‘You’re a man.’

‘The Church is my bride,’ Joe said. He’d never thought of himself in that way. ‘That’s more than enough for one man.’

‘You’ve never made love with a woman, have you, Father?’

He could feel the heat rise, his neck and face sting with embarrassment. That she should even say such a thing. He looked at her, at her round face and round eyes. Not a trace of guile.

‘Unmarried,’ Joe swallowed. ‘Unmarried, I can love everyone. I don’t suppose you could understand.’

She shrugged, pedalled away. He followed her. They parted at the parade ground.

Joe hadn’t taken Trude to La Ferme de l’Anse. That was his special spot, his private hide. He came there once a week, on a Wednesday, and he hadn’t thought of sharing it. But that week he’d had to miss a Wednesday so decided to take Trude there on their Monday excursion. An exception.

‘A rare treat,’ he said as they let themselves in to Geoffrey’s field. It had been sown with winter oats, and now the shoots were growing thick and lush.

‘Walk between the rows,’ he said. He led her through the field into the small dell that gave them the best view of the shoreline and the wooded hills that surrounded it. Sea, shore and spinney.

‘This place has it all,’ Joe said. ‘It’s very special.’

‘All year?’

‘All year.’

‘I like it,’ Trude said. When Trude smiled, her face melted into a sunbeam. She held her binoculars, trained them on the wood, edged her feet round, one by one, until she faced the sea. ‘I agree. It is very special.’

Listen and look. Note well. Whoohohoho, the ghostly haunting call of an Arctic loon, Gavia arctica, the flat, dead chatter of the fulmar.

‘Fulmarus glacialis,’ Joe said. ‘They mate for life.’

She wore woollen fingerless gloves but her hands looked cold. Joe had an urge to hold them, rub them tight to warm them through.

‘I like that,’ Trude said. ‘Being faithful.’

‘Yes,’ Joe said. ‘Yes. To be faithful. It’s a great virtue.’

She turned towards him, her eyes golden in the daylight, and he had a vision of her turning those eyes to other men. The sharp, sudden pain of that took him by surprise.

‘Do you have a sweetheart, Trude?’ He couldn’t stop himself. He had to know. It was the first time he’d called her Trude and he could feel the red-hot burn of a blush.

‘No,’ she said.

‘You’re an attractive woman,’ Joe pressed.

She shook her head. ‘There are women who go with any man,’ she said. ‘But not me. If I have a sweetheart, it will be forever. Why do you ask?’