‘Sit properly, girl, or so help me!’ he hissed, of course keeping his voice low enough that no neighbour out mowing their lawns or soaking up the sun could hear the vitriol with which he spoke.

He wouldn’t tell me where we were going, and I dared not ask more than once. Soon we were at the parochial house and he was hauling me from the car, my daisy chain breaking and falling to the ground, trampled over by his heavy shoes as he dragged me to the door.

‘Now, Heidi, you are to tell Father Campbell what sins you have committed and you are to beg him for his forgiveness. You wicked child, it’s a good thing your mother is dead so she doesn’t have to be humiliated by how badly you’ve turned out.’

Father Campbell was an old school priest. Small, round, hunched with his white hair that seemed to sprout as much from his nose and his ears as it did from the top of his head. He didn’t ever speak during Mass, he bellowed as if he had the power to bring forth hellfire on command. Every child I knew lived in mortal fear of Father Campbell and I was no different.

My legs were wobbly beneath me, my arm aching from Joe’s tight grasp as he dragged me towards the large wooden door of the parochial house. I couldn’t help but cry, even though I was trying so hard to be brave. I always tried to be brave no matter what, but this … It was beyond me.

I prayed with all my power that Father Campbell wouldn’t be in. That Father Brennan would answer the door instead. He was young then, new to the fold, considered to be approachable. He told funny stories when he visited us at school. I might have a chance of him believing me.

But it wasn’t Father Brennan who answered the door. It was Father Campbell, who glowered at me from beneath his heavy-set eyebrows as Joe told him of his deep shame at finding the ‘stolen’ Trócaire box and money in my room.

I don’t know which scared me most. The abuse I took from Father Campbell, who told me hell had a place waiting just for nasty little thieves like me – a place where I would be shown no mercy for stealing from innocent, starving children. Or the fact that Joe handed over my savings, my escape route from all this, to Father Campbell and my hope of getting away was gone.

The beating I got back at home could not have broken me more than the loss of that money. The beatings I knew I could take as long as I knew I could get away some day.

Of course, what followed the beating was worse. The creaking of the floorboard and Joe, his face a picture of misery at my door, telling me he was sorry. That he had done it only for my own good, you see. I had to learn. I had to be a good girl. Then he crossed the room and even as I cowered from him, he climbed into the bed beside me.