Mrs Monro was unsentimental and strong-minded. I couldn’t think how she’d ever conceived Syl, who was neither. But I couldn’t discuss Syl with her. I told her about the trip to Cynthia’s house. I told her how awful Cynthia was, and her food. I didn’t really want to talk about Cynthia. I wanted to tell her how destructive I could be and ask her why she thought that was. I wanted to confess. I couldn’t of course, for that would have brought in Syl—not to mention his father. I approached it from another way. I was beginning to feel rather proud of the depth of my concern for Margaret. I wasn’t used to worrying about people other than Robert or myself and I felt if I really worried about Margaret I should not only seem, but be, a better person.

I heard myself saying, ‘We must think about Margaret.’

‘And Syl,’ said his mother. Oh bother Syl—I thought, but I didn’t say it. She went on: ‘Margaret is much too young for him. She’s not ready for marriage.’

‘I know,’ I said. I couldn’t for the life of me see what was to be done about it. There was no point in talking to Monica, for the whole thing was her idea. I was sure Margaret would never have let things go this far without her mother pushing and pushing.

‘This wedding would be most unfortunate,’ I said. ‘A disaster.’ Syl’s mother agreed. She was a sensible woman. I didn’t want to hurt her maternal feelings by remarking that anyone who married Syl would be letting herself in for disaster, so I explained that Margaret had a vocation and thus was in no position to marry anybody without incurring the wrath of God—the jealous God whom no one in her right mind would care to cross. Vocation, the religious life, wasn’t something I really wanted to talk about much. I liked Mother Joseph. I was fond of Mother Joseph, but she always made me feel as though I’d do well to go and have a ritual bath and a good scrub inside and out. I couldn’t imagine living the life of a nun although I had to admit it would be peaceful with no men around. But, oh, so boring. I stopped thinking like that for if God knows all our thoughts he would not be flattered to hear me thinking that a life dedicated to his service would be boring. I really didn’t feel I could afford to offend anyone at the moment let alone God.

Syl’s mother was interested in all I could tell her about the convent. She kept wanting to know more and I didn’t know much more. I just wished I knew more about what Marie Claire had been up to, and I couldn’t think of any way of finding out. I rather wished she was coming over for the wedding. It would have offered opportunities for revenge - my favourite condiment. But no. I had to stop thinking like that. It always led to trouble. Mostly trouble for other people, but quite often it splashed up on me.