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week, for seeing the little faults and failings of the other sisters as endearing quirks.
    Halfway up the steep cliffs with its iron-railed steps and the door of the retreat hospitably open, Sister Joan stood and breathed in the air. The Cornish air was sweet, but this air was like wine. It made her want to cry out a greeting to the rocks and the pine trees and the loch, shimmering blue-green far below. She had been awake since dawn, scrubbing herself thoroughly with cold, soapy water that made every goosebump stand out, saying her morning prayers with the energy brought by a sound sleep, and now, munching an oat cake she stood, watching the light change and strengthen as the sun rose.
    ‘And that foolish boy lost his faith,’ she said aloud, and laughed, hearing her own voice as a sweet ripple on the air.
    Faith, she thought, wasn’t something kept in the pocket that could fall through a hole. It was a burning chain about the heart. Sometimes the only way to endure it was to deny it was there at all.
    Her mood continued as she swept out the cave and replaced the burnt out candles with tall Sabbath ones she had brought with her. Far below the faint sound of bells danced up to her. The monastery signalled the approach of mass.
    She was becoming accustomed to the climb up and down to the cave. Quite apart from the benefit of the exercise she liked the feeling of being high above the world. In the retreat, problems that seemed serious became insignificant.
    The shores of the loch weren’t deserted this morning. She could see a few soberly clad people pushing out small boats. No more than a dozen including three small children, she calculated. A few Catholics still practising their faith in an environment that merely tolerated them at best. She walked with a springing step, enjoying the breeze on her face.
    ‘Good morning, Sister Joan.’
    Brother Cuthbert was loping along the shore towards her, the ginger hair about his tonsure fairly crackling with energy. Just to look at him made one feel slightly weary.
    ‘Good morning, Brother Cuthbert.’ She stopped as he skidded to a halt, seeming to use his large, sandalled feet as brakes in his headlong progress.
    ‘I brought the boat over this morning and decided to offer my services as boatman in case you needed help.’
    ‘That’s very kind of you. It’s years since I was in a rowing-boat,’ she said gratefully.
    ‘One or two of the parishioners might offer you passage across but as you can see their boats are small,’ Brother Cuthbert said, guiding her to where a rowing-boat swayed gently at anchor.
    ‘There’s only a tiny congregation here too,’ Sister Joan remarked.
    ‘I understand there used to be many more,’ Brother Cuthbert said, ‘but the old ones died out and most of the young ones moved to Glasgow or Edinburgh or even down into England.’
    ‘Among the Sassenachs,’ Sister Joan said gravely, gathering the skirt of her habit and making a neat landing in the boat.
    ‘Sometimes it’s necessary if they’re to earn a living wage.’ Stepping in after her he seized both oars and began to flail the water.
    ‘You haven’t pulled up the anchor,’ Sister Joan murmured.
    ‘Sometimes I despair of ever getting my head on straight.’ Brother Cuthbert struck the offender a sharp blow and hauled up the dripping anchor.
    ‘The old crofters have largely gone now.’ He resumed the conversation as he pulled away from the shore. ‘It’s my belief the Highland clearances started it all, and there’s no use in turning the clock back. Yet it’s a good, healthy life. Here’s the island now – except that it’s only an island at certain times. The tides are queer just beyond the loch. If you were thinking of taking a swim then I’d advise against it – not that nuns generally do, but since Vatican Two the rules have all been changed round, so one can’t be sure. I heard of one convent where the sisters are allowed to smoke.’
    ‘Not,’ said Sister Joan