One moonlit night in autumn 1976, I was wearing the full-length white habit, scapular, traditional headgear and veil. It was my turn – yet again – to lock the doors and windows in Maryvale, our pastoral centre in Bramley, Surrey. With the moon shining through the windows, I didn’t bother to switch on the light as I climbed the staircase and turned around the corner.
Unfortunately for two young boys taking part in a school retreat, they chose just that moment to open the door of the room where they’d been peacefully watching television. Who was more scared: the boys who saw a ghostly white figure gliding by, or me, who hadn’t expected their ear-splitting scream as it pierced the darkness? The three of us stood shaking and panting for breath, one apology tumbling after another.
