‘You can always tell a good woman by her sandwiches,’ declared Pastor Finch.

My mother blushed.

Then he turned to me and said, ‘how old are you, little girl?’

‘Seven.’ I replied.

‘Ah, seven,’ he muttered. ‘How blessed, the seven days of creation, the seven-branched candlestick, the seven seals.’

(Seven seals? I had not yet reached Revelation in my directed reading, and I thought he meant some Old Testament amphibians I had overlooked. I spent weeks trying to find them, in case they came up as a quiz question.)

‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘how blessed,’ then his brow clouded. ‘But how cursed.’ At this word his fist hit the table and catapulted a cheese sandwich into the collection bag; I saw it happen, but I was so distracted I forgot to tell anyone.