Chapter 4

My ‘orientation’ at the Medical Centre began with their Administrator. Amelia Harrison was abrupt, even brusque, but took me through the formalities most efficiently before handing me over to Doctor Greene. Doctor Greene – ‘call me Jane’ – gave me a quick tour of the facility. That included a locker-room, with a shower, which I was delighted to see. It would make life much more comfortable, especially in the winter.

We ended in a small interview room. “I’m afraid we can’t give you a dedicated space, Rick. But this, or another opposite, will be available for you. If there are any, um, props you need? We can probably find storage space if your locker isn’t big enough.”

“Oh, I’ve never had a dedicated space. I might bring in a bowl of pebbles, that sort of thing. I’ll want a supply of tissues.”

“Tissues we have. Just ask Ms Harrison.” She saw the expression on my face and laughed, “Her bark is worse than her bite. Oh, by the way,” she pointed to a discreet button by the window-sill. “Panic button, if you feel at risk of assault, or if you need help urgently for whatever reason.”

That was a relief.

After a break for lunch, I scanned the records of the first couple of clients before leaving for home.

My first counsellee was a young man who had been recently diagnosed with motor neurone disease. We barely had time to get to know each other over the first three sessions, when he left me to go to a specialist unit, but he did thank me and say the sessions had helped him before he left. I had something in common with my second, a physiotherapist who was on sick leave from the hospital due to stress. I won’t go into details, just to say he started on an anti-depressant and I saw him weekly for a couple of months.

I settled in and, it seems, came to be appreciated by the doctors. My hours increased from six to twelve spread over three days, and I found the work satisfying and rewarding. More and more often I also found myself (when not sailing Tranquillity) in church on a Sunday morning. I was drawn – fascinated – by the Vicar, Dulcie Chesterman. (I was corrected, by the way. Properly she was titled ‘Rector’, a legal distinction that meant nothing to me.) I don’t mean I had any designs, amorous or romantic, on her. It was obvious that she was happily married – to a doctor, in fact, an A and E Consultant at Chelmsford Hospital – and entirely committed to the church, her husband, and her young son, not necessarily in that order. But there was something about her. I’d never been involved, or, really, interested in the church. As far as I was concerned, it was irrelevant to modern life ... until I met Karen Marshall and Dulcie Chesterman. Chatting to one of the congregation one day, he quoted a passage of the Bible that summed up how I felt. It was said that Jesus ‘Spoke with authority, and not as the scribes’. Dulcie spoke with authority. One felt that she knew and had absolute assurance about the things she said. Now sometimes, that sort of attitude can be repulsive, but not with Dulcie. She never pushed, never pressured anyone. She never bullied her hearers. But she attracted, convinced her hearers, by who and what she was.

Karen Marshall was another factor. She always chose to sit with me when I made it to church. Every so often she would ask if I’d ‘Spoken to her friend Mister Jesus yet?’. I’d smile and say, ‘not yet’. She’d shake her head, golden locks floating, and say, ‘You should, you know.’ Quite often – not always, by any means – Gillian Marshall would invite me to join them for lunch after the service and I would usually accept, careful not to outstay my welcome. I couldn’t help but notice Liina, too, and wondered at her story. There obviously was a story there.

The wild geese were back, their voices and those of the over-wintering waders, colouring my dreams. The tenuous equilibrium I found, alone on board Tranquillity, was still there, but there was something else as well. I just didn’t know what it was. Quite often, I found myself, pre-dawn, sitting in the cockpit with my first cup of coffee, watching the sky lighten and the first glimpse of the sun. It’s a moment of beauty and wonder. Looking back, it’s also a spiritual experience, but at the time I didn’t think of it like that.

I gained a companion; one evening I was back at Tranquillity, and I was followed on board by a cat. Cats vary, of course. Strays are common enough, too. But I never before or since saw one quite like her. Very slim – of course, she was very hungry, but her build wasn’t only a result of starvation – with long legs and tail, and the long narrow head characteristic of oriental breeds. But what set her apart, appearance-wise, was her markings. She was shades of grey, like a tabby, but instead of stripes bore circles and spots. The nearest thing I’d ever seen was a photo of an ocelot, and I suppose she may have been, though where she came from I couldn’t guess.

Anyway, she wound round my calves, ‘talking’ expressively to me.

“Trying to tell me something?”

“Oo, oww, mee yowl.” (more or less)

“Well, I don’t keep cat food here. Let’s see. Perhaps you’d like some tuna?”

“Mee ... owwww.”

“Well, okay then. But you’ll have to share.”

“Prrrr.”

I dare say many cat ... staff? ... have ‘conversations’ with their ‘owner’. It’s very easy to interpret a cat’s sounds in an anthropomorphic way, at least, I found it so. She polished off half a tin of tuna in olive oil and a saucer-full of mixed UHT milk and water. As for me, I had the other half-tin in a sandwich with lettuce, tomato and salad cream. The cat finished first and inveigled her way into my lap, purring loudly while I munched on my sandwich.

As a fan of Elizabeth Peter’s ‘Amelia Peabody’ novels, I couldn’t resist naming my new friend ‘Bastet’, after the ancient Egyptian cat god.

Having now a little more disposable income, I rented a drying mooring from the boatyard which looked after Brian for me. That meant a move, of course, much closer to the town. I was interested to see how Bastet would take to sailing, and, in fact, to the move. Well. Bastet had no trouble establishing a territory, which included Tranquillity of course, plus the boatyard, and frequently presented me with ‘gifts’ of dead rodents, which probably explained how she’d survived before adopting me.

Surprisingly, it was quite peaceful there, a little way from the quay and the pubs. As the days grew shorter and greyer, the temperature dropped and the wind became more cutting, sailing Tranquillity became less attractive, but I did still take off for the occasional weekend to anchor in some quiet inlet and listen to the waders and the conversations of the geese. I also visited my parents. Riding Brian was chilly, but fun even so. It was irritating having to divert them from asking about my life and employment, or I’d have gone more often. Increasingly, though, I was occupying a pew at Saint Mary-the-Virgin, Maldon. It was very odd. I was drawn back there, somehow, but not actually part of what was going on. At the Communion, when nearly everyone went forwards, I stayed in my pew. Usually, Karen Marshall and her mother would sit with me and Karen would always ask me to go forward with her. I would smile and shake my head. Karen showed her remarkable maturity by not pressing me.

Early in December, I was later than usual – the first hymn had already begun. I slipped into a rear pew beside a distinguished-looking man a little older than myself, who glanced at me and smiled, but returned his attention to his hymn book.

At the Communion, he rose and looked at me again, this time with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t go forward,” I told him. “I haven’t been confirmed.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he responded. “Come anyway for a blessing...”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

I couldn’t answer that, and followed him down to the altar-rail.

Well ... I kept my head down and my hands down. When Dulcie got to me she paused and laid her free hand lightly on my head. It was ... I don’t know. I can’t explain. She murmured a few words I didn’t catch, and moved on. The cup passed me by. I stayed on my knees. I sensed movement around me, but I couldn’t move. Then there was another hand – on my shoulder this time, and I looked round. A tall, spare, bearded man in faded jeans and lumberjack shirt. ‘How incongruous’ I thought. He reached for my elbow and I was able to rise and make my way back to my place, his hand on my arm reassuring, encouraging. I reached the back pew and slipped in. Looked round. Where was he? There was no sign of him and it was quite impossible that I could miss him, so out of place in the conservatively dressed congregation. By the way – don’t take my last comment as judgemental, please. Not everyone was formally dressed in suits. But though there were a few pairs of jeans, there wasn’t any ... what I would call, working dress.

I must have looked pensive as I sat. My neighbour spoke quietly. “Do you need to talk to someone?”

I didn’t answer immediately, but after some thought, “I’m not sure. Perhaps I do.”

“Come with me afterwards and have lunch with us.”

I met his eyes and saw only warmth and acceptance. “Oh – thanks. Yes please.”

“Call me Richard.” He held out his hand and I shook it.

“Rick Bennett,” I said, and followed him to the ‘Octagon’.

Of course, that meant I had to stay and drink some not-very-good coffee and make polite conversation. Not something I would have volunteered for. But, actually, it wasn’t too bad.

It was a bit of a shock to find myself walking with the Rector and Richard, the half-mile or so to the Rectory. He hadn’t said his surname, or that he was a doctor, so I’d made no connection. But she was friendly and unthreatening. Not to mention, rather attractive.

Don’t get me wrong; I had no ‘designs’ on her as a woman. However, there was no doubt that she was someone who was good to be around.

I don’t know what I expected at the Rectory. What I found was a crowd – people I mostly recognised though I didn’t know their names before I was introduced.