Chapter 2

Dulcie:

The commission was elaborate enough, though only a part of our Sunday Mass. The congregation had, for the most part, heard the news and were not too surprised that the celebrant and preacher was the Bishop. For my part I was content to be Deacon to the celebrant until, at the end, I was directed to the altar-rail; there to stand to accept the commission before kneeling for the Bishop’s blessing and to be anointed for the service.

Then, Jeremy pronounced the blessing and we all moved to the back of the nave to greet the people, and for me to accept congratulations. About that, I was unsure.

James Abercromby:

That meeting with Reverend Dulcie Chesterman was revelatory – I think that’s the best descriptor – and by the time I left, she was ‘Dulcie’ (pronounced with a hard ‘c’, ‘Dulky’) and I was ‘James’, and we had a plan.

I say ‘we’ had a plan. I was only too happy to go along with Dulcie’s advice. I was just too far out of my ‘comfort zone’, as they say these days. She did, however, insist that I take the lead as Alice’s pastor. She came to the Manse the week after our initial meeting, and we stepped over to the old chapel, which dates from the early nineteenth century. I love the old place, austere though it is. I really believe that there is something about a place where there has been a lot of prayer from a lot of people, for many years.

In the Reformed tradition, the Lord’s Supper is a very serious, solemn thing which we share four times a year. Other traditions, usually Catholic, it’s something for every day, or even more often. I knew that for Dulcie it was something which drew her and her brothers and sisters in the Lord, closer to their Lord, and was done formally once or twice a week. I agreed, though, that we should share bread and wine in her way, which we did. Despite my lack of ‘preparation’, it was an amazingly powerful, significant and intimate act. At the end, Dulcie produced a little pot of olive oil, blessed it, and anointed me with the sign of the cross in oil; then handed me the pot and knelt so I could do the same for her.

We went (by appointment, of course) to the Linden Centre, and met Doctor Jones, the consultant who had responsibility for Alice’s care. I introduced Dulcie. They shook hands.

“It’s good to put a face to the voice,” the doctor smiled. “I rather think you never expected to be here?”

“Indeed not,” Dulcie admitted. “When we spoke, it would have been Father Worsley to come, but he’s been cautioned to step back from regular ministry because of heart failure. The Diocese have asked me to take over his role as Diocesan Exorcist, which I never expected.”

“I spoke to Zack Hendricks at Whitemoor,” the doctor said, “so it seems you may be the most experienced person available. I was very impressed with his account.”

“A very pleasant gentleman, open minded, though careful.”

“Indeed. How would you like to proceed?”

“Mister Abercromby will take the lead. I think we just need a degree of privacy, if that can be arranged. I would not want to disturb your other patients, and I’m sure you’d prefer that too.”

“Absolutely. Thank you, Reverend.”

“It’s Dulcie, doctor.”

His eyebrows rose. “Then I shall be Evan, if you will.”

She smiled. You know, that smile could melt the hardest heart, I think. Doctor Jones showed us to a meeting room and left us there. Dulcie sat discreetly in a corner, and I waited, standing in the middle of the room.

Doctor Jones ushered Alice into the room and I greeted her.

“Hello, Alice. I’ve come to have another chat with you. How are you feeling?”

“I am fine, Mister Abercromby. I don’t know why I cannot just go home, at least, away from here. I don’t want to see Donald, so I suppose I shall have to ask for shelter from a friend.” She hesitated and glanced around the room. “Who is that?” Pointing at Dulcie sitting quietly in the corner.

“Oh, that’s Dulcie Chesterman, a friend of mine. But I need to ask you something.”

“What? And why is she here?”

“I need to ask you, who is the Lord?”

“What’s that? I don’t understand. What on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Saint John’s words, Alice. Can you tell me that Jesus Christ came in the flesh?”

Her face contorted. “Jesus. Jesus, Jesus ... is, is...” she trailed off. “No! Not true. Not true. Not true!” Her voice ... querulous, odd tone to it.

I took a deep breath and was about to turn to look at Dulcie. Out of my depth, yes. But she was there beside me, radiating serenity.

“Alice,” she was speaking quietly. “Look at me, Alice.”

“No ... stay away from me. Who are you? Like Don. He scared me too.”

“Alice ... don’t you want to be free?”

“Free?” That voice was different again. “If Alice is free, what happens to me?”

“AH!” Dulcie’s voice held ... what? Satisfaction? “Religious spirit, leave her! In the Name of Jesus Christ, come out of her!”

Alice’s eyes widened, and she began to pant, her chest heaving. In that odd voice, she said, shrilly, “But where? Where can I go? This is my home!”

“Go to the place appointed to you, of course!” Dulcie’s voice was almost gentle, but contained a remorseless command. But then she began to sing; “Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of creation!”

I joined in with, “O my soul praise Him, for He is thy health and salvation!” But at the end of the verse, she looked at me, holding up her hand.

She then began the last verse; “Praise to the Lord, O let all that is in me adore Him!” smiling at me and nodding as I joined in again.

Before we finished that verse, though, Alice groaned a very long groan and slumped back in the seat, her eyes rolled up and her face pale. Dulcie handed me her little pot of oil. I took it and, somewhat artlessly, I confess, dipped my thumb in and marked Alice’ forehead with a cross. “I anoint you, Alice, with oil in the Name of God, Father, Son and Holy Ghost.”

Dulcie knelt next to me and took her hand, which was limp in hers, and began to sing again; “Turn your eyes upon Jesus, look full in His wonderful face, and the things of earth will grow strangely dim in the light of His glory and grace.”

Alice opened her eyes and looked at Dulcie with a frown, then up at me. She looked puzzled. “I know you,” she said. “At least, it seems so.”

“Hello, Alice. How are you feeling?”

“Why do you call me Alice? Everyone calls me Gabrielle. Where am I? Where’s mum and dad?”

“Gabrielle...” Dulcie spoke softly, “I’m Dulcie Chesterman. What do you remember?”

“I’m ... I’m Alice Gabrielle Dempsey, and I’m twenty...” she hesitated. “But I’m not, am I?” She took a deep breath. “I’m remembering ... but it’s ... I thought it was a dream. Or a nightmare.”

Dulcie was very gentle. “Gabrielle, you’ve been overshadowed. May I pray for you?”

“I don’t mind.”

I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to the musical flow of liquid, incomprehensible syllables when Dulcie prays. It’s a little uncomfortable. Oddly, because it feels good. It’s just that ‘speaking in tongues’ is something which was discussed in derogatory terms in college. Anyway, Alice ... I mean Gabrielle; I suppose I need to assimilate that ... relaxed and closed her eyes again. Somewhere in there, I closed my eyes and strange syllables coursed through my mind. I fought that for, oh, thirty seconds perhaps, before relaxing and just listening.

I don’t know how long we were like that – Doctor Jones said it was nearly an hour altogether, but that he didn’t realise as he was so fascinated – but there came a point where Dulcie stopped talking and I opened my eyes. Alice ... Gabrielle ... was smiling though her eyes were still closed.