Chapter 1

Rebecca Hancock smiled at Dulcie. “I’m going to stay here just now. There’s something...”

“Say no more! Never disregard little prods like that.”

Dulcie left the church and Rebecca was alone. Having completed her ‘A’ level year at school, and having married Joe Hancock, she had accepted a part-time post as a pastoral assistant to Reverend Dulcie Chesterman. The reasons for that were two-fold.

The first reason being that Dulcie Chesterman had been appointed (surprising anyone who didn’t know her) to the post of Diocesan Exorcist. Dulcie was an anomaly; a woman appointed to the Living of an Anglo-Catholic parish, at the request of the P.C.C. following the death of her first husband. The Diocese, not wishing to remove Dulcie from her position as the much loved and appreciated Rector of St. Mary the Virgin, Maldon, had undertaken to fund a part-time pastoral assistant.

The second, associated, reason was that Rebecca, a refugee from a stifling, puritanical, religious home, had somehow reached the idea that she was called to some form of ministry in the Church. So, at eighteen, newly married, she had begun spending twenty hours a week getting to know all sorts of people, many of whom had only a limited association with the church in general and St. Mary’s in particular. That was fitted in around her gaining experience as a sailor with her husband, a Thames Barge Skipper. Joe was, in fact, a Registered Nurse, but spent only half the year working in that capacity, during the winter.*

Rebecca didn’t mind being alone in the church. She could read, play the organ (she was not an organist, but was a fairly competent pianist, and was gradually becoming very fond of the instrument), and she could pray. With Dulcie’s departure, she went to the side chapel to sit and commune with God. She hadn’t been there long when she was aware of a Presence next to her. She couldn’t see anything, but that didn’t matter – she knew without a doubt Who it was. She was calm, but words and music bubbled up inside, and she began to sing.

“I love You, Lord, and I lift my voice ... to worship You, oh, my soul, rejoice...” soon, she was no longer aware of her surroundings, and her words would have made no sense to most listeners. She was out of time and into eternity.

“Little sister,” the Voice brought her back to earth.

“Yes, Lord?”

“Shortly, one who is seeking me, but does not yet realise it, will come in. She may shock you.”

“Lord...” she hesitated. “You will be here...”

“Of course, little sister. But she will not see me. Not yet.”

Rebecca walked slowly around the church. Warned, she wasn’t surprised when a woman entered the church and walked slowly – Rebecca thought painfully – to a pew and sat.

Rebecca approached cautiously, unwilling to intrude if the visitor was seeking solitude, but the woman looked at her and grimaced; it might have been intended as a smile.

“May I help you?” Rebecca lowered herself into the pew next to the woman, assessing her. It looked as though she was unwell – clearly underweight, with a yellow cast to her lined skin. Her eyes were dull, her reddish-brown hair thin and dull.

“I’m looking for my daughter,” the woman said. “It’s taken a while, but I understand that she’s the vicar here. Dulcie.” She pronounced it ‘Dulsie’, conventionally. “I’m Stella Jones.”

Shocked? Yes, but less so than if she’d had no warning. “We call her ‘Dulky’,” Rebecca said, “Actually, her title is ‘Rector’. That’s just a church technicality.”

“I know she might not be overwhelmed with enthusiasm to see me,” the woman said, “but ... I am dying, and I wanted to apologise to her before the end.”

“I see.” Rebecca took out her mobile phone. “Just a moment, Ms Jones.” She tapped a quick text to Dulcie before returning her attention to the visitor. “May I pray for you?”

The woman looked a little surprised. “I suppose so.”

Rebecca reached out to touch her hand, closed her eyes. She was reassured by a warm, loving Presence, and began to speak. It is unlikely that the woman understood, since Rebecca did not herself know what she was saying.

A mile away, Dulcie finished her conversation with a parishioner and checked her phone, which had vibrated in her pocket. ‘Mother? My mother?’ Here in Maldon? Looking for me?

A hurricane of emotion rushed through her; long buried anger and resentment, sadness and desolation. She closed her eyes, standing still, waiting for the storm to pass. “Lord?”

Like Rebecca, she was reassured by a familiar, loving Presence, and began to walk toward the church.

Stella Jones hadn’t known what to expect. She’d anticipated an angry response from her daughter when they met; it had been over twenty years since they’d seen each other, and she certainly had not been a good mother. Only Dulcie’s grandfather had offered the little girl any hope, and she knew that the old man’s death had precipitated Dulcie’s drift into drugs and prostitution. A life not too different from her mother’s.

Stella’s diagnosis of cancer – symptoms ignored until the disease was too far advanced to cure – and conversations with a therapist specialising in end of life counselling, had led her to a town far from her birthplace, seeking reconciliation with her only child.

The pretty young woman who approached her offered to pray for her, and she was reluctant to offend her – after years of a life which was itself an offence – and agreed.

Just the touch of her hand was therapeutic, and though she couldn’t understand what the girl was saying, she certainly understood the cessation of pain and an unfamiliar sensation of peace.

Rebecca must have been praying for some time, because she was continuing when the clank of the door latch announced Dulcie’s arrival. Her prayer came to an end and she smiled at her friend and minister.

“Stella...” she spoke gently, “Dulcie’s here.”

The woman struggled to her feet and turned to see ... a middle-aged woman in a blue clerical suit. Matronly? Something like that.

Dulcie saw a woman who appeared very different from the pretty but dissolute one she remembered from childhood. Haggard, her skin an unhealthy yellow, lined from pain and years of abuse. But she knew her without a doubt.

“Lord, I don’t know what to do.”

“Yes, you do, sister.”

A memory popped up of a concentration camp survivor who, after the war, encountered one of the SS guards she recognised. She stood, facing her mother, who stood a couple of yards away in the aisle, flooded with a tsunami of negative emotion. None-the-less, she took one step toward the woman and opened her arms in invitation.

Stella hesitated, her eyes meeting Dulcie’s and finding there hesitancy, but no condemnation. She took two small steps forward, enough to step within the circle of Dulcie’s arms. Through tears, she managed to say, “I’m sorry, Baby. So, so, sorry...”

Dulcie just held her as she cried. When the tears slowed, she whispered in Stella’s ear, “I forgive you.” That produced another flood of tears. Rebecca was standing and beginning to feel a little uncomfortable by then. Dulcie caught her eye over her mother’s shoulder and smiled. “Well done, Rebecca. Why don’t you go home to Joe? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay, Dulcie. Thanks. See you in the morning for matins?”

“Probably. We’ll see.”

Rebecca left. Dulcie held her mother a little longer before releasing her. “Well, Mum? Are you staying in town?”

“I’ve got a room at the Anchor.”

“Okay. We’ve room at the Rectory if you want to come there. For now, come back with me for some tea. I need to either get back here for Evening Prayer, or ask someone to take the service for me.”

“My daughter the vicar. I wonder what Dad would have said?”

Dulcie led her mother – not fast – back to the Rectory, and introduced her to Liina, who still looked after the little ones, despite having begun to explore a possible relationship with James Abercromby, a non-conformist minister in Chelmsford. He was being very careful, gentle and considerate with her, but Dulcie was sure she could see signs that it was real.

With Liina, of course, was Sara, Dulcie’s daughter with Richard Chesterman. “Mum,” Dulcie said, quietly, holding out her arms for the little girl, “this is Sara. She’s Richard’s and my daughter.” Sara went to her mother, who picked her up. The little girl, shy, buried her face against Dulcie’s neck.

“I need to collect Peter from school,” Liina said, “Unless you want to go?”

“No, Liina, thank you. I don’t think my mother would want to walk so far. I expect Sara will stay with us.”

Liina smiled, and left. “Sara, this is my mother, your grandmother,” Dulcie said, gently.

The little girl glanced at the visitor. Normally, it took several visits for her to decide to like (or not like!) someone. Shocking Dulcie, she relaxed her hold on Dulcie’s neck, and held out her arms to the visitor. “Gran’ma.”

Stella caught Dulcie’s eye. “May I?”

Dulcie nodded, and the little girl accepted Stella’s hands, and transferred her own grip to her neck. A little girl’s hug is a wonderful thing anyway, but in the circumstances, Stella was overwhelmed. Sara had clearly inherited something from her mother, as she simply held the hug as Stella wept.

Dulcie reached for the ever-present box of tissues, and placed it near her mother.

Once she was again able to talk, Stella asked, “How old are you, dear?”

“I’m nearly three! Peter’s nearly eight.” Sara wriggled, was released and lifted down. “Mummy, can I watch t/v?”