Chapter 1: Peter's account

My name is Peter Hanson, and I have the privilege to be Vicar of the parish church of St. Jude the Obscure, in inner city Sheffield. Some might not think it was a privilege; it's a small, modern (though quite attractive) building in a socially deprived area (deprived, that is, apart from the students, who get everywhere) but the congregation, while small and mostly on low incomes, are as committed, active and enthusiastic as they could be.

I'm not exactly "High Church" in theology, but I love colour, movement and beauty, and involving as many of the senses as I can. The church was given lovely sets of vestments; green, red, purple, white and gold to account for all the seasons and festivals; we used candles, and I gradually persuaded the congregation to accept incense, at least occasionally, and even drama and dance. I just believe that in an area where joy and beauty are usually absent, it's a good thing to try to introduce some.

I am not ambitious. I expect to remain a parish priest for the rest of my career; in my opinion, the highest of callings; I was undistinguished at theological college (except in arguing with lecturers who, I considered, just 'baffled with bullshit') and uninterested in social manoeuvring for status...

I wouldn't have achieved very much without my wife, Sara, who I firmly believe to be quite the loveliest woman in all of creation.

The nature of our ministry is dictated by our parish. We are quite used to individuals, much the worse for assorted intoxicating substances, wandering in at random points in services, sometimes wandering out again, sometimes waiting to the end in the expectation of a hot drink and something to eat; usually carrying with them a certain, noticeable ... shall we say, aura. My little flock are quite incredibly accepting, both of the ... auras, and the occasional disruption.

Ministers in the Anglican Church are supposed to say morning and evening prayer every day in the parish church. Many feel that this is not relevant to modern society; but I try to keep it up even when (as usually happens) I am the total congregation. Of course, pastoral problems take priority. It was one miserable evening in late November when I began to read Evensong. In the unheated church, marginally warmer than outside by reason of being out of the wind, I was dressed warmly and even wore cassock, surplice and scarf.

I was taken aback to hear an uneven soprano voice join with mine for the responses; continuing, I could see a slumped figure at the back of the church. Usually, I don't bother preaching to myself at what we call the 'offices' of morning and evening prayer; in fact, I don't usually preach even on the rare occasions I am joined by one or more of my regular congregation ... but I have learned to take notice when I feel a quiet urge to do something different, and at the appropriate point I moved to the centre of the dais in front if the Communion table and began to speak. It was one of those occasions when I was just a channel for words over which I had little control. It would probably not have gained any awards for elegance either, but that is irrelevant to me.

"Come to me, you weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest ... I give you peace, not as the world gives ... I am come that you may have life, and have it in abundance..."

At the end, I walked to the back of the church; the figure looked up. I could only guess that she was young. She was thin to the point of emaciation, dark hair, dirty and lank in tendrils about her face, the colour impossible to determine. She looked up at me out of enormous, dark, dull eyes. Her hands shook. A stereotypical addict, one would think; except to me everyone is an individual, addict or not.

"What's your name?" I asked, quietly, gently.

"Dulcie," she replied, pronouncing it with a hard 'c', like a classical scholar, 'Dull-key'

"That's a lovely name," I commented.

"But not really appropriate," she responded.

"I wouldn't like to say that."

"No-one could call me sweet," she said, dully.

"Well, now. Let's not argue over that. You look to me as though some food wouldn't come amiss, Dulcie"

Something flared in her eyes for a moment.

"I could eat," she admitted.

"Give me a moment to hang my dress in the vestry, and I'll be right with you."

The suspicion of a smile crossed her face. "I've nothing to rush off for."

I called Sara to let her know I was bringing home a waif, left cassock, surplice and scarf in the vestry, and collected Dulcie from the back of the church. The Vicarage is only a few yards away, and there was nothing to encourage us to loiter as we crossed the road and I let her in, hung her scruffy fleece by the door, and took her to the kitchen. We usually eat in the kitchen unless we have several guests, or the Bishop, perhaps. Sara had a large pot of home made, thick, vegetable soup on the stove and had just taken a tray of fresh bread out of the oven and placed it on a cooling rack. Dulcie's eyes widened.

"This is Dulcie," I introduced, using her own pronunciation

My wife is a treasure, and has a remarkable talent for choosing exactly the right course of action. In some people, this could become irritating, but I have never known anyone become irritated with Sara.

"Sit down, Dulcie," she said, indicating a chair at the table, and placed by her a china cup and saucer. We usually use mugs. "Milk and sugar in your tea?"

"Just milk, please," Dulcie whispered. A tear trickled down one cheek, and she sniffed, and watched Sara pour out tea. "Why are you treating me like a lady?"

"Because I think you are one. Even if you could do with a bath and some clean clothes."

I just watched my wife at work.

"I'm an addict." She paused, waited a long time for a reaction and added, when she didn't get one, "and a prostitute."

"And are you happy? Do you want to carry on like that?"

She just shook her head. "But I don't think I can change."

"If you had help?"

"Can't get in the programmes. No-one's interested."

"We're interested, and so is Jesus. Did you know that one of his best friends was a prostitute?"

She was silent, thinking about that.

Sara found cloth place-mats, china bowls and soup spoons and laid them on the table. I found small plates and knives and fetched butter; Sara put bread rolls in a basket in the middle of the table and ladled soup into the bowls. I pronounced a very short grace, and we ate. Dulcie ate delicately and lightly. I guessed her appetite was not very great, but she accepted a small piece of Swiss roll for dessert.

"Where are you living, Dulcie?" asked my wife, looking at me.

Dulcie shrugged. "I'm on the streets."

I looked back at her and nodded slightly; Sara smiled slightly and also nodded back.

"Dulcie," my wife said, "We'd like for you to stay with us, at least for a little while. Would you like that?"

"Are you serious?" squeaked Dulcie. There was a look of awe on her face.

"Oh, we're quite serious. All we ask is, you work with us. You don't have to get it right every time, but you do have to try. Ok?"

Dulcie's account

I walked the streets in the miserable weather, I was cold, hungry and in need of a fix. I needed to turn a trick, but the cars wouldn't stop, and men passing looked the other way. I didn't blame them, I'd been on the streets for a couple of days, I was grubby and damp and thin as a rake. A building across the road caught my eye; the door was open and there were lights inside — a church. I hadn't been in a church for years, not since ... Grandad died. He'd been a priest; I loved to say the responses as he read evensong in his church. But Mum didn't bother with church, just a succession of boyfriends, makeup and clothes.

I crossed the road and went in; at least I'd be out of the weather. The Vicar had already begun the introduction to the old service ... he was young, why was he reading Book of Common Prayer?

He got to "Almighty and most merciful Father..." and I joined in,

"we have erred and strayed..." I certainly had... "from thy ways like lost sheep..."

We continued together. He pronounced the absolution " ... that they may be cleansed from all their sins..."

Well, I certainly needed that.

The service continued, those wonderful, comforting, familiar words soaking into my soul as I sat, or stood, or knelt, dirty inside and out, ashamed of what I was but still wondering if I could seduce the young man at the front, perhaps get food and a bed for the night ... with him?

He stood and moved to the centre of the sanctuary and began to speak. It was a funny sort of sermon, more of a disconnected series of Bible quotations loosely linked; but every word seemed to hit me in the gut. One phrase in particular echoed round in my head "I have come that you may have life..." It should have been they. But he was speaking to me not some vague 'they'. Did I have life? Did I have a life? I needed a life.

At the end, he walked down the aisle to me. "What's your name?" he asked gently.

"Dulcie," I said, pronouncing it as Grandad always did, with a hard 'c', not like Mum.

"That's a lovely name," he said,

"It doesn't suit me," I said, "no-one would say I was sweet."

"I wouldn't say that," he said, "but you look hungry,"

Something surged in me, need for H warring with an empty belly.

"I could eat," I admitted. Perhaps I could seduce him after all?

"Let me hang these things up, and I'll be with you," he said

He took me across the road and showed me into the house, took my stinking, damp jacket and hung it neatly behind the door, and showed me into the kitchen. Then I knew I had no chance. His wife was beautiful, more than that, she was gracious. She placed a china cup and saucer by me, and poured tea, asking if I wanted milk and sugar. It was real tea; she used a tea-strainer, it was wonderful; I sipped it gratefully.

"Why do you treat me like a lady?" I asked. I couldn't control the tear that trickled down my face as I thought of what I was.

"Because you are a lady," she said, simply.

"I'm an addict," I answered, then much later when they hadn't commented, "and a prostitute."

Several more things were said. One thing registered. One of Jesus' best friends had been a prostitute. Then Sara said,

"We'd like you to stay with us, at least for a while. Would you like that?"

Would I like that? Was the Pope a Catholic?

"Are you serious?" I could hardly believe what I was hearing.

"Oh, we're quite serious. All we ask is, you work with us. You don't have to get it right every time, but you do have to try. Ok?"

"Oh, yes! But ... I really need a fix."

"No, you don't; what you need is Jesus."

They prayed for me. It felt odd, not what I'd been used to. I felt warm and ... as if I had a little light in my head. The craving diminished. It didn't go, but it faded into the background. This seemed to go on forever; I wanted it to go on forever, but when they stopped, I felt calm and safe for the first time in ... how long?

"Can I have a bath?" My voice sounded thin and weak to me.

Sara laughed, "Absolutely! And I think I can find some clothes that'll fit you well enough."

The bath was wonderful. Sara stayed, and washed my hair. It was so strange I didn't feel embarrassed, just ... loved. After the bath, she produced a hair dryer and a brush and brushed my hair out; then produced a new packet of knickers that were near enough my size, clean slacks, t-shirt and a hoodie. Clean body, clean hair, clean clothes...

"We'll get you some undies of your own tomorrow," Sara promised.

Peter's account;

When Sara and Dulcie came back downstairs, I hardly recognised the scruffy young woman I'd brought home. Under the dirt was a beautiful person. Her hair, I was going to say auburn, but I suppose chestnut would be nearer, and it seemed to glow. The loose clothing Sara found for her obscured her figure, slim to the point of emaciation, but not her face, heart-shaped and delicate with warm brown eyes.

I love my wife. But I'm a young, hetero-sexual male, and I've got eyes; I've had a problem since puberty of lusting after any passable female I see. Not that I act on it, and it's not as though I need to. Happily, Sara knows, understands and accepts the way I am. But she wasn't surprised, when we finally got to bed, that I kissed her hungrily and wanted to make love; she was more than willing to respond, and it was some time later we fell asleep in one another's arms. My wife is a wonderful woman.