Chapter 3: Dulcie's story

One day in late June, I was in the kitchen with Sara, we'd just finished the washing up.

"Dulcie," she said, "do you love Peter?"

"Of course," I said, "how could I not?"

"Yes," she said, "he is lovable, and the best thing is he doesn't, or won't, realise it. But that is not precisely what I meant. Let me put it this way. Are you in love with my husband?"

I blushed, hotly, and quite apart from that, I strongly suspect that 'deer in the headlights' would sum up my expression.

"Dulcie," she said, gently, "I'm not accusing you of anything. If you'd made a pass at him, he'd have told me. What I've noticed is that, at first, you went everywhere with him you could, but now you almost seem to avoid him."

I dropped my eyes, but she moved close to me and enfolded me in her arms.

"Dulcie, I want you to promise me something."

My heart sank. Was she going to ask me to live somewhere else? This was my home, in so many ways. I looked her in the eyes.

"Don't worry, it's nothing you'll hate..." she said even more gently. "If something should happen to me, I want you to promise to look after him; and that you won't leave him unless he tells you to go. Will you do that?"

"Why ... are you asking this? Is there something wrong?"

"Not exactly, and I don't know anything; it's just that I felt I had to ask you that. I suppose you might call it a premonition, but it's not really as strong as that. But will you?"

"Sara, I don't want anything to happen to you; I love you, too, you know."
"I do know, and that's one reason I haven't worried about you with Peter; but, will you?"

"Sara, if anything happens to take you away, then, yes, I will do everything in my power to look after him."

Peter's story.

It was after the evening service of the last Sunday in June. The evening service was now nearly as large as the morning Eucharist and usually there were one or two people at the altar rail waiting for prayer when I came out of the vestry. That night, there was only one. Sara.

"What is it, sweetheart?"

"Peter, this is going to sound strange. I want you to make me a promise. I want you to promise that, if anything should happen to me, you won't lock yourself away. I want you to promise to accept the love others will offer you; and that if you should meet someone you could love, that you will at least give that person a chance. Peter, darling, you don't do well on your own. Will you promise me that, please?"

"I don't know that I'd be able to be rational if anything should happen to you," I said. "I can only promise to try."

"That will have to do, then. I love you, you know."

"I do know; and I love you too."

We walked to the lounge together.

In the parish, we have several blocks of flats, six or seven stories high, connected with bridges and with open balconies.

A fortnight after our conversation, someone either too lazy to carry it downstairs, or maliciously, dropped a television from an upper bridge. It hit Sara on the back of the head and she died that evening, in hospital, from a cerebral haemorrhage.

Wait a minute, though, I hear you cry. You spoke of your wife in the present tense! Quite true; I now firmly believe my wife is just as alive, and just as beautiful, as ever, just not here with me any more; and one day we will be together again. At the time, though, I did not take it well. In fact, I took it extremely badly. To be blunt, I fell apart.

Everyone was very kind, but I was so numb I couldn't take anything in. I hardly remember the first month at all. I was aware of eating and going to bed (I don't think I really slept) and I suppose I must have used the toilet and washed at least occasionally ... but it was all just a blur.

Dulcie's story.

I took the call. Sara was found unconscious and bleeding near a shattered television. We don't know how long she'd been there, but someone rang for an ambulance and at the hospital they found her mobile phone in her pocket, which had an ICE (in case of emergency) entry in the phone-book; so they rang it. I called Peter and told him, and went straight to the hospital myself; but we were too late, and nothing could be done; she died before they could get her to the theatre. I was devastated, but I remembered Sara's words, and what I promised; I was utterly determined not to let her down. Besides, I really did love him.

I got him home, gave him whisky and made soup. I had to tell him to go to the table, I had to put the spoon in his hand — he ate, moving like and automaton. He would do nothing for himself, just stand, or sit, or lie down, unmoving until given another instruction.

Every morning I could, I took him across to the church; I said morning prayer, usually on my own, but occasionally one of the others would be there too.

In the evening, I took him across and I or one of the others would say evening prayer. Gradually, more and more of the others turned up each evening.

The Bishop took the funeral service; the church was packed. After the service, he spoke to me;

He wanted Peter to go ... I don't know, somewhere else. I sort of understood, but I looked him straight in the eye and said,

"This is his place, and we'll look after him. It's important to keep his body here until he comes back to it."

He raised his eyebrows at that, but smiled sadly; "Peter said you were a remarkable young woman. Very well, then. Do it your way."

Sunday mornings, the Diocese would send a substitute priest; they always looked out of place behind the altar, just wrong, somehow. Except Harry; Harry Banks was a retired vicar, small, with a fringe of grey hair round his bald head. Somehow, he fitted in the space left by Peter. He was quiet, and gentle, and wise; he would always come to us at the end of the service;

"Pray for him with me, Dulcie."

It was like that for a month. I lost weight until I was nearly as thin as when I first arrived at St. Jude's, but we managed. Even the evening service on Sunday; Jim and Wendy led the service, but the second week they suggested to Mike and me that we do the sermon. It was a bit scary, and probably against canon law, but we got together in the evenings and took it in turn to deliver a homily Sunday nights.

A month after her death I heard him weeping as I was on my way to bed. I found myself entering his bedroom and sliding into bed with him; I folded my arms round him and he pulled me close, his tears soaking my pyjamas. He slept.

Peter's story;

I was in bed, with no idea how I'd got there. But there was something wrong; the bed was empty, there was a space next to me that should have had Sara in it. Where was Sara? That was when it hit me, properly. Sara was gone, she'd died and left me here alone. I cried, for the first time since her death, I cried.

Some time later, I was no longer alone; there were warm arms around me. Sara? I pulled her close and pressed my face to her chest, and slept.

When I woke, it was morning and the bed was empty again, but there was a warm patch next to me and a slight, pleasant, feminine scent on the pillow; it wasn't Sara's scent.

I got up, went to the toilet, showered and dressed and went downstairs. Dulcie was at the table, eating cereal. She got up as I walked in, and put the kettle on. She busied herself at the counter, getting a cafetiere out, and putting coffee in it, facing away from me.

"Dulcie," my voice was hoarse, uneven from disuse; "it was you, last night, wasn't it?"

I turned her towards me; she looked at my chest as my hands rested on her shoulders. She felt thin. "it's been you, pushing me to eat, wash, dress, hasn't it?"

She nodded. "Sara made me promise to look after you. I have been, and I will." she looked up at me. "Welcome back, Peter. You've been missed."

"I'm sorry, Dulcie," I said, and the tears were welling up again, "she's gone, Dulcie, hasn't she?"

She put one arm around my shoulders, the other round my back and pulled me close. Her hair was soft and sweetly scented under my nose, and she murmured,

"You know better than that ... Reverend."

For a moment, I thought there was a third presence in the kitchen, and a voice whispering, "Remember..."

That was the beginning of my return to normality. It wasn't instantaneous, of course. It was another month before the Bishop would let me return to my duties, but I was daily in the church while Dulcie, or one of the others, read the offices. We ate together, and Dulcie began to put back the weight she'd lost, looking after me. She made me get out; we walked in the park, or went to the museums, or the galleries, and slowly the pain faded. I was given a lot of hugs, both by members of my congregation and others ... I understood; people cared for me (I'd never realised how much) and they also missed Sara. Many of them commented how wonderful Dulcie had been; how comforting and caring, how she'd held the church together.

At the end of September, old Harry Banks was presiding at Communion; the following Sunday I would be back in my place behind the altar. He had Mike administering the chalice (he told me he'd got the Bishop to license Mike and Dulcie to do that duty after checking with Jim and Wendy) and immediately after Mike had moved on, he was standing in front of me with a little pot of oil, and Dulcie was behind me, hand on my shoulder, praying as he anointed me. I felt a hand on my other shoulder, and a voice, whispering,

"Remember..."

Dulcie's story

I don't know if I slept or not ... I probably did. In the morning, emotions warred in me, a real tangle, with a thread of guilt in there. I wanted to stay and hold him, but I was afraid he'd push me away when he woke. Eventually, I wriggled carefully out of the bed and went to my room to dress.

I was eating breakfast when he came down. His eyes had life in them for the first time since Sara's death. Although his face was still drawn and haggard, with sorrow in every line, I began to hope he'd turned the corner. I was a little afraid, though, and stood, went to the counter to make coffee so I didn't have to look at him, but he walked over to me.

"It was you, last night, wasn't it?"

His hands were on my shoulders, turning me to face him, but I kept my eyes down, still afraid to look at him.

"It's been you, all along, making me eat, putting me to bed, waking me up."