When Friday the eighteenth came round, I dropped you off at nursery, as usual, went to the shops and then found myself heading across to St Michael’s. I wasn’t sure until I walked in that I’d really go. It was just something about Angela. I didn’t want to let her down.

I arrived early and sat for a while in the stillness of the church. The morning light streamed through the stained glass. Multi-coloured columns splashed onto the gravestones set amongst the flags that made up the floor. Saint Michael, locked in his eternal battle with the serpent, gazed down at me as I said my own quiet hello.

Just before eleven, I went back into the bright, living world of the café. Angela looked up as I appeared and smiled at me. She was dragging tables together to make a long central spine down the room and scraping the chairs as she arranged them round it.

A queue of elderly women stood at the counter, ordering cups of tea, scones and pieces of cake from the young woman there. I went to help Angela. By the time we’d finished, the elderly ladies were settling into their seats, ten or eleven of them altogether and one solitary man. No sign of any younger people.

Angela went up to the counter and gestured to me to join her at the table. When she returned, she set a cup of tea in front of me and a piece of coffee and walnut cake.

‘On the house.’ She looked flushed with pleasure. I wondered if she’d really expected me to come.

‘Now, everyone.’ She tapped her teacup with her spoon to call for silence.

The rows of lined, thickly powdered faces turned.

‘We have a newcomer today.’ She indicated me with her hand. ‘This is Jennifer. I hope you’ll make her welcome.’

The ladies exchanged whispers, looked at me with interest. One of those closest to me nodded and smiled.

They bowed their heads as Angela said a prayer.

‘Bless us, Lord, as we gather here in your name and feel your presence.’

I lowered my head, embarrassed. I couldn’t imagine what Matt would say if he knew I were here.

‘Help us to understand your purpose in taking home to your kingdom those we love and miss here on Earth.’

I stared down at my teacup, at the untouched cake, wondering how soon I could escape.

‘Help us to trust your promise of eternal life and to remember your triumph over death. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? Amen.’

When she finished, the women dissolved into chatter. My knuckles whitened as my hands gripped each other in my lap.

The lady beside me said, rather loudly: ‘It takes a bit of getting used to, doesn’t it?’

I hesitated, not sure what she meant.

‘Bernard and I were married for forty-one years. There isn’t an hour goes by that I don’t think of him. It’s been thirteen years now but, do you know, every night, I set two places at the table. One for him and one for me.’ She smiled, showing crooked teeth. ‘Silly, isn’t it? I know he’s gone. But it’s a comfort.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I didn’t know what else to say. I reached for my fork and took a mouthful of cake. It was sweet and light, home-made, and reminded me of my mother’s baking.

The lady watched me for a few moments as I ate. She leaned towards me, bringing with her the scent of talcum powder and a flowery perfume.

‘So what’s your story, dear?’

I blinked. My confusion must have shown in my face.

She prompted: ‘Have you lost someone?’

‘Well, my father.’ My hand shook and I set down the fork. ‘But that was a long time ago.’

‘Awful.’ She tutted sympathetically. ‘You poor thing.’

She reached out and patted my hand. Her knuckles were swollen with arthritis.

‘Well, you’re very welcome here, dear. We’ve all got a cross to bear, haven’t we? No one’s spared.’

I didn’t answer and, a moment later, she turned to reply to a question from someone on her other side. I sat quietly for some time, letting the sounds of conversation wash over me and focusing on my tea and cake.

After a while, Angela turned to speak to me.

‘All these ladies have lost loved ones. Husbands. Brothers and sisters. Even children. It does help to talk about it.’

I didn’t know what to say. I turned, looked out, beyond the end of the table, into the darkness of the church. I could almost see you there, a shifting shadow, a small, fragile figure, kneeling on a hassock and stretching forward, running your fingers over the stone flags, reading the engravings as if they were Braille.

‘I worry about Gracie.’ I thought of the women gathered here, burdened by their losses, their grief. ‘I keep thinking how close I came to losing her.’ I hesitated. ‘I don’t feel I can keep her safe any more.’

‘When you talk about Gracie, your whole face changes. Do you feel it?’ She gave me a thoughtful look. ‘I see God there.’

My cheeks felt hot. I shifted my weight on the chair.

She considered me. ‘If I say love, is that an easier word?’

I swallowed. ‘My father adored my mother and when he was feeling sentimental, he’d say: I love that woman more than life itself. Tears in his eyes. I was only a child. I thought it was just a figure of speech. But now I understand.’

Something inside me loosened and words started to come.

‘You know that myth about the goddess whose daughter was abducted and taken down to Hell and she grieved so hard that she brought winter on the world?’

‘Persephone,’ Angela said. ‘And Demeter.’

‘Exactly. I’d do that. If I had to.’

She smiled. ‘I doubt you’d find her in Hell.’

I took a deep breath. ‘I do struggle to believe in Heaven. Literal Heaven. Somewhere with radiant light where you meet God and people who’ve already died.’ I shook my head. ‘So how do I deal with my own little girl saying she’s been there, telling me things she couldn’t possibly know?’

We sat in silence for a moment, an island in the general hubbub of conversation.

One or two ladies pushed back their chairs, hauled themselves to their feet and tottered away. Several leaned heavily on sticks as they disappeared towards the toilets. Others gathered at the counter to order a fresh cup of tea. Those who were left continued to chat.

‘There’s probably a rational explanation,’ Angela said. ‘She might have overheard something. Or absorbed information without even realising. She’s a perceptive child.’

I nodded. ‘I suppose so.’

‘That’s one theory.’ She carried on talking to me as she nodded across to ladies who were starting now to disperse, to say their goodbyes. ‘Or you stop trying to rationalise. You let go. That’s the thing about faith. It isn’t about proof. It’s about making a choice. Choosing to believe.

‘From all you’ve told me,’ she went on, ‘I believe your daughter did go to Heaven, that she really did meet Saint Michael and was blessed by him. Maybe you think of that as an actual place, a place where God is. Or, if that makes you uncomfortable, think of it as love. As the universal love which is all around us, which survives us.’

Chairs scraped. A voice rose in thin, elderly laughter. She leaned in closer to me.

‘That love your father felt for your mother, that you feel for your daughter… I don’t think it ends with death. There’s more than just nothingness.’ She paused, considering. ‘That’s what I choose to believe. But what you choose is up to you.’

I sat very still. Something hard inside me shifted and my mouth trembled. I couldn’t answer. I looked through to the church again but all I could see was darkness and weak shafts of coloured light.

‘You know, perhaps Gracie came back to you because it wasn’t her time. Or perhaps your love for her was so strong, so overwhelming, that God showed mercy to you both by sending her back.’

An animated woman interrupted by tapping Angela on the shoulder and she turned away to talk to her.

On the far side of the table, the elderly man shuffled to his feet and started, with slow, deliberate movements, to thread his arms into the sleeves of his coat. The young woman from behind the counter came out into the café and started to separate the tables again, re-ordering the café as if our meeting had never been.