Jubilate (11 page)

‘Phew!’ he says. ‘For a moment I thought you might watch me go up.’

‘And you’d have been fool enough to do it?’

‘Faint heart and fair lady and all that.’

‘Trust me, she’s already been won.’

He slips his arm around my shoulders and we stand quietly
marvelling
at the panoramic view of the Pyrenees. I feel the same joy in nature as I did yesterday, more convinced than ever that such
magnificence must be part of a divine plan, but no longer concerned to argue the case. We slowly turn to face each point of a landscape that lies, like a sumptuous carpet, at the feet of our love.

‘Oh!’ Vincent lifts his arm to his head. ‘I can feel my ears popping.’

‘Are we that high?’

‘I am. Doesn’t it make you want to throw everything up and come and live here?’

‘
Everything
’s too easy. It’s when you start putting names to things that it becomes hard.’

‘Don’t be so reasonable. Follow your dreams for once.’

‘Such as? I’m too old to play at being Heidi.’

‘I give up.’

‘Yes, I think you should. We both should, leaving this as a perfect memory. I’ll be the lonely woman you took pity on during filming. An anecdote to amuse your friends.’

‘Do you think I’d ever do that?’

‘No.’

‘Then why say it?’

‘Because I’m trying to make it easier for us. No, be honest, Gillian! I’m trying to make it easier for me. I can’t live on dreams. I need to know what’s real.’

‘Is this real?’ He kisses me, his own sweetness sharpened by the wine.

I let the kiss and the question linger before answering. ‘This is too real.’

‘I can’t win.’

‘You already have.’

We remain joined to each other, oblivious of the outside world, until a high-pitched ‘Yuck!’ forces us apart.

‘Mommy, why are they kissing like that?’ I peer at a ginger-haired boy, sporting a pirate hat and eye-patch, standing beside his parents, who are dressed even more bizarrely in matching mauve baseball caps, T-shirts and shorts.

‘They’re married, Victor,’ his father says. ‘Married people are allowed to kiss.’

His tone is so censorious that I contemplate flashing my ring. Vincent responds more aggressively. ‘Yes, we are married. Only not
to one another. Still, what can we do? My father saw her first. Have a good day!’

Leaving the trio dumbfounded, Vincent takes my hand and sweeps me off the platform, his attempt at a dignified exit thwarted by the wobbly steps. I hustle him down the hill, this time determined to choose the path myself.

‘Don’t you think we’re breaking enough taboos already?’

‘Smug git,’ he says. ‘He deserves all he gets.’

A cloud of melancholy descends on us as we take the funicular back to the bottom, where we meet up with the cab driver.

‘L’Acceuil Notre Dame, s’il vous plaît, Monsieur
,’ Vincent says.

‘La porte de derrière
,’ I add, compounding the gloom.

A web of side streets leads us swiftly to the Acceuil, where Vincent sees me to the door with strangely old-fashioned courtesy. ‘At least it’s
au revoir
not goodbye,’ he says lightly.

‘I should hope so, since we’re due at the procession in ten minutes.’ I take a precautionary step back. ‘That was very special. Thank you for a truly wonderful afternoon.’

‘It’s not over yet,’ he says, before returning to the cab.

I go indoors, thrilled by the promise with which he invests such routine words. The interlocking corridors confuse me, and I am obliged to an Irish pilgrim who informs me that ‘the Jubilates’ have already left for the Adoration Tent, so sparing me the need to find my way upstairs. Hoping to catch them en route, I hurry to the front of the building and along the riverbank to the meadow. The crowd is so dense that I despair of locating anyone, until the glimpse of a horn-playing Gabriel on a drooping banner directs me to the far side of the Tent. The moment I arrive, I realise my mistake. Everyone, from Louisa down, has put on the regulation sweatshirt, whereas I am wearing a
primrose
top that might as well be scarlet. Any hope of running back to the Acceuil is dashed by a burst of activity inside the Tent that signals the start of the procession. I decide to brazen it out and head for Richard and Patricia, who are sitting on a stone bench beside an elderly
Scottish
couple whose names I can never remember. Richard gives me a cheery wave and Patricia a withering look, but I am saved from further scrutiny by Fiona who, after measuring my leg, drags me off to her mother, who is guarding her collection of squashed flowers.

‘They’re lovely, Fiona. Did you pick them yourself?’ I ask. She nods proudly, picking a buttercup from the bunch and holding it to my top.

‘Yes. What a clever girl! They’re the same colour,’ Mary says. I force a smile, my gratitude for Fiona’s welcome rapidly waning. We stand in edgy silence until Ken gathers us into line. ‘First the
wheelchairs
. Next the rest of the
malades
. Then everyone else,’ he ordains with the last-will-be-first Lourdes logic. Richard bounds up to me with Patricia on his heels.

‘She won’t let me go with Nigel.’

‘Nigel’s in a wheelchair,’ Patricia says firmly.

‘I can push him.’

‘We had enough of that this morning. Besides, there are too many people.’

‘What do you think?’ Richard asks me.

‘Your mother’s right,’ I say diplomatically. ‘You walk with us.’

‘I don’t want to walk with you. You’re not wearing your proper shirt. I’ll feel stupid.’

‘I’m sorry. I was late back from the town. I didn’t want to miss the procession,’ I say in my most placatory tone. ‘Anyway, do you think God cares more about what we feel or what we wear?’

‘What we wear,’ Richard says with a grin.

‘Thank you for that!’

‘It’s not a question of fashion but of respect,’ Patricia says,
determined
to have the final word.

I step into line, the glow of the afternoon fading. Richard, with a rare sensitivity to my mood that does nothing to lift it, takes my hand. We inch towards the bridge where we converge with several other groups in an almost military profusion of banners. There we come to a standstill, sweltering in the heat, while our leaders discuss the arrangements.

‘They’re arguing over the order,’ Maggie says knowingly, as she passes round paper cones of water.

‘Shouldn’t they have worked it all out before?’ I ask.

‘They did! Ken told me. It’s the Poles, then the Catalonians – or is it Catalans? – then us.’ I pull Richard’s cone off his nose. ‘But as usual, the Italians think that they have a God-given right to go first. And this lot aren’t even from Rome!’

The impasse resolved, the Cracow contingent move to the front of the procession and the Milanese draw back, as if in a collective sulk. Just as we are about to set off, Vincent arrives with Sophie, Jewel and Jamie, all four clad in the official green.

‘High drama there,’ he says.

‘Mediterranean temperament,’ Patricia says, eager as ever to put the best gloss on everything Lourdes. ‘Have you spent the afternoon filming?’

‘Researching,’ he says with a direct, if inscrutable, look at me. ‘How about you?’

‘We had a lovely mass,’ Patricia says. ‘Father Humphrey gave a sermon on broken people. How we’re all of us broken but some of the cracks are easier to spot.’ She strokes Richard’s arm. He recoils.

‘Did you enjoy it?’ Vincent asks me.

‘I’m afraid I skived off. I went for a walk around town.’

‘Did you enjoy that?’

‘It was nothing special.’ My desire to punish him proves to be unsustainable. ‘Yes. Yes, I did.’ Patricia’s eyes narrow.

‘What about you, mate?’ Vincent turns to Richard. ‘Good afternoon?’

‘I’ve been practising.’

‘That’s great.’

‘Practising what?’ I ask.

‘Babies.’

‘What?’ I am gripped by a succession of alarming images.

‘That’s enough,’ Vincent says to Richard. ‘Remember it’s a surprise.’

‘I don’t like surprises,’ I say, considerably reassured to find that Vincent is party to this one.

‘Me neither,’ Richard says, ‘but you always make me have them.’

We process along the Esplanade, turning back on ourselves to approach the Pius X Basilica. By the time we arrive at the bunkerlike entrance, I am so caught up in the collective euphoria that I forget my aberrant top. Once inside, we move down a stark concrete aisle into a vast subterranean hall. We take our seats on one side of the raised altar, with a canopied dais for clergy to our left and the choir and organ to our right. Wheelchairs and invalid carriages are given pride of place, but even Brenda, who is determined to exploit
her Lourdes privilege to the full, has to defer to the row of comatose pilgrims in hospital beds. I sit beside Richard, while Patricia is
relegated
to the back of the nave. Lucja slips in next to me with, to my amazement, Tadeusz on her other side. It is not only the first time I have seen him at a service, but the first time I have seen him holding Pyotr.

Lucja senses my surprise. ‘He does it for me,’ she says, with a mixture of sorrow and pride.

The Italian desire for precedence feels even more wrong-headed, since those of us towards the front of the procession are left to kick our heels – literally, in Richard’s case – until those at the back arrive. The rows slowly fill, with many of the young brancardiers and
handmaidens
forced to stand in the recesses at the sides. When everyone is settled, representatives of each pilgrimage take their banner to be blessed at the altar, circling it with a dignity and precision that are all the more impressive for their being unrehearsed. I feel a deep surge of emotion at seeing Jenny, who has blossomed beyond
recognition
, carrying the Jubilate banner with Geoff. They are followed by two thurifers, causing dismay to several asthmatics, and a
crocodile
of priests and bishops including Fathers Humphrey, Dave and Paul. The Cardinal of Cracow brings up the rear, holding a glittering monstrance which he places on the altar, before walking backwards down the steps to take his seat beneath the canopy.

I abandon any attempt to follow the proceedings as each priest speaks in his native language with translations, chosen seemingly at random, relayed on giant screens. No sooner have I adjusted to a passage in French or German than the voice switches to Swedish and the translation to Dutch. The hymns are subject to the same linguistic lottery as the readings, and I whisper to Richard that it will be safer to hum. He jumps at the suggestion and I find myself beside a wayward bassoon. At the climax of the service, the Cardinal moves into the congregation and raises the monstrance to bless each section in turn. I feel none of the unease that I felt about attending mass. This is Christ coming to me in pity for my weakness, not me coming to him in defiance of my sin.

The Cardinal gives the benediction, after which the clergy and the banners process out and the congregation disperses with remarkable
speed. As the organ thunders to a halt, I search for Vincent, defying him to have watched unmoved, but he is nowhere to be seen. Instead I am accosted by Patricia, who appears to have forgiven my
impropriety
in the joy of the service.

‘You can always rely on a Cardinal in Lourdes,’ she says, wiping her eyes. Richard giggles. ‘I don’t see why that’s funny.’ He ignores the reproach and laughs even more loudly, pointing to one of the crudely sketched posters of saints which hang from the roof.

‘He’s eating a strawberry,’ he says.

‘Nonsense,’ she replies, reading the legend, ‘it’s St Jean Eudes holding the Sacred Heart.’

We walk outside and bump straight into Vincent.

‘Fancy seeing you here!’ Patricia says with deceptive airiness.

‘I know,’ he says, emulating her tone. ‘The proverbial bad penny.’

‘Did you enjoy the service?’ I ask quickly.

‘The choreography was impressive.’

‘That’s all?’

‘I couldn’t make head nor tail of anything else. How about you?’

‘I couldn’t make sense of it but I could understand it … if you know what I mean.’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Then it must be a long time since you were in love.’

‘We ought to be off,’ Patricia interjects. ‘We’re holding people up. And we mustn’t monopolise Mr O’Shaughnessy. People will talk.’

Her reserve fills me with foreboding. She may know nothing but she clearly suspects. Our sanctuary has been smashed open and there are eyes peering through the cracks.

‘I wonder if I might borrow Richard?’ Vincent asks.

‘Like a library book?’ Richard asks.

‘To interview?’

‘It’s part of our surprise.’

‘I have to go with him,’ Richard says.

‘I don’t see why not,’ I say, ‘but it’s half past six. There’s only an hour before dinner.’

‘That’ll be enough.’

‘I have to go!’ Richard grabs Vincent’s arm.

‘Take care of him,’ Patricia says anxiously.

‘I’m not a library book!’

Vincent and Richard walk off, leaving me to return with a glacial Patricia.

‘Are you sure you’re being sensible?’

‘What?’ I did not expect such a direct challenge.

‘Letting them go off like that. What do we know of that young man?’

‘He’s forty-two,’ I say numbly. ‘At a guess.’

‘You know what I mean. You stopped Richard going out with his friends at home.’

‘With good reason.’

‘So you say. You should be grateful that they still took an interest.’

‘Took advantage, more like!’ I struggle to keep my temper. ‘They behaved like idiots.’

‘Surely you don’t begrudge him a little fun? He’s lost almost
everything
else.’

‘Do you think he’s the only one?’

‘I’ve offered to help. You could pay someone. People must think we can’t afford it!’

‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’

‘All I’m saying is that you don’t need to be tied to Richard
twenty-four
hours a day.’

‘You object when I take myself off for a single afternoon.’

‘It’s not your going. It’s where you go.’