Jubilate (12 page)

‘In
Lourdes
?’ I ask incredulously.

‘And who you go with. I don’t want to see you get hurt.’ Her voice is at once caring and cold.

‘Don’t worry! I’m a big girl.’

‘Film people are notoriously feckless.’

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers,’ I say, hiding from the full implication of her words.

‘They flit from project to project and person to person. I repeat; I don’t want to see you get hurt.’

‘Thought it was you!’ Maggie lumbers up, bringing at least
temporary
relief. ‘Been indulging my filthy habit in the bushes. Tilda and Ruth are looking after the
malades
.’

‘Wouldn’t you agree, Maggie?’ Patricia leads the witness. ‘Film people aren’t to be trusted.’

‘Can’t say as I’ve had many dealings with them. Charles Hawtrey – you know, from the
Carry
On
films – lived down the road before he died. I never met him myself but …’ She mimes drinking.

I escape down the Esplanade and, to delay my return to the Acceuil, wander along the riverbank towards the Grotto. At first I shrink from the lime green sweatshirt in my path but, identifying the mop of blonde curls as Lucia, I wave. She walks up, carrying two large bottles of spring water.

‘Do you want any help with those?’

‘What?’ She laughs. ‘I am strong Polish girl.’

‘You’ll have to put them in your case. No liquids allowed inside the plane.’

‘Yes, Tadeusz gives me warning. They will be burst all over our clothings. But they are for my mother.’

‘Say no more!’

‘She has come from home to look after the twins. We should be thankful.’

‘I know all about those shoulds. Never mind! The sun’s shining. And Tadeusz is spending time with Pyotr.’

‘Yes. This makes me so happy. If there is nothing else – no, I must not say this so soon – but, if there is nothing else good that comes from here, it is that he is starting to hold Pyotr as if he has been one of the twins.’

‘Has it taken him so long?’

‘Being father to Pyotr is hard for Tadeusz. He does not have the faith of you and me.’ I recall my struggle to reconcile a loving God with a damaged Richard and question her assumption. ‘This is not because he is a man. In Poland, it is not like in England where the Church is for woman. In Poland, it is strong to believe. But Tadeusz, he does not believe in anything but himself. He wants to take no more orders, not from the priests, not from the Party. It is true, when he comes to England he has to take little orders: “Drive to this place!” “Bring this box to this place!” But he says he will soon be making his own business and giving the orders himself.’

‘He seems a very enterprising man.’

‘We are happy. We have the twins and they are growing up big and clever. I have a murmuring of the heart –’

‘What?’

‘Oh it is nothing. Nothing then and much more nothing now. I work in the morning and then I bring the twins home in the
afternoon
. It is a good life, but I am tired. Sometimes I am so tired. And so, sometimes, life is not so good in the night. You understand?’

‘I understand.’ I understand so well.

‘I say this so as you know Tadeusz. He is a good man, but he is a man. And he met a woman. It was just for a few months. Then it was over. And I was pregnant. And Pyotr was born. And he blames himself. This man of reason blames himself like he was still in his grandfather’s village. When the doctors told us what was wrong, he told me about this woman.’

‘How noble of him! As if you weren’t going through enough!’

‘Perhaps he was thinking it would help if I had all the pain together?’

‘Men … no, I mustn’t generalise. Yes, men seem to think that they can behave like shits and then we’ll respect their honesty in
admitting
it. Poor dears, it must cost them so much!’

‘Tadeusz asked if I wanted him to leave me. Leave? I had two three years old childrens and Pyotr. Leave? We were married in the church. So he stays. He stays now for one year and a half. He is a good father, a best father, to Agata and Filip. But he keeps away from Pyotr. To me, he has the feeling that even picking him in his arms will do him harm.’

‘Yet he’s looking after him now?’

‘You must not laugh when I tell you it is a miracle. And if there is no miracle for Pyotr, there is still one for Tadeusz. He sees that he is not a bad man. He sees that his baby could have been born like this even if he has spent every minute he has spent with this woman with me.’ She clasps the bottles to her chest as we enter the Acceuil. ‘So what must I care if we will have a few wet clothings? It is a very little cost.’

I arrive at the Jubilate floor, refreshed by my short stay in someone else’s story. We are soon called into dinner and, to my relief,
Patricia’s
team is not on duty. The meal is marred by Richard’s and Nigel’s tacit agreement to mirror one another’s movements. I am prepared to concede the slow-motion eating and napkin headscarves, but I
draw the line when Richard crams three spoonfuls of spaghetti into his mouth.

‘Nigel doesn’t have your coordination. He’ll choke!’

After raspberry jelly, which the two men remould into miniature breasts, we return to the bedroom, leaving the handmaidens to clear the tables and the brancardiers to arrange the room into a
makeshift
auditorium for the farewell concert. Richard monopolises the bathroom, his pride in his appearance one of the few remnants of his former self. As he stands at the mirror, an uneasy cross between Beau Brummell and Dennis the Menace, I feel a deep surge of
affection
for him.

‘You’re very thick with Vincent all of a sudden,’ I say casually.

‘I am not thick!’

‘I mean that you seem to have a lot to discuss.’

‘I’m helping him.’

‘With his film?’

‘Wait and see. You won’t tell me your surprises.’

‘That’s true, I suppose.’ Poor man! How he resents the ‘wait and see’ I apply to everything from food to outings. Yet the only way to maintain even a modest control over my life is to keep him in the dark.

We are summoned back to the dining room which has
undergone
a rapid transformation. The tables have been pushed to one side and the chairs laid out beneath the window. Two drip-stands decked with balloons have been placed by the door and the
Jubilate
banner draped over the serving hatch. The room soon fills up. Patricia comes in with Maggie, pointedly taking a seat two rows in front of us. Vincent comes in with Jamie, who sets up his camera in the far corner. For all that he is following instructions, I am
tortured
by Vincent’s disregard. Swiftly looking around, I join in the smattering of applause when Linda, with tinsel threaded over her glasses, pushes in Brenda, who is wearing a cardboard crown in a wheelchair garlanded with streamers. ‘Queen!’ Fiona shouts with wide-eyed enthusiasm, turning my admiration for their spirit into sadness at the masquerade.

Once everyone is settled, Father Humphrey takes the floor, to a roar of approval. He opens proceedings with a decade of the rosary, 
before launching into a comedy routine, great chunks of which, to judge by the response, have made as many appearances in Lourdes as he has himself. Patricia laughs immoderately at an account of the three nuns in a priest’s life (‘None yesterday, none today and none tomorrow,’) that she would have deplored from anyone else. Only a quip that the favourite hymn in a crematorium is
Light up thy fire
,
Oh Lord!
falls flat. After a rare non-clerical joke (‘horse sense is what stops horses betting on humans’), he solicits contributions from the floor. My fears of an embarrassing silence prove to be
groundless
when Sheila Clunes wheels herself forward to sing ‘Danny Boy’ in a quavering soprano, accompanied by the gentle guitarist from Saint Savin. She is followed by four young brancardiers, in
precariously
padded nurses’ uniforms, who high-kick their way through ‘Dancing Queen’.

An element of decorum returns when Frank, his eyes shut tight as though the slightest distraction might unbalance him, croaks ‘How Much Is That Doggy in the Window?’, his erratic tempo making it doubly hard for the accompanist to keep up. Martin then shuffles to the front and, with a supreme effort, makes a speech in which only the odd word – ‘friends’ or perhaps ‘ends’, ‘love’, and ‘ease’ – is intelligible.
Ease
turns out to be Louisa when, with thumbs
twitching
in clenched fists, he thanks her for her kindness and, nodding at the increasingly beleaguered guitarist, performs a version of ‘The Shadow of Your Smile’ which, despite having little or no connection with the tune, has our imperturbable director in tears.

Martin’s song is so affecting that no one is ready to risk
comparison
, and his return to his seat is followed by a lull, which Father Humphrey threatens to fill with a second round of jokes. Then, to my horror, Vincent steps out and starts to speak. ‘I want to thank you all for your kindness in allowing us to share in your pilgrimage. It’s been a most enlightening experience in so many ways.’ I have the chilling sensation that he is about to name them. ‘I know that some of you had reservations about letting in the camera. I hope you’ll feel that your trust has been vindicated when the film is broadcast later in the year. Now, if you’ll indulge me a moment more, I too have prepared a party piece. But there’ll be no filming. It’s the director’s privilege to call the shots. So come on up, Rich!’

Richard jumps to his feet with appalling alacrity and moves to Vincent, who places his hand on his shoulder. I struggle not to make comparisons as, with Richard gazing at Vincent and Vincent at the ceiling, they sing ‘You Must Have Been A Beautiful Baby’, directing the final refrain at me. Several people turn round, beaming
congratulations
as though I were a part of the performance, and I try to rescue a smile that has slipped six inches down my face. Only Patricia looks sour as if she too is trying to work out the implications of the double act.

‘That was lovely, Richard. Thank you so much,’ I say, as he bounds back to his seat, flushed with pride.

‘I said you’d like it.’

‘You were right. Was it your idea or Vincent’s?’

‘Mine!’ he says, affronted.

‘Good,’ I reply equivocally. My attention is distracted by Father Humphrey’s announcement of a special guest star, Fiona, who, despite tumultuous applause, has to be coaxed to the front by Mary. Her reluctance is not, as I presumed, the result of shyness, but of distress at her song having been pre-empted by Frank.

‘Great minds think alike,’ Father Humphrey says blithely. Fiona remains intransigent until he reminds her that ‘there’s more than one doggy in the window’, whereupon she embarks on a version that bears even less resemblance to the original than its predecessor. At Louisa’s suggestion, Fiona and Frank reprise it as a duet, with the audience supplying the canine chorus, ranging from Father Dave’s Rottweiler to Marjorie’s Chow. Then Maggie, urged on by various handmaidens, sings
I’m a Pink Toothbrush, You’re a Blue Toothbrush
to – or, at any rate, towards – a squirming Ken. Theresa, one of the nurses, follows with a love song from
The Lion King
. Finally, Mona, looking flushed, offers a soaring rendition of ‘Climb Every
Mountain
’, demonstrating that her talents are not confined to hymns.

‘You’ve missed your vocation,’ Sister Martha tells her, as she moves back to her seat.

‘If I may have your attention a moment longer,’ Louisa says,
stepping
forward. ‘First, I’d like to thank all the wonderful performers for the very best show I can remember.’

‘You say that every year,’ Brenda says, with a cackle.

‘It just gets better and better,’ Louisa replies, without missing a beat. She then calls on Father Humphrey to draw the raffle. It could not have turned up a more fitting list of winners had it been rigged; as, in the view of one disgruntled loser, it was. The prizes having been claimed, with varying degrees of reticence, Louisa brings the formal part of the evening to a close. ‘I’d like to remind you all that we’re due at the baths at nine thirty. Meanwhile enjoy the rest of the party. The night is yet young.’

‘Well I’m not,’ Patricia says, turning to face us. ‘So I’m off to bed. You should do the same, darling,’ she tells Richard. ‘All this
excitement
. I hope you’ll sleep.’

‘Oh Richard has no trouble,’ I say, a veteran of his snoring. ‘I’m the insomniac in the family.’

Fixing me with a knowing look, she moves away, to be replaced moments later by Sophie.

‘Jamie, Jewel and I are going for a final stroll up to the castle. We wondered if you’d care to join us.’

‘What a lovely idea!’ I say, grateful for both Vincent’s guile and her discretion. ‘I’d be delighted. Can you hold on while I see Richard to bed?’

‘Of course. Will you meet us at the hotel?’

‘Why not?’

Why not indeed? It is the last night of the pilgrimage. After tomorrow, I shall never see Vincent O’Shaughnessy again.

I
have discovered why so many young people want to come to Lourdes. Forget serving God and helping the sick and all those other application-form platitudes. If last night is anything to go by, it’s for the chance to hang out with their friends till the early hours and, what’s more, to do so under the windows of clean-living television directors!

Am I showing my age? I pat my stomach for reassurance, but my head tells a different story. Where is the Vincent O’Shaughnessy I used to know, who would sit up until dawn righting the world’s wrongs and then be hard at work at nine? Rolling a spliff at some nineties tribute party? Well, good riddance to him! He has no right to sneer at his elders. How would he like to spend a neck-cricking night on a threadbare bolster, struggling to drown out the clatter from the street, while a soft-voiced ‘Peace be with you!’ echoed insidiously through his brain?

I throw myself under a listless shower which seems to predate Bernadette, the dribble of water barely sufficient for its primary purpose, let alone its secondary one of washing Gillian Patterson out of my system. I step out smartly to brush my teeth, but the sight of the eager face in the chipped mirror is more than I can bear. ‘In the first place,’ I remind him, ‘you’re here to work. Lion’s Share are paying you – a pittance, but that’s a different story – to make a
fifty-minute
documentary, not to try to patch up your irreparable love life. In the second place, she’s married and a Catholic, both of which should sound a thunderous alarm bell. In the third, fourth and fifth places, you are Vincent O’Shaughnessy and, even if she were
interested
in you, which as we’ve established she’s not, you have
absolutely
no right to inflict yourself on another human being in an intimate context ever again.’

Relieved to have spelt things out, I put on my Jubilate sweatshirt, which gives me the surprisingly pleasant sensation of being subject to other peoples’ rules. Steering well clear of the lift, I go down to the dining room, where the clamour of English voices depresses me. I stop to greet the two West Indian Jubilates who are sitting at a table by the door.

‘Not on breakfast duty?’

‘Not till lunchtime, thank the Lord,’ the blonde-wigged one says, lowering her voice. ‘Poor Mona suffers terribly from jet lag.’

‘Really?’

‘My Hector used to say I needed a sick-note when I went to the market. Still,’ Mona says, pointing to the logo on her generous bosom. ‘Let’s pray that Gabriel blows some of the cobwebs away.’

I leave them ordering more bread, the English pronunciation of
pain
fuelling my suspicions of their self-lacerating faith, and join the crew by the window.

‘Morning gang! How’s tricks?’

‘Wrong question!’ Sophie says.

‘Zambia was bad enough, but this place takes the biscuit!’ Jamie says, scarcely giving me a chance to sit down. ‘You’re lucky I don’t get the Union on to it, chief.’

‘You’re not in a union,’ Jewel says.

‘So I’ll join. Forget the mattress that feels like a beanbag. Forget the death-trap lift. What about the plumbing?’

‘It is a tad antiquated, I admit,’ I say.

‘Turn on the cold tap and the water’s scalding.’

‘Lucky you!’ Sophie says. ‘Even my hot was tepid.’

‘I could have been scarred for life,’ Jamie says, piqued at our lack of sympathy. ‘And what about people with sticks who can’t jump out of the way? Turn on the C and –’

‘Wait a minute,’ Sophie says. ‘You are joking?’

‘I’m bloody not. I could have got third degree burns.’

‘What do you think the F stands for?’

‘What F?’

‘On the taps. C and F.
Chaud
and
Froid
. Not cold and freezing!’

‘You div!’ Jewel says to him. ‘What next? Life-membership of the BNP?’

‘We’re in France,’ Sophie says. ‘It’s in French.’

‘I don’t see why,’ he says, refusing to back down. ‘The staff speak to us in English. All the notices are in English. They even serve us Rice Krispies and Shredded Wheat.’

‘Speaking of which, I’d better grab a bowl before they run out,’ I say, as a smiling man with ill-fitting dentures walks past with a
pyramid of Corn Flakes. I return to find Jamie and Jewel debating whether to ask for another roll. Concluding that Mr Bumble has nothing on Madame Basic Jesus, they decide not to take the risk.

‘What sort of night did you guys have? Was anyone else kept up by the noise?’

‘I could have sold tickets!’ Jewel says. ‘I gave up around six and went for a wander in the Domain. I bumped into the head honcho. You know, the priest who looks like Jamie in twenty years time –’

‘
Très
amusing!’

‘He told me that all the kids gather on the bridge at night for the crack. He came out with it bold as brass. “For the crack”!’ Jamie bursts out laughing. ‘You may find it funny but I didn’t know where to put myself. I know the Church has become more liberal, but crack … do you think that’s why there are so many gypsies?’

‘Oh sure Jewel, they’re all dealers!’ Jamie says. ‘Do you have any Irish blood in you?’

‘Not unless you count Guinness,’ she replies, perplexed.

‘It’s
craic
. C-R-A-I-C. Fun and games. I’m not the only one who needs to swot up on his C-words.’

We run over the day’s schedule, sketching out a possible
interview
rota. ‘I’d like to add Gillian and Patricia Patterson,’ I say
casually
. ‘The wife and mother of the guy who acted up at the airport. I’m sure they’ll have a story or two.’ Whatever my misgivings about Gillian or, rather, about my own attraction to her, I am determined to put the interests of the film first.

After breakfast, we send Jamie back upstairs to change into his sweatshirt.

‘Must I?’

‘It’s for the photo,’ Sophie says.

‘But I won’t be in it.’

‘It’s a sign of respect,’ Jewel says. ‘Besides, if the rest of us have to look like genetically modified peas, so do you.’

With Jamie duly homogenised, we stroll towards the Pius X Basilica for the International Mass. I am amazed by the size of the crowd, which is more reminiscent of Oakwell on a Saturday
afternoon
than Holyrood on a Sunday morning. Crossing an avenue of pollarded plane trees, their lopped branches a cruel parallel to the
truncated human limbs everywhere on display, we position
ourselves
by the subterranean entrance and prepare to film the
arriving
Jubilates. The lime green is a useful marker, although a party of Malaysian girl guides causes momentary confusion. We pick out Tess and Lester, the former rosy-cheeked, the latter with a
complexion
to match his sweatshirt; Fiona, dragging her tape measure along the path; Lucja, with her baby but not her husband; Maggie, who breaks away at the door and sneaks into the bushes; and a posse of priests.

Gillian, Patricia and Richard bring up the rear. Patricia greets us with a regal wave, affording us a clear view of the amber brooch, like a mute in Gabriel’s horn, with which she has personalised her
sweatshirt
. Gillian fixes her gaze straight ahead, acknowledging neither me nor the camera. Nevertheless, I take a perverse pleasure in the thought that, if nothing else, we are united by our shirts.

Louisa walks past just as we finish filming. ‘Ready when you are, Mr De Mille,’ she says with a shy smile. ‘Wasn’t he the one with the crowd scenes?’ she adds quickly. ‘The basilica holds twenty-five thousand. And on days like these it’s standing room only. It makes me quite weepy. So many people from every corner of the globe. A truly catholic church. Oh, I don’t want to offend any one! Are you a Protestant?’ she asks Sophie.

‘In principle.’

‘It’s the principles that cause the problems.’

We follow her into the church which, with its thick grey walls and low concrete roof, could double as an underground car park,
complete
with shadowy aisles to shelter muggers. There is no decoration apart from a few rows of small stained-glass windows, given a
sinister
glow by the artificial lighting, and a circle of posters of
seconddivision
saints. We walk down to the lower level, a vast oval arena with a raised altar at the centre. Beside it a tubular Christ hangs from the cross, flanked by two skeletal mourners, whose
brokenness
makes a welcome contrast to the ribbed bulk of the building. The sight of so many priests sitting through a service in which only a handful can take part offends my socialist as well as my humanist principles, and I long to see them gainfully employed.

‘Do you think the collective noun for priests may be a
superfluity
?’
I ask Sophie, who gives me a guarded smile. ‘If I weren’t already a committed atheist, this would do the trick.’

After listening to the lengthy prayers, I feel a surprising sympathy for advocates of the Tridentine mass. At least Latin would leave us all equally lost. Louisa’s ‘truly catholic church’ has become a
linguistic
hotchpotch, with one unintelligible language booming through the loudspeakers while another is flashed on the screen. ‘They should give us headphones, chief!’ Jamie whispers. I laugh, only to be admonished by a wagging finger from Marjorie, who is evidently fluent in Swedish (or is it Norwegian?) by way of Dutch. It is my first black mark and I am determined that it shall be the last. So, after asking Jamie to pan over the congregation, lingering on a few vacant faces, we switch off the camera and join the Jubilate youngsters in an aisle. Several, having abandoned all pretence of alertness, sprawl bleary-eyed on the floor, but Kevin, whose rebelliousness makes me nostalgic, directs his gaze at the altar in an expression midway between hatred and despair. As ever, adolescent angst is at its most intense when it focuses on God.

The mass ended, we walk out into dazzling sunlight.

‘Looking for someone?’ Sophie asks, as I peer down the path.

‘Just looking,’ I say quickly. This is one meeting that I cannot ask her to broker. Nonchalance is the key. So, putting all thoughts of Gillian to one side, I join the Jubilate pilgrims heading back to the Basilica Square for the group photograph. Striding more
purposefully
than I had intended, I find myself walking alongside a priest.

‘We’ve not been introduced yet,’ he says. ‘I’m Father Paul.’

‘Vincent O’Shaughnessy,’ I say, shaking an unexpectedly
calloused
hand.

‘You may not want to bother with me. I’m not on your list.’

‘Please don’t take it personally,’ I say, angry at my need to
apologise
. ‘We had to stop somewhere, so we went with Father Humphrey and Father Dave.’

‘A wise choice. They’re old hands. I’m comparatively new to this business.’

‘Pilgrimage?’

‘Priesthood. I’ve only been ordained five years.’ I look at the weatherworn face and pepper-and-salt hair and wait for him to
elaborate. ‘I was a British Telecom engineer until I was fifty-four.’

‘What happened then? Redundancy?’

‘I can think of easier ways to earn a living,’ he says, with a
twinkling
smile that makes me feel contrite. ‘I was married for just under thirty years: eight days under, to be precise. Rosemary and I had five children. Then she got cancer. Of the bones. The sort that tests your faith to its utmost.’

‘And did it yours?’

‘Most certainly. But it emerged stronger. Look, I’m happy to discuss it if you like, but you must have testimonies coming out of your ears.’

‘They all make good background.’ He laughs. ‘I’m sorry, that sounded wrong. I’d like to hear. Truly.’

‘On your own head be it. At first I was angry, so angry with God. I wanted to scream and shout and punch and kick. I used to wish He really were an old man in the clouds so I’d have somewhere to aim my fists. But, try as I might, my anger couldn’t wipe out my faith. I could feel myself wilfully turning against the truth, like a spoilt child who can’t get his own way. I stopped attending mass. I used to go every day, sometimes before work and sometimes after, and I really missed it. The strangest thing – and this may be hard for you to accept (it was for me) – is that I missed being one with Christ more than being one with my wife.’

‘Yes it is … hard to accept, I mean.’

‘Please don’t misunderstand. I loved my wife; I loved her so much. She was the only woman I’ve ever wanted.’ His once-in-
a-lifetime
love makes me feel shallow. Despite resolving to stick to my bystander’s role, I have a compelling urge to make a similar
disclosure
, but the last person to whom I would confess would be a priest. So I wait for him to resume. ‘Rosemary insisted that I go back to the Church. She said she couldn’t bear the thought of my losing everything.’

‘Although she did.’

‘I have to believe that she’s gone to a better place.’

‘Have to?’

‘Do. But, if you’re asking about doubts, then of course I have them. Didn’t the apostles? Didn’t Our Lord himself? I’d hate myself if I didn’t
have some doubts, although, in case it’s your next question, that’s not why I do. I still find it hard to believe that I’m Father Paul. Sometimes I catch my reflection in a shop window and wonder who on earth is that bloke in the collar. I never even noticed what was happening to me. Then one morning after mass – I was a twice-a-day man again – I cornered the priest in the sacristy and asked if he could spare a moment. It wasn’t until I’d come out with it that I knew what I was going to say. “Father, how can you tell if you have a vocation?” I was frightened. I wanted to take back the words. I couldn’t believe my nerve. “Ask God for a sign,” he said. So I did. I mentioned to two old friends and one of my sons that I was thinking of changing my job. And they all said, quite separately, without the slightest hesitation: “You want to become a priest.” What clearer sign could He have sent?’

‘I don’t know. The Bible seems to have plenty. Anything from plagues of frogs to the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.’