Jubilate (13 page)

‘If you’ll forgive my saying so, you seem rather confused.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, Father, but most people would say I was boringly well-adjusted. I couldn’t even drink myself to death when I tried. The trouble, if there is any, is that I was raised a Catholic. The last twenty-five years I’ve been able to put it all behind me, but being here – just seeing those kids serving at the altar this morning – has brought it all back.’

‘Is growing up Catholic so much worse than growing up anything else?’

‘Is that a serious question?’

‘It is to me. I was on an ecumenical retreat not that long ago and we were asked to write down one word for how we visualised God as children. The difference between us and the Protestants was marked. Where we put
loving
or
kind
or
gentle
, they put
angry
or
authoritarian
or
all-seeing
.’

‘In which case there must have been some crypto-Protestant priests in 1970s Yorkshire.’

‘Did something happen to destroy your faith?’

‘Lots.’ I am distracted by the sight of a man walking past with a boy inexplicably dressed as Batman. ‘Lots. But that’s not why I lost it. I took a considered decision after weighing up the evidence. I used that greatest of evolutionary organisms, the mind.’

‘And you think the world is entirely rational?’

‘Not at all. But I don’t mistake the irrational for the mystic. Just look around you – not at the world, but at Lourdes. Don’t you find it paradoxical that people come all this way, some of them in great pain or with an immense effort, to petition God in a place where His failure is most apparent?’

‘So you think illness and handicap are a sign of God’s failure?’

‘You disappoint me, Father. But the answer is “no”. I think they are a sign – one of many – of His non-existence. Look at all these people surging towards the Grotto – the word
lemming
springs
inexorably
to mind. What is it they’re after? Some form of cure, either for themselves or a loved one? Why waste so much energy when they know that, as good Catholics, they’ll die and end up in Heaven?’

‘By that logic, the whole Church should commit suicide. A
massacre
that would put Jonestown in the shade.’

‘The thought had occurred to me.’

‘Now you’re being deliberately contrary.’

‘Me? I’m not the one who prays for the Resurrection of the Body: an absurdity at the best of times but positively perverse in Lourdes.’

‘By coming here, by bringing their sick, people are manifesting their faith in God’s mercy. At the same time, like Christ, they
proclaim
: “Not my will but Thine be done.”’

‘I wonder which impulse is the stronger.’

‘I can’t speak for anyone else, but I know that the reason I come here is to be one with the sacred, to be in a place with a unique energy born of a hundred and fifty years of devotion. As for
miracles
: do I believe in them? Yes. Do I expect them? No. In our
materialistic
world we’ve put so many barriers in the way. But don’t harden your heart. Remember that Christ healed people not just for their own sake but to be living witnesses to God’s grace.’

‘I feel sorry for the sick. As if all the pain and incapacity weren’t enough, they have so much symbolic weight to bear. First there was Father Humphrey telling them that their suffering is an inspiration to the rest of us. Now you’re saying that their cure would be a
catalyst
for conversion.’

‘The burden isn’t on them but on us. It’s what we choose to see … no, how we choose to look.’ We approach the Basilica steps on which
a group of blind children is being coaxed to smile for the camera. Father Dave makes straight for us.

‘Sorry to cut in, but may I have a word, Father?’

‘Of course, Father. Excuse me,’ Father Paul says to me. ‘I’ve very much enjoyed the talk – and the challenge. I’m here all week, so should you ever feel like a second round … Meanwhile, I know you have an agenda but, if you keep an open mind, who knows what you may discover.’

I accept the rebuke without demur and join the crew at the foot of the steps, while Louisa shoos everyone into place for the
photograph
. Catching sight of us hovering on the sidelines, she insists that ‘our honorary pilgrims join in’. Jamie is excused by virtue of filming, and Jewel, who declares herself ‘photo-phobic’, wriggles out of it by holding a superfluous microphone. So Sophie and I represent the guests, taking a far more focal position than I would have wished, the one advantage being that I find myself next to Patricia or, rather, next but one to Gillian, who is remonstrating gently with her husband.

‘Mr O’Shaughnessy, we’re honoured,’ Patricia says.

‘Vincent, please.’

‘Gillian, it’s Mr O’Shaughnessy … Vincent.’

‘Vincent, of course! I knew it was one of the minor saints.’ She smiles, as if to temper the insult.

‘Oh dear, it’s the same photographer who took us last year,’
Patricia
says.

‘I’m told that a couple of families have it all sewn up,’ I reply. ‘Like everything else in this town, it’s a monopoly. You might even say a mafia.’

‘Not in Lourdes!’ Patricia says, with such horror that I instantly change tack.

‘What are the odds that he has some secret passion? He spends the morning on pictures of pilgrims, then in the afternoons it’s views of mountains or soft-focus shots of wild flowers.’

‘Or artistic nudes?’

‘Gillian!’ Patricia sounds as outraged as if she had been asked to pose.

‘Flowers of another kind,’ I say, heartened by the subversive note that has crept into the conversation.

‘I wish they’d hurry up,’ Gillian says. ‘Someone here wants to go to the loo.’

‘Not someone, me!’ Richard shouts, to widespread amusement.

‘Remember, darling,’ Patricia says, leaning across Gillian. ‘Think of the desert.’

‘My last group photo was at school,’ Sophie says to me. ‘Two of the hockey team sprinted round the back while the camera panned over the rest of us. They managed to get themselves on both ends.’

‘Don’t try that here, or they’ll hail a miracle!’

‘I heard that,’ Marjorie says, wagging her finger again.

No sooner is everyone settled than Louisa, who has been
studying
the shot over the increasingly impatient photographer’s
shoulder
, insists on several of us moving around. I swap with Patricia for the sake of the ‘wee’ Scottish lady in the row behind, and find myself next to Gillian.

‘Would you rather stay with your mother-in-law?’ I ask.

‘Oh Gillian doesn’t care about that,’ Patricia says, to a
corroborative
silence.

‘But perhaps she won’t want to be photographed beside such a dangerous sceptic?’

‘You flatter yourself.’

‘I’d rather flatter you,’ I say quietly.

‘You’d have your work cut out this morning. I’m hot and
headachy
. Richard was over-excited last night and fractious this morning. What’s more, I hate having my picture taken.’

‘I can’t believe that.’

‘Why not?’

‘No one as beautiful as you can object to keeping a record.’

‘Don’t be idiotic.’

‘I’m perfectly serious.’

‘Is that what you mean by
flattery
?’

‘I’m right, aren’t I, Patricia? Your daughter-in-law’s a very
beautiful
woman.’

‘Well …’ She sounds taken aback. ‘I’ve never been able to fault her in the looks department. She doesn’t always make the best of herself. But then who does these days?’

‘So she shouldn’t dislike being photographed?’

‘What’s the point?’ Gillian asks, almost angrily. ‘Are Richard and I going to pore over the albums in our twilight years? Sorry, but we’re there already. And we don’t have any children to take an interest. Just something else to be tossed on the bonfire when we die.’

‘Really Gillian,’ Patricia says, ‘there’s no call to be morbid! You still might like a souvenir.’

‘I’ll have plenty.’ She taps her forehead. ‘In here.’

‘It’s easy to forget. I know.’

‘Then you forget for a reason. Everything happens for a reason. It must!’

Several heads turn in our direction, as I weigh up whether it is my place to reply.

‘I didn’t do anything,’ Richard says, responding instinctively to her tone.

‘I think we’re there,’ Louisa says, slipping into place on the front row. ‘So long as no one grows in the next two minutes, Matt Hedley!’

‘I can’t always picture my mother,’ Gillian says, ‘and she only died five years ago.’

‘So sad,’ Patricia hisses in my ear.

‘At times her face is as clear as any of these, and at others I seem to be seeing her at the end of a long corridor – no, a warehouse piled with stuff. How can a photograph begin to make up for that?’

‘Now everyone please stand still like mouses. Imagine it is your ‘God Save The Queen’. And say Camembert.’ However lame, the joke has the desired effect.

‘Camembert!’ Nigel shouts thirty seconds later, replicating the effect for the second shot.

With an hour before we are due at the Grotto, Father Dave
proposes
that we visit the basilicas or relax by the river.

‘I need to go to the toilet,’ Richard says, as the group breaks up.

‘Lavatory.’ Patricia corrects him.

‘I’ll have to take him back to the Acceuil,’ Gillian says.

‘There are toilets over there,’ I say, flouting Patricia and pointing to the colonnade.

‘I don’t like him going in on his own.’

‘No problem. I can take him.’

She looks at me as warily, as if he were six years old. I am struck
by such a painful memory that I have to stop myself running out of the Domain. ‘Thank you,’ she says, freeing me from both suspicion and the grip of the past. ‘That would be kind.’

‘Then, if you’re feeling strong, we can all climb to the old basilica.’

‘Count me out,’ Patricia says. ‘I’ve seen it several times. I’m not as young as I was.’

‘Slander!’

‘More flattery?’ Gillian asks.

‘I’m happy to sit here and people watch.’

‘I’m bursting!’

‘Come on then, mate!’ I turn to Gillian. ‘Is there anything I should know? Will he need any help?’

‘Only in remembering to wash his hands,’ she says, with a faint smile. ‘Don’t look so worried.’

I lead Richard across the square. Ignoring his bladder, he seizes on every diversion, from a complacent pigeon to a young boy playing hopscotch with his grandfather’s crutches. ‘If we don’t get a move on,’ I say, ‘we won’t have time to go up to the church.’

‘So what? Churches are boring.’

‘Not always,’ I say, determined to fulfil my loco-parental role. ‘Do you go often?’

‘Every single week. She won’t leave me at home, even on a Sunday when I can’t come to any harm.’

‘She must like your company.’

‘It’s because she’s frightened. A few years ago I had an accident. I very nearly died.’

‘That’s scary.’

‘It was for her. I was unconscious for six whole weeks. I’m fine now, as fit as a fiddle – which is a stupid word – but she worries it’ll happen again, at any moment. So it’s best to do what she says.’

‘That sounds sensible.’

‘I used to be her boss, now she’s mine.’

‘Really,’ I say distractedly.

‘Don’t you think that’s funny?’

‘Funny and sad.’

‘You should laugh. People always laugh when I say that. “I used to be her boss, now she’s mine.”’

I take him into a lavatory whose gleaming white tiles match its sanitised smell. As we walk in, a young man helps an older man out of a stall, and I realise that we are in the one place where such a pairing provokes no comment. I stand to the side, striving to look nonchalant, while Richard uses the urinal. Then, following
instructions
, I lead him to the basin. His reluctance to accompany me seems to be based on something far deeper than the minor inconvenience of washing.

‘My hands are dry. Feel. If they were dirty, they’d be wet.’

‘They’ll still harbour germs.’

‘Germs! Everything’s always germs. “Don’t do that, Richard, it’s full of germs.” At school they said we’re only here because of germs. If there weren’t any germs, we’d die.’

‘I’ll wash mine too. Then if we die, we die together.’

He giggles and gives in, but his obduracy affords me a glimpse into the perpetual power struggle between husband and wife, which resumes as soon as we rejoin Gillian. ‘You should wear your
sunglasses
, Richard,’ she says, and he dutifully reaches into his pocket.

‘Cool shades,’ I say, as he puts them on.

‘I chose them myself,’ he replies, honour satisfied.

‘So shall we go to the Rosary Basilica first?’ Gillian asks.

‘You’re the boss,’ I say.

‘That’s what I said,’ Richard says.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Gillian replies, looking perplexed.

We climb back up the steps on which a group of Swiss pilgrims is the latest to be photographed, their pink legs in lemon shorts like the squares of a Battenberg cake, and enter the Rosary Basilica. Gaudy mosaics of the life of the Virgin glimmer from shallow side-chapels, while the Lady herself, surrounded by greetings-card cherubs,
presides
in gilded glory in the chancel. I walk round with Gillian, while Richard trails behind, intent on not treading on the paving cracks. As Gillian examines the mosaics, I sound a note of dissent.

‘Michelangelo, thou shouldst be living at this hour!’

‘I take it you don’t approve.’

‘That’s putting it mildly.’

‘Pity. I find them moving.’

‘Have you ever been to Ravenna?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Now those are mosaics! Christian too, of course, but there’s something in them – an intensity; a precision; a power: I can’t define it – that touches even an arch-heretic like me. That’s what great art does.’

‘Perhaps there’s a place for great art and also for something … I don’t know, a bit more basic? I’m sure it says something terrible about my taste, but I find these deeply poignant. Not the work of great masters, but the expression of a faith that isn’t embarrassed by simple emotions. Look at the soldier over there, scratching his head in bemusement at the risen Christ.’