Jubilate (14 page)

‘I’m the one who’s bemused. It’s like a plate from a children’s bible.’

‘Perhaps it moves me because it’s a link to my childhood? Or perhaps the same things that moved me then move me now? We’ll have to agree to differ or, rather, to diverge. You take the high art road and I take the low.’

Her carefully chosen barb hits the mark. I decide that my best defence is flippancy. ‘Well, for now, both roads are leading to the Upper Basilica, so let’s see if we can find some common ground.’ We emerge into the open and walk towards a steep flight of steps.

‘Race you to the top?’ Richard says.

‘Don’t be silly,’ Gillian replies.

‘It’s exercise.’ He runs up the first few steps.

‘Don’t go too fast.’ He redoubles his efforts. ‘Now he’ll be all hot and bothered.’

‘At least it gives me a chance for some time alone with you.’

‘Why would you want that?’

‘I ask myself the same question.’

‘How about because some men are never happy unless they’re flirting? Half the women on the pilgrimage are old enough to be your mother. Half are young enough to be your daughter. And the rest are nuns. Which leaves me.’

‘Don’t belittle yourself.’

‘I’m not. You’re doing that for me.’

‘Since when does telling you I enjoy your company count as belittlement?’

‘I’m sorry if I’m doing you a disservice, but it’s not going to break
your heart … kill you. You and I come from different worlds. You have your reason for being here; I have mine.’

‘Which is?’

‘A miracle.’ She stands still and stares at me defiantly, forcing the family behind us to an abrupt halt.

‘So you believe in miracles?’

‘Of course, since I believe in God.’

‘A “let’s cure Aunt Lily’s cancer in Lourdes today and let’s send a tsunami to Thailand tomorrow” God, I presume?’

‘A God whose ways are far beyond human comprehension.’

‘Just as well.’ Sensing that she is losing patience, I soften my tone. ‘In which case, if you don’t mind my asking, why haven’t you come here before? Your mother-in-law’s been I don’t know how many times and Richard fell ill – when was it? – twelve years ago?’

‘Sometimes it’s hard to act on your convictions. Other peoples’ suspicion: other peoples’ doubts get in the way. But I won’t let that happen here.’ Her vehemence is both a rebuke and a warning. ‘I’ve finally come to a place where, for 150 years, miracles have been recorded and, even if … even if I’m disappointed, I pray with all my heart that I’ll win back that purity – that integrity – of belief, from which nothing anyone says or does can shake me. Does that satisfy you?’

‘It answers me.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

We reach the top, where Richard is waiting impatiently for the ‘lazybones’, and gaze across the burnished gold dome of the Rosary Basilica into the teeming square.

‘So many people,’ I say. ‘Think how many visitors swarm here every year. Five or six million, all with their own hopes and prayers.’ I refrain from adding
chequebooks
. ‘Yet how many miracles have there been in total? Sixty something?’

‘Sixty-seven,’ a sonorous voice interjects. With his stomach
concealed
by the parapet, I have failed to identify the priest behind Richard as Father Humphrey.

‘I’m obliged to you, Father!’

‘The last was in 2005. In order to defend itself against its critics, the Church has set up a rigorous authentication procedure. In the
first place, it defines
miracle
very strictly as “a cure that is beyond scientific explanation”.’

‘But science is changing all the time.’

‘Which is why the process is so rigorous. What’s more, in Lourdes a miracle has to be “inexplicable, instantaneous and permanent”. And it’s ruled out if there’s been any previous medical treatment.’

‘Like what? Dialysis? Chemo? Or just aspirin?’

‘I imagine something in between,’ he replies smoothly, ‘but,
mercifully
, I’m not the one to judge. Nor is any other priest or bishop or even the Holy Father. There are twelve doctors: independent experts. Perhaps you should raise the matter with them?’

‘The film only lasts fifty minutes.’

‘And for that you’re willing to jeopardise your immortal soul?’ His audacity astounds me. ‘The problem with such a rigorous process,’ he adds, ‘is that it leaves no room for the thousands – literally
thousands
– of people who’ve had medical treatment that’s failed and then have come here and been cured, in their own mind,
miraculously
. So to incorporate them, the authorities have created a second category of “authentic cure by grace”.’

‘Just how many thousands are there?’

‘Around seven.’

‘Well, even if you take that larger figure, you have to admit that the odds aren’t too great.’

‘The odds are immaterial when you’re dealing with the Almighty. But I’m keeping you. During her thirteenth apparition, the Lady said to Bernadette: “Go tell the priest to build a chapel and let the people come here in procession.” As you’ll see, it’s a very special chapel.’

Taking our leave of Father Humphrey, we enter the Crypt, the first of the three churches to be built on the site. We walk down a long passage lined with ancient gratitude into a white vaulted chapel dominated by a statue of the Madonna and Child framed by a golden nimbus. At the altar, a Vietnamese priest is saying mass for a group of his fellow countrymen.

‘So what do you think?’ I ask Richard, as Gillian slips off into a small side-chapel.

‘The air feels wet.’

‘That’s because it’s built into the rock.’

‘Where’s Gilly?’ He looks around anxiously.

‘Don’t worry, she’s over there.’ I point to the chapel where, to my surprise, she is kneeling at the rail.

‘Is it Sunday?’

‘It is in Lourdes.’

‘Shall we creep up on her?’

‘Better not,’ I say, striving for a laddish complicity. I watch him staring at his wife and wonder what he sees. Is she just a surrogate mother, her rules a constant source of resentment, or are there moments in the dead of night when the rational world is stilled and they once again become equals? I try to shake off the thought. As though aware of my scrutiny, Gillian stands and genuflects.

‘All done?’ she asks as she joins us. ‘I’d hate to drag you away.’

‘I’m infinitely draggable,’ I say and follow her outside, where we climb a short flight of steps to the Upper Basilica. ‘Two down, one to go!’

‘For some of us,’ she replies, ‘it’s not a chore.’

We enter a Gothic building of traditional greyness, relieved only by the mottled light of the stained-glass windows which, according to Gillian, tell the story of the Immaculate Conception; although, from where I stand, they might just as well be Napoleon’s campaigns. The sweep of the high-vaulted nave, with no rood screen or statuary to obtrude, directs my gaze to the altar where, in place of the Crypt’s benign if sentimental Madonna and Child, sits the ubiquitous symbol of Christianity’s cult of death. Even in Lourdes, with its unique array of human suffering, the focus remains on the eternal suffering of Christ. Our most intimate moments are shared, not with flesh-
and-blood
lovers, but with the flesh and blood which, by some arcane mumbo-jumbo, is contained in the bread and wine. It would be easy to dismiss it all as a palliative, if I hadn’t seen it blight too many lives.

I suddenly feel stifled and, not stopping to tell Gillian, hurry outside where, by contrast, even the hot, humid air feels fresh. I wait in the porch and, a few moments later, she comes out with Richard.

‘Are you all right? I looked and you were gone.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you,’ I say, elated by her concern. ‘It was my mobile.’ I tap my jeans pocket over-emphatically. ‘Sophie rang. The Grotto procession is about to start.’

We make our way down to the square and out to the drinking fountains where the Jubilate pilgrims have assembled. I excuse myself from Gillian and join the crew.

‘We’d just about given you up!’ Sophie says.

‘Just checking out the lie of the land.’ Jamie’s smirk alerts me to my unfortunate choice of phrase. ‘Ready to roll?’

‘We’ve been ready for half an hour. You’re the one who went AWOL.’

‘Yes,
mea culpa
and all that. I gather Father Dave is going to begin by giving us some gen on Bernadette. You never know, it may come in handy. So let’s go for it but keep him in close-up. We can always cheat a few reaction shots later.’

‘All present and correct?’ Father Dave asks. ‘Would you move in a little closer? We’re not Anglicans; there’s no need to keep one another at arm’s length.’ He acknowledges the titter. ‘That’s better. Anything to save the old voice box. I shan’t rattle on because I know that it’s been a long morning and some of you are anxious for your lunch, eh Martin?’ Martin chuckles at the sound of his name,
emitting
a string of drool which Claire discreetly wipes off his chin. ‘But, for those of you who haven’t been here before, and those who have but whose memories may not be what they were –’

‘Guilty as charged,’ Louisa interjects.

‘I’ll give you a quick rundown on Saint Bernadette and the Grotto. I’ll be saying more about her on Thursday, that’s for those of you who take the walking tour of the town. But, if you’re anything like me, you won’t be able to get enough of her. Just thinking about her brings tears to my eyes.’ I signal to Jamie to zoom in on the evidence. ‘The story begins one bitterly cold day in February 1858 when the fire went out in the cachot – that was the small punishment cell in which Bernadette and her family were living –’

‘Punishment cell?’ Lester interjects.

‘Wait until Thursday. They had no money to buy logs so, with her sister and a friend, Bernadette came down to the river to forage for kindling. They were standing on the opposite bank – not far from where the church is now – when one of them saw a pile of wood in the grotto. It seemed like a miracle. Toinette – that’s
Bernadette’s
sister – and the friend immediately waded into the water.
Bernadette, who suffered from asthma, was afraid of catching cold so she asked them to throw in some stones that she could walk on. When they refused (a spot of girlish rivalry there, ladies?), she sat down and took off her clogs. All of a sudden she heard a sound like a gust of wind, and saw a lady in white standing in the grotto.
Terrorstruck
, she grabbed hold of her rosary. The lady made the sign of the cross, prompting Bernadette to do the same. She began to pray. When she finished, she looked up to find that the lady had vanished. That was the first of eighteen apparitions in a period of just over five months.’

‘Always to Bernadette alone?’ I ask guardedly.

‘She was the only one to see the lady, but thousands of people were there when she did. They saw her fall to the ground and drink muddy water from a hole she had scooped out herself when the lady told her to “drink from the spring and wash herself in it”. They saw her so ecstatic that she failed to notice when the flame of her candle licked her hand for nearly ten minutes. And when the local doctor, a notorious sceptic, examined her afterwards, he could find no trace of a burn. He was among the earliest converts. Within nine months, seven people were cured of illness and blindness. And the legend of Lourdes was born.’

‘So it was the magic not the message?’ I ask, in a bid to draw him out.

‘I wouldn’t use the word
magic
, but yes. Human beings – and I include Catholics – are by nature a suspicious breed. We need signs. Our Lord said, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” Precious few of us would pass that test. And of course
Bernadette
herself was disbelieved at first. Even her family accused her of lying. It makes me weep to think of what that little girl had to go through to bring Our Lady’s words to us. But she refused to be worn down. And look now! This whole place is built on her testimony. Now, if you’ll follow me, let’s join the line which, I’m pleased to say, for once is not too long. After we’ve walked around, anyone who wants to can stay at the Grotto for private prayer. But, remember, lunch is at one on the dot. Maggie and the kitchen staff are
implacable
. Then, for those who can manage the climb, we’ve the Stations of the Cross at three.’

Taking my place in the queue, I move towards Gillian. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me monopolising your daughter-in-law,’ I say to
Patricia
, who is standing beside her. ‘But we were having a fascinating theological discussion.’

‘She’s a dark horse,’ Patricia says, stepping back. ‘Come on, Richard, we know when we’re out of our depth.’ Aware of having caused offence, I flash her my most ingratiating smile.

‘You’re starting to embarrass me,’ Gillian says, as we wait side by side in front of the rock face.

‘
Embarrass
is fine. It’s when we get to
exasperate
that I’ll start to worry.’

‘Then start. What must she be thinking?’ She looks at Patricia who is talking to Richard. ‘The closest I ever get to a theological discussion is over whether to use Beeswax or Pledge on the pews.’

‘Then it’s high time for a change. Speaking of which, you don’t really believe in these apparitions, do you?’

‘I’ve already told you, you can believe in anything if you believe in God.’

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ I say, resisting an easy riposte. ‘I’m not suggesting that Bernadette was deliberately deceitful. I’m sure she thought that she saw something. The question is
what
? I never knew she had asthma. Maybe that’s the key?’

‘Asthma?’

‘I’m no expert, but suppose the vision was a neurological response to an attack – even a mild one – brought on when she stepped into the freezing river.’

‘But she didn’t get that far. She saw the first apparition when she was taking her clogs off on the bank.’

‘All right then. She had a shock when her feet touched the icy ground.’

‘What about all the subsequent apparitions? The last one in July. It can’t have been that icy then.’

‘By then she’d invested too much in it. She was the victim of her own credulity.’