Jubilate (18 page)

‘That’s what puzzles me,’ Vincent says. ‘If God created the world and, for the sake of argument (or, more to the point, to avoid it), let’s assume that He did, isn’t that a kind of blasphemy? According to Genesis, He saw that it was good. More: He gave it to man to lord over. In which case why should anyone – no, I’ll go further – what right does anyone have to withdraw from it? Surely it’s our duty to enjoy it to the full?’

I refuse to catch his eye.

‘Who’s to say he didn’t?’ Father Dave asks.

‘What?’

‘Who’s to say Saint Savin didn’t sit – or, more likely, kneel – in his hermitage and experience overwhelming joy: that he didn’t see as much of the world in his small patch of ground as any twenty-first century jet-setter?’

He makes his way to a group of brancardiers, leaving Vincent at a rare loss for words. Trusting in the power of my own silence, I smile and move to Richard, who is plotting with Nigel how to knock a limpet-like lizard off a cornice. I have just persuaded him to drop his pebbles when Louisa returns, followed by Marjorie and a
dismayingly
youthful sacristan. ‘Success!’ she cries. ‘Not quite the key to the Pearly Gates, but it’ll have to do for the time being.’

We enter the cavernous church. At first glance it appears as stark as a Baptist chapel, but gradually my eyes adjust and I make out the
sanctuary with its black marble altar and richly coloured paintings, the vaulted transept with its golden Eucharistic Tower, the
octagonal
pilasters from one of which hangs a large wooden crucifix, and, most striking of all, the intricately decorated organ screen with its motifs of flowers, musical instruments and scores. I squeeze into a worm-eaten pew between Patricia and Richard, who grabs at the dust caught in the light from a turret window, and lean back to breathe in the spirit of simple piety emanating from every knot and crack in the wood.

Father Humphrey sits alone in the chancel while Father Dave and Father Paul celebrate mass. We begin by singing ‘Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence’, which Louisa accompanies on the organ. Her hesitancy is exacerbated by the audible clunking of the pedals, but the notes pouring out of the ancient pipes are gloriously mellow. In the last verse, displaying an irreverent streak as unsuspected as her musical talent, she pulls out a stop and the three wooden masks at the front of the screen open their mouths to sing along. Steve, who has clearly been primed, holds Fiona up to see, but her terrified howls cut through the Alleluias and he rapidly sets her down. As we kneel to pray, Richard twists alternately to left and right, playing one-sided peek-a-boo with the crucifix, whose haunted eyes seem to reach every corner of the church.

Father Paul stands to deliver his sermon. ‘Many of us are parents,’ he begins, and I sense Patricia tensing at my side. Never a fan of late vocations, she holds that the least such priests can do is to draw a veil over their past lives. I, as ever, take the opposite view and feel a pang for Father Humphrey and Father Dave whose childlessness is thrown into relief, until the thought of their spiritual parenthood turns my pity insidiously towards myself. ‘All of us have parents,’ he continues, in a less contentious vein. Patricia nods, while I add another failure to my list. My recent exchange with Vincent has reminded me how little I contributed to my mother’s care. My father and sisters – and even my brother – recognised my prior
responsibilities
. What law or convention (for it certainly wasn’t sentiment) required me to put my husband first? The readiness with which my mother forgave me makes it harder to forgive myself. Tears roll down my cheeks: heavy, gritty tears, as though I am passing through
a further stage of mourning. I wonder if they are for my mother or for myself.

‘As well as our earthly mother, we have a mother in heaven whose love for us is infinite,’ Father Paul says. ‘A mother who is always watching over us, interceding for us and willing us to do what is right.’ I am curious as to how he defines what is right. Is it the words and example of her son, or the laws that the Church has built around them? Not even the holiest hermit could claim that they were one and the same. Christ made love the basis of His gospel, but what of those of us who have none, who are wives only in name, who are mothers only by the cruellest twist of fate? Am I to sacrifice heart to home for the rest of my life? Is that what God wants of me? Is that what Mary wants for me? I fumble in my bag for a tissue. Patricia puts her hand on mine and, while wishing that she had waited for me to wipe away the tears, I am grateful for the show of support.

At the end of the sermon, Father Humphrey moves to the altar to bless the oils. The three priests then walk into the nave and along the line of wheelchairs, anointing each person in turn. Nigel squeals as Father Dave makes the sign of the cross on his forehead. ‘Hot! Burns!’ He thrusts his hands beneath the blanket, shaking his head adamantly when Father Dave entreats him to hold them up. ‘You burnt me!’

‘Not me, Nigel. God. What you felt is the power of His love.’

Whether he grasps the distinction or simply responds to the
clerical
authority, Nigel lifts his hands. He screws his eyes tight as Father Dave turns up the palms and anoints them while praying: ‘May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.’ Nigel blows on his hands, leaving Sheila who is seated beside him to supply an awestruck ‘Amen’.

Having finished with the wheelchairs, the priests prepare for the rest of us. Father Humphrey moves into the centre of the nave while Father Dave and Father Paul take up places at either end of the transept. ‘As you see, it’s a very powerful experience,’ Patricia
whispers
. ‘But make sure you get Father Humphrey. He’s the best.’ For all that I shrink from the notion of competitive anointing, when Ken directs our row towards Father Paul, I sidestep and lead Richard into the queue for Father Humphrey. As if in consequence, the ritual is underwhelming and I feel nothing but the viscous smear of the oil.

Struggling to curb my resentment, I make my way back to the pew. I stop to assist a disorientated Frank who, from the broad smile on his usually twisted features, has taken his blessing to heart. A commotion in Father Paul’s queue pulls us up short. Vincent is busy filming and I fear that he may inadvertently have caused offence until I see Tess slip to her knees. Lester has collapsed and, far from showing too little respect, Vincent signals to Jamie to switch off the camera. I watch from the confines of the pew while Dr Robson helps Tess lift Lester to his feet and, brooking no argument, leads him slowly to his seat. I prevent Richard peering round, while for once envying his lack of restraint.

‘What did I tell you?’ Patricia says. ‘A very powerful experience.’

The mass ends and we file out, past a squat stone font with a
troll-like
figure on the base.

‘It’s medieval,’ Patricia says, her reverence for the past increasing with age.

‘It’s very crude,’ I say.

‘No, that’s intentional. Father Dave explained. It was made for a group of people – I forget the name – but there were thousands in Spain and France at the time. They were like lepers and weren’t allowed to be baptised in the same water as everyone else. Isn’t history fascinating?’ I contemplate the line of latter-day outcasts and wonder if history is as remote as she thinks.

We plod through the ruins of the ancient cloister, our pace
determined
as much by the baking heat as the cracked path, to arrive at a large enclosed meadow that must once have housed part of the abbey complex but now makes for a perfect picnic ground. The brancardiers set out canvas chairs and spread tartan rugs on the grass, while Maggie and her team of handmaidens unload boxes of packed lunches. Patricia wanders over to help them. ‘I’ll make sure to save an extra-special one for you,’ she promises Richard, to the fury of Sheila Clunes.

‘There’s Nigel!’ Richard says, striding towards his friend whose wheelchair is parked in the partial shade of the archway. I follow, eager to learn more about the anointing which has visibly
transfixed
him. ‘Father’s hands. First, they’re cold. Then they’re hot. Then they’re burning!’

‘Me too. Is this a blister?’ Richard asks, reluctant to be left out.

‘What sort of heat was it, Nigel?’ I ask gently. ‘Was it like the sun is now or more like putting your fingers on an oven?’

‘It was burning.’

‘Yes, you said. But was it on the top of your skin or somewhere inside?’

‘Just hot.’

‘I know it’s hard, but try to remember. Was it just where he touched you on your forehead and hands, or did it seem to cover you all over?’

‘This is boring!’ Richard says, digging his heel in a patch of primroses.

‘It was hot. Just hot. He said it was cold but it was hot.’

The artlessness that made him unable to fake the incident makes him equally unable to analyse it. Anxious not to browbeat him, I shall never know whether he had a transcendental experience or merely an extreme reaction to the oil.

‘Let’s see if we can find a four-leaf clover,’ Richard says.

‘Yes!’ Nigel shouts, straining against his protective strap as he watches Richard rip up clumps of grass.

With your luck you’re bound to find one, I think meanly. ‘Try not to overexcite yourself,’ I tell Richard, before moving away to admire the landscape, a glorious vista which, whatever Father Dave might say, offers considerable compensations for the solitary life. The real test would be to withdraw from the world at the top of a tower block, finding God above all the squalor and din. I am shocked to hear myself sounding like Vincent but, when I look round, he is nowhere to be seen.

Instead, Maggie walks towards me with a tray of paper cups. ‘Having a prayerful moment?’

‘Kind of.’

‘Don’t let me stop you. I came to see if you wanted a drink. Wine or blackcurrant? Wine’s on the left. They look the same but that’s my little trick to make sure no one feels left out.’

‘How thoughtful!’ I say, stifling my surprise. I take a cup of wine and raise it to my lips as if toasting the view.

‘Pretty as a picture,’ she says, following my gaze. ‘We’ve a café with a mural just like it on the front in Deal.’

She continues on her round and I turn back to the mountains. In the meadow a brancardier starts to strum his guitar and I am filled with a deep sense of peace. I sit on the sun-soaked wall above the steep hillside and close my eyes. When I open them again, I find myself staring at Tess.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you a shock.’

‘You didn’t.’

‘I’m in need of some intelligent conversation.’

‘I don’t know about that but … sit down.’

‘I’ve just been targeted by Brenda.’

‘Don’t tell me she’s still trying to flog those bracelets?’

‘She never stops. Apparently, they absorb all the negative
energies
and attract the positive ones. She ran down a list of conditions they’re supposed to work for. If she’d said
cancer
, I swear I’d have hit her.’

‘She means well.’

‘She claims it’s the one thing that’s kept her MS from getting worse.’

‘How much worse could it get?’ She says nothing. ‘I’m sorry.’ She sinks down with a heavy sigh and flings back her head. ‘How’s Lester?’

‘Don’t ask! Sorry about all the hoo-ha in church. The heat and the incense and the hocus-pocus were a bit too much for him. He fainted. Nothing more dramatic. He’s the world’s least mystical person. With the exception of me.’

‘So you didn’t come to Lourdes hoping for a miracle?’

‘The miracle was that we got here at all. It was touch and go right to the last minute. He was only allowed out of hospital on Friday. Don’t mention that to anyone, please.’

‘No, of course not.’

‘My brother-in-law’s brother-in-law – if you follow me – is on the Jubilate committee. Derek: the bald guy who hands round the hymn books at services.’

‘Yes, he helped us when we arrived. I haven’t spoken to him much.’

‘He doesn’t say much. He suggested we come for a break. Of course he sees it as rather more, but he knows what bad Catholics we are so he didn’t push it. And he promised us loads of support.
So we thought: why not? It’ll be our last chance to go away together. And it’s easier to get childcare for a pilgrimage. My sister, his mum – everyone’s willing to muck in. They wouldn’t be quite so amenable to a week in Florida.’

‘So where’s Lester now? Taking a nap?’

‘Not at all. He’s being interviewed by your friend.’

‘My friend?’ I ask, knowing exactly whom she means but eager to hear the words out loud. The horror that they would have provoked yesterday has turned to pleasant surprise.

‘The director.’

‘He’s not my friend especially,’ I say, trying to draw her out.

‘He was singing your praises as we walked up the hill.’

‘We had a quick drink after last night’s service. I challenged his views on the Church.’

‘See, I was right! Intelligent conversation.’

No sooner has she said it than conversation runs dry, and we sit back in sunlight and silence.

‘When I was a girl, they were healing rays,’ Tess says after a pause. ‘Now they give you cancer.’

‘Is that what happened to Lester?’ I ask, surprised.

‘If only! His is in his bones. He’s riddled with it. When he was first diagnosed he went to a visualisation group. You know: think of your diseased cells as monsters from outer space or Al Qaeda or something and zap them to smithereens.’

‘I thought you said he wasn’t mystical.’

‘He’s not, but our daughter is … was. She was going through her yoga and mung beans phase. He went for her sake, though he swears he gave it his best shot. He had to visualise himself in a field –
something
a lot like this, full of buttercups and daisies. But each time he tried, a bloody great cow would sneak up and shit beside him.’ She starts to cry. ‘Why did I tell you that? There must be a point. Oh yes, I’ve started visualising too. Though in my case it’s not deliberate. I picture Lester’s body as a rotten tree stump. His lovely body –’

‘He’s a fine figure of a man,’ I say, wincing at the echo.