Jubilate (21 page)

‘Meeting me?’

‘It may even be the sun,’ I say, refusing to be deflected. ‘It’s not just the prospect of Richard on the beach that keeps me away from the Caribbean.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘You’ve had a rotten deal. But if, as you say, you have no symptoms …’

‘That’s just it. I think I may be having an attack now. It’s hard to tell. There’s a rawness, a tingling – oh, you don’t want to know! You’re right – it’s tough but I have to live with it. Though it doesn’t do much for my self-esteem, or the thought of a new relationship. Which is why, whatever my feelings for you, I can’t just jump into bed, let alone join you for a quickie behind that rock. There’s a lot more to sort out first.’

I wait for him to reply, but he says nothing. Then he turns and kisses me full on the lips for several seconds, although it is not a kiss that bears any relation to time. It is only when he moves away that I realise that its message is goodbye.

‘Thank you for being so candid with me. I’m humbled – I know how difficult it must have been. And there’s a lot I’d like to say in return, but it’ll have to wait until later. It’s gone four now. We’d better hurry back if we don’t want to miss the coach.’

‘Of course,’ I say, equally eager to escape.

As we make our way down the path, he seems shrouded in thought. Both my mind and my body are numb, but gradually a few sensations return: first confusion, then pain, then anger. At the very least I had expected a greater acknowledgement of what my admission had cost me. Even the emptiest praise would have been preferable to this silence. On the other hand, I have lost nothing but the chance of heartbreak. The knowledge that our relationship was built on sand is strangely cheering. At a stroke, all the conflicts and doubts that have plagued me since meeting him are resolved. There are two – no, two and a half days – left of the pilgrimage. I shall return to Lourdes and pray for a miracle.

We reach the stream but, when he holds out his hand, I shake my head and walk across alone.

W
e drive through Lourdes nose to tail with a coach full of African children whose faces, squashed against the back window, are too like those on charity appeals to elicit a light-hearted response. Since the narrow streets predate Bernadette, I resist the urge to see them as indicative of the religious mindset. Nevertheless, as we inch past a lorry unloading liquid gas, I
question
the providence that consigned such momentous apparitions to such an ancient town. ‘Breathe in,’ Father Humphrey shouts to a few sycophantic titters and widespread embarrassment about his girth.

A Spanish coach pulls out too fast at the crossroads, provoking a stream of very un-Lourdes-like invective from our driver, who adds to the danger by turning to the passengers to solicit support. Father Humphrey seeks to calm him with a fulsome tribute to his
steering
, before asking everyone to join in a round of applause, which is prolonged to the point of parody. ‘And let’s not forget the one who guided Christophe’s hand,’ he says. For a moment I suspect that he may be proposing a similar round to the Lord, but he contents himself by leading us in His Prayer.

Scarcely drawing breath, he embarks on a full-blown comedy routine. I reflect on the direct line that stretches from the bread and circuses of Roman politicians to the communion wafers and
wisecracks
of Catholic priests. As I sit through his extensive repertoire of nun jokes, I feel an unexpected sympathy for Sister Anne and Sister Martha. What is it that makes priests as obsessed with nuns as their smuttiest altar boys? Still, I suppose it keeps them from being obsessed with those same smutty altar boys.

Beside me Sophie is texting her boyfriend, her sporadic chuckles a welcome counterpoint to the fawning laughter echoing through the coach.

‘Giles?’ I ask, when she finally signs off.

‘He’s in Abu Dhabi. Some legal stuff for the airport.’

‘What time is it over there?’

‘Not a clue. But it’s Sophie time, twenty-four seven.’

‘I look forward to meeting this paragon.’

‘He’s not your type.’

‘I’m relieved to hear it.’

‘I mean you won’t like him.’

‘How come you’re so sure?’

‘The job. The friends. The club. The car. The gym. The parents. The cottage. The politics.’

‘But none of that has stopped you?’ I ask, wincing at the
exhaustive
list.

‘Of course not,’ she says, as affronted as if I had questioned her affection for her old nanny.

Despite dabbling in Bohemia, when it comes to love and
marriage
she retreats to Wiltshire. Giles has replaced Gregory, whose brash announcement that he went to school at Windsor
Comprehensive
let even an oik like me in on the joke. Maybe such tribalism makes sense? Throughout my childhood my great-aunt’s marriage to a Methodist was presented as the ultimate betrayal. ‘A
primitive
Methodist!’ my mother pronounced, as though it were a reflection on his character. With similar relish, she seized on their
granddaughter’s
recent civil partnership as the inevitable result.

‘She’s “married” a nurse!’

‘What’s his name?’ I asked disingenuously.

‘Susan,’ she replied, with a shudder.

Just as some delight in putting up social barriers, others delight in tearing them down. I can think of one very bright, very beautiful and very big-hearted woman whose love for the cocky young BBC director with a spleen as large as his ego was, to his amazement, prompted by him alone and not an attempt to punish her
patrician
parents: a woman for whom the only meaningful distinction was talent. She should have stayed closer to home, marrying some decent, dim man who gave her security if not excitement, propriety if not challenge, fidelity if not passion. Instead, she fell for a cheap womaniser, whose mixture of cowardice, vanity, restlessness and opportunism, not to mention, lust, destroyed both their lives.

Would I behave any differently if I fell in love again?

Do I think so badly of myself that I need to ask?

I would be as true to any future love as Sister Anne and Sister Martha are to God.

So what perversity makes me pursue a married woman?

She is sitting some five or six rows behind me, yet I am as alive to her presence as if she had swapped places with Sophie. Just to know that she is so close makes my heart leap. Controlling my desire to turn, I keep my gaze fixed on the window. Having scared her off yesterday, I had to prove that I was no threat and so confined myself to a
nondescript
nod as she boarded the coach. This strange blend of
anticipation
and self-denial brings its own rewards, like a child hoarding his sweets to savour at bedtime or, more to the point, a monk mortifying his flesh in the hope of eternal bliss. My grin baffles Sophie. ‘Come on!’ she says, ‘
Sucker and succour
: it’s not that funny!’ It takes me a moment to realise that she is alluding to Father Humphrey’s joke.

The excitement intensifies. I gibber like a baby and fizz like vintage champagne. I long to transform the coach into the set of a Hollywood musical, dancing down the aisle, partnering each of the women in turn – Marjorie, Tess, Lucja, Patricia, even Maggie – as I head for Gillian, whom I sweep off her feet and across the floor, which expands to the size of a ballroom. On and on we waltz until the final frame freezes and the credits roll over us, locked forever in an image of perfect harmony.

Who cares if I never make the film or, indeed, any film, while Douglas Simcox, fresh from his triumph with the Mugsborough housepainters, is whisked away to a glittering career in L.A.? Real life has never seemed so beguiling. Not even the dull drone of the rosary can shake my mood. Father Humphrey has relinquished the microphone to Father Dave, who injects a serious note into the
proceedings
, his appeal to the Virgin coinciding, consciously or not, with our reaching a more precipitous stretch of road. He invites a moment of audience participation, or as he calls it, hymn-singing, leaving me free to examine the prospect from the window and, more pressingly, my prospects with Gillian.

We have, as Father Dave reminds us, arrived at the halfway point of the pilgrimage; I intend to make it a turning point for Gillian and me. With the free time scheduled for this afternoon, Saint Savin should be the perfect place to test our feelings which, transplanted from the hothouse of Lourdes, will have room to breathe. In the mountains we will be surrounded by nature, not hemmed in by history. We will be Adam and Eve without the accretions of myth.

Mundanity sets in when, with a nod to his former profession, Father Dave praises the surrounding countryside. ‘They’re
developing
the region for winter sports. A poor man’s Biarritz. It’s been a godsend for Lourdes. Half the hotel staff come up here out of season.’

‘If you can’t fleece them in the Grotto, fleece them on the slopes,’ I whisper to Sophie.

‘Do you ski, Vincent?’ she asks.

‘Is that a serious question?’

‘No, of course not. I’m trying to be the irritating Sloane in your flesh!’

‘The answer is
no
, I’m afraid. I was a wooden-crate-down-
slagheap
kind of boy.’

‘I was a Verbier-every-February kind of girl. So what? It’s never too late to start. There’s nothing to beat it. The fresh air. The purity. That feeling of being on top of the world.’

‘And then it’s downhill all the way.’

We come to a stark iron bridge spanning a picturesque ravine. ‘Hands up anyone who can tell me who built it?’ Father Dave asks. ‘No, not you, Maggie! We know you know. Yes, Frank?’ He walks down the coach to catch the muffled reply. ‘The builders,’ he repeats for our benefit. ‘The builders!’ He laughs. ‘Yes, that’s certainly true. But who was behind it? Go on then, Maggie.’

‘Napoleon.’

‘That’s right. Legend has it that he was camped with his army on one side of the river and he fell in love with a young lady on the other. So, to facilitate their – how shall I put it? –
amour
, he had his engineers build the bridge. The path of true love and so on.’

‘How about the path of true adultery?’ I say to Sophie. ‘Isn’t that forbidden by his Church, or are emperors given papal dispensation?’

‘I’m off duty.’

Twenty minutes later we arrive at Saint Savin, stepping off the coach into streets that are almost deserted. The rows of shuttered windows seem designed to deter the casual glance as much as the impromptu visit. I feel a chill down my spine in spite of the
blistering
heat.

‘I wasn’t expecting a red carpet, but this is seriously spooky,’ Jewel says as she joins me.

‘They’re probably all in church. Two childhood sweethearts tying the knot.’

She looks at me open-mouthed. ‘Would you mind repeating that?’

‘Why?’

‘The christening of the village idiot’s baby perhaps, or the funeral of a downtrodden peasant. Since when did childhood sweethearts enter your calculations?’

‘Am I that predictable?’ I must be on my guard. Rose-tinted
spectacles
are doubly unseemly at my age.

We watch while the lengthy decanting process begins on the second coach. Jamie leaves Father Humphrey and walks towards us, as the hydraulic lift is released and the first wheelchair laboriously lowered. ‘Next time, how about behind the scenes at Formula One motor-racing, chief?’ Jamie asks.

‘Sure! Fine! Why not a six-part series?’ I reply, irked to hear my own impatience echoed in his.

‘So what’s with the padre?’ Jewel interjects.

‘He’s all right is Father Humph. He drinks; he swears; he gambles. Him and me and some of the brancs are having a poker club tonight.’

‘Deal me in,’ Jewel says.

‘No way. Women
verboten
!’

‘That’s sexist!’

‘What else do you expect of the Church?’ I ask, in a bid to restore my reputation.

‘It’s cool he’s cool,’ Jamie says. ‘He says the Church doesn’t mind a game as long as the stakes are low.’

‘Some of these kids have no money at all. They’ve had to scrimp and save to get here.’

‘We’re playing for peanuts.’

‘What’s peanuts for you may be a tidy sum to them.’

‘No, peanuts. You know: salted, dry roasted.’

Eager to escape, I head into the shop for a bottle of water. Maggie, in an accent so thick that for once the French have no need to feign incomprehension, is explaining the purpose of our visit to the
proprietor
. Her ‘
service de huiles
’, complete with extravagant gestures, so perplexes him that I suspect he may direct her to the nearest garage. ‘He remembers us from last year,’ she says, seizing on his wary smile.
‘Or perhaps it’s just my filthy habit,’ she adds, pointing to a packet of Marlboro, which he hands her with marked relief.

‘Who can forget that?’ I ask, wondering why, given her obvious desire for penance, she doesn’t just cut out the middleman and say a Hail Mary after every puff.

Clutching my bottle of Vittel, I join the crowd climbing the hill, pausing to greet Mary and Steve, who carries a chortling Fiona on his shoulders, before moving up to Lester and Tess. ‘Morning,’ I say to a respective grunt and echo, as Lester fights for breath and Tess struggles to support him. I want to help, but the fear of offending him paralyses me. I am back on the kerb with the blind man, praying that his innate road sense will relieve me of the need to intervene. A nagging suspicion weaves through my mind that my reluctance to touch him springs less from regard for his dignity than from a primitive horror of contact with his disease. Keen to dispel it, I edge closer to his side. ‘Bloody steep,’ I say. ‘No wonder the coach-drivers won’t risk it. Anyone like a hand?’

‘Go ahead,’ Lester says, wheezing. ‘Heaven help me if I ever become dependent on her.’

‘The feeling’s mutual, mister,’ Tess replies lightly. ‘Tomorrow there’s no argument. You’re getting a chair.’

Taking Lester’s free arm, I am shocked by its adolescent boniness. ‘Still on for your grilling after the service?’ I ask, to distract us both from the uneasy contact.

‘You bet! Can’t miss my moment of glory.’

‘Are you happy with what you’ve got so far?’ Tess asks me.

‘By and large. Everyone’s been so frank. Not just on film. Last night I went for a post-penitence drink with Gillian Patterson. Have you talked to her at all?’ I ask casually.

‘Not as much as I’d like,’ she replies. ‘She’s an inspiration. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have your husband …’ She stops; Lester coughs; and I describe my chat with Gillian, ostensibly to fill the gap, but also from an aching need to speak her name out loud. Given the urgency of their own concerns, they are less likely to question my exhilaration than Jewel. As I babble on, we pass two young
wheelchair
-pushers who are making even slower progress than we are. A quick glance at their passenger explains why; it is Sheila Clunes.
A second glance revises the explanation; Matt, who was previously paired with Kevin, has linked up with one of the handmaidens – literally, given their interlocked fingers on the back of the chair. I smile, at which she instantly breaks away. Why? Do I emanate
disapproval
? Or does middle age preclude me from any understanding of love?

Determined to prove otherwise, I make my way towards Gillian, who stands among the crowd in the porch. Discretion prompts me to address my remarks to Marjorie, and I engage her in the gentle ribbing of which the pilgrimage ladies are so fond. I overplay my hand and she flees to the safety of Louisa, leaving me with Gillian, which would be the perfect outcome had I not lost the power of coherent speech. Her radiance reduces me to banalities. The charm of her dress persuades me never again to disregard fashion. Celia cared little for clothes, foraging in charity shops with all the relish of one who grew up with a Harrods charge account. She had a grace and a glow and a youth that made even a cheesecloth skirt look stylish. Gillian is different. A troubled life – or simply a longer one – requires more adornment … I must stop this! It is absurd – not to say, distasteful – to compare a wife of ten years with a woman I have known for two days.