Jubilate (22 page)

Nevertheless, the mere fact of my doing so convinces me that my feelings for Gillian are real. My mind is a mass of contradictions that somehow make perfect sense. I am at once light-headed and weighed down, as though I were split in two, and yet for the first time in years I feel whole. I worry that all this is happening too fast. It was months before Celia and I were able to speak of love to one another: in my case, because I had been taught to mistrust my
emotions
; in hers, because she had been taught to mistrust men. But here I am speaking of it – if not to Gillian, then at least to myself – after just two days. Have I become more perceptive or less
discriminating
? Am I responding to Gillian herself or to my own loneliness? Does this impetuosity come from being in France, home of the
coup de foudre
, or from being in Lourdes, home of lost causes?

Her expectant gaze only accentuates my confusion. There is something different about her this morning. It is not her hair which, a few tantalising wisps apart, remains coiled in its chignon. It is not
her skin, although two days in the sun have lent its natural
creaminess
a hint of bronze. It is not her eyes, which have the same
quicksilver
quality as when we sat in the hotel bar last night. It is her mouth. She has chosen a lighter lipstick. If only I knew more about make-up! Celia despised that too … No, stop there! What does it mean when a woman who has always worn plum switches to pink? Is she signalling that she is ready for romance? Or has she simply run out of her usual shade?

There is so much I want to say to her but, instead, I come out with an archaic, almost flippant compliment (since when has
luscious
featured
in my vocabulary?). I follow it with an equally inane question about her dreams. No wonder she looks lost. What do I expect her to reply? ‘Yes, and you played the lead in all of them, shinning down a chimney –’ or some equally phallic symbol – ‘to rescue me from a dragon with Patricia’s face and Richard’s tail’? I am so on edge that I challenge her most casual remark and she responds with an account of her mother’s dementia. The thought of her suffering torments me, and I long to ensure that she never has to go through such an ordeal again. That longing feels even more quixotic when I realise that she goes through something similar every day and that her only way out lies in Richard’s death. However hard I try, I cannot bring myself to wish for that. He may not be the man he was – he may scarcely be a man at all – but he still
is
. And, if I have learnt anything from Lourdes, it is how much of life remains on the margins.

I strive to change the subject and, catching sight of Father Dave, ask about the church’s patron saint. The news that he was a hermit is not encouraging. For all my antipathy to Bernadette or, more
accurately
, the sentimental cult that has grown up around her, at least she engaged with the world. Saint Savin withdrew from it, abandoning family and friends (as soon as we return to Lourdes, I must ring my mother) and any hope of leading a productive life. However
abhorrent
it may be to me, I am afraid that such conduct may find favour with one who is prone to renunciation. I have to show her that if the concept of sin means anything, then it is the rejection of all that is good; all that is happy; all that is beautiful in the world. In a word, it is the rejection of love.

I would go further and say that the true sin is to surrender one’s
free will to an oppressive and outmoded ideology, but prudence prevails and I put the case for worldly pleasure in terms that any catechism teacher would approve. So I am doubly nonplussed when Father Dave poses a question that is both simple and unanswerable: ‘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?’ His message hits home as if he were bellowing it from a pulpit – no, precisely because he is not bellowing it from a pulpit but rather intimating it in the porch. If I had stuck to my small patch of ground: if I had not sought satisfaction elsewhere, I would not have destroyed my marriage. We would still be a family rather than two mourners and one grave.

I hereby swear by all I hold most sacred, by the memory of that family which, with the bitterest irony, gives me the chance to redeem myself, that, should I be offered another taste of love (no, it is too late for self-protection), should Gillian return my love, then I will make it my whole world. I will not be diverted by a passing fancy; I will not look for meaning in a chance encounter; I will not seek fulfilment in a stranger’s sheets.

Louisa and Marjorie return, accompanied by the sacristan
brandishing
keys, and we follow them inside. I am instantly hit by the scents of beeswax, incense and dust, along with a hint of stale flesh, that take me back to my childhood. For once I am happy to sit quietly in my allotted pew, stilling my racing mind among the cosy certainties.

‘Look, chief,’ Jamie says, pointing to the angular wooden crucifix hanging on a pillar. ‘His eyes follow you all through the church.’

‘Not just the church, Jamie, life!’ I say jokily. ‘Every good Catholic from here to Timbuktu knows that the eyes of the Lord are on him day and night.’

‘Scary!’

The truly scary part is that, even sitting here as a rational adult, I feel the eyes boring into me. I wonder if I shall ever escape, focusing on the familiar irritations of the service to sustain my dissent.

Midway through proceedings, Father Paul moves to the pulpit. ‘Many of us are parents; all of us have parents,’ he begins, before
expounding on the nature of family. I never cease to be amazed by the ease with which priests pontificate on an institution from which they are themselves safely removed, like staff officers in support trenches sending foot soldiers over the top. Although, at least in Father Paul’s case, the officer has risen from the ranks.

After a concluding paean to the Holy Family, he steps down, whereupon Father Humphrey moves to the altar to bless the oils, and we prepare to film. Any hope of slipping unobtrusively out of the pew is thwarted by the tightness of Jamie’s squeeze. I fix my
attention
on the ritual. I am intrigued by the notion of priests as shamans channelling a spiritual power which, to judge from the recipients’ faces, touches them deeply. The big surprise is Lester, who tumbles to the ground the moment Father Paul signs the cross on his
forehead
. Tess cries out, and consternation ripples through the church. To my dismay, Jamie lowers the camera. ‘Sod’s law, chief,’ he
whispers
. ‘Tape jam! I’ll nip out and change it. Be right back!’

I nod tersely, but the shot is lost. By the time Jamie returns, Lester has recovered and resumed his seat. The rest of the service proceeds without incident and, at the end, we walk out past a crudely carved font at which the initiated gaze with reverence.

‘Do you think it’s pre-Christian?’ Sophie asks.

‘No,’ Ken interjects behind her. ‘Sorry to butt in, but I couldn’t help overhearing. It was made especially for the Cagots. They were a group of medieval pariahs – the lowest of the low – not just in France, but across Europe.’

‘Why?’ Sophie asks. ‘What had they done?’

‘No one knows, at least not according to Father Dave,’ he replies with a laugh. ‘Some experts think it was because of their ancestry (which may have been Arab); others because they were lepers or cretins.’ He looks uncomfortable. ‘That’s in the strict medical sense. Either way, they had to wear special clothes and keep themselves apart.’

‘Even in Church?’ I ask.

‘I’m afraid so,’ Ken says. ‘They had their own door and were made to stand behind a rail. Sometimes they weren’t allowed to take
communion
at all and, when they were, it was handed to them on a long stick. So whenever you think the Church is set in its ways, it’s as well to remember that some things have changed.’

As we make our way outside, I catch sight of Gillian walking through the cloisters with Richard and Patricia. I long to join them but, in the first place, I can think of no suitable pretext and, in the second, I have to concentrate on the matter in hand. The film may be billed as a ‘personal journey’, but it is a journey into faith not love. So I turn back to the church and wait for Lester and Tess to emerge. He recoils from the heat, but straightens himself up the moment he sees us.

‘Are you better?’

‘He’s fine,’ Tess answers for him. ‘Just a little giddy.’

‘I was dehydrated,’ Lester says. ‘I feel a bit of a fraud. Everyone looking at me as if I’ve had some kind of mystical experience.’

‘People should mind their own business,’ Tess says.

‘Brenda was quite resentful. She’s been coming here for years and never felt a thing.’

‘Cow,’ Tess says.

‘We can postpone the interview if you like,’ I say.

‘That sounds like a good idea,’ Tess says.

‘Nonsense. I’m looking forward to it,’ Lester says. ‘If you’ll give me ten minutes to grab something to eat.’

‘Of course. As long as you’re sure.’

‘Never more. I just need to build up my strength.’

We follow them through the ruins of the ancient abbey and into a large enclosed meadow, where their fellow pilgrims mill about, spreading rugs, sipping wine and opening hampers in festive mood. All thought of disease and disability has vanished. Even the shadow of death has been wiped out by the midday sun. It feels like a vision of paradise: not Eden, for which it is both too casual and too crowded, but the Greek Golden Age, at least as it appeared in the vast
Victorian
canvas of frolicking nymphs and shepherds that made such an impression on me as a boy.

Two latter-day nymphs hand us our packed lunches. My analogy breaks down as we contemplate the pork pie, apple, chocolate and crisps.

‘Helps keep our minds on higher things,’ I say.

‘How?’ Jamie asks, ‘when all we can think of is our stomachs.’

Father Humphrey stands in the middle of the grass and struggles
to make himself heard. ‘Has everyone got their meal?’ He is greeted by a chorus of assent. ‘Good, because I’m not sure I’ve got the hang of the loaves and fishes routine yet. Shall we say grace?’ The silence is broken by a gust of laughter from the edge of the field where
Patricia
, Maggie and some of the helpers are gossiping out of earshot. A concerted ‘Shush’ prompts them to bow their heads.

‘Jesus Christ, King divine

You changed water into wine.

Please forgive us foolish men

When we change it back again.’

His levity seems to suit the alfresco setting, although Louisa’s smile is visibly forced. ‘Did you like that? You did? I’m not sure She Who Must Be Obeyed would agree.’ Louisa’s smile wavers. ‘All right, let’s have another go. Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts which from Thy bounty we are about to receive – and which Frank Maloney already has received.’ Frank looks up at the mention of his name,
piecrust
speckling his chin. ‘Through Christ Our Lord. Amen.’

Frank’s impatience generates affectionate laughter, which sets the tone for the meal. I blame my lack of appetite on the heat, a factor that has clearly not affected Jamie, who scoops up my entire lunch, along with Jewel’s pork pie. In this light, his earlier remark about waste and starvation in Africa seems particularly glib. Refusing him time to digest, I lead the way to the cloisters, picking up Lester en route.

‘Are you happy to stand?’ I ask him. ‘We can dig out a chair if you’d rather.’

‘I’m good. Honestly. It’s amazing the difference a pork pie can make.’

‘How about here?’ Jamie asks, indicating a spot beside a buttress. ‘The stone makes an interesting background and the sun won’t be in his eyes.’

‘Fine by me.’

‘And me,’ Lester says, moving into position.

‘Right!’ I launch straight into the interview. ‘Lester, you’re with the Jubilate as a hospital pilgrim. Am I correct in thinking that, unlike most – if not all – of the group, you are not a believer?’

‘Yes. That is no, I’m not. I don’t know if it’s from conviction or just
circumstance. Until recently, when I was diagnosed with cancer – terminal cancer – I never thought much about God or death or
anything
otherworldly. Well you don’t, do you, when you have a family to support (not just financially) and a business to run? You have your work cut out dealing with the state of the garage roof, never mind the state of your soul.’

‘But things have changed?’

‘Well obviously – though not that much. Perhaps I’m hedging my bets a little? Who was it said you might as well believe in God because, if you’re wrong, you’ve lost nothing and, if you’re right, you’ll be on the winning side? I’ve not gone that far but I’d say I’ve grown a little less dogmatic in my disbelief.’

‘Has coming on the pilgrimage helped that?’

‘Not yet. I’ve been very moved by the way people cope with their disabilities. Who wouldn’t be? But, if they’re anything like me, they won’t want to hear that. Some of my friends think I should be
fighting
harder, but it’s no use. Every time I start to ask: “Why me?”, I hear my own voice answer: “Why not me?” Don’t get me wrong; if you could wave a magic wand – or, better still, something more scientific – and blast the cancer to kingdom come, I’d be first in the queue. But as far as I know, you can’t. There’s no law says I have to live three score years and ten, let alone four score years and senile. I’m just grateful for what I’ve had.’

‘And what you have left?’

‘There won’t be much of it. Two months – three, if I’m lucky. It’s hard to take in because I don’t feel that bad. A bit breathless every now and then. Some cramps in my stomach but, if you didn’t know better, you’d think they were indigestion. That’s why I left it for so long. By the time this film is broadcast, I’ll be dead. It’s difficult to get my head round. This will be the last people see of me. So perhaps you’ll give me a moment to say thank you to everyone: to all my friends; my mum and dad; my two sisters; the greatest kids any man could wish for; and most of all my wife, Tess, my Tess …’ He starts to sob. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know it would hit me like this. She’ll kill me. Well she would if it wasn’t too late.’