Jubilate (23 page)

‘Do you find humour a useful weapon?’ The question rallies him and he rubs his eyes.

‘Not intentionally, no, but I suppose I must. Here we are, in this gorgeous countryside: the sort that makes some people feel that there must be a God, but makes me feel that there’s no need for one. How could anyone be morbid or depressed in the midst of all this?’

‘Does that make it harder to leave it all behind?’

‘Not in the least. I know I’ll be leaving other people to enjoy it, although, with luck, they won’t be riddled with cancer. That’s why I’m happy to be here. I know that most of my fellow pilgrims are hoping for a miracle cure or, at any rate, some kind of spiritual
revelation
. I just want the chance to spend time with my wife before the disease really kicks in. And, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to say a few words directly to her.’

‘Of course.’

‘I don’t want her to grieve. If I’ve learnt anything from all this, it’s that life is short. She mustn’t waste hers on regrets. And I trust my boys not to make things hard for her. I expect them to support her in everything she does, including – especially – moving on.’

His words touch me deeply, and I am relieved to be able to wrap up the interview and let him return to Tess.

‘What now, chief?’ Jamie asks. ‘Do you still want to go for the Polish guy?’

‘Let’s wait till we’re back in Lourdes.’ I turn to Sophie. ‘Would you speak to him? We’ve earned a break. It’d be a crime –’ Even as a hyperbole, I baulk at
sin
– ‘not to take the chance to explore the landscape.’ Sophie gives me a wry smile as if she suspects my motives, but I refuse to respond. We walk back into the meadow, past Fiona who is holding up a toy windmill, willing its sails to turn without a breeze, and Frank who is blowing the seeds off a
dandelion
clock. He stares forlornly at the bare stem, rocking on the balls of his feet, until Louisa hurries over and calms him with a hug.

‘Strange,’ I say to Sophie. ‘He’s the last person I’d have thought she’d develop a rapport with.’

‘Maybe that’s why?’

We almost trip over Father Humphrey who lies prostrate on a rug, like a small hillock, his sleeves rolled up to reveal two beefy forearms, one of which is marked with the faint outline of an anchor. I am intrigued by this hint of a former life, but my speculations are
curtailed when Geoff, egged on by Father Dave, waves a buttercup under his nose. He snorts in his sleep until Geoff, exceeding his brief, pokes the stalk into his nostril. He sits up with a jolt amid widespread laughter, which he takes in good part.

‘The dead awakened and appeared to many,’ Father Dave says, repeating it moments later for effect.

I slip away to join Gillian, who is standing in a group at the far end of the meadow. As I walk over, I see her sneak a glance at her watch which cheers me, although it may just be that she is checking the time for Richard’s pills.

‘I wonder if I can steal your wife,’ I say to him.

‘They’ll put you in prison.’

‘They would if they knew what I was really thinking.’

I am surprised by how readily she agrees, and wonder if it is due to enthusiasm for my company or fear of my indiscretion. She strides ahead, as if to convince any casual observer that we are leaving separately. Once through the archway she relaxes and asks about my interview with Lester, showing a gratifying
familiarity
with my schedule, before pretending to take my request for her translation skills at face value. We stop to talk to Kevin who has chosen to dramatise his alienation by sprawling on a bench in the middle of the cloisters, like a lone wolf baying outside the city gates. His wretchedness adds to my unease. I have no plan or goal other than to be with Gillian, and yet I have too many teenage memories of trudging through Barnsley, desperate for a deserted bus shelter, to be happy leaving things to chance. So, assuming an air of
confidence
, I propose that we head down to the fields at the bottom of the hill, praying that we won’t be met by a locked gate, let alone an irate farmer with a gun.

Fate (I refuse to credit a higher power) smiles on us, as I guide Gillian over a rickety stile and into an ancient orchard. The
atmosphere
is deliciously mellow, with luminous butterflies fluttering over lush foliage and strange fruit. The beauty of the setting enhances hers, or she encompasses it, or perhaps it is just that for the first time in years I feel at one with nature. I am wondering how best to take her hand without its seeming either forced or threatening when, by a stroke of luck, we arrive at a stream and she needs my help to cross.
I have a wild impulse to lose my balance and land us both in the water in the hope that, crawling out, she will throw off her soaking clothes – among other constraints – and make passionate love to me on the bank. But, given my record with romantic schemes, we are more likely to hobble back to the coach on twisted ankles. Besides, how can I risk ruining such a delightful dress?

I have to be content with keeping hold of her hand and, either because she has come to trust me or else because she has a
compelling
need to unburden herself, she embarks on the story of her unhappy marriage. Halfway through – although she has already declared it to be
THE END
– we are confronted by a snarling dog. She bends down and beckons it to her, ignoring my warnings of deadly disease.

‘He wants to be friends,’ she says, letting it slobber all over her arm.

‘Tough!’

‘I thought you liked dogs.’

‘Who’s been spreading such libellous rumours?’

‘Not even as a boy?’

‘I never had one. According to my mother, they were riddled with germs. But then she said the same about library books. Why? Do I look like a dog person?’

‘I just assumed. All the best people are.’ She refuses to elaborate, burying her face in the dog’s fur, and I realise that she has totally misinterpreted what I told her last night. Half of me wants to burst out laughing, while the other half is offended that she should think me so craven as to offload my humiliation on to an imaginary friend. But, given her account of her philandering husband and his
lecherous
father, it is no wonder that she sees all men as self-serving liars.

We walk further into the valley but, rather than surrendering to its charm, we dispute its creation. The familiar battle-lines are drawn. To Gillian, the magnificent landscape is conclusive
evidence
of God’s design; to me, it is the fortuitous result of millions of years of rock formation. But, however much I reject her views, I am enchanted by their expression, a split that leaves me confused. All the earnest debates at college as to whether it would be a betrayal to sleep with a Tory pale beside the one now engaging me. Can a
committed
atheist (no bet-hedging agnostic here) truly love and respect
a Christian, and a Catholic to boot? As I gaze at her face, the
loveliness
of her lips far surpasses the words flowing from them, and the answer comes back a resounding
yes
.

Seizing the moment, I kiss her: a kiss as far removed from last night’s beery fumble as these mountains from a child’s mud-pies. Steeped in my own sense of the sacred, I ask: ‘Has anything changed? Are God and His majesty and mystery in any way diminished?’, but, rather than replying, she returns to the subject of her marriage. I am caught in a tide of emotion: first, joy as she describes how she had been planning to leave Richard, which proves that, whatever else, she does not regard her vows as inviolable; then, horror as she recounts the full extent of his betrayal. Fearing the worst from the roster of itching, lumps and blisters, I am weak with relief on hearing that it is only herpes. I long to make light of it, explaining that the virus was rife during my early years at the BBC. But I am afraid of accentuating the gulf between our worlds.

Moreover, I feel that her honesty demands as much from me but, before I can speak up, I need a more intimate setting, less pressure of time and, not least, a measure of Dutch courage. So I kiss her as tenderly as possible, and promise that we will talk later.

‘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.’

The earth is hard underfoot, but I feel as though I am sinking into a quagmire. What right have I to sit in judgement on Richard? He is not the only husband to have cheated on his wife. He, at least, had his father’s example to lead him astray, whereas I had a father who was faithful all his life to his youth-group sweetheart. So what’s my excuse? When Celia left, I vowed that I would never again hurt another woman, even if it meant that I could never again be close to another woman. Now I find myself reaching out to Gillian, whose past gives her a dual claim on my fidelity. Why should she trust me when I cannot trust myself? Or must I rest my hopes on greying hair and a waning libido?

Gillian rebuffs my attempts at conversation, as if she can read my guilt and already regrets her disclosure. We head back into the
village to find everyone preparing to leave. She thanks me for the walk as if I were a tour guide, and moves to Richard, who is
watching
his friend Nigel being wheeled on to the lift. Either from a
reluctance
to separate them or, more likely, a desire to escape from me, she steers Richard into the second coach. Desperate for distraction I join Kevin, who looks more isolated than ever now that Matt is chatting with the handmaidens.

‘Did you finish your book?’ I ask.

‘She had us picking up litter,’ he says, pointing to Louisa. ‘Even apple cores. I told her they’re biodegradable. I’m surprised she didn’t take before-and-after pictures of the grass.’

‘You may find it hard to believe, but I promise you things get better.’

‘Even for them?’ he asks, with a nod at the wheelchairs. Stumped for an answer, I step into the coach, sitting beside Sophie who is glued to her iPod. The trip back to Lourdes feels endless which, despite the dull road and the lack of a commentary, I attribute to Gillian’s defection. Meanwhile, I run through some questions for Tadeusz. He refuses to be filmed in any kind of religious setting, which poses problems in a town where the only cinema is permanently devoted to the life of Bernadette, but Sophie is confident of finding
somewhere
suitable along the river. So, leaving our fellow pilgrims at the Acceuil, we take the path past the Saint Bernadette church and up to the Adoration Tent, where the landscape starts to become wooded. We stop beside an ancient beech tree with two low branches
protruding
at almost perfect right angles to the gnarled and twisted trunk.

Tadeusz stands uneasily as I ask the first question. ‘Tadeusz, the rise in British Catholicism in recent years has been largely ascribed to Polish immigrants. Are you part of this trend?’

‘I have no love for the Church. I have much love here.’ He strikes his chest in a way that suggests the violence of his emotion rather than its depth. ‘I have love for my wife; I have love for my childrens; I have love for my fellow peoples; but I have no love for the Church. I was married in church for the sake of my wife. It is big thing for her; it is small thing for me. I have my childrens christened in church for the sake of my wife. It is big thing for her; it is small thing for me. Then we have third baby, Pyotr. At first we are happy he is such
a good baby since he does not cry. But he does not cry for too long. He does not move his eyes like this … how you say?’

‘Blink.’

‘Yes, he does not blink. And I cannot say: God has done this for reason. Yes, it would be big thing for my wife; but it is big thing for me also. I cannot say that, if we fall down to our knees and if we follow what priests tell us, then God will heal Pyotr and all the other Pyotrs. No, all I can say is: Life is not perfect. We do not need rules – if they are Catholic rules or Communist rules, it makes no difference – that punish us when we are not perfect. We need only to admit that this is who we are and it is for us and only for us to do the best things we can.’

‘Then why have you come to Lourdes?’

‘Because of love, like everyone else. But not like everyone else for love of God. It is for love of Lucja and for love of Pyotr. No, this is not always true.’ His face clouds over. ‘It is for love of Lucja and for love I try to find for Pyotr. And this is all I have to say.’ He pulls off his microphone to emphasise his withdrawal. ‘I am sorry. This is not what you want to hear.’

‘It’s exactly what I want. Thank you.’

‘But it is not what I want to say. I must go.’

‘Are you sure? We’ve no more filming until the Torchlight
procession
. Can I take you for a drink? Or will Lucja be waiting?’

‘She is always waiting. She has made it her life.’

I arrange to meet the crew at the hotel and take Tadeusz to a small café on the edge of the Domain. It is packed with early diners and the conversational din is exacerbated by the synthesised plainsong blasting from the loudspeakers. I order two
demis
and try to draw him out.

‘How long have you been living in England?’

‘Seven years,’ he says impassively.

‘Are you happy?’

‘This is not a question. I mean it is not a question I can reply. Some of my friends, they move abroad to make new life. Some of my friends, they stay at home to make new country. I cannot make this choice. Let me explain. There is house in Oldham, two streets away from us, where family were killed … stabbed with knife. Woman,
her mother, her father and her two childrens by husband. It is good house: much light with many rooms and big garden. But no one wants to live in this house and so it sells for little piece of its worth. This is one house. How can I live in country where peoples were killed all around?’

‘Too many ghosts?’

‘No, it is more real than this. It is friends of me. Men and women who are stronger than me, who fight and who are destroyed. So we come to England to make new life. But Lucja changes. She reads English magazines. She thinks to make new life means to build new kitchen. Every time she speaks begins with “need”. Do not mistake – I still love her. But this word – this “need” – comes between us. And through my work – I drive van for drinks company; I am not Polish plumber – I meet Susan.’ He falls silent. ‘Excuse me. I am not quiet with happiness or with sadness, just with thoughts. Susan was
waitress
. She wanted me for funny times, nothing more. And I am man. Which means I am fool. And I think of nothing more than what is to be man in bed with Susan.’