Jubilate (27 page)

T
he basilica bells offer a welcome alternative to the brashness of the alarm; the fitful birdsong offers a welcome corrective to the measured bells. Reminding myself that I never sleep well in a strange bed, I stand and move to the window where an overemphatic stretch threatens to crick my back. Lourdes at seven in the morning looks eerily similar to Lourdes at seven at night. A nurse in a navy blue uniform walks down the path with a nun in a dove grey habit. An old man pushes an unseen passenger in a hooded wheelchair. A blonde girl in a dun-coloured blouse carries a furled banner towards the river.

I am distracted, first by a knock at the door and then by an elderly handmaiden who walks straight into the room without waiting for a reply. Should I be touched by the assumption of innocence or angered by the disregard? We sat next to her at the flight gate but, hard as I try, I cannot remember her name. Still, if she can ignore the niceties, so can I.

‘Good morning, my dear,’ she says.

‘Good morning. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.’

‘Ruth,’ she says. ‘Plain and simple. When I was a girl, how I envied all the Angelicas and Antonias, but I’ve grown into a Ruth. Did you sleep well?’

‘Like a log,’ I say, effortlessly reverting to social mode.

‘I’ve come to collect your dirty sheets.’ I see her cast her eyes over the sleeping Richard and wonder whether she intends to drag him out of bed.

‘Oh!’ I say, surprised at the level of service. ‘I’d no idea you changed the sheets every day.’

‘Only the soiled ones.’

‘We don’t soil our sheets,’ I reply coldly.

‘Are you sure?’ She sounds unconvinced.

‘Quite. Richard has perfect control of his bladder, though not all his biological functions. And so have I.’

‘Splendid! You’re the kind of guests we like.’ She turns and walks out briskly. ‘Don’t forget, breakfast in half an hour.’

I watch in stunned silence as she leaves. Has my life been reduced
to this? You can put out your best bedlinen for the Pattersons. No need for a mattress protector with the Pattersons. Count on the
Pattersons
for a stain-free weekend.

A second knock cuts short my ruminations. ‘Come in!’ I call, determined to give myself at least the illusion of choice. Two young brancardiers hover at the door, one of them the boy who behaved so oddly yesterday.

‘Morning,’ the other says, with breezy confidence. ‘I’m Matt; this is Kevin. We’ve come to help.’

‘How amazing!’ I say. ‘You wouldn’t get this level of service at the Ritz.’

‘I’ve never been to the Ritz,’ Kevin says.

‘Neither have I.’

‘Then how do you know?’

‘Leave it out, Kev,’ Matt says.

‘Just a turn of phrase.’

‘We’ve come to help Mr Patterson get ready,’ Matt says.

‘Really? That’s very kind but quite unnecessary. We manage
perfectly
well by ourselves.’

‘He’s on the list.’

‘Then I suggest you cross him off it. He might react badly. He’s not used to being touched by men.’

‘Can’t have gone to a Catholic boarding school,’ Kevin says, with disturbing flippancy. Then he smiles, revealing unusually small front teeth. ‘Just a turn of phrase.’

‘Well if you’re sure,’ Matt says.

‘Positive.’

The boys walk out: Matt with reluctance, Kevin with relief. I brace myself and move to wake Richard, aware that this marks the end of my repose as much as his. He responds with his habitual resentment, as though the return to consciousness is the first of the many
indignities
to which he will be subjected during the day. I lure him into the bathroom with the promise of excitements which I trust he will forget in the morning rush. I slip off my nightdress before switching on the shower, a precaution which proves to be justified when he waves the shower-arm above his head, sending jets of water across the room. Bowing to the inevitable, I soap myself at the same time,
brushing off his routine groping while pondering the irony that we now take a joint shower from necessity, when we once did by choice.

Discouraging his fascination with the drenched floor, I lead him back to the bedroom where he refuses to put on the Jubilate
sweatshirt
. ‘It looks like sick.’

‘Which is very practical,’ I reply, my patience exhausted. ‘If you are sick, you won’t have to change it.’

‘Yes, I will. You’ll say I smell. I want to wear this one.’ He picks up a powder blue polo shirt which complements his colouring. I feel a stirring of affection for him and, not for the first time, wish that there were some way to exploit his innate dress sense. Might a
brain-damaged
stylist take his place alongside a blind piano tuner? ‘You can change into that later,’ I say quickly, as much to distract myself as him. ‘There are two occasions when we have to wear our
pilgrimage
shirts. Today for the official photograph and on Thursday for the Blessed Sacrament procession. I’m wearing mine too.’

‘I’ll look like a girl.’

‘You’ll look like the group.’

He sits listlessly on the bed, and I seize the chance to thrust the sweatshirt over his head. He turns suddenly, grabbing my wrists. ‘Richard, let go! You’re hurting me!’ The pain is intense, but I dare not shout for fear of attracting attention. ‘Please stop!’ He drops my wrist, which I press hard in a bid to disperse the pain around my body. I sniff and wipe away the tears which are welling in my eyes.

‘You’re not crying?’

‘Don’t worry, it’s over.’

‘You’re not crying! It’s just a game.’

‘I know you didn’t mean it.’

‘You shouldn’t pretend to cry. It makes me feel bad. Here.’ He taps his head and his own eyes start to water.

‘I know it’s just a game, but you shouldn’t play so roughly,’ I say, taking advantage of his docility to slip his arms through the sleeves. ‘Just gentle games from now on.’ He puts on the rest of his clothes and slumps on the bed, lost in a world that is as closed to me as nuclear physics. I pull on my sweatshirt and skirt and brush and pin up my hair, the one physical feature of which I remain proud and which, despite the leverage it allows him, I have refused to cut short.

‘Come on,’ I say, my preparations complete. ‘Breakfast!’ He shows no sign of having heard. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ I ask, prising him off the bed and hoping that it does not provoke a tantrum. Luck is on my side, since he follows me compliantly to the door.

‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ he says, dragging his heels, ‘but I’m in prison.’

‘What on earth are you talking about? You’re in Lourdes.’

‘There are electric wires running across the door.’

‘Look, I’ve just walked through it.’

‘That’s because you’ve turned them off.’ He looks at me with heart-rending helplessness.

‘Come on,’ I say, linking arms. ‘We’ll both feel better once we’ve eaten.’ On reaching the dining room, I am forced to revise my opinion. Sister Anne stands by the door holding a tub of anti-
bacterial
handwash, which she squirts on everyone who passes through. Richard recoils.

‘I’ve just washed my hands. They’re clean. See!’

‘I’m sure they are,’ she says. ‘But this will give you added
protection
. When you leave church, you dip your fingers in the holy water even after you’ve been to mass.’

Richard stares at her and, as if the last twelve years were all a dream, spits out with controlled venom: ‘You cunt!’ Then he thrusts his hands under her nose. Stunned, she squirts the handwash and he rubs his palms together.

‘I’m so sorry, Sister,’ I say, ‘he doesn’t know what he’s saying.’

‘Yes, I do,’ Richard says, ‘it’s that –’

‘Come on!’ I push him into the room and turn back to the nun. We exchange that look of pained compassion which I suspect is ubiquitous in Lourdes.

Louisa walks over to greet us. ‘Morning,’ she says. ‘Sleep well, I trust? Good!’ Her brusqueness makes the question even more
rhetorical
than usual. ‘We’ve a busy day ahead, so I’m sure you’ll be wanting your breakfast.’

‘Should we sit anywhere?’ I ask.

‘Only on the first night. From now on we prefer to stick to fixed seating. With so many special diets, any chopping and
changing
causes havoc. You’d find a gluten-free turning into a lactose
intolerant. Isn’t that so, Patricia?’ She addresses my mother-in-law, who has come to coddle her surly son. ‘I was saying: you just can’t get the staff these days.’

‘Too true!’ Patricia says, as ever more sympathetic for the loss of a maid than the loss of a limb. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without my Rose. She’s a treasure.’ She gives me a look which is part appeal, part warning. I turn away in case I should unwittingly reveal that ‘her Rose’ left fifteen years ago after a distressing encounter with ‘her Thomas’, to be replaced by a succession of contract cleaners. Still, if I am to enjoy a week’s respite from reality, why shouldn’t she?

‘We’ve put you on a table by the window,’ Louisa says. ‘See, you have a glorious view over the Domain.’ The view is partially obscured by a huge woman who is about to swallow an entire croissant. ‘Have you met Sheila Clunes?’

‘We bumped into each other at Stansted. I’m Gillian, this is Richard.’ Sheila glances up.

‘Sheila has one of our healthiest appetites,’ Louisa says. ‘Bless!’

‘I have a little hole that needs filling,’ Sheila says, cramming the croissant into her mouth.

‘Aren’t you going to say hello to Gillian and Richard?’ Louisa asks.

‘Hello Gillian. Hello Richard,’ she says, spluttering crumbs into her neighbour’s orange juice. He is too busy counting on his fingers to notice.

‘This is Frank,’ Louisa says, ruffling his hair and pressing his head to her bosom in a manner which, were their positions reversed, would surely be labelled
abusive
. ‘Frank likes to chew.’ That seems to be all he likes since he does not look up, either at Louisa or us, but quietly returns to zero. ‘And last, but by no means least, this is Nigel. Oh dear, you seem to have slipped!’ Without more ado, she reaches under his arms and heaves him upright.

‘Richard,’ Nigel says, banging his spoon on the table.

‘No, I’m Richard,’ Richard says.

‘Richard,’ Nigel repeats.

‘No, I’m Richard.’

‘He understands you,’ I interject, ‘he’s saying hello.’

‘I know that,’ Richard says to me, contemptuously. ‘We’re just
playing. Aren’t we, little man?’ He plumps himself in the vacant chair next to Nigel.

‘Not there,’ Louisa says. ‘That’s for the handmaiden to cut up Nigel’s food.’ Her appeal comes too late, since Richard has already made himself at home to the extent of dipping his spoon into Nigel’s cereal.

‘No, Richard, that’s Nigel’s,’ I say, finding my worst fears of a week of communal eating confirmed.

‘Don’t worry. There’s plenty more. It’s good for Nigel to have a friend,’ Louisa says, dropping her voice. ‘He doesn’t have an easy time of it. He’s thirty-eight, but he lives in a home for geriatrics. You can’t blame the local authority. It’s the only residential place they have available. What makes it particularly cruel is that he has a mental age of six.’

‘He should get on well with Richard then,’ I say sadly, ‘although at least he had thirty years’ grace in-between.’

No one would guess it to see him rolling Nigel’s wheelchair
backwards
and forwards. My instinct is to intervene, but I take my cue from Louisa’s indulgent smile. There are sufficient helpers on hand to deal with any breakages and bruises.

‘Do you like being pushed around?’ Richard asks Nigel.

‘I like it,’ he replies.

‘I get pushed around,’ Richard says, with a rancour that shocks me. ‘And I don’t have a chair.’

How I envy their instant rapport! As a girl, I made friends within moments of meeting. Pushing forty, I vet every new acquaintance as if for membership of MI5.

‘You sit here, Gillian.’ Louisa directs me to the empty chair between Frank and Sheila. ‘I’ll get someone to bring you a bowl of cereal.’

‘I can fetch it myself. Really. There’s no need.’

‘Oh but there is,’ she says firmly. ‘A little bird told me you wouldn’t let the young brancardiers help you with Richard this morning.’

‘He doesn’t need … I mean you have so many more deserving cases.’

‘We’ll be the judges of that. We have more than enough helpers. So promise me you’ll make use of them. I know it can be hard to
let go, but we’re here to give you the chance to relax and enjoy the pilgrimage too.’

‘I promise,’ I reply and, to my relief, she seems satisfied, She walks away, to be quickly replaced by Charlotte, a small, elderly
handmaiden
with buck teeth and twinkling eyes.

‘Would you like some orange juice, my dear?’ she asks, in such effortlessly patrician tones that I understand Patricia’s re-
engagement
of Rose.

‘Thank you. That would be lovely.’ Her trembling hands as she lifts the jug make me doubly embarrassed. While Frank calculates the correct ratio of chews per mouthful, I calculate how many meals I am destined to spend at this table: two more today; two tomorrow (since we are having a picnic lunch at an ancient abbey); three on Thursday; one on Friday. Maybe my pilgrimage should include a fast?

I decline all offers of food. If I had an appetite, the sight of Sheila Clunes dripping honey from her toast to her chin to her plate would destroy it. I am pleased, however, to see Richard eating heartily, until I realise that he is not actually swallowing but engaged in an
unspoken
contest with Nigel, to see who can stuff the most spoonfuls of Rice Krispies into his mouth. I am about to intervene, when Nigel splutters all over the table.

‘You pig!’ Sheila Clunes shrieks. ‘You dirty, disgusting pig!’ For a moment I fear that she is going to breach the ban on physical violence but she confines herself to a bitter tirade, the commotion attracting the attention of the entire dining room. Louisa and Derek hurry over, arriving just as Richard, with unsuspected delicacy, wipes the milky mulch off Nigel’s cheek.