Jubilate (29 page)

Vincent – his name is Vincent, of course: St Vincent Ferrer, St Vincent de Paul – squeezes in beside Patricia and then, after Louisa’s realignment, beside me. I feel a little faint in the heat. After some schoolboy provocation, he amuses himself by flirting with me. This is not the delusion of a lonely, middle-aged woman since he openly admits it.

‘Perhaps she won’t want to be photographed beside such a
dangerous
sceptic?’ he says to Patricia.

‘You flatter yourself,’ I interject.

‘I’d rather flatter you,’ he replies, as if the flagrancy excused the offence.

He even appeals to Patricia, conclusive proof that his remarks are not to be taken seriously. Plaudits pour out of him like a salesman’s patter. He ought to realise that words, however lightly spoken, can stir up powerful emotions. He ought to know better than to use – let alone repeat – the word
beautiful
– to a woman with a brain-
damaged
husband, who has not received a compliment without the taint of compassion in years.

Whatever his game might be, it is clear that he has no real interest in me. I am just a convenient nobody on whom to try out his sweet nothings. I resolve not to reveal my hurt, pointing out that any
photographs
that Richard and I collect will quickly gather dust. This in turn conjures up thoughts of my mother, and I blurt out my fear of forgetting her face to a man I have only just met. Are my confidences as indiscriminate as his blandishments? Or is there something in the Lourdes air that cuts through the usual constraints?

‘Now everyone please stand still like mouses. Imagine it is your ‘God Save The Queen’. And say Camembert.’

The polite titters that greet the photographer’s remark build into a gale of laughter when Nigel responds to it thirty seconds after
everyone
else. Following a second shot, Father Dave gives us an hour’s
free time, during which I propose to visit the basilicas. Then Richard announces that he needs the loo. I reflect glumly on all the films that have been ruined and trips curtailed in similar circumstances. ‘I’ll have to take him back to the Acceuil,’ I say, whereupon Vincent
volunteers
to take him to the Gents in the square. This is so far beyond the call of duty that I wonder whether he might be gay. I gaze at him quizzically, at which he looks so pained that for a moment I fear that I may have spoken out loud. I instantly accept his offer.

I am at a loss as to why Vincent should be so keen to
insinuate
himself into our company. Might his compliments be sincere after all? I watch him lead the way across the square, his arm draped loosely around Richard’s shoulder, like two teammates heading for the pitch. For his part Richard, usually so averse to another man’s touch, makes no attempt to wriggle free. I leave Patricia to ‘people watch’, a neat way to dignify her nosiness, and walk over to join them, trailed by a pair of persistent pigeons.

As soon as they return to the square and I persuade Richard to put on his sunglasses, I suggest that we go up to the Rosary
Basilica
. We enter a building which in scale and decoration could not be more different from the underground basilica. It is indeed shaped like a rose, with its semicircle of richly ornamented side-chapels clustered like petals around the high altar. My eye is drawn to the monumental image of the Virgin above the apse, her girlish smile and undeveloped body highlighting the sublime yet terrifying fate to which she has been called. She is attended by a flight of
inexpressive
cherubs who, as in one of my favourite bedtime stories, seem to be waiting for birth to give them identity. Nostalgia turns to pain as I am seized by the thought of my own unborn children: the weight of emptiness within my womb. I quickly look up at the dome, with its garland of red, white, lilac and golden roses, before I betray myself to Vincent.

We walk around the side-chapels: Vincent and I examining the mosaics; Richard absorbed in the geometric patterns on the floor. Vincent mocks the picture-book piety of the images, but his censure fails to dampen my enthusiasm. On the contrary, I welcome the chance to champion the workmanship. My scope for comparison may be limited – to my regret, I have never been to Ravenna – but
I am able to judge it on its own worth. Not all art has to convey nuances and ambiguities. There is a place for direct viewpoints, primary colours and clear lines.

‘We’ll have to agree to differ or, rather, to diverge. You take the high art road and I take the low.’

My remark appears to shake his man-of-the-people persona and he hustles me outside and up the steps to the Upper Basilica. While Richard races ahead, Vincent resumes his banter. I refuse to oblige him by either leaping into his arms or playing the affronted wife. Instead I stop short, reminding him that I am here for a purpose and will not be deflected. ‘You and I come from different worlds. You have your reason for being here; I have mine.’

‘Which is?’

‘A miracle.’

At last I have voiced the word out loud. Up till now, whenever I mentioned Lourdes I made it sound like Bath or Baden-Baden, where the water has medicinal properties; for the first time I have proclaimed its miraculous ones. People have been cured here of many hopeless conditions and they can – they will – be again.
Moreover
, if the cure derives from God’s grace rather than the pilgrim’s merits, who is to say that He won’t choose Richard?

Vincent, however, will not be appeased, attacking first the premise and then the probability of a cure. He stresses how few there have been over the years, fumbling for the exact number, until a priest leaning over the parapet comes to his aid.

‘Sixty-seven.’

Vincent seems as taken aback as I am by Father Humphrey’s intervention. My initial amazement that he has made the climb gives way to fear of what he will think on seeing me tête-à-tête with a man who is not my husband. Moreover, having caught the last part of our conversation, he is bound to associate me with Vincent’s scepticism. As they argue over definitions, I deplore the concern for other peoples’ good opinion that not only reveals my inherent
shallowness
but makes me unworthy of the smallest miracle.

Leaving Father Humphrey to contemplate the view, we enter the Crypt, passing down a long corridor covered with ex voto plaques. ‘Tributes from all our satisfied customers,’ Vincent says with a smile.
Richard opts to walk with his neck bent back and his eyes fixed on the vaulted ceiling, forcing several people, including a woman with a pushchair, to scatter. Once inside, I leave him with Vincent, whose readiness to help says far more about his regard for me than any amount of talk. I am gripped by an overwhelming urge to pray and, refusing to feel inhibited, step into a small side-chapel. Kneeling at the rail, I acknowledge that the only good opinion I require is God’s and implore His forgiveness. My Amen coincides with the click of a camera. I spring back to find an Asian tourist sprawled on the floor, taking my picture.

I feel indignant and defiled, but his deep bow as he returns to his group pre-empts my protests. I am disturbed that he should have chosen me over all the other worshippers and hurry back to Vincent and Richard.

‘All done?’ I ask Vincent. ‘I’d hate to drag you away.’

‘I’m infinitely draggable.’

I take Richard’s hand, thankful for his compliance, and lead the way outside and into the Upper Basilica, a drab grey building in which even the ubiquitous plaques lack the marbled richness of those in the Crypt. I walk down the nave, motioning the men to follow. Vincent complains about the obscure design of the stained glass.

‘They tell the story of Our Lady,’ I say, examining the windows. ‘See, there’s Pius IX proclaiming the dogma of the Immaculate
Conception
. And there she’s appearing to Bernadette.’

‘You have to look very closely,’ Vincent says.

‘Isn’t that what you expect when people watch your films?’

Pleased with myself, I steer Richard towards the sanctuary, where he is drawn to the array of Sacred Hearts dotting the walls.

‘Will you be my Valentine?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘My Valentine,’ he repeats, pointing at one of the Hearts.

‘Oh!’ I reply, dismayed. ‘Aren’t I already?’

Searching in vain for Vincent, I wonder whether he has grown bored with the church or with us. Surprised by my own concern, I tear Richard away from the hearts and towards the porch, where we find Vincent waiting.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask. ‘I looked round and you were gone.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you. It was my mobile.’ He taps his trouser pocket, and I feel something inside me stir. ‘Sophie rang. The Grotto procession is about to start.’

We make our way down the ramp in the full glare of the midday sun and spot the Jubilates flocking around the drinking fountains, their lime green sweatshirts clashing with the verdant landscape beyond.

‘Thank you for letting me tag along,’ Vincent says. ‘I really enjoyed it. Now I’d better get down to some work.’

‘Thank
you
for looking after Richard. He appreciated it.’

‘And you?’

‘I appreciated it too.’

Drawing Richard away from the taps, I join Patricia, who is
chatting
to Maggie and Charlotte.

‘Are you feeling well, Gillian?’ she asks. ‘You look a bit flushed.’

‘It’s just the heat,’ I say, covering my cheeks.

‘It can be treacherous,’ Maggie says. ‘The first time I came here, with my niece, I told her: “You’re lucky Aunt Maggie’s a trained nurse.”’

‘Did you have a good time, darling?’ Patricia asks Richard.

‘We went into three churches.’

‘That’s nice,’ she says distractedly.

‘How many churches are there in the whole world?’

‘I know there are 365 in Norwich,’ Maggie says. ‘Or is that pubs?’

Father Dave gathers us together for a brief introduction to the life of Bernadette. It has been familiar to me since school when, inspired by the annual showing of the classic film, I longed to follow her example and prove myself worthy of a similar visitation. Neither her abject poverty and cramped sleeping quarters, nor her illiteracy and ill health could dampen my zeal. It was a real-life Cinderella story, with a celestial Fairy Godmother and a divine Prince Charming. My fervour reached its height when I discovered that her exhumed body was incorrupt, just when my own was growing fleshy and assertive. I was sure that if Our Lady had appeared in Lourdes and Fatima, she could make her way to Reigate, but the nuns insisted that she would never choose such a heathen country, infested with atheists and Anglicans.

A tug on my sleeve drags me back to the present. ‘Quick, let’s get in the line,’ Richard says. ‘It’s time to go through.’

‘It’s not a race.’

‘I know that, but we can still be the first.’

We join the queue alongside Patricia and Maggie, a step behind the Polish couple with the docile baby. The woman smiles, while the man stares straight ahead.

‘I don’t like the grotty,’ Richard says.

‘Grotto, darling,’ Patricia says. ‘And you love it.’

‘No, I don’t,’ he replies firmly. ‘It’s a grotty grotto.’ Patricia looks pained; Maggie smiles supportively.

‘It used to be very grotty,’ Father Dave says, walking up to Richard. ‘Though I don’t think that’s what gave it its name.’ He laughs. ‘It was the town rubbish dump. Which is why Bernadette came here
scavenging
for wood. What does that tell us today?’

‘How do I know?’ Richard asks tetchily.

‘That we can find God in the most unexpected places.’

‘Like toilets?’

‘Richard!’ his mother says, for once objecting to more than just the word.

‘God is everywhere,’ Father Dave says, brushing off the remark, ‘in everything we are and do. Even our most basic human functions.’ He moves away, leaving Richard bemused.

Vincent takes advantage of a break in filming to join us. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me monopolising your daughter-in-law,’ he says to Patricia. ‘But we were having a fascinating theological discussion.’

I flinch. Patricia may be many things but she is no fool. For all the allure of TV exposure, she can only be pushed so far. She steps aside with bad grace, leaving us to pick up our talk, although it is clear that Vincent has less interest in listening to my arguments than in convincing me of his. I am amazed by the ease with which I engage in the kind of intellectual debate that I usually find so intimidating. Far from bumbling inarticulately, I hear myself voicing thoughts that I have never consciously formulated. Moreover, while I may be unable to prove that the apparitions were genuine, the rapture on the pilgrims’ faces as they approach the Grotto leaves me in no doubt of the genuine devotion that they have inspired.

Vincent’s blanket cynicism starts to grate, and I am eager to shake it off before my own walk through the Grotto. So, leaving him to rejoin his crew, I stand back and wait for Richard and Patricia.

‘You’ve remembered us at last,’ Patricia says sourly.

‘I was only a couple of steps ahead.’

‘I’m not sure I care for your television friend. He’s a bit too pleased with himself for my liking.’

‘You were all over him yesterday.’

‘Nonsense! I was just trying to put him at ease.’

As we arrive at the Grotto, Patricia walks in front, pressing her hand reverently to the rock face, prompting Richard to go one better, standing on tiptoe to touch the overhanging ledge and
following
it round as far as possible, as though rapt by a playground game. I walk behind, longing for some sort of epiphany, but my mind is racing and all I feel is a blast of damp air. No sooner have we reached the end than Patricia announces that she must return to the Acceuil to prepare for lunch.

‘Would you rather go with your mother or sit here quietly with me?’ I ask Richard.

‘Are you praying?’

‘Half.’

‘I’ll go back.’ He kisses me softly on the cheek and moves off with Patricia. As I watch them cross the bridge, I feel an unexpected rush of compassion. I bow my head, but my prayers and thoughts are pulling in opposite directions. I may have held my own in
conversation
with Vincent, but he has vanquished me the moment I close my eyes. Contrite and confused, I return to the Acceuil, welcoming lunch as a kind of penance. No Ash Wednesday fast could be more exacting than a mealtime with Frank and Sheila Clunes.