Jubilate (3 page)

‘They asked me where you were. “Here,” I said, not realising. And then I found out that you were supposed to be spending the night with me. I mumbled something about you getting up early to come back to the Acceuil. I think I got away with it. I can’t be sure.’

‘I didn’t mean to drag you into it. I’m very sorry.’

‘Me? What do I matter? It’s Richard. How can we ask Our Lady
for a miracle with you in a state of mortal sin?’ I say nothing. ‘Oh Gillian … Gillian.’ She takes my hands. Richard slips in and out of our extended arms until he grows bored and sits on the bed in a stupor. ‘I know it’s not been easy for you. Who knows that better than me? But believe me, this isn’t the way. You’re worth more.’

‘Am I? I thought I was just a money-grubbing nobody who wasn’t worth your son’s little fingernail.’

‘That was nearly twenty years ago! I can’t believe you still hold it against me now.’ Her air of genuine distress makes me feel even more guilty.

‘I don’t. We all say things we don’t mean. So let’s not say any more,’ I reply hopefully. ‘We should get ready for the baths.’

‘Everything happens for a reason. That’s what you must cling to. The more confusing it seems to us, the clearer it is to God. I’ve
pondered
and prayed and asked myself
why
: what have I done to deserve this? But it’s no use. The Lord will explain it in His own good time.’ Her voice rings with conviction and I feel a mixture of admiration and envy. ‘We all have our crosses to bear.’

‘Aren’t we allowed to share the load? Even Our Lord had Simon of Cyrene.’

‘I hardly think that what you were doing last night –’ her voice quavers as if in response to the darkness – ‘counts as sharing.’

‘You don’t – you can’t – understand.’

‘No? Richard hasn’t been the only sadness in my life.’

‘I know.’

For all the placid assurance of her manner, she too has endured much. It is hard to reconcile the elderly woman standing before me with the fresh-faced bride posed on the steps of St Wilfrid’s, Burgess Hill. It is not so much that her cheeks have puffed, neck puckered and waist thickened, but that an inner light has been doused. The vision of married life instilled in her by the nuns faded when her husband treated his vows like tax demands, leaving sacrifice as her only satisfaction. Watching her play the widow with more
conviction
than she ever did the wife, I wonder if adversity has made her strong or simply hard.

‘Did you never think of leaving Thomas?’ I ask, building on the rare moment of intimacy.

‘Never! We were married. In the sight of God.’

‘I know you were unhappy.’

‘He was the perfect husband.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘You were there, were you?’

‘No, of course not. But I’ve heard from Richard – and Lucy.’

‘She never got on with her father.’

‘And I worked at the office. I saw how he behaved towards the other girls.’

‘Why are you doing this? Isn’t it enough to betray your husband? Must you attack mine too?’

Richard starts to whimper. I move to the bed and rub his hands.

‘No, of course not. I thought if we could only be honest, just this once.’

‘I’m not your priest.’

‘No, I know. Forget I mentioned it. Come on, old boy. You need to go to the loo before the baths.’ I pull Richard off the bed, anxious to forestall any inadvertent sacrilege.

‘Why did you ask?’ Patricia refuses to take her cue from me. ‘Are you thinking of leaving Richard?’

‘No, of course not … not really … from time to time. Wouldn’t you? Sorry, I know you’ve already answered that question.’ I push Richard into the bathroom. He turns it into a game by pressing back on my hands. ‘Thinking, perhaps, in the sense of dreaming, not in the sense of making plans. I dream of so many things that would make life easier.’ I catch her eye and know that she takes me to mean Richard’s death. ‘Like a miracle,’ I say brightly, but she is not deceived.

‘How much do you know of this cameraman?’

‘He’s a director.’

‘Vincent O’Shaughnessy.’ She drags out every offending vowel.

‘You were the one who was all over him, angling to feature in his film.’

‘That’s not true! Did he say that? It’s not true!’

‘No?’ I ask, as Richard bounds back into the room, pointedly drying his hands on his trousers. ‘I remember how keen you were for me to talk to him.’

‘I thought we should show willing, help him to see the pilgrimage in its best light. I didn’t expect you to jump into B-E-D with him.’

‘Bed,’ Richard shouts out, which makes me wonder how much more he understands.

‘Have you never suspected that he might be using you as material for his film?’

‘Come on! Surely you see that that’s nonsense?’

‘Remember Julia Mason at the Holy Redeemer? A reporter from the
Dorking Advertiser
visited her at home. Spent ten minutes
complimenting
her on her japonica. The next week, her private views on Father Aidan and his housekeeper were splashed all over the front page!’

‘Vincent’s a serious film-maker not a muckraker.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been given a secret brief to show that pilgrims are all liars and hypocrites, that Lourdes is a seedbed … a hotbed –’ she struggles to find a less compromising word – ‘a melting-pot of immorality. The BBC will go to any lengths to
undermine
the Church.’

‘He was brought up Catholic himself.’

‘They’re the worst.’ She changes tack with surprising adroitness. ‘Not that anyone would want to keep you here against your will. I’m seventy-one years old, but I’m still in full working order. You remember Mrs Jameson?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Of course you do. Brian Jameson’s mother. Died at a hundred and one. Telegram from the Queen. Kept going for the sake of her other son. Not Brian: I forget his name. He was a little … well …’ She looks at Richard. ‘I don’t need to spell it out. Then he went all of a sudden. Pneumonia, I think. Three months later we were at her requiem.’

‘Poor woman!’

‘Not at all. I’ve never seen anyone more at peace. I remember speaking to her after … what was he called? I’m thinking one of those ‘en’ names: Ben, Ken, Len … no, it’s gone. ‘They say there’s nothing worse than to outlive your children,’ she said. ‘But not for me. I washed and powdered him when he was born and I laid him out when he died.’ And, if she can do it, so can I.’ My image of Patricia
cradling her son shifts imperceptibly to a Pietà and I wonder, not for the first time, whether she sees that as the crown of motherhood. ‘Isn’t that right, darling? If Gillian wants to go off for a holiday, you can come to me.’

‘I don’t want you,’ he says gruffly.

‘Oh really?’ she asks, with unconvincing nonchalance. ‘So what have I done that’s so terrible?’

‘I want Gilly.’ He cushions his head on my breast and I feel that, for all his protests, I might as well be his mother. ‘Don’t go away from me!’ He clasps me so hard that I almost topple over.

‘I’m not going anywhere. We’re both going home,’ I say, with studied neutrality.

‘I know I shouldn’t do things, but I can’t think in a line. I start off all right, then it twists and turns and I end up in a muddle.’

‘I know. It’s not your fault. It’s just that you look so well we
sometimes
forget how hard it can be for you.’ I think how much easier it would be if he were confined to a wheelchair or had a face as
distorted
as his brain and hate myself for wishing away his one
remaining
distinction.

‘Have you got any money for me?’ He grabs my bag and, before I can stop him, tips its contents on to the rumpled sheets.

‘Oh Richard, how many times have I told you not to go through my things?’

‘That would be secrets. We shouldn’t have any secrets, should we, Mother?’ To her credit, Patricia gives him a noncommittal smile. Richard picks up the box containing my crystal angel. ‘What’s this?’

‘Nothing.’ He rattles it. ‘I mean it’s nothing for you. Take care. It’s glass; it might break.’

‘Finders keepers.’

‘It’s mine.’

‘You can’t buy yourself presents.’ He pulls off the lid. ‘It’s an angel.’

‘It’s the one we saw in the shop,’ Patricia says. ‘The one I admired.’

‘Yes.’

‘So you went back to buy it for me!’ Her pleasure is so palpable that I nod.

‘Yes.’

‘What about me? You should have brought something for me.’

‘I planned it to give it to you when we got home. As a thank-you for bringing us here.’

‘It’s beautiful!’ She holds it to the light and examines it from every angle. I pray that Vincent will be more amused than hurt by the recycling of the gift. ‘I’m sorry if I spoke harshly. You mustn’t think I don’t appreciate all the things you do for Richard.’

‘I do things for Gilly too.’

‘Of course you do, my darling.’ She turns back to me. ‘It’s just that I appreciate them so much that it can be frightening to think what would happen if … if …’

‘I know. Don’t worry.’ What is it about me that makes her censure easier to take than her gratitude? ‘Now I must clear up in here and start packing.’

‘Let me do that,’ Patricia says. ‘You’re due at the baths.’

‘I was, but we’re running so late. We have the Grotto Mass at eleven-thirty.’

‘That leaves you more than two hours. You can’t come to Lourdes and not go to the baths.’

‘I was looking forward to it.’

‘The brancadiers will be coming for Richard soon. I’m surprised they’re not here already.’

‘I don’t need a bath. I had a shower.’

‘Don’t be silly, darling. You know it’s not the same.’

‘It’s still water.’

‘You go ahead, Gillian. They won’t keep you waiting long. The Jubilate has priority this morning between nine and ten.’

‘Thank you, I will.’

‘I want to go with you.’

‘You can’t go to the Ladies,’ Patricia says. ‘What would people say?’ Richard giggles. ‘You’ll see Gillian at the Grotto.’

‘Do we have to go there again?’ he asks sulkily.

‘Of course. It’s where St Bernadette saw Our Blessed Lady.’

‘It’s boring. You said it’d be like a cave.’

I slip away and out of the building. My mind is more confused than ever and I long for a sign as explicit as Bernadette’s. But I can hardly expect the Virgin to manifest herself to an adulteress,
especially
one whose penitence is provisional.

I make my way over the pedestrian bridge, through the John Paul II Centre and down to the Esplanade, stopping only to rub
suncream
on my face and arms. Two of my fellow pilgrims, clearly
identifiable
by their sweatshirts, are standing by the statue of the Virgin. I am about to sneak past when I see to my amazement that it is Jenny, hand-in-hand with Matt. I am delighted. After our conversation at Stansted, I was afraid that she would be too shy to make friends even among the girls. Curiosity outweighs discretion, as I seek to learn more about a romance that has run in parallel to my own.

‘Hi there!’ I shout. Jenny drops Matt’s hand as though
confronting
her mother. He grabs hers back with deliberate defiance. ‘It’s a beautiful morning. Have you come for a final look round?’

‘A final look round,’ Jenny echoes.

‘We’ve been out all night,’ he says, in what sounds like a challenge. ‘We didn’t go to bed.’

‘Or anywhere else,’ Jenny adds quickly.

‘But that’s wonderful,’ I say, eager to move off and put them out of their misery but afraid of appearing to disapprove. ‘How long have you been…?’ An item; a pair; a couple: I search for a less forbidding word. ‘Together?’

‘Two days,’ he says.

‘Since Saint-Savin,’ she adds. ‘I was struggling to push Mrs Clunes up to the Abbey. Matt came to help.’

‘So your eyes met across a crowded wheelchair?’ I ask lightly.

‘It was fingers first,’ Jenny says, prompting Matt to squeeze her hand.

‘Well I think it’s wonderful,’ I say, both touched and troubled by a love that is so much freer than mine. I long to make common cause but am afraid of seeming ridiculous. The spontaneity that is the stuff of youth feels suspect – almost dangerous – in early middle age. ‘Any plans for when we get back to England?’ I ask, sticking to
practicalities
. ‘How close to each other do you live?’

‘I’m from Stoke,’ Jenny says. ‘But if I get my two As and a B, I’m off to Warwick.’

‘And I’m in Solihull.’

‘That’s not too bad,’ I say, alert to their mournful faces, ‘it could have been John O’Groats and Land’s End.’ 

‘You don’t understand,’ Jenny says. ‘Matt isn’t flying home with us; he’s in the van with the equipment. It takes them two days to drive through France. I’ve asked everyone if they’ll swap places. I don’t care about feeling sick. But they all said they had too much fun on the way down.’

‘Two days.’ I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘I had a great aunt who married the day before my uncle went off to fight in North Africa.’

‘It’s easy for you,’ Jenny says. ‘If you were our age, you’d understand.’

‘Yes, of course, I’m sorry. I’ll leave you in peace.’

‘No, we have to get back to the Acceuil,’ Matt says. ‘We only came to say our Hail Marys.’

‘What? Oh yes. You were on Father Dave’s walk.’

‘How about you?’ Jenny asks, with affecting credulity. ‘Have you said yours?’

‘No, not yet. I think I’d rather leave it to fate.’

I walk through the Basilica Square and under the ramp, past the drinking fountains and the Grotto to join the pilgrims on their way to the baths. I pause for a moment by the candle burners, with the forest of flames in various stages of extinction, and picture all the faith, all the hope and all the entreaties that they represent. I want to add some words of my own but fail even to formulate them in my head. It is not just my throat but my entire being that is parched.

The crowds at the women’s baths plunge me into panic.
Convinced
that the wait will be too long, I decide to turn back. All at once I am spotted by Louisa, who lives up to the emblem
emblazoned
on her chest by bellowing my name.