Jubilate (37 page)

‘Not you, Patricia. I gave up trying long ago,’ Marjorie replies, only to contradict herself by insisting that we wear our name badges, despite Patricia’s claim that ‘surely everybody knows me by now?’

The claim appears to be borne out by the number of people who come up to greet her. Any semblance of a queue breaks down as passengers roam around, abandoning their cases to chat to friends, to the despair of both Jubilate organisers and airline officials. A nun, whom in the melee I identify as either Martha or Mary, holds up her mobile to show Patricia some pictures of the asylum seekers with whom she works. Patricia, whose belief that we are all sisters under the skin fails to stand up to scrutiny, glances at them casually,
breaking
off at the sight of an elderly woman in a dusty pink raincoat, with short white hair, a whiskery face and a prominent mole on her chin.

‘Maggie!’

‘Pattie!’ As they fall into one another’s arms, I marvel at Patricia’s tolerance of the diminutive.

‘Maggie, meet my son Richard. No, don’t disturb him while he’s quiet!’ We watch Richard pushing the baggage trolley back and forth, as though cleaning a persistent carpet stain. ‘This is my daughter-
in-law
, Gillian. Gillian, you’ve heard me talk about my friend, Maggie, from Deal.’

‘Of course,’ I say, as though the name were never off her lips.

‘Maggie and I have been on nine pilgrimages together. Gillian is a Lourdes … this is her first time.’ Maggie looks at me with a mixture of complacency and compassion. ‘I’ve told her there’s nowhere to beat it.’

‘Nowhere in the world. I just wish that it weren’t in the blessed EU.’

‘Really?’ I ask, presuming that she shares the other Maggie’s loathing of Brussels.

‘I have a filthy habit.’

Bewildered, I flash her a noncommittal smile. Meanwhile, I am distracted by a young girl with Down’s Syndrome who strolls up and down the queue measuring various legs and cases. She approaches me, holding her tape measure loosely against my thigh.

‘Hello,’ I say.

‘This is Fiona,’ Patricia interjects. ‘Do you remember me?’ Fiona responds to Patricia’s stiff smile by sliding towards Richard and
pressing
the tape measure to his leg. He grins and extends it to his groin.

‘No, Fiona, you mustn’t bother Richard,’ I say, pulling her away. ‘He’s doing a very important job looking after the luggage.’ She stares at me in confusion.

‘I’m so sorry,’ a flustered woman rushes up to us. ‘She does so love to measure things.’

‘I’m big,’ Richard says with a chuckle which, to my relief, she ignores.

‘I know that some people find it disconcerting.’

‘Not at all. She can measure me whenever she likes,’ I say lamely. ‘But she’d do well to avoid Richard.’

‘Of course,’ she says brightly. ‘Come along, darling, let’s find 
Daddy. I’m Mary, by the way.’ She holds out the hand that was
clutching
Fiona. ‘I hope to catch up with you later. Oh dear!’ She spots the middle-aged man in front of us who is flinging about the
contents
of his suitcase like a wilful child. One sandal hits a corpulent woman in a wheelchair, only to be hurled back by her companion, a scrawny woman with a pink tuft of hair that looks as if it has been treated with food dye. Two helpers try to calm the man, who seems to be having some kind of fit, while a third comforts the indignant woman. My sense of having stumbled into a freak show intensifies at the sight of a film crew making a documentary about the airport. No one else shows any concern.

‘Never a dull moment, eh Maggie?’ Patricia says.

‘You took the words right out of my mouth.’

After check-in, we are herded towards the security gates. The long queues make me unusually grateful for Patricia’s brazen cajoling of one of the guards to let us join the wheelchairs in Fast Track. ‘We’re the walking wounded,’ she says with a chintzy smile. I tag along, trying to look alert whenever Patricia or Maggie include me in their conversation about the cataracts that Maggie has either just had or is about to have removed.

‘Don’t Richard, that’s disgusting!’ I say, grateful that the film crew is no longer present to catch his rigorous nose-picking.

Even the fast track slows to a crawl at the scanning machine, where all but the most infirm are required to step out of their
wheelchairs
, give up their sticks, and take off their shoes. Much to his delight, Richard finds a large hole over his right big toe, which he accentuates by wriggling it. Patricia shoots me a black look, which she softens on turning to Maggie. ‘You mustn’t blame Gillian. Richard can be a handful. And she won’t let anyone help.’ I try to force my features into a suitably harassed but dedicated expression, while concealing the frustration beneath.

We finally reach the departure lounge. ‘Shall we try that café over there?’ Patricia asks, diverting my gaze from Wetherspoons, as though I were not just a lazy slattern but a chronic alcoholic.

‘Fine, I’ll grab a table. Do we need an extra chair?’ I ask,
wondering
whether Maggie is to be a permanent fixture.

‘Of course, there are four of us,’ Patricia says, answering both my
questions. ‘I suppose it’s too much to expect them to come and take our order.’

‘I’ll do it,’ I say brightly. ‘What does everyone want?’

‘Black coffee for me, please,’ Maggie says. ‘It’ll keep me going till my next fix.’

‘I’ll have a latte,’ Patricia says, lingering over the name with a
novice’s
relish.

‘I’ll come with you,’ Richard says.

‘No. You’ll be bored. I know!’ I say wickedly. ‘Why not tell Maggie one of your jokes?’

I slip out of range of Patricia’s fury, taking my place in a queue that is already liberally dotted with lime green. Gazing aimlessly across the concourse, I spot Fiona and her parents greeting a pair of priests who have the contrasting physiques of a classic double act: the first, sleek and round; the second, weatherworn and wiry. The large one sweeps Fiona off the ground and kisses her cheek, at which she throws her arms around his neck and tickles it. It is cheering to see a child who displays such affection for a priest. Either she is
unusually
trusting or else the black clothes and heavy breath that used to terrify me have the opposite effect on her.

The woman ahead of me turns round. ‘Excuse me,’ she says softly, ‘but I couldn’t help noticing a fellow Jubilate.’ She holds up the tag on her handbag.

‘That’s right,’ I say, grateful for the normalcy of both her voice and greeting.

‘I expect you’re a regular.’

‘Not at all, it’s my first trip.’

‘Mine too!’ She sounds relieved. ‘We can make our mistakes together. Martin and I have been to Lourdes with the diocese, but we thought we’d try something smaller. Last year he was put in a room with a lot of older men.’ Her voice trails off. ‘I’m sorry! Where are my manners? This is Martin.’ She draws him round to face me. He is a chubby boy in his late teens, with a long, blank face that looks like a sheep in a biblical painting.

‘Hi Martin, I’m Gillian.’ I am rewarded by a distended vowel.

‘Martin’s great but he doesn’t say much, do you, love? The strong silent type.’ He grins as she rubs his arm. ‘Right now he’s thinking:
what a pretty lady! She looks kind and a little lost like me. I hope she’s going to be my friend.’

‘Wow, you’re thinking all that, Martin! Well I hope you and your mum are going to be my friends too.’

Mother and son break into smiles, highlighting the family
resemblance
. We have not yet left the airport, but Patricia’s words about Lourdes making me count my blessings are already ringing true.

‘Is Martin’s condition permanent?’

‘Since birth.’

‘Always excepting a miracle,’ I say lightly.

‘Oh no,’ she replies with a smile. ‘I haven’t come here hoping that Martin will be cured, but to find the strength in myself to cope with the fact that he never, ever, ever will be.’

Her smile grows more strained as her eyes fill with tears. ‘I think she’s ready for you now,’ I say gently, as the assistant stares at her with chain-store indifference. Watching her pick up her tray and lead a shuffling Martin back to his seat, I reflect on our respective responsibilities and wonder whether it might not, after all, be easier to care for a son whose disability has extended his dependence, than a husband who was once a free man.

I collect my drinks and carry them back to the table, when I am accosted by the woman who was hit by the flying sandal.

‘You’re one of us!’ she says, her green visor casting a sinister shadow over her face.

‘I beg your pardon,’ I say, struggling not to tilt the tray as I stoop.

‘A Jubilate.’

‘Oh yes, hello. I’m Gillian.’

‘Brenda. This is my eighth pilgrimage.’

‘I’m afraid it’s only my first. I’d shake hands but mine are full.’

‘And hers are useless,’ her companion interjects. ‘No better than a man’s nipples.’

‘This is Linda,’ Brenda says unperturbed, pointing to the spindly woman buried beneath layers of shabby, shapeless woollens. ‘She’s my carer. At least that’s what it says on the giro. They should ask for their money back.’ She cackles.

‘Well I must be on my way before these grow cold. Good talking to you.’

‘You with her?’ Brenda nods at Patricia.

‘She’s my mother-in-law.’

‘I’ve been here with her before. Lady Muck!’

‘I met a real Lady Muck once, on the ferry, only it was spelt:
k k e
,’ Linda says.

‘Why do you want to tell her that for? She doesn’t want to hear that. Think you’re clever, you do!’ Brenda looks venomously at Linda before turning back to me. ‘I’ve been watching you. You’re magnetic deficient.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘See this!’ She nods to Linda, who leans forward and lifts Brenda’s arm from under a blanket. A copper bangle hangs from her flaccid wrist. ‘It’s a life-saver. A miracle-worker. Your own private blood purification bank.’

‘It sounds amazing.’

‘It helps circulation, disperses nutrients, reduces lactic acid and … what have I left out?’

‘Endorphins.’

‘That’s right: promotes the production of endorphins. Without it, I’d be long gone.’

‘Don’t tempt me,’ Linda says.

‘She doesn’t mean that.’

‘I don’t mean that.’

‘And it just so happens that I’ve brought a few with me. You can have first pick.’

‘That’s very kind, but I really couldn’t accept.’

‘I’m not giving it away,’ she says, affronted. ‘I’m a certified agent! I’ll take pounds, euros, dollars.’

‘Zlotys,’ Linda adds.

‘Zlotys, why zlotys? I’ll zloty you! Come on, my tongue’s hanging out.’ Linda takes hold of the chair. ‘Don’t forget – see me at the Acceuil!’

They make their way into the pub and I return to the table.

‘I’m sorry if these are cold.’

‘I don’t like hot milk,’ Richard says.

‘I meant the coffee, but I was waylaid by two scary women.’

‘We saw,’ Maggie replies. ‘I said to Pattie: “Should we rescue her?” But she said: “No, she’ll have to get used to them soon enough.”’

‘Linda seems an odd sort of carer.’

‘She’s odd all right,’ Maggie says knowingly. ‘They’ve been together forty years. They share a room at the Acceuil like husband and wife. Need I say more?’

‘You mean they’re lesbians?’

‘Sh-sh! Richard!’ Patricia says, proving yet again that she does not have the least inkling of what goes on in his mind.

‘I don’t suppose there’s much of that these days,’ Maggie says. ‘Brenda’s got no feelings from the neck down.’

‘No normal feelings,’ Patricia corrects her.

I stand up, desperate to escape. ‘I feel a headache coming on. I’ll just pop to Boots for some aspirin.’

‘No need,’ Maggie says. ‘I’ve a pack in my bag.’

‘You wouldn’t believe what she fits into that bag,’ Patricia says. ‘I always say it’s like Harrods – everything from a pin to an elephant.’

‘Please don’t bother,’ I insist, as Maggie rummages around
ineffectually
. ‘I could do with an emergency supply. Besides there are a couple of other things I’ve forgotten.’ I try to sound euphemistic. ‘I’ll only be a couple of minutes. Would you keep an eye on Richard?’ I ask Patricia.

‘Of course.’

‘You know how he likes to wander off in a crowd.’

‘Really Gillian!’ she replies, in a wounded tone. ‘I was keeping an eye on Richard before you were born.’

I walk towards Boots but, once out of sight of the café, veer into Mulberry and browse through the handbags on sale. I pick up an oxblood leather tote when I spot a forlorn-looking girl sifting
listlessly
through a rail of belts. Her telltale luggage tag encourages me to speak out.

‘Snap!’

‘What?’ she asks nervously. I hold up my own tag. ‘Oh, are you one of the organisers?’

‘No, just a humble pilgrim. And you?’

‘Even humbler. I’m a handmaiden – it’s my first pilgrimage.’

‘Snap again!’

‘I should be at school but they gave me the week off. I’ve just taken my A levels; the results won’t be out till August.’

‘A nerve-racking time!’

‘This is much worse. I don’t know anyone. I’ve never been away from home before – I mean without my mum and dad.’

‘People seem very friendly.’

‘I know I won’t be able to talk to anyone.’

‘You’re talking to me.’

‘I mean anyone my own age. Not that you’re old. I mean not like some of them.’

‘Thanks. Though I was expecting a few more young people.’

‘They’re all coming down by van. They set off two days ago. But I get car-sick – I mean really sick.’

‘I can see that might cause problems. But I’m sure once you’ve met up with them you’ll have a wonderful week. I’m enormously impressed that anyone – especially at your age – should give up their time to help.’

‘We only had a day’s training: how to lift people in wheelchairs and things. Only they weren’t real. I mean they were real people, not really in wheelchairs. What if it’s different?’

‘It will be different, but you’ll adapt. I can tell you’re a very resourceful person. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get back to my husband; he’ll be wondering where I am … actually, he won’t, but his mother will. I’ll look forward to talking to you again.’