Jubilate (38 page)

‘Me too! You know, I think I’ll buy this belt.’

I return to the café where Patricia is talking animatedly to a tall woman with a white pageboy haircut, beaky nose and half-moon spectacles, clasping a clipboard behind her back, together with a good-looking red-haired man, whom I took for one of the camera crew but turns out to be the director. He starts to speak but I cut him short. ‘Where’s Richard?’ I ask Patricia. ‘I left him with you.’

‘He was here a moment ago.’

‘You’re always saying you want to help and look what happens. You know you mustn’t let him out of your sight.’

As Patricia seeks to exculpate herself and the others offer
alternate
help and reassurance, two security guards run past and I know instinctively that they are heading for Richard. I follow them down the concourse and into Accessorize, where a quick glance at Richard, pinned between the guards, and the wary woman watching him
from a chair, confirms my fears. A small crowd of ghouls stands at the entrance, while two salesgirls fuss over the woman, determined to squeeze every ounce of drama from the incident. Richard catches sight of me and calls my name, straining against his captors, but I am too angry and humiliated to respond. While Patricia and the tall woman, who identifies herself as Louisa Brennan, the pilgrimage director, appeal to the guards, I move to the seated woman.

‘Whatever it is my husband’s done,’ I say, ‘I apologise. He has severe brain damage.’

‘There you go!’ a salesgirl with panda eyes and multicoloured braids says to her colleague, who has a pink poodle tattooed on her arm. ‘My auntie’s friend was stabbed in Bethnal Green Road. In broad daylight. It’s called Care in the Community.’

‘The synapses in his brain are impaired.’

‘I didn’t know,’ the woman says. ‘You can’t tell.’

‘We could,’ the tattooed girl says. ‘Didn’t I say, Mandy? Soon as he came inside, I said we gotta keep an eye on him.’

‘Then it’s a pity you didn’t.’

‘Excuse me! He’s not our only customer.’ She gestures round the store. ‘See, he’s scared everyone else away.’

At that moment, Louisa crosses the floor and I am aware of
attention
shifting on to us. ‘I’m extremely sorry, Madam,’ she says. ‘
Richard’s
one of the hospital pilgrims we’re taking to Lourdes.’

‘They ought to lock him up,’ the tattooed girl says.

‘It was the shock,’ the woman says softly. ‘He came into the cubicle and wouldn’t leave. So I panicked. I’m sorry.’

‘No, you shouldn’t be,’ I say, shamed by her magnanimity.

‘And throw away the key,’ the girl adds.

‘Is there someone we can fetch?’ Louisa asks the woman. ‘Your husband?’

‘No!’ she cries, with a vehemence that speaks volumes. ‘No,’ she says more gently, ‘he’d only get worked up. No harm done. Not even the shirt,’ she says, inspecting the sleeves.

‘You must at least let us offer it to you,’ I say. ‘A token.’

‘No, really. It’s not necessary. I understand.’

‘I’d like to,’ I say, keenly aware that not everyone would be so
forgiving
. ‘Please.’

‘Well, if you’re sure. Thank you. I’ll go and change.’ Casting an apprehensive glance at Richard, she retreats into the cubicle. The assistants apart, everyone looks relieved to have the matter so
painlessly
resolved.

‘What time’s your flight?’ one of the guards asks Louisa.

‘Eleven o’clock. We’ll be called any minute,’ she adds as a further assurance.

With the immediate danger lifted, Patricia feels free to add her pennyworth. ‘I knew it was something and nothing,’ she says with a smile. ‘A silly mix-up.’

I walk over and grab Richard’s clammy hand. It is only by a supreme effort that I keep from reminding Patricia that his mind was warped long before his brain was damaged, and that she bears much of the blame. It was her sick subservience to Thomas, not least her connivance at his affairs, that encouraged Richard’s relentless womanising. ‘In an almost literal sense, he thinks with his penis,’ the neuro-psychologist said, explaining the effect of the damaged synapses. ‘In a figurative sense,’ I wanted to reply, ‘that’s what he’s been doing his entire life.’

No sooner have I taken out my purse than the film director approaches me. ‘It’s my fault,’ he says. ‘I’m so sorry. I distracted your mother-in-law with talk of the documentary.’

‘Yes, well, she’s easily distracted,’ I reply, taken aback by his
self-regard
. ‘Maybe one day you people will learn that the whole world doesn’t revolve around a camera. Not everyone’s burning ambition is to appear on TV!’

I am surprised, but not displeased, that he looks so deflated. Spending his life surrounded by minions and flatterers, he might benefit from meeting someone less easily impressed.

The guards leave the shop. ‘I’d put him straight on the plane if I were you, love,’ one advises me. ‘And take better care next time. The place is full of kiddies!’

Horrified to hear him voice my greatest fear, I tighten my grip on Richard, pay for the shirt and return to the café, deliberately
quickening
the pace to escape Patricia. Maggie is standing beside our bags looking concerned.

‘Where have you been? I slipped out to the you know what, just
in case. When I came back, everyone was gone. It’s lucky I wasn’t any longer. There was a guard sniffing around. Next thing you know, there’d have been a controlled explosion.’

‘It’s very lucky, Maggie,’ I reply, ‘thank you. Patricia’s on her way. She’ll explain. I’m taking Richard straight to the gate. We’ll see you there.’

We make our way through the concourse, to wait on the platform for the transit train. As we step inside, Richard says plaintively: ‘You said we were going on a plane.’

‘We are. This is just so we don’t have to walk too far to reach it.’

‘I thought you were putting me on the train! I thought you were sending me home instead of on holiday!’ He starts to laugh and then, without warning, his voice starts to quaver. ‘I’ve been a naughty boy.’

‘You have.’

‘I’ve been a naughty boy.’

‘That’s easy to say, but it doesn’t make it any better.’

‘I can’t help it. My brain’s hurt.’

‘I know that. We all know it. But it’s no excuse.’ I wonder if his remorse is genuine or simply a response to my mood. ‘You have to learn to control yourself.’

‘You shouldn’t shout at me. It’s not my fault. My brain’s hurt.’

‘Don’t start crying, please! Look, the train’s stopped. Hurry out before the doors shut.’

‘Before we get squashed,’ he replies with a giggle, his tears already forgotten.

‘Oh Richard, what are we going to do with you?’

At the gate, we take the last remaining seats in a row beside an elderly woman in a sleeveless top with skin like a scrunched-up
cardigan
. She bites into a Danish pastry. ‘You know the worst thing to have happened to women in the last twenty years?’ she says, smiling. ‘The elasticised waistband.’

I sit, with one eye on Richard and the other on the floor, too wound up to read and too wary to risk a glance that might lead to further introductions. Ten minutes later, I look up to find Patricia hovering over me.

‘There’s nowhere for me.’

‘Have mine,’ my neighbour says.

‘Oh no, Ruth! Really, I couldn’t.’

‘Don’t be silly. You want to be with your family.’ I wonder how she knows. ‘And I need to walk off some of that cake. See you later.’

‘Such a nice woman!’ Patricia says. ‘The life and soul of the laundry room. Lives in a lodge near Hereford.’ She sits down and opens her bag, producing an apple neatly cut into quarters, since she hates to see anyone eating one whole. I take a slice, which is
surprisingly
crisp. True to form, she makes no mention of Richard’s
behaviour
, having thrust it through the shredder that she calls a memory.

‘He’s a charming man,’ she says between bites.

‘Who?’ I ask, looking round for another pilgrimage official.

‘The director,’ she says impatiently. ‘Mr O’Something or other. He’s worried that you’ve not signed the release form. If he puts you in the picture – even in the background – and you object, the whole film will have to be abandoned. Months of work ruined.’

‘I doubt it’d come to that.’

‘You don’t know lawyers! You’re the only one who hasn’t signed. I was mortified.’

‘I had other things to think about. It didn’t seem that important.’

‘Not to you perhaps. But he wants to feature us specially: you and me and … Richard.’ Her voice falters. ‘Think what it would mean to the Holy Redeemer!’

‘So I’ll sign. It’s no big deal.’ For all Patricia’s enthusiasm (which sits strangely beside her objection to seeing ‘ordinary people’ on TV), I have no wish to spend the week in the shadow of a film crew. Media exposure may be the modern elixir, but it is not a miracle cure.

An announcement across the tannoy that boarding will begin with the wheelchairs sends them racing towards the barrier. ‘I don’t want to be unkind,’ Patricia says sternly, ‘but you’d think they were competing in the Paralympics.’

The rotund priest comes over to greet her. ‘Ah, the shining star of the dining room, looking lovelier than ever!’ He kisses each of her hands in turn.

‘Father, really!’ she says coyly. ‘Not in front of my son and daughter-in-law.’

‘Hello, hello! I’m Father Humphrey.’

‘Richard and Gillian Patterson,’ I say, holding out my hand which, much to my relief, he is content to shake.

‘Is it your first time in Lourdes?’ he asks Richard, who looks to me for the answer.

‘Yes, Father,’ I say.

‘Well I’m sure it won’t be your last. Like Patricia here, you’ll soon be hooked.’

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ she says, wincing.

‘Hooked!’ he repeats emphatically. ‘And you mustn’t worry about the flight. You’ll be back on solid ground before you know it. The only danger sign is if I start singing “Nearer my God to thee”.’

Patricia’s fluting laugh alerts me to the joke. ‘Such a jolly man,’ she says, as he walks away. ‘And not just because he’s fat.’ She nods at the enormous woman being wheeled past by Ruth. ‘She’s a case in point. Couldn’t raise a smile to save her life. Hello Sheila!’

The woman looks up. ‘Do I know you?’

‘It’s Patricia,’ she says, pointing to her badge. ‘I took you to the baths last year.’ Sheila grunts as she is whisked away. ‘Never again,’ Patricia says with a shudder. ‘I try to do my bit, but there are limits. Even with four of us – and one a landscape gardener – I cricked my back.’

‘What’s wrong with her? Some kind of dropsy?’

‘More like some kind of greed. She can’t carry her own weight. Like those dinosaurs whose brains were too small for their bodies.’

We are finally called on to the plane where, wheelchairs apart, there is open seating, which leads to problems when several of the older handmaidens vie to sit next to the three priests. One goes so far as to deposit her coat on the empty seat beside Father Humphrey, who gently returns it, explaining that he has saved a place for Father Dave. ‘We have to sort out this evening’s service,’ he says with relief.

Patricia makes for the row directly across the aisle from them. ‘You’ll think me very silly,’ she says, ‘but I’ll feel happier if there’s any turbulence.’ Richard grabs the window seat, which leaves me squeezed between them, a discomfort that is not solely physical. Patricia’s satisfaction fades when a young couple with a baby sit down behind us.

‘Oh no,’ she whispers. ‘Wouldn’t they be better off at the back? He’ll be squalling all the way to Tarbes.’

‘He seems fairly placid to me.’

‘Just wait till his ears pop!’

I lean over to fasten Richard’s seatbelt. He squirms as if I were knotting his tie. Patricia stares at the cameraman struggling to fit his equipment in the overhead locker. ‘When I was younger, people used to mistake me for Kate O’Mara,’ she says pensively.

‘You never know – it may happen again. Remember, we’re going to Lourdes.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Gillian!’ she says sharply. ‘We’re not going there for me.’

The flight passes without incident. Richard counts the clouds and eats all three of our chocolate muffins, rebuffing my warnings that he will make himself sick with ‘That’s what the bag’s for.’ Patricia takes an undue interest in the comings and goings to the loo, chatting to several people as they pass, including Maggie, whose mention of smoke detectors clears up the mystery of her ‘filthy habit’. Too restless to tackle my book, I flick through the in-flight magazine, reading previews of summer festivals in places to which I have never been and know now that I will never go.

Shortly before landing, Marjorie walks through the plane, asking hospital pilgrims to stay in their seats while the helpers prepare for duty. ‘We won’t be on the same coach,’ Patricia says. ‘Mine will drop me at my hotel, while you’ll go straight to the Acceuil. But don’t worry, I’ll be along as soon as I’ve unpacked.’

‘I expect I’ll manage.’

Patricia waits for the crowd to thin before standing and then, with a gesture of helplessness (which is as selective as her memory), asks the man behind to lift down her bag.

‘That’s very kind,’ she says. ‘And congratulations on your baby. We were a little worried when we saw you sit down, but we didn’t hear a squeak out of him – or her of course – the entire journey.’

‘We are most happy that Pyotr has not inconvenienced you,’ he replies, with a rasp that goes beyond his accent.

We hospital pilgrims are finally allowed off the plane,
trudging
and trundling through an airport which, for once, has been designed with the disabled in mind. Any speed that we may have picked up inside the building is lost, however, when we come to
load the coaches, which takes over an hour. The ambulant (a word that sounds less formal now we are in France) fill the gaps between the wheelchairs, so that Richard and I find ourselves sitting beside a man of indeterminate age, with a square face, blotchy scalp and caustic BO. He speaks to me, but his voice is so slurred that my only resort is to smile broadly and say: ‘And I’m Gillian.’ Realising that this is not the right response and seeing no Jubilate official on whom to shift responsibility, I ask if he needs any help.