Jubilate (39 page)

‘Ift … ee … up. Ippin ….’

I have never felt so conscious of consonants as I struggle to
decipher
his speech. ‘He wants you to lift him up – he’s slipping,’ Richard says, without looking up from his puzzle. I sit, dumbfounded by his comprehension, while the man continues to press me.

‘Ift … ee … up!’

‘Yes, of course,’ I say, wondering how best to gain leverage. With great trepidation, I put my arms around his back and heave him up.

‘You’re kissing him,’ Richard says, and Brenda, watching fiercely from across the aisle, cackles.

‘Is that better?’ I ask the man.

‘Es,’ he sputters, with a sweet smile.

Our coach is the first to leave, wending its way through the
characterless
countryside. ‘How often have I been to France?’ Richard asks.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You should.’

‘You came several times before I met you.’

‘You should find them out. You should add them up. Else how will I ever remember?’

A priest at the front of the coach picks up the microphone. ‘Good afternoon everyone. To those who’ve never met me, I’m Father Dave. Along with Father Humphrey and Father Paul, I’m here to guide you through your pilgrimage. And I’m delighted to welcome you all to Lourdes. Hands up those who’ve been here before.’

Most people, including Richard, raise their hands.

‘I can’t lift up my hand, can I, Father?’ Brenda snarls. ‘I’m
blooming
well paralysed.’

‘Yes, of course. I consider myself well and truly rebuked.’ He slaps
his right hand with his left, sending a deafening clack down the microphone. ‘We can always rely on Brenda to keep us on our toes.’

‘You’re telling me,’ Linda says in a stage whisper.

‘Well, as those of you who’ve been before will know, and those who are here for the first time will soon discover, this is a unique place. If only the rest of the world were more like Lourdes, we’d be a lot happier.’ I gaze at the sick and disabled people in the coach and admire his certainty. ‘Let me tell you a story: a true story; well, all my stories are true, but this one actually happened. A woman came to Lourdes from Paris and wanted to find a mass in French. She looked down the list of services and saw there were masses in Italian, German, Spanish and English, but nothing in French.’

‘Swedish!’ exclaims the man who disrupted the check-in.

‘Yes, Swedish.’

‘Danish. Norwegian.’

‘Those too, I’m sure.’

‘Dutch. Polish.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Father Dave says, struggling to maintain his
composure
. ‘The point is that there were masses in every language but French. So she went to the information centre and complained: “Shouldn’t I be able to hear mass in my own language in my own country?” “But, Madame,” the assistant replied, “this isn’t France, it’s Lourdes.”’

His moral is clear and duly acknowledged. As if wary of further interruption, he sets down the microphone and we spend the rest of the mercifully short journey in silence. We arrive at the Acceuil, pulling into a shady courtyard where a dozen youngsters stand expectantly on the steps and a couple sprawl on a ramp. We step off the coach into another round of greetings. A wiry teenager, crackling with untapped energy, asks if I need any help. ‘That’s fine, thanks,’ I say, surprised that he can find no more deserving cases. ‘I can look after myself. I’m fit.’

He steps back as if struck. Fearing that I may have insulted him, I give him a smile that seems to increase the offence. To my relief, we are intercepted by Derek.

‘We met at the airport,’ he says, ‘do you remember?’

‘Of course,’ I reply, wondering if he has misread my notes.

‘I’ve been allotted to you for tonight.’ I bite my tongue. ‘Are you ready to see your room?’

‘Thank you.’ I grab Richard and follow Derek into the building.

‘Anything you need to feel at home: extra pillows, a plug for your hair rollers, just ask,’ he says, as we enter the lift.

‘I will … Stop it, Richard!’ I can no longer keep from laughing. ‘You’re tickling me!’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘Yes, you were.’

‘No, I wasn’t!’ He looks genuinely hurt.

‘Well, he’s on holiday,’ Derek says indulgently. ‘A little tickling’s allowed.’

‘But I wasn’t!’

‘Is this our floor?’ I ask quickly.

‘Yes, we came in at the top,’ he says, holding the lift doors open. ‘It’ll all seem confusing at first, but you’ll soon get the hang of it.’ He leads us through a web of corridors to our room at one corner of an angular building. ‘You have one of the very best views,’ he says, as if to make up for the decor. ‘Come and see!’ I follow him to the window which looks out on a small forecourt where scores of empty wheelchairs are lined up like supermarket trolleys. Beyond it a river runs under a stone footbridge, and in the distance a toy-town church spire pokes through a patchwork of green.

‘Your luggage will be along shortly. If you’d like any help
unpacking
, I’ll be only –’

‘No, that’s very kind. We’ll be fine.’

‘I’d like help unpacking,’ Richard says.

‘You’ll have help.’

‘Well then, I’ll be off,’ Derek says, shifting his weight from foot to foot. ‘You’re sure there’s nothing else you need?’

‘Just a wash,’ I say, starting to lose patience.

‘Yes, right. As soon as you’re ready, come along to the dining room. Supper’s always informal on the first night.’

He finally leaves and I have the chance to take stock of the room which, in its bleached austerity, feels like a hospital side-ward stripped bare after a recent death. The only colour comes from a bunch of buttercups in a jam-jar on the plain wooden desk. There
are two iron-framed beds, one of them attached to a pulley with which Richard immediately starts playing; a small cupboard; an even smaller chest of drawers; and a desk chair that cuts into my back when I sit down. I spring up and, after stopping Richard
throttling
himself on the pulley, take a look in the bathroom, a simple wet-room with a sloping floor and a shower placed so close to the loo that, for once, I shan’t be able to blame the damp seat on Richard.

A woman enters the room, after a cursory knock that alerts me to her profession even before she does so herself. ‘Hi there, I’m Susan Gilpin, one of the pilgrimage doctors. And you must be Richard.’

‘Yes,’ he says defensively.

‘That’s good. I know you’re going to like it here. All the fun things to do. And all the funny people. Why else would I be mad enough to bring a three-month-old baby? And you’re Richard’s carer?’

‘Actually, we’re married.’

‘Yes, yes.’ She is busily reading her file. ‘I meant for the purposes of the pilgrimage. And you want to look after his medication yourself?’

‘I have done for the last twelve years,’ I say, trying to restrain my hostility.

‘Quite. Best not to disrupt the routine. As I always say, you carers are the experts, we doctors are just amateurs. But if you need any help, there’s always one of us on call. Bye-bye then Richard. I can see you’re in safe hands.’

I doubt that he would agree, since I insist on his having a
thorough
wash. After my experience in the coach, I am taking no chances. We then make our way to the dining room, to be greeted by an elderly handmaiden with a squirt of antiseptic, which Richard instantly wipes off on his shirt. ‘I’m afraid you may find it a little crowded in here tonight, dear,’ she says, in a voice redolent of a
Cotswold
cottage. ‘We’re sharing with a group of Slovakians, but they’ll be gone before breakfast.’ Stepping inside, I find her warning
inadequate
. The concentration of disease and disability in a single room is harrowing. I am sure that by tomorrow I shall be fine, but for now I am glad of the chance to call on Patricia, whose self-absorption relieves her of any such qualms.

‘Can I leave Richard with you?’ I ask. ‘I’m not hungry and I want to press on with the unpacking.’

‘Would you like me to bring you some bread and cheese?’ she asks, with unexpected concern.

‘No, I’m fine, really. Just not hungry. I’ll see you at mass.’

I make my escape, catching my breath outside the nurses’ station where the young brancardiers are setting out the luggage. I feel an intense desire to be surrounded by my own things – even just clothes and cosmetics – but, inevitably, my case has yet to arrive. While waiting for the next batch, I glance down the corridor where the film crew are shooting an interview with the boy who behaved so oddly outside. At the end, the director strides towards the lift, turning almost as an afterthought to me.

‘You’re staying here?’ he asks.

‘With Richard.’

‘I thought it was only for hospital pilgrims,’ he says, revealing his lack of homework.

‘And their carers.’

‘You’re his carer?’

‘So I’m told. I used to be his wife.’

I hurry back to my room, trusting that no one is watching. If I hear the word
carer
once more, I swear I shall scream. Will it be carved on my tombstone?
Sacred to the memory of Richard
Patterson
and his beloved carer
? When Jonathan Tickell offered his
definition
of a good wife in his best man’s speech, he could have left out the ‘cook in the kitchen’ and ‘maid in the living room’, let alone the ‘whore in the bedroom’ that so offended Patricia. In my case, all that is needed is a carer in the sickroom.

I lie on the bed with my eyes closed, striving to empty my mind, only to be roused a few minutes later by Patricia and Richard who have come to fetch me for mass. We take the lift to the top floor and a small chapel which, in its starkness, might be the spiritual
equivalent
of the wet-room. We sit beside Maggie and an elderly blind man, whose expectant face makes me feel shallow and ashamed. Before the service begins, Louisa welcomes us to Lourdes and introduces us to various pilgrimage officials. My thoughts wander, and I start to regret having missed supper, when she makes a simple remark that touches my heart: ‘What we’re doing in Lourdes is God’s gift to us. What we do to one another while we’re here is our gift to God.’ It
is clear that, far from leaving everything to God, I must play a part myself. All the prayers, all the candles and all the baths in the world will go for nothing unless I treat my fellow pilgrims with love.

Louisa resumes her seat and we sing the hymn ‘Let There Be Love’, a favourite of our church youth group. Youth is also the keynote here, since we are accompanied by a scratch quartet of guitars, flute and drums. Patricia whispers that they will have practised in the van on the journey down and, while traces of the brancardiers remain in the jolting rhythm, their dedication and enthusiasm make up for any shortcomings. The most affecting contribution, however, comes from Fiona, who stands at the front and conducts us, swinging her tape measure to and fro, more like a windscreen wiper than a baton.

Father Humphrey reads the gospel story of Christ and the
paralysed
man, elucidating it in his sermon: ‘Remember that, however hard it may be for the human mind to fathom, all suffering has a purpose. The Blessed Virgin has cured many people in Lourdes but not St Bernadette herself, who was tormented all her life by asthma. When she was asked why, she replied that it was not for her to
question
the ways of God. “I’m happier on my bed of affliction,” she declared, “than a queen on a throne.” She had no more desire to suffer than Our Lord had on His cross, but she knew that it was one of God’s gifts. And it is a gift that you, the sick, share with us, the well. You grant us the privilege of your trust, which in turn brings us closer to God. In a world where the old and the frail, the vulnerable and the disabled and the unborn, are too often discarded as surplus to requirements, it is an inestimable joy to discover a different way to live: the Lourdes way. Here we see humanity at its best, where the weak and infirm are treated with love and respect. We may only be here for a few days, but let us make it the pattern for our lifelong
pilgrimage
. May we be fortified by our fellowship with one another, the love of Our Lady, the message of Holy Scripture and the sacraments of the Church. Amen.’

At the end of the sermon, Father Humphrey shifts into party mode, calling on Father Paul to bless the banner, after which Father Dave restores the solemnity with the Eucharistic prayers. He
proclaims
the Peace: the moment in the service I always dread, since it wrests me out of my private thoughts and back into the world. It
is evident from the start that this is to be far from the usual token greeting. All over the room, people abandon their seats to exchange hugs and kisses. Even Patricia, who I suspect chooses her Sunday pew on the basis of avoiding unwelcome handshakes, enters into the spirit of the occasion. After kissing Richard with an affecting
tenderness
, she wishes me a ‘Peace’ of comparable warmth and moves down the row of wheelchairs, which is fast turning into a reception line, with the able-bodied queuing up to embrace the
malades
.

Richard scuttles about and I dismiss the suspicion that he is favouring the women. I am more reserved, sticking to my
immediate
neighbours, until a sudden impulse thrusts me towards the director. My fear of fawning on him may have led me to be brusque – even rude – in our earlier encounters. This is my chance to make peace as well as to offer it. ‘Peace be with you,’ I say, holding out my hand, which he takes with a friendly smile. All at once an
extraordinary
feeling comes over me. I am clasping his hand yet I seem to be floating away. It is as though the peace that I granted him has been extended to me, and I am filled with lightness and light.

G
illian has left, but her presence is everywhere around me, from the faint indentation on the mattress to the whiff of coupledom on the sheets. Her scent clings to my fingers and, like a pensioner who has shaken hands with the Queen or a teenager with a rock star, I resolve never to wash them again. I am her subject; I am her fan. I leap up and dash to the basin, thrusting my hands under the tap to rid myself of such fatuousness. But her fragrance is a match for Madame BJ’s cheap soap.

I rerun my dream, which has remained crystal-clear. I was at home with Celia and Pippa, whose face was bright and vibrant, not the wan, graveyard colour of our recent encounters. In some
mysterious
way she was both frozen in time and eight years older. Celia asked me to drive Pippa to the mountains. ‘How can I?’ I replied, ‘I have to work.’ ‘Please,’ she begged, ‘you know that my licence was revoked after the accident. The air is exhilarating, and she needs a change of scene.’ So I drove her up to a ridge, where she clambered about on the rocks while I stayed locked in the car. She pressed her face to the glass but, unlike the squashed features of the African children in the coach, it was fixed in a radiant smile. ‘You’ve brought me as far as you can,’ she said. ‘Now you must go back and move on.’ I know that the words she was speaking were mine, but it makes no difference since it was not Pippa who needed to release me but myself.

I shower, dress and do some desultory packing before going down to the dining room where I find, yet again, that I am the last to arrive. My colleagues look smug, and I wonder whether one of them might have spotted Gillian leaving the hotel. To my joy, I realise that I no longer care. The last remaining traces of the God-stained schoolboy have been laid to rest.

‘Good game of charades?’ I ask casually.

‘Kids!’ Jamie says, with a snort.

‘Jamie’s feeling old,’ Jewel says.

‘I took off my shirt, grinned like an idiot and knelt at Lorna’s feet. But did anyone guess
The Naked Civil Servant
?’

‘The closest they got was
Jonah and the Whale
!’

I give him a sympathetic smile and reach for a croissant.

‘All ready for home?’

‘You bet!’ Sophie says. ‘Giles flies back from Abu Dhabi at
lunchtime
. He’s picking up the car at Heathrow and driving straight to Stansted. Then we head back west for a weekend in Wiltshire.’

‘All right for some!’ Jamie says. ‘I’ve promised to help my dad do up the spare room.’

‘Never mind,’ Jewel says, ‘you’ll get your reward in Heaven.’

‘Oh great!’ he says sourly, ‘that’s just what I need after a week in Lourdes.’

‘How about you, Jewel?’ I ask.

‘Drinks with some mates tonight and a gig at the Brixton Academy tomorrow. Nothing much.’

‘Go on, twist the knife in!’ Jamie says.

‘And you?’ Jewel asks me.

I realise, with a start, that I have nothing planned. Even in my wildest dreams I could not expect Gillian to abandon Richard at Stansted and come back to Clapham with me. When Louisa explained how some of the pilgrims had trouble adjusting to
everyday
life after the intensity and comradeship of Lourdes, I never suspected that I might be one of them and that, far from welcoming an empty weekend to recover, I would feel utterly, terrifyingly alone.

‘So what are your overall impressions of Lourdes then, Vincent?’ Sophie asks. ‘Give us a sneak preview of your commentary.’

‘Love,’ I say without a moment’s hesitation. ‘The place may be crass and exploitative; it may play shamelessly on people’s
credulity
, but the pilgrims who come here do so in good faith. Like
everywhere
else that’s been invested with a sense of the sacred, it has an aura. It’s that aura that inspires people to keep on coming and, against all the odds, it’s inspired me. But it’s us – well, them – who’ve given it that aura: their hopes, their faith, and, above all, their love. It’s not something that’s been beamed down from on high.’

‘You’ve changed your tune, chief.’

‘No, same tune, but I’m no longer playing solo. It sounds quite different when you add another instrument.’

‘A fiddle?’ Jamie asks with a smirk.

‘A Stradivarius. I’ve found so much love in Lourdes – and I’m
not just speaking personally. Take Brenda and Linda – they’ve been together thirty-seven years.’

‘I wish I was a dyke,’ Jewel says. ‘Yeah yeah, I saw that look, Jamie! And that’s one of the reasons. Women are so much more loyal than men.’

‘Those two certainly are,’ I say. ‘A year after they met, Brenda was diagnosed with MS. It spread rapidly and within five years she was in a wheelchair. Linda gave up her job to care for her. For all their bickering, I’ve never seen such a practical expression of love.’

‘So you think that everyone should stick with partners who are incapacitated?’ Jewel asks. Sophie and Jamie look nervous.

‘Yes,’ I reply firmly, ‘as long as they do it out of love and not out of duty or guilt.’

After an uncomfortable few minutes, we return to our rooms to finish packing, before bringing our cases down to the foyer where Madame BJ instructs us to pile them under the statue of Bernadette. Given her warnings about gypsies, she seems remarkably sanguine about the security of our unguarded bags, but then her gimlet eye must be a greater safeguard than the sturdiest lock. That said, she announces that she will be away for the rest of the day.

‘Every Friday – when the weather is fine – I go climbing with a group of friends. So this is goodbye. It has been a pleasure.’

‘Really?’

‘Or perhaps I should say
an education
to welcome you. We have 2,000 guests each year at the Bretagne, but I shall remember my pilgrims from the BBC.’

She retreats into her office and we make our final trip to the Domain. Jewel stops to buy a bottle, explaining, as sheepishly as if she were buying dope, that she has promised to take some spring water back to her grandparents. Dissociating myself from Jamie’s mockery, I reflect on Gillian and whether she will maintain her resolve once we are back in England. I must find a way to keep her with me both in body and spirit, convincing her that the problems we face are mere practicalities.

‘Earth to Vincent!’ Jamie says, predictably. ‘Are we going straight to the baths?’

‘No, the Acceuil. I want to squeeze in a final interview.’

‘That wouldn’t by any chance be with one Gillian Patterson?’

‘No, but you’re warm – her mother-in-law. I sounded her out at Stansted and then never got round to it.’

‘Are you sure it’s a good idea?’ Sophie asks warily.

‘I’ve a hunch she’ll have some interesting things to say.’

We reach the Acceuil and call the lift, which opens to reveal a group of Jubilates, among them Richard and Nigel.

‘We’re going to the baths,’ Richard says.

‘Save a place for us, mate. We’ll be along any minute.’

‘’Old,’ Nigel says.

‘You’ll find it’s quite warm in the sun,’ Jewel says.

‘’Old!’ he insists.

‘Does he need a sweater?’ Sophie asks Geoff, who is pushing him.

‘No, the water’s cold,’ Richard says, and Nigel breaks into a smile. ‘He’s been here before.’

We take the lift to the third floor where the vestibule is already stripped of much of its Jubilate clutter. Brancardiers and
handmaidens
are packing up boxes, taking down notices and piling rubbish in green plastic bags. I find Patricia with Maggie in the dining room, wiping down tables and stacking chairs.

‘Gillian’s not here,’ she says icily.

‘I know – she’s at the baths … I mean I saw a crowd heading that way. Aren’t you having one?’

‘One thing I’ve learnt in life, Mr O’Shaughnessy, is that some of us are Marthas and some Marys. Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Not necessarily. I believe in choice.’

‘That’s as may be. But for some it’s a luxury and others it’s a trap. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do.’

‘That’s why I’m here. I’d like to film a short interview, if Maggie can spare you.’

‘Now? I thought you’d given up on me.’

‘Other fish to fry,’ Maggie says sourly.

‘On the contrary, saving the best till last,’ I reply, forcing a smile.

‘But I’ve been clearing up. I look a fright.’

‘Not at all. The picture of elegance. Isn’t that so?’ I turn to Maggie, who gives me a suspicious nod.

‘Well, I believe in keeping up standards. Out of respect for the
malades
.’

After a little more cajoling, followed by several minutes at a mirror to ‘repair the damage’, Patricia is ready. We collect the crew and go down to the non-functioning fountain, which provides the perfect setting.

‘Is this all right for you, Jamie?’ I ask, as I steer Patricia into position.

‘Sure, chief.’

‘Will people be able to hear me? There’s a lot of background noise.’

‘Don’t worry. Jewel’s going to wire you for sound.’

‘Is that safe?’

‘Not a real wire,’ I assure her. ‘Just a microphone in your lapel. There we are. OK for levels?’ I ask Jewel, who gives me the
thumbs-up
. ‘Now look at me, Patricia. Not at the camera, at me.’

‘Oh dear, there’s so much to remember.’

‘No, to forget. Starting with the camera and the microphone. Ready?’

‘As I’ll ever be.’

‘Good. Patricia, you’ve come to Lourdes as a handmaiden several times, I understand.’

‘Nine. Not that I’m counting.’

‘What drives you to make such a commitment?’

‘It’s a way of giving back. My life hasn’t always been easy, but I still have my health. And that’s a great blessing. I’ve seen someone very dear to me – someone I love very much – struck down by illness, and I haven’t always been able … haven’t always been allowed to help. Coming here does a little to make up for that.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, disconcerted.

‘Besides, I believe it’s what God wants me to do.’

‘Like a calling?’

‘Oh nothing so grand. But Our Lord called on us all to visit the sick, feed the hungry and clothe the naked (not that I’ve had to do much of that!).’

‘Do you try to live all your life according to the Church?’

‘Of course. Not that I always succeed.’ She gives an ingratiating laugh. ‘God has given us this extraordinary gift of life. It’s up to us to try to live it according to His will.’

Her confidence fuels mine and I press her harder than I had
intended. ‘When you were a little girl, did your father ever make you anything? I don’t know: a rocking horse or a doll’s house?’

‘Yes, yes he did.’ Her eyes shine. ‘He made me a Noah’s Ark: the most beautiful one you’ve ever seen, filled with stalls and coops and hutches. And he bought me a set of miniature animals to put inside. How funny! I haven’t thought of it in years.’

‘And did he also give you strict instructions on how you should use it? Did he say you could only put the zebras in this stall and the elephants in that? Did he tell you which animals you were allowed to bring out on deck?’

‘I see where this is heading.’

‘Well did he?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘No, your father wanted you to enjoy it: to make it your own. Which is what people do when they give presents. So why should God, the supreme present-giver, be any different? Why should His gifts come wrapped in a long list of rules and regulations? I’m talking about the Bible, the most arcane instruction manual of them all.’

‘It’s easy to argue through stories.’

‘But didn’t Christ?’ She looks shocked. Glimpsing Sophie’s uneasy expression, I resolve to change my line of questioning. ‘On a different point, I’ve been surprised – impressed, of course, but also surprised – by how many of the helpers take on tasks, quite menial tasks, that they would never do at home. I once made a film about Armistice Day, and I remember reading notices in
The Times
in which young women whose fiancés had been killed in the trenches offered to marry any maimed or blind or injured officer. And I wonder, with the greatest respect, if there might be an element of that in what people are doing here: getting their hands not just dirty, but as filthy as possible.’

‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me. All I can say is that many of the
hospital
pilgrims are severely disabled. They need help with their basic functions.’

‘I don’t dispute that, but what is it that motivates you – you,
Patricia
– to help them? You said it was giving thanks, but is it gratitude or guilt? Are you trying to humble yourself in penance, not just for being healthy but for being alive: the debt with which all of us – that
is all of us who are Catholics – are saddled with at birth and which we can never repay?’

‘Not in the least,’ she replies fervently. ‘That may sound clever, but it isn’t true. For a start I’ve had more than my share of suffering. Do you know what it is to watch your child spend six weeks in a coma?’

‘No.’ I refuse to trade tragedies with her.

‘No, I didn’t think so, or you wouldn’t see this week as separate from the rest of my life. But I’m not complaining. I count it a
privilege
to have suffered as I have – it’s a sign that God considers me worthy. He knows I’m strong enough to endure it, that my faith will survive.’

‘I’m glad to hear it and I hope it brings you comfort, but what right do you have to impose your beliefs on anyone else?’

With a cutthroat gesture Sophie indicates that I should wind up the questions. Patricia misinterprets it, her eyes widening in alarm.

‘What am I imposing? I’m simply answering the questions you’ve asked.’ She looks for support to Sophie and Jewel, who remain impassive. ‘Impose! I’ve no idea what you mean?’

‘Oh I think you do. You have a daughter-in-law.’

‘Is this going out on air?’ she asks, so helplessly that even I feel a tinge of compassion.

‘No!’ Sophie interjects, stepping in front of the camera. ‘I think we have more than enough material. Shall we leave it there, Vincent?’