Only Strange People Go to Church (10 page)

Maria is resentful of Mike’s diktat that she must enter the pool with the clients but what can she do? This is all Bert’s fault. Him and his big mouth, but she knows why he told Mike. Maria understands very well why Bert is so keen to get members of staff immersed in water, and so does Mike.

Three years ago Bert accompanied several of the centre’s Catholic clients, including Blue Group’s Jane, on a pilgrimage to Lourdes. ‘I’ll be sunning myself in the south of France,’ he boasted in the staff room, ‘all expenses paid.’

Jane was excited about the trip and could talk of nothing else, fervent about the miraculous healing for those who believe hard enough. She explained to Maria that the Virgin Mary had appeared to Bernadette, a simple peasant girl, beside a mountain spring in a cave in the French town of Lourdes.

‘Wow, when was this Jane?’ asked Maria.

But Jane didn’t know.

‘Well it must have been a while ago, if they still had peasants in France,’ said Maria with a wink.

‘Before they joined the Euro,’ said Jane, deadpan.

Maria stifled a giggle. One of the saddest things about Jane’s brain being pulped was that she never consciously made jokes and never laughed. Extensive brain surgery had resulted in a humour bypass.

Father Harry, the priest who was organising the pilgrimage, knew how nervous Jane was and thoughtfully provided a book on the Lourdes experience. Maria worked through it with Jane to prepare her for the trip. They poured over the photographs of the
pretty town, the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes and the picturesque church, the candlelight procession Jane would take part in along with the sick and the faithful, the grotto: the cave festooned with walking sticks, wheelchairs and iron lungs, discarded by those cured in the miraculous water, the taps where pilgrims filled bottles, the bathing area where Jane would be immersed and blessed in a bath of ice meltwater straight off the mountain.

‘Now Jane, it says here to expect it to be cold. It’s a mountain stream so it’s going to be icy.’

‘But it’s going to cure me.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ was all that Maria could bring herself to say.

Sadly it didn’t. Jane cried for a few weeks when she returned, which was exhausting for everyone in Blue Group, but eventually she stopped crying and life went on as normal, although not quite as normal for Bert.

Bert returned from Lourdes in a terrific mood. On his first day back at work he wore a new short-sleeved shirt. Maria didn’t understand the significance of this until, at her monthly review meeting the same day, Mike explained.

‘Bert’s cured!’ he whispered dramatically, despite the fact that they were alone.

Mike nodded seriously. Maria didn’t know what it was that Bert was cured of, and she didn’t like to ask. It wasn’t anyone else’s business and she really didn’t want to get into gossiping with Mike about Bert, or anyone else for that matter.

‘His eczema is completely gone!’ said Mike, excited.

Someone must be winding Mike up, surely.

‘Bert hasn’t got eczema,’ said Maria dismissively, almost tutting at Mike’s childish prattle, and then, realising she was contradicting the boss, turned it in to a question.

‘Has he?’

‘Oh yeah,’ Mike said heavily, ‘you didn’t know?’

Mike said this as though Maria had somehow neglected her duty.

‘I’ve never noticed it. It can’t have been that bad.’

‘Believe me, it was: Isobel Thomson in Purple Group?’

Isobel Thomson of Purple Group was a profoundly disabled client who came to the centre when the hospital she had spent her life in was closed down. She seemed distressed and was not adapting well to her new situation. When she arrived she had a wee patch of red itchy skin on the inside of her elbow. Within the week this had spread to both her armpits. Martin, when he saw her, thought this was hilarious and rubbed his armpits too, apelike, in appreciative impersonation. Martin interpreted Isobel’s gesticulations as a witty and subversive comment on the centre. Perhaps it was; no one could tell what Isobel thought.

But her condition worsened, large areas of her body becoming infected, until she arrived at the centre one morning with her hands tightly bound in mitts. Like a dog with a lampshade round its neck, she wanted them off, and despite constant supervision, she always managed to tear them off with her teeth. Isobel lived to scratch and found ever more devious ways to relieve the itch. It was as if she was trying to erase her body, and her presence at the centre, layer by painful layer. Every chance she got she burst her skin with her fingernails, her teeth, a hairbrush, even a metal bottle top, and clawed almost to the bone. Through shredded flesh and blood, pus, scabs and weeping sores, her screwed-up face was a rictus of ecstasy. Her Key Worker had to call in the GP and Isobel was immediately sedated and removed to hospital. She never returned.

‘Really?’ Maria asked, disbelieving. ‘Bert had eczema that bad?’

‘Okay, maybe not that bad,’ Mike conceded, ‘but pretty bad.’

‘I had no idea.’

‘Yeah, well, he doesn’t talk about it, he just throws long sickies that are a nightmare for me to cover. I calculated that he had nearly three months paid sick leave last year.’

Maria looked at the floor.

‘His arms are usually bandaged,’ Mike continued, ‘that’s why he always wears his sleeves down, but I suppose you’d only have known that if you use the male staff changing room.’

‘Which I don’t.’

‘But this morning he was bursting to show me his bod. Not a mark on him, truly miraculous.’

‘You really think he was cured at Lourdes?’

‘Pfffff, no. But Bert does. He’s converting to Catholicism, he’s taking instruction from Father Harry, I’m not kidding!’

Mike obviously expected Maria to be shocked by Bert’s Road to Damascus Conversion, or in this case, Road to Lourdes Conversion. Bert is well, she thought, is that not a good thing?

Mike continued bumping his gums about Bert’s eczema and its sensational cure, prurient in his savouring of the details.

‘He showed me the bottle of Lourdes water he brought back. It was in the shape of the Virgin Mary,’ he said, sniggering. ‘Her holy crown was the screw top!’

Maria knew what bottle Mike was describing; she’d seen them in Jane’s Lourdes book.

‘Obviously he couldn’t bring back enough to bathe in. I suppose he’ll just have to dab it behind his ears!’ laughed Mike. ‘Anyway, so long as it keeps him from going off sick again.’

It’s so cold in the cubicle that Maria’s nipps stick out like knobs on a cheap chest of drawers. Cold and shock have made them long and thick, looking as though they could support the weight of a damp trench coat. She sighs as she takes out of her bag her navy-blue Lycra swimming costume. She has not worn this costume since she was fifteen, with good reason.

A late developer, when Maria’s little breast buds first appeared her mum celebrated by buying her a grown-up swimming suit comprising cotton reinforced gusset and foam-padded B-cup bra with adjustable straps. This was something of a false dawn as it would be another two years before her buds fully blossomed.

In second year at secondary school, she was selected for the water polo team. She played well, confident in her fashionable and figure-enhancing new cossie. As she jumped and lunged in the water she was blissfully unaware, and no one told her, that the entire school could see what they had long suspected; what had been the subject of gossip and conjecture and what was now the cause of girlish tittering and boyish guffawing: that there was considerable disparity between the size of Maria’s foam domes and her actual chest. That she was in fact that most despised of creatures: a bra stuffer. In her haste to exit the pool the bra cups, almost empty of breast tissue, created tremendous drag, dredging the pool, netting corn plasters and bits of hair, pulling her down, worst of all: pulling the front of her costume down. She never bathed publicly again.

Until now.

Until now she has always enjoyed the swimming pool outings, where, warm and fully clothed from the side of the pool, she was
able to shout encouragement to Blue Group, who mostly stood, red-eyed, shivering and gormless, waist-deep in the chlorinated water.

As she has a physically disabled member of her group, now that she has to get changed, she requires another Key Worker to assist with Brian. Of late this has been Dezzie, who is coincidentally always available when Blue Group’s swimming trips are scheduled. Maria smiles at this; he must be checking the rotas in the staffroom and making himself available so he can hang out with her.

The pool has recently been revamped. It now has a
changing
village
: the same rows of cubicles it always had but now with a fancy name. The old segregation of men and women has gone and Blue Group grab available cubicles where they can. Maria chooses one as far as possible away from the rest of them, who call to each other loudly arguing about who is the better swimmer. Martin is the only member of the group who appears to enjoy and learn anything from the swimming lessons.

Fiona, as usual, complains about having to undress. Her mum dresses her at home and, although she is perfectly capable of removing her own clothes, she’s reluctant to do so. Maria often has to stand with her head poked round the door of Fiona’s cubicle, nagging and persuading her to remove her worn-out bra and pants.

It is not modesty that makes Fiona unwilling but laziness. Once undressed, she often has to be persuaded that it’s not a good idea to leave the cubicle naked. The other embarrassing thing about Fiona is that she has the thickest mat of pubic hair Maria has ever seen. Wide clumps of black fuzz stick out the side of her costume and down her legs. It’s probably not even correct to call it pubic hair as it extends at least three inches down her thighs stopping at the same point as her head hair, giving her a troll-like appearance. Maria did once mention it to Mrs Simpson, requesting much-needed depilation on Fiona’s behalf, but Fiona’s mother seemed to think the idea was obscene.

If, today, Fiona takes it upon herself to stroll along the poolside without her costume, her luxuriant pubes catching the breeze, there’s nothing Maria can do about it. She can’t be in two places at once. If Mike wants her to swim then he’ll have to take the
consequences. She half-expects and, if she’s honest, rather hopes, that Fiona
will
emerge naked and she’ll hear the terrified screams of witnesses as they run from the building.

Maria wonders if Dezzie is keen to see her in a swimsuit. She’s folding her clothes but her mind is elsewhere: making a list of things she has to organise before the big rehearsal tomorrow. She’s still angry at Bert for pushing the show out of the centre. It’s just as well that Ray’s prepared to let them stage it there.

When she went to ask him about it yesterday and give him the Disclosure forms, he had a crowd of young neds, girls and lads, around him in the church. She’d hoped to have more of a chat, get to know him a bit, but he was busy holding them spellbound with lame jokes.

‘Why do women have smaller feet?’ he said. ‘So that they can get that wee bit closer to the sink.’

And him a married man, pathetic. Isn’t it henpecked men who talk like that? The neds brayed and whinnied at everything he said of course. Ray spent ages with them, showing them card tricks. But, Maria supposes, while they’re with him they’re off the streets and out of trouble.

And he seems to be taking his
come one come all
thing quite literally. Someone had pushed two pews together and there were blankets strewn around the place. It looks like he’s letting homeless people sleep there now.

Maria steps gingerly into her old costume. Her bare feet are cold on the tiled floor but a sudden change of temperature, a warm pleasant humidity spreading across the tops of her toes, causes her to look down. She discovers the reason for this; the balmy breeze is in fact Martin’s breath. Martin’s head is wedged under her cubicle and as he stares at his Key Worker’s naked body he has a triumphant smile on his face.

Maria panics and tries to escape the cubicle but Martin is barring her way, spread-eagled on the tiles outside. He’s still smiling. Flight is impossible so fight is her next impulse. Maria, in fright and adrenaline rush, kicks out at him. She does this instinctively and instantly curses herself for doing it. It is another shock to make skin-to-skin contact, stubbing her toes painfully against his cheekbone, her toenails scraping his soft downy face. Martin stares up at her, confused, he doesn’t move but she can’t bring herself to kick him again.

The first rule of being a good Key Worker is to avoid at all costs beating the clients. Apart from the fact that she has no desire to inflict actual bodily harm on sweet guileless Martin, she’d be instantly dismissed if Mike got wind of her kicking his face in.

‘Martin! What the hell d’you think you are playing at?’

‘I only wanted to see your titties,’ he says, beginning to cry, ‘you didn’t have to kick me! I’m telling on you!’

A trickle of blood runs down his cheek. Martin has a phobia about blood, especially his own. Maria must come out of the cubicle and wipe it away before he realises or he could become hysterical. Last month he cut his hand in art class and had to be sedated.

Such is her rush to exit the cubicle that Maria almost forgets to cover herself. As she hurriedly pulls up her costume, the tight elasticated material snares on her breasts. This causes eyewateringly painful nipple-fold.

As she emerges she sees Dezzie pushing Brian’s chair towards her. Both of them are in swimming trunks. Dezzie looks lovely. His legs and arms are long and thin and lovely. Thank God she remembered to pull up her cossie.

‘Everything okay?’ asks Dezzie, obviously concerned to see Martin lying on the floor with his head under her cubicle.

‘Yes, fine,’ says Maria. ‘Can you give me a hand with Martin?’

‘Sure.’

Maria bends carefully. Not that Dezzie’s that kind of guy, but he is a guy. She notices his eyes sweep across her almost naked body and wishes she had a better view to offer him.

‘Martin, come out of there for goodness sake.’

They each take one of Martin’s legs and haul him out. As he turns to face them it’s obvious that he’s in a state of excitement.

Pretending to be mopping his sweat, Maria wipes Martin’s cheek and dabs at the rest of his face. Luckily it’s no more than a light graze and he’s already stopped bleeding. She stands up, holding a hand out to Martin to help him to his feet, but she has come up too fast. The shock, the poolside heat and humidity, makes her feel faint and she stumbles. She almost falls but Dezzie catches her. For the first time in her life, Maria swoons. Dezzie has his arms around her; his bare arms are touching hers. His bare legs rub against hers.

‘Maria, are you okay?’ he asks, his beautiful nose less than an inch from her face.

Later, in the swimming pool café, after their lesson when everyone has got their clothes back on and are having their snacks and juice, Maria and Dezzie take their coffee at the next table.

‘I just got a fright when I saw him staring up at me, that’s all,’ says Maria. ‘I’m not angry with him, he can’t help his impulses.’

‘That’s very understanding of you,’ says Dezzie, obviously impressed with her enlightened views.

‘Well, I won’t pretend that Martin’s sexuality isn’t a challenge. For him and everyone else. I actually had a word with him about this last week. We discussed, and he agreed, that other people’s breasts are out of bounds.’

Maria licks her cappuccino foam in what she hopes is a seductive manner. ‘He agreed, he always does, but he’ll forget and then he’ll take what he can get.’

‘I know, I had to counsel Robert for hours …’

‘Robert?’

‘You know, Robert. Big fat guy from Yellow Group.’

‘Oh yeah.’

‘He wanted to make a formal complaint about Martin groping him.’

‘Martin groped Robert! Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Oh, it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle, he dropped the complaint anyway.’

Maria is slightly perturbed by this.
She
is Martin’s Key Worker, she should have been told.

‘Anyway, I can understand Martin’s interest,’ says Dezzie with a wink, ‘Robert does have spectacularly abundant jubblies.’

‘I’ve never actually seen them but I’ve heard about his… man breasts,’ says Maria, sniggering.

‘Bitch tits.’

‘Oh, that’s gross!’ she squeals, but she’s laughing. ‘Poor old Martin, reduced to fondling Robert. He needs a girlfriend.’

‘Well, at least one for the night.’

‘He’s a twenty-eight-year-old man with a tremendous sex drive and nowhere to take it.’

‘Absolutely. Down’s Syndrome is the least of his problems.’

‘He’d just be a lot happier if he could get sex once in a while, a lot calmer.’

‘Wouldn’t we all?’

This throwaway remark is music to Maria’s ears. He’s telling her that he doesn’t have a girlfriend. And that he wants one. What should she do about this? She doesn’t want to seem frivolous or desperate. Best to let it go for the moment. She’ll carry on expounding her radical theory.

‘Best practice is that we facilitate clients leading a normal life,’ she says rationally.

Whenever Maria wants to appear thoughtful and academic she finds that posing a series of difficult questions usually does the trick.

‘But what’s normal? Isn’t having a sexlife normal? Why couldn’t Martin visit a prostitute once in a while? Don’t lots of other ‘normal’ men do that?’

So as not to appear fixated on normality, she makes inverted commas in the air around the word ‘normal’.

‘Yeah, but prostitutes? They’re mostly junkies, they’re dangerous one way or another.’

‘Well, I don’t know. I mean, why doesn’t the NHS provide some kind of sex therapy? All legal and above board, certified and disease free.’

‘I had no idea you were such a hopeless romantic, Maria.’

Maria is embarrassed. She puts her head down to hide the flush she can feel creeping up it. She’s taken the argument too far. She wanted to show him she’s a caring non-judgmental person. Now he’s got her down as some kind of sleazy procurer.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be vulgar.’

Dezzie reaches across the table, takes her hand and squeezes it.

‘I don’t think you’re vulgar,’ he says laughing, ‘I think you’re lovely.’