Jubilate (16 page)

‘Oh sure! Have them switching off more like!’ His pitiful lack of confidence takes me back thirty years.

‘So, are you still happy to be our man on the Way of the Cross?’

‘Don’t see why not. Beats pushing a wheelchair. It’s not my problem if the programme sucks.’

Jewel wires him for sound and we move up to the first station:
Jesus is condemned to death
. As Father Paul leads the prayers, I study the figures: Christ in
Ecce Homo
mode, guarded by four legionnaires in front of the Roman wolf. The lack of dynamism within the group and of any relation to the surrounding landscape makes it look both insubstantial and flat.

At the end of the prayers, we continue on a journey which, it soon becomes clear, is to be heavy on faith and light on art. At the third station, I realise that what the figures most resemble are plastic models that have somehow escaped from a cereal packet and landed in Lourdes.

I reserve the thought for possible inclusion in the voice-over and turn to Kevin.

‘So Kevin, do you have any thoughts on the Stations this far?’

‘Thoughts?’ he asks, with mock incredulity. ‘I’m not allowed thoughts. I’m seventeen. What do I know? I just do what my parents say, do what the monks say, do what the Bible says. Thoughts? Me? You’ve come to the wrong place if you want thoughts.’

By the seventh station:
Jesus falls for the second time
, Kevin appears to have had a change of heart. ‘That’s sick,’ he says,
pointing
to a soldier holding back a jeering Jew with the tip of his spear. ‘When were these sculptures made?’

‘I’m not sure exactly. Some time before the First World War.’

‘Jesus was Jewish, right?’

‘Of course.’

‘Have you seen how He’s the only one who doesn’t need a nose job?’ I stare at the figure’s hooked nose, ashamed at having failed to pick up the blatant anti-Semitism. ‘It’s all hypocrisy.’

‘You talk of hypocrisy quite a lot.’

‘Would you rather I shut my eyes to it like everyone else?’

‘No, not at all. I wonder if you’d like to elaborate.’

‘Oh yes, I’d like to,’ he says fiercely. ‘But you’d have every Catholic in the country writing letters of complaint to the BBC.’

‘I’ll take that risk.’

‘Look at all these people gazing at Jesus with their holier-
than-thou
faces, but what do you suppose is going on in their minds? They pretend to be so devout, praying their rosaries, obeying the priests, but it’s not worth dick!’ His pained exclamation causes heads to turn but, to my relief, they are Tess’s and Lester’s. Counting on their
indulgence
to a fellow contributor, I motion to Kevin to continue. ‘I know a man – let’s call him Mr X – who claims to be a good Catholic, but does he give all his money to the poor? Does he shit! He makes more by buying their houses at auctions when they’ve been repossessed.’

‘Rich men and needles: it’s an age-old dilemma.’

‘But there’s worse. He’s married, of course. And he sits at the dinner table with his wife and kids spouting on about sex and morals and the end of frigging civilisation as we know it … is frigging OK?’

‘Frigging’s fine.’

‘And it turns out he has a tart … a slut … a bit on the side. And when she gets pregnant, what does this good Catholic Mr X do? He tells her to have an abortion, that’s what. And when his son finds out, he doesn’t fall on his knees and beg for his forgiveness. Oh no! He packs him off to a boarding school run by a load of monks. More hypocrites. All paedos!’

‘Come on!’

‘I’m not saying they do stuff, just that they want to. Oh yes, you can see that they want to. And what did Jesus teach? Lusting after a woman is like having sex with her in your heart. Doesn’t that go for boys too?’

‘I suppose so, if you accept the premise.’

‘It’s all sick. It’s all sex. It’s just as bad on this pilgrimage. You know the doctor with the baby?’

‘Yes,’ I say, foreseeing a major edit.

‘The father’s one of the brancardiers. They met here two years ago.’ I feel my heart leap. ‘They got married and came again last year. The baby’s three months old. You don’t have to be a genius to do the maths. Any case, they admit it themselves quite openly.’

‘Shouldn’t people find love where they can? This is as good a place as any.’

‘No, it’s not!’ he cries, and his face contorts in pain. ‘It’s supposed to be holy. St Bernadette was a nun. We should have our minds on God. See that woman!’ To my dismay he points at Gillian. ‘She came on to me the very first day we arrived.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I know a pass when I see one. “Don’t worry about me,” she says, “I’m fit. Really fit.” It’s disgusting.’

I want to laugh out loud at the confusion but fear that I might compound the offence. We hike up the hill but are brought to an abrupt standstill by the Vietnamese group from the Crypt who have lingered at the ninth station.

At last they head off but, just as the Jubilates are about to take their place, a heated altercation breaks out at the rear. Although too far away to catch it, I see Gillian in its midst and presume that it must involve Richard. All my instincts are to rush to her aid, but I know that she would not thank me. So I hang back, happy for once to defer to a priest.

Father Paul quickly restores the peace – while leaving me absorbed in speculation – before moving to the front and offering up a prayer that we should each have the courage to bear our own cross, which seems somewhat perverse, given that Jesus is here falling for the third time under the weight of His.

He limits the period for private prayer out of consideration for the Dutch pilgrims who are hot on our heels. As we press ahead, I turn my attention back to Kevin.

‘So it would be fair to say that the message of Lourdes has yet to reach you?’

‘And it won’t! I’m an atheist.’ He glances sidelong at the sky, as if in fear of a retaliatory thunderbolt. ‘I’m only here because I had to show willing – penitent (I don’t think!) – or else they’ll chuck me
out of school. And I’m only there because I need my As to go to art college.’

‘What did you do that was so terrible?’

‘Drawing. Just drawing. Michelangelo drew nudes all over the Sistine Chapel, the Pope’s private chapel, and they’re masterpieces. I draw nudes and, because some sicko monk thinks he recognises himself, they’re “obscene”; they’re “sordid fantasies”. Wait till I’m a famous artist. Then they’ll be queuing up to interview me. Then people’ll listen to what I say.’

‘I’m sure.’ Although I strive to expunge all trace of doubt from my voice, he looks at me with suspicion.

‘Haven’t you got enough? You won’t use any of it anyway. You’ll say you will, then you’ll cut me out. Everyone always does.’

He rips off the microphone and hands it to Jewel. We have reached the twelfth station:
Jesus dies on the cross
, which seems an appropriate place to end. As I stand on the crest of the hill, with the three crosses framed against the trees, it feels that at last the
landscape
has become integral to the journey and, in spite of myself, I am moved.

‘Another of your fans?’ I am startled to find Gillian walking up to me and pointing to Kevin, who is striding down the path.

‘Have you been watching me?’ I ask, both gratified and alarmed.

‘No, just the camera. For us ordinary mortals, it’s as compulsive as a car crash.’

‘I wouldn’t want to put you off your prayers.’

‘Now don’t spoil it! I’m here to apologise for this morning.’

‘No, I’m the one who should apologise. I don’t know what got into me. I don’t usually come on so strong.’

‘Me neither. Telling you how you should live your life when I don’t have the first idea what it’s like!’

‘That’s easily remedied.’

‘No need. Apologies accepted on both sides. Let’s leave it at that.’ She looks around in confusion at finding that she has outstayed the prayers.

‘Have you given any more thought to an interview?’ I ask as, to her evident unease, we walk together to the ridge. ‘We’re free straight after this.’

‘I’m not, I’m afraid. It’s gone six now. Dinner’s at seven. Then the Penitential Service at half past eight.’

‘Stop, too much excitement! Sorry. But how about after that? Won’t you meet me for a drink?’

‘You say
drink
as if it’s not only in italics but you want me to acknowledge them.’

‘You don’t miss a trick.’

‘Or a trickster.’

‘You can always stick to tomato juice if it makes you feel safer.’

‘It’s not the alcohol that worries me. I know you think that we’re all either fools or phonies. No, don’t deny it! And you may have a point. But I came here with a purpose and, come what may, I mean to see it through.’

She hurries back to Richard, clasping his hand as they make the sharp descent to the thirteenth station, where
Jesus is taken down from the Cross
. I follow them from there to the fourteenth, where
Jesus is laid in the tomb
. I presume that we have reached the end and am taken aback when Father Paul guides us towards a fifteenth station, where
Jesus is risen from the dead
. As he waits for the
stragglers
to catch up, I move forward to question him. ‘Surely there are only fourteen stations? Or were we labouring under a
misapprehension
, in that as in so much else, at Holyrood, Barnsley?’

‘Don’t worry,’ he replies wryly. ‘Your practice was perfectly sound. The final station was added here in the 1950s (Father Dave will be able to give you the exact date): a message of hope at the end of the journey.’

Much to my surprise, I find myself agreeing. Far from the kitsch image of my expectations, with plastic angels hanging from wires in the trees, it is a simple – almost stark – circular stone set in front of a crevice. For the first time the sculpture reaches beyond the
biblical
story to speak directly to me. Then, seeing Gillian standing with Richard, I recall her refusal of my offer. A shadow falls over the stone.

T
he prying finger between my legs jolts me awake. I pull it away like a nun on dormitory duty or, worse, at the mercy of illicit desires in the darkness of her cell. The rare relief of the single bed vanishes under sustained assault from the images
cramming
my brain. Dreams that usually slip out of reach with butterfly elusiveness now linger with shameful clarity.

In the adjacent bed, Richard kicks against a blanket that might have been me, and emits something between a snarl and a snore. I seize on the one moment when his incoherence is not an affront to speculate on his sensations. Is his mind equally muddled by night as by day, or is there some deeper level at which it still functions? Is there a parity, or even a compensation, in the unconscious which ensures that, while my dreams are empty delusions, his make perfect sense? A feral grunt as he thrashes and flails and buries his head in the pillow suggests not.

I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress, relishing the chance to map out my territory. Some women clamour for a room of their own; I would settle for a bed. I could return home and swap our marital double for companionable twins, but it would be too cruel to deprive Richard of the one place in which he still responds to me as a man. This sudden flood of compassion towards him
disconcerts
me. It smacks of the guilt offerings he used to make me, with their predictable pattern: clothes for a minor dalliance; jewellery for a serious affair. Am I seeking to atone for my mental infidelity with a similarly hollow display?

A knock on the door thrusts me headlong into morning.

‘Just a second,’ I call, jumping off the bed and grabbing my
dressing
gown from a chair. ‘Come in!’ The door creaks open to reveal the two young brancardiers I turned away yesterday, the helpers’ helpers who, in Louisa’s words, are ‘here to give you the chance to relax and enjoy the pilgrimage too’. The reality is quite the reverse, their
intrusion
giving me three causes for concern rather than one. On most days I worry about Richard’s inappropriate behaviour; today I worry also about my own.

‘Come right in!’ I say, gathering the flimsy gown around me and
trusting that its lily-of-the-valley motif will offset any impropriety. I turn to draw the curtains; a formality, given the sunlight already streaming into the room. Matt ambles in, with bleary eyes, rumpled T-shirt and hair like a trampled cornfield. Kevin hovers behind, his sullen features emphasised by his defiantly unshaven cheeks. His manifest wretchedness brings out my maternal instincts, even as Matt’s broad smile and gentle brawn bring out very different ones.

Before I know it, I am thrown back into the nocturnal landscape. Matt is eighteen years old! And no matter what the agony aunts – and, increasingly, nieces – in my magazines might say, an untried teenager, however potent, however grateful, is not this older woman’s ideal. What is happening? Has Vincent O’Shaughnessy so unsettled me that my every thought – my every impulse – is sexual? Is the dream Gillian, brazenly turning the Grotto into a seraglio, the real me?

‘Morning, boys!’ I say, with an accent on their youth. ‘You look like you had a rough night, Matt.’

‘A gang of us went to the pub,’ he replies sheepishly. ‘It was wicked.’

‘How about Kevin?’ I try to deflect the scowl. ‘Were you one of the party?’

‘We’ve come to give Mr Patterson a shower,’ he says, his bluntness a double rebuff.

‘I didn’t think you’d come to give me one.’ My words seep out with no apparent relation to my brain. I turn in desperation to Richard. ‘Right then, old boy. Rise and shine!’

He shifts groggily as my voice engages his nascent
consciousness
. ‘It’s his pills,’ I say, feeling the need to apologise for a depth of sleep more suitable to one their age than his. ‘Breakfast time!’ I tell him, hoping for the reflex excitement of a puppy who has just learnt the phrase. But my hopes are dashed by the extended sequence of his wakening: first bewilderment; then panic at confronting the day deprived of familiar landmarks; next the partial reassurance of seeing my face; finally, pain and frustration at being dragged out of his dreams into a world over which he has even less control.

‘Here are Matt and Kevin ready to help you up. You said you were tired of seeing the same old face every day.’ In company I am careful to drop the
ugly
. ‘Now’s your chance!’

‘Go away,’ he replies, pulling the covers over his head in what may
or may not be a game but I lack the patience to find out. As the two young men step aside, reluctant witnesses of our morning routine, I wonder if they are more disturbed by the evidence of brain damage or of marriage. Any illusions that the extended families of television soap operas may have left them will be stripped away by the petty power struggle being played out here.

Eventually my mixture of threats and blandishments pays off. He stands up with a wide stretch which, to my shame, his insouciance, Matt’s amusement and Kevin’s disgust, reveals an erection. I feign blindness, bustling him into the bathroom with the boys, praying that his loathing of being manhandled will counteract the female caresses that must have sweetened his sleep.

‘He can shower and shave for himself,’ I explain. ‘You don’t need help, do you, Richard?’

‘I don’t need help,’ he repeats proudly.

‘So just make sure that he has everything he needs: that the water’s not too hot; that he plugs his razor in the right socket; that he doesn’t spray his after-shave under his arms. Oh, why am I telling you all this? It’s obvious,’ I say, painfully aware that it would be quicker and easier to attend to it myself.

‘In here, sir,’ Matt says, as though Richard were wearing a dinner jacket rather than dubiously stained pyjamas. I give thanks for the deference that has steered him away from the ubiquitous
mate
.

I follow them to the bathroom door which Kevin slams in my face. Baffled, I walk to the window and watch the Irish pilgrims assembling outside the Acceuil. A priest glances up and I spring back for fear of embarrassing him. I drift around the room
desultorily
sorting out clothes, before spotting the Jubilate programme. Halfway through an account of today’s service of anointing, I hear the Basilica clock strike eight and wonder what further humiliations to expect before it does so again.

Relieved of responsibility but not of concern, I focus my attention on the bathroom where the harsh splash of the shower is followed by the insistent whir of the toothbrush and electric razor.
Intermittent
shouts and muffled laughter give way to an ominous silence, after which Richard emerges, wrapped in a towel, led by a
shaken-looking
Matt and a soaked Kevin.

‘Oh my goodness,’ I say, as Kevin’s glare threatens to dispel my sympathy. ‘That shower’s deceptive. Water comes at you from every angle.’

‘Yeah, especially when it’s chucked in your face!’ he exclaims, prompting Richard to laugh. ‘Look at me, I’m drenched! And my clothes are all back at the hotel.’

‘It may not be ideal, but I’m sure I can find you a T-shirt of Richard’s.’

‘One of mine!’

‘I’m not taking my clothes off for you!’ His outraged tone makes me suspect a recent split from his girlfriend.

‘Come on, Kev, don’t be a prat!’ Matt says. ‘It’s ninety degrees in the shade out there. You’ll soon dry.’

‘I’ll sue. If I get pneumonia, I’ll sue you. I’ll sue the pilgrimage.’

‘How about the Pope while you’re at it?’ Matt says. ‘I’m sure the Holy Father must be personally responsible for the dicky plumbing.’ He ruffles Kevin’s hair, adding to his fury.

‘Fuck … get off!’

Matt turns to Richard. ‘Does he need a hand with dressing?’ he asks hesitantly.

‘Not at all. You run along. Thanks so much. You’ve both been a tremendous help,’ I say, resolving to refuse any future assistance that might be offered.

‘Only we’ve got to do Mr Redpath in Room Seven.’

‘You boys are wonders. Whatever they’re paying you it’s not enough.’

‘They don’t pay us anything,’ Kevin says savagely. ‘We have to pay them for the privilege of being here.’

‘I’m sorry. I was being funny. Or rather, trying.’

The boys go out, leaving me to the familiar task of watching Richard dress. Cheered by my sanctioning of a blazer and cravat, he insists on putting on a sweater.

‘You’ll swelter.’

‘It’s
my
skin.’

‘True.’ Surprising us both by my compliance, I dispatch him to the dining room before taking my own turn in the shower, where I linger under the jet, soaping every pore. What I don’t know, or
rather, have no wish to discover is whether I am trying to wash away my night-time self or to become her.

I too spend longer choosing my clothes than the occasion might merit, nevertheless a trip to the countryside requires careful thought. As I run through my checklist: shoulders covered for the church and the sun; skirt long enough for a picnic; flat shoes for any uneven ground; I settle on my new lilac-and-white check dress with a white stole, a last-minute inclusion after Patricia’s mention of the year she had ‘cocktails with the Cardinal’. Ignoring the possibility of grass stains, I slip on the dress and relish its softness against my skin.

I make my way to the dining room, where my marital antennae immediately pick up Richard, sitting beside Nigel dipping crusts in an egg. Patricia gives me a discreet wave as she weaves around the tables replenishing cups. Whatever our private differences, I salute her sense of duty. No doubt at ninety she will still be
volunteering
at Troubridge Hall, serving lunches to old soldiers ten years her junior and doing so with no relaxation of her ruthless fashion code. Although she has been setting tables and doling out food since seven, her hair is as impeccably coiffed as if she had just emerged from the salon. Her jewellery is tastefully understated, especially the gold oyster-shell earrings which – I realise with a smile – turn her lobes into pearls. Her waxed apron printed with French herbs, a souvenir from Sissinghurst, is as spotless as the peach cotton twinset it protects.

Uncertain whether the wave is a greeting or a summons, I walk towards her. ‘Good morning, my dear,’ she says breezily. ‘Your
liein’s
done you the world of good. See how pretty you can look when you make the effort.’

‘I haven’t made any effort. No more than usual,’ I insist, for the benefit of the two West Indian toast-makers to whom I have yet to be introduced. ‘You’re the one who deserves the praise. Waiting on everyone hand and foot while looking as spruce as ever.’

‘Not hand and foot, dear. It’s Fleur and Mona who do the donkey work.’ She sighs in relief at having deflected the menial image. ‘Have you met my daughter-in-law Gillian?’ They shake their heads and hold out their hands. ‘It’s her first pilgrimage too, but I’m sure it
won’t be the last, not for any of you. Fleur and Mona are real assets to the kitchen. Mona was a school dinner lady so she keeps us all on our toes.’

‘I can see they’re working wonders,’ I say, hoping that my gentle compliment will compensate for Patricia’s condescension. This is a woman who makes a beeline for any black visitors to her church to prove her lack of prejudice, while lambasting the Anglicans down the road for appointing a West Indian vicar. ‘It’s all very well in Brixton,’ she declared, ‘but this is Dorking. The Church is supposed to console people not confuse them.’

Smiling at Mona and Fleur as warmly as if they had overheard the exchange, I move to my table. While accepting Louisa’s
argument
that the number of special diets necessitates fixed seating, I suspect that she would bend the rules had she been placed alongside Richard, Nigel, Frank and Sheila Clunes. With Richard encouraging Nigel to play the clown (literally, given the eggshells on their noses), Frank chewing every morsel twenty times and returning to ‘one’ at the slightest interruption, and Sheila wolfing down her food in a constant bid to be first for seconds, I gaze at more congenial tables as wistfully as I used to gaze at more popular ones at school.

‘Morning Sheila, morning Nigel, morning Frank!’ I say, instantly regretting my mistake, as Frank’s strangled reply is followed by a lengthy recount.

‘Good breakfast?’ I ask, prising the shell off Richard’s nose.

‘Ow!’ he protests. ‘It was finished.’

‘I had two yellows in my egg,’ Nigel says.

‘That’s a lucky sign,’ I say.

‘No, it’s not,’ Richard says. ‘It’s like eating twins.’

No sooner have I sat down than Patricia and Fleur head my way, advancing the rival attractions of tea and coffee. Placing my morning drug over family loyalty, I apologise lightly to Patricia, who takes the opportunity to linger at the table.

‘Sorry I had no time to talk to you earlier, darling,’ she says to an indifferent Richard. ‘You arrived bang in the middle of the Corn Flake rush. Did you enjoy your breakfast?’

‘I had two yellows in my egg,’ Nigel interjects.

‘Sh-sh. Don’t speak too loud, or they’ll charge you double.’ Nigel
giggles unrestrainedly. ‘Aren’t you eating anything?’ she asks me. ‘I’m sure we could rustle up an egg.’

‘Thanks, no. I don’t have any appetite.’ I watch Sheila
shovelling
butter on her toast, and wonder what perversity prompts the caterers to shun the local baguettes in favour of thick, white – and increasingly stale – bread brought from home.

‘You need to keep up your strength. Doesn’t she?’ She picks an unfortunate ally in Sheila.

‘Is there any more toast?’ Sheila asks. ‘I still have a little hole that needs filling.’

Patricia purses her lips at such lack of restraint. ‘Don’t forget we have to climb the hill at Saint-Savin.’

‘Not me! I’m in my chair,’ she replies, with a grin far too wicked for Lourdes. Dismayed, Patricia turns back to Richard. ‘You’re looking very perky this morning.’ Nigel’s second burst of giggles makes her shudder. ‘Did you sleep well?’