Jubilate (17 page)

‘No! Gilly stayed out all night and came back drunk.’

Patricia stares at me in horror.

‘Don’t be silly, Richard. I went for a quick drink with the film crew.’

‘You came back singing.’

‘Humming. I was humming. Though with my voice, I grant it’s hard to tell.’ I force a laugh. ‘Elkie Brooks’ “Sunshine After The Rain”. I haven’t heard it for years. Now I can’t seem to get it out of my mind.’

‘But why?’ Patricia asks. ‘It hasn’t rained here in weeks.’

‘It’s just a song.’

‘Still, it’s put a bit of colour in your cheeks.’ I cannot escape the feeling that she knows, or rather, imagines, since there is nothing to know. This makes it even more absurd that I should have extended the drink to the crew, as though there were something to hide.

‘I’m a fine figure of a man,’ Richard says abruptly.

‘Yes, dear. But it doesn’t do for you to say so yourself.’

‘I didn’t,’ he says, affronted. ‘She did.’ He points to Louisa, who is patrolling the room, exhorting people ‘not to rush but just to hurry on down to the coaches’.

I wonder what it is about the phrase that has stuck in his mind, leading him to repeat it so often over the past few days. I wonder,
even more urgently, what it is about his mind that filters out some phrases while latching on to others. The man who was once a mystery to me in jest is now one in earnest. But what would I do if I found the key? Do I want to move closer to him or just to feel better about drifting away? In my current state, I suspect everyone’s motives, starting with my own. Who was it said that a pilgrimage to Lourdes would bring me peace?

I urge Richard to use the loo before boarding the coach. ‘But my bladder’s strong. Go on. Feel.’ A wave of repugnance turns first to pity and then to confusion, as he flexes his biceps in what may or may not be intended as a joke. We walk through a complex of
white-walled
corridors, as immaculate as the nuns who sweep them, and out into the open air. Ken stands beside the coaches directing
wheelchair
-users into one and the able-bodied into the other. Richard’s disappointment at being separated from Nigel grows on watching him being hauled up on a hydraulic lift. Louisa meanwhile fights a losing battle against the young brancardiers who steer their
wheelchairs
across the courtyard as if in a stock car race. The girls look on, their expressions poised between admiration and scorn,
instinctively
drawn into a mating ritual that has flourished in these hills since the first cavemen brought back the bison. Or have I missed the point? Do they genuinely admire the boys’ skill while scorning their swagger? Is mine the inevitable cynicism of one whose bison has been vacuum-packed for years?

Vincent walks into view, his curls as tight on his head as if he had just stepped out of a shower, an everyday image that gives me a singular thrill. He wears a moss green T-shirt and neatly pressed beige chinos, although it would be as absurd to suggest that he had chosen them for my benefit as that I had chosen my new dress for his. I bundle Richard on to the coach in a blaze of self-
consciousness
. Then, risking a glance at Vincent, I realise that my scruples are superfluous since he has yet to acknowledge my presence. Either he has taken my protests to heart or else he has lost interest: when we finally talked, he found that I was not clever or witty or
charming
enough or was simply too straitlaced. Did I misread the signs? Should I have fallen into his arms at the first sip of tomato juice? Or am I misreading them now? If he blames me for anything, is it for
encouraging him to drop his mask, not least with the story of the friend and the murdered dog.

My mind is so preoccupied that I push past Richard into a window seat, usurping his prerogative. ‘That’s not fair,’ he complains.

‘Don’t be such a baby!’ I say, standing to swap seats, only to find myself staring at Lucja sitting in the row behind with Pyotr slumped in accusatory silence on her knee. Smiling feebly, I turn round and wait for what Patricia has promised will be one of the highlights of the week.

The journey out of Lourdes is dispiriting, as we crawl through streets that would be dangerously cramped even without the parked cars. ‘Breathe in!’ Father Humphrey yells, as we edge past a lorry unloading liquid gas. A near miss with a Spanish coach, which would provoke an ugly incident elsewhere, here leads to nothing more than a flurry of friendly waves and flourished crosses. With a missionary zeal that has lain untapped since the sixth form, I long to point it out to Vincent who sits, oblivious, several rows in front.

Father Humphrey passes the time by telling a series of jokes, of which only one, about a philanthropic American offended by an English bishop’s prayer for ‘our American succour’, amuses me. Richard, however, takes the opportunity to tell one of his own. ‘I have a joke.’

‘I know. I’ve heard it.’

‘How? It could be a new one.’

‘It’s not.’

‘You don’t know till I tell you.’

‘Is it the one about the Irishman and foreplay?’

‘How did you know?’

‘I just knew.’

‘How did you know?’ he asks, with growing alarm.

‘I didn’t. I just guessed.’

‘You don’t know everything.’

We finally arrive at the autoroute and I feel a Boxing Day relief. It is only on leaving Lourdes that I realise how heavily the atmosphere of faith and expectation has weighed on me. I turn to look out of the window but, as ever, Richard blocks the view.

Father Humphrey hands the microphone to Father Dave with a
show of deference which, to the uninitiated (I picture one in
particular
), might sound like derision. As we trundle up the winding road, he leads us in two decades of the rosary, the familiar cadences gliding off my tongue. These are followed by the hymns ‘Hail, Queen of Heaven’ and ‘Faith of Our Fathers’, to which Mona adds such a thrilling descant that I find it hard not to applaud. Then, as fervently as he was praising the Virgin, he extols the beauty of the landscape and reports on its growing popularity for winter sports.

I marvel at the verdant slopes and snow-capped summits, which can be glimpsed even from my restricted viewpoint. ‘Look, Richard, a ski-lift,’ I say, trying to regain his favour.

‘You can’t ski.’

‘I’ve never tried,’ I reply brusquely. ‘That doesn’t mean I can’t. There are lots of things I haven’t tried that I might be very good at.’

He is as surprised by my tone as I am myself. ‘I love you, Gilly.’

‘I know you do,’ I say, squeezing his hand.

‘I love you more than all these mountains put together.’

‘And I love you,’ I reply uneasily.

‘To your right,’ Father Dave points out, ‘is the Cirque de
Gavarnie
, or to us the Gavarnie Circus, a natural amphitheatre formed by millions of years of erosion. Those of you with sharp eyes might just be able to make out the waterfall which is the highest in France.’

‘Are there elephants?’ Richard asks me.

‘It’s not that sort of circus. More like a circus ring.’

‘I know that,’ he drawls. ‘Like Oxford Circus.’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Like Piccadilly Circus.’

‘That too.’

‘You didn’t think I knew that, did you? You’re not so clever after all.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m certainly not.’

‘I love you, Gilly,’ he says, smothering my hands with kisses. My perpetual hope of reaching through the mulch of his mind to a kernel of understanding turns to fear that at times he may
understand
too much.

The coach continues to Saint-Savin, a village so modest that we scarcely know we have arrived. We spill out into the main street
or what may be the only street, two rows of terraced houses with the kind of shuttered windows that promise both privacy and
protection
. In front of us looms the church, a white stone building with fortress-thick walls topped by a conical turret which, it soon becomes clear, is not just Saint-Savin’s main attraction but its entire
raison d’être
. To our left is a café with a bank of outdoor tables, at one of which sits a portly man in a pinstriped waistcoat who is either its proprietor or sole customer. Next to it is a general store with a stock of groceries, souvenirs, and ornate liqueur bottles that serve for both. A few doors down is an antique shop, its discreet sign barely distinguishing it from the houses on either side. The entrance is forbiddingly locked, but the window is filled with
porcelain
dolls and small clocks, all of which have stopped and several of which have missing hands, reinforcing the impression of a village outside time.

Ken’s plea that we should wait by the coaches is widely ignored. Knowing how long it takes to disgorge the wheelchairs, all but the most obedient of us drift down the street.

‘I’m just nipping into the café to buy Martin an ice cream,’ Claire says.

‘’Scream,’ Martin echoes, with an anticipatory dribble.

‘Would you like to join us for a coffee?’ Tess asks as she and Lester follow.

‘Or something stronger?’ Lester adds, with a defiant grin.

‘I’m fine, thanks. Enjoy.’

Several people, including Vincent, venture into the shop, while others stand outside choosing postcards from the carousels. Richard, who has been waiting for Nigel to roll off the coach, runs up and grabs my hand. ‘Quick! Come on! You’ll be left behind!’ His concern is gratifying though unfounded, given the snail-like pace of the
procession
up the hill. Whatever Ken’s many talents, the logical
organisation
of wheelchairs is not one of them. Some old-school sense of propriety prevents his allocating male pushers to female passengers, so that Jenny and a fellow handmaiden (I hear Moira … Maureen) strain behind Sheila Clunes, while Matt and Kevin race up with the bantamweight Nigel. When the girls grind to a halt, Matt steps in with a mixture of gallantry and shyness, taking over from Jenny’s
friend. She in turn crosses to Kevin, who plants himself squarely behind Nigel, leaving her forlorn.

I stand beside Sister Martha, who gazes rapturously at the church.

‘This place never fails to move me,’ she says. ‘I missed it last year.’

‘Was your team on duty at the Acceuil?’

‘No, I missed the pilgrimage. I caught the coxsackie virus from an asylum seeker in Plaistow.’

‘But you’re over it now?’ I ask of the sinister-sounding virus, only to find from Richard’s peal of laughter that, to him, it sounds like something else.

‘Naughty lady!’ he says, giggling. ‘Naughty nun!’

‘Shut up, Richard! You’re not funny. I’m so sorry.’

‘Not to worry. Water off a duck’s back, or a penguin’s, as Father Humphrey would say.’ As she purses her lips, I suspect that Richard’s misapprehension offends her less than Father Humphrey’s routine ridicule.

We reach the church which, to my disappointment, turns out not to be white but a greyish-ochre, temporarily bleached by the sun. Patricia walks up to Mona and Fleur who are waiting in the shade of the porch.

‘First in line, ladies,’ she says cryptically. ‘I wonder you’ve any puff left after all that singing.’ Mona smiles, as serene as the stones that surround her. I step back. It is hard enough worrying whom Richard may insult without taking responsibility for his mother.

The rest of the group slowly climbs the hill, among them Vincent, whose coldness towards me is now so marked that a part of me – a very small, irresponsible part which I thought had died twenty years ago – longs for him to abandon all restraint: to run up and clasp me in his arms. Instead he is deep in conversation with Lester and Tess.

They join us outside the bolted door. ‘No room at the inn?’ Vincent asks pertly.

‘It’s the first year it’s been locked,’ Marjorie replies. ‘There’ve been a spate of thefts from local churches.’ She shakes her head. ‘Of course it’s all good practice for me.’

‘The thefts?’ Vincent asks innocently.

‘Is he always this wicked?’ Marjorie asks Sophie.

‘Twenty-four seven.’

‘The management! I’ll be stepping into Louisa’s shoes next year.’

‘And they’re big ones to fill.’

‘Really wicked! Between you and me, I put it down to all the square-bashing when she was a young cadet.’

‘Oh you mean literally? I’m sorry, I thought it was a figure of speech.’

‘No, of course not!’ She laughs nervously. ‘I mean yes, of course. I’m so confused. It’s this heat … Maggie!’ She prises her away from Patricia. ‘Will you ask some of your girls to take round the water? I’ll just go and see if I can speed things up.’ With a backward glance, she disappears behind the church. I find myself face to face with Vincent.

‘
Wicked
’s the word!’

‘Morning,’ he says, gently.

‘Morning,’ I reply, praying that he will attribute the inane grin forming on my lips to Marjorie’s mistake.

‘You’re looking particularly luscious today.’

‘Really? I feel frazzled.’

‘Sweet dreams?’

‘What?’

‘Did you have sweet dreams?’ he repeats with emphasis.

‘Oh! No, I’m sorry. I never dream.’

‘Everyone dreams. Whether they choose to remember them or not.’

‘That’s not true,’ I say, more forcefully than I intend. ‘My mother … at the end of her life she suffered from dementia. In the early stages, before she left us completely, she said the worst thing was not being able to dream.’

‘I’m sorry. It must have been dreadful for you,’ he says quietly.

‘But worse for her.’ I kick myself for having mentioned it. Suppose he thinks that dementia runs in families or, worse, wonders why two people so close to me should both lose their minds?

‘So who was Saint Savin then?’ he asks, in a neat change of tack. ‘What wondrous feats did he perform?’ He spots Father Dave. ‘Ah, here comes the expert!’

‘Expert on what? Are you in need of spiritual direction, my son?’ he asks with a genial smile.

‘’Fraid not, Father. But when I am, you’ll be the first to know. We were wondering about Saint Savin. Not on the A list, I suspect?’

‘The Church venerates some ten thousand or so saints. Even a good Catholic such as yourself can’t be expected to keep track of them all.’ Vincent knows better than to reply. ‘Saint Savin was born in Spain in the Dark Ages. Although how we who live in these benighted times have the gall to describe any other era as
Dark
is beyond me. He was the son of a wealthy nobleman who gave up everything – family, wealth, status – to devote himself to God. At some stage – I forget when exactly, but I’m sure there’ll be a booklet about it in the church – he withdrew from the world completely, built himself a small hut and lived as a hermit for years – once again I’m a bit hazy on dates. He devoted himself to a life of prayer and poverty.’