Jubilate (19 page)

‘A rotten tree stump crawling with maggots. And every time I hold him, I feel them wriggling on to me. What a bitch!’

I take her in my arms and rub her back, angry with myself for
noticing the dampness. ‘You shouldn’t blame yourself. It’s not Lester who repels you, it’s the cancer. That strikes me as perfectly normal.’

‘But we were more than normal! We’re Lester and Tess. Our
marriage
was strong … whatever that means. I know what it means. It means us. I’ve never wanted another man. Not once in twenty-seven years.’

‘There you are,’ I say, holding back an avalanche of guilt.

‘But I do now,’ she says in a whisper. ‘I want someone now. And not for comfort: not to cling to through the long sleepless nights when Lester is in hospital. But for sex: wild, passionate sex. I want to learn new techniques, new positions. I’m fifty-two.’ She stands abruptly and starts to walk away.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’ve no right to dump this on you. I can tell you’re disgusted.’

‘No, you can’t. No, I’m not. Sit down, please!’ I know that I should admit my own carnal feelings, that true friendship would be to show solidarity rather than merely mouth concern, but I’m too big a coward. ‘You need some wine,’ I say, spotting Mona handing round drinks. ‘Promise not to move.’

‘If you insist.’

I hurry over to Fleur and grab two paper cups. ‘Here,’ I say,
returning
to Tess. ‘This should do the trick.’ She accepts the cup gratefully, taking a large gulp.

‘Either I’m in a worse way than I thought or this is Ribena.’

‘What?’ A quick sip confirms her finding. ‘I’m sorry – I was warned. I’ll change it.’

‘No really, it’s fine! Best to keep a clear head.’ She smiles sadly. ‘Twenty-seven years. Three great kids. The youngest takes his A levels next month. He should get straight As. He’s a bright boy as well as a hard worker. But he can’t ignore what’s happening to his dad. I think that’s what worries Lester most of all. He says he’ll never forgive himself if he’s responsible for Jake screwing up. Still, we can always look on the bright side. He won’t be around to find out.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Three months at the outside. Probably less.’ I try not to betray my shock. ‘He has a crack team looking after him: oncologists;
pathologists
; palliative nurses and, of course, his carer. Tell me, what sort of
world is it that has to give caring a label? It should come as naturally as talking or eating.’ I nod, trying to blot out the pilgrims who are mute or being fed. ‘I’m not his carer – I’m his wife!’

‘We all have to play different roles, ones we never expected.’

‘Oh shit! Here’s me droning on, without a thought for you.’

‘Richard’s as strong as an ox. He’ll outlive us all.’

‘So you’ll still be a wet nurse at ninety?’

‘I try not to look too far ahead. Besides, it’s become such a part of me. Like a ring that won’t come off in the heat.’ I hold up my swollen finger. ‘I know what you’re thinking, so I’ll say it for you: Life’s so bloody unfair.’

‘No, that’s not what I think – though I’ll grant you the
bloody
. I can live with
unfair
; I can even watch Lester die with it. What I can’t live with is the illogic – the total lack of rhyme or reason, unless you believe in some celestial reason way beyond our limited
understanding
. And, as I said before, I’m too bad a Catholic for that.’

My own bundle of illogic bounds up to me.

‘Gilly!’

‘Yes, Richard,’ I say, forcing a smile.

‘Look!’ To my amazement, he holds a four-leaf clover in his palm.

‘You’re so lucky! Show me!’

‘Don’t touch!’

‘I’m not going to steal it.’ On closer inspection I see that he has stuck an extra leaf to the stem with a film of sweat but, either because of Tess’ story or simply her presence, I say nothing, allowing him to savour the deception. ‘Good lunch?’

‘We have to put all our rubbish in the bag. Where’s yours?’

‘I wasn’t hungry. The heat,’ I say, wishing the truth were that simple.

‘You shouldn’t be talking. People are going to sing. Come on!’ He grabs my hand and pulls me off the wall.

‘How about you?’ I ask Tess.

‘I’m the original Miss Corncrake. Besides I’d better check up on Lester. Thanks for listening.’

‘My pleasure. I mean …’

‘I know.’

Richard drags me into the heart of the meadow where he has laid
his blazer on a rug. ‘I bagged us two places,’ he says with pride. I sit next to Linda, who squats stiffly beside Brenda’s chair.

‘Are you a singer?’ I ask her.

‘No, but Her Majesty here is. She won the Day Centre karaoke last Christmas with “Candle in the Wind”.’

‘I’ve won more than that, you daft bitch!’ Brenda glowers at her. ‘When I was eighteen, I was a redcoat at Clacton.’

‘She’s got the hump now.’

‘Always showing me up.’

I link arms with Richard, who looks surprised, while three young handmaidens – Eileen, Lorna and Moira/Maureen – sing ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ to the brancardier’s accompaniment. Their blushes at our applause deepen when Brenda shouts at Eileen: ‘Pull your skirt down, girl! He’s staring straight up it.’

Eileen jumps up as if stung. I turn to Richard, who is at once
shamefaced
and defiant. ‘It’s not me. It’s him. See!’ He points to the nearest man, who not only happens to be Father Humphrey but is fast asleep.

‘Don’t worry,’ I say, anxious to defuse the tension. ‘My eyes drift all over the place when I listen to music.’

‘Not straight up a young girl’s knickers, I should hope,’ Brenda says sternly. ‘Men! No control! Still you can’t hardly blame them when girls wear their skirts up to their armpits.’

‘I told you she’d got the hump,’ Linda says.

Eileen’s two friends stand up, even though one wears shorts and the other jeans. ‘Richard didn’t mean any harm,’ I assure them. Which is more than I can say for Brenda who is thoroughly
enjoying
the consternation she has caused.

‘Of course not,’ Lorna says. ‘It’s my legs. Pins and needles. Besides, we should hand round some more water.’

‘And I’ll see if there’s any rubbish,’ Eileen says.

The three girls hurry off, leaving Brenda to reflect on their conduct. ‘If I were Father Humphrey, I’d write to their parents. All “butter wouldn’t melt”, but I know what they’re like underneath.’

‘Rancid,’ Linda says, with a complicit cackle.

‘Come on, Richard,’ I say. ‘Let’s find your mother.’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ he says, as though threatened with the
ultimate
authority.

‘I know. But we don’t want her to feel neglected.’

We walk over to Patricia, who is standing with Maggie, Mona and Fleur in a huddle of matronly handmaidens. ‘Ah there you are, my dears. I was just telling our friends here how Pattersons employed the first coloured welder in Dorking. It’s no good giving me that look, Gillian. My daughter-in-law is so cp! In those days they were coloured. It was rude to call them black.’

‘Times change,’ I say.

‘My husband – I wouldn’t call him forward-looking but he was ahead of his time. He also hired a midget as a secretary. You
remember
, darling?’ Richard looks blank. ‘What was her name?’

‘Nicola,’ I say quietly, although Richard, as I later found out, knew her as Thumbelina.

‘Nicola,’ he repeats, as if grappling with the intimations of the name.

‘She did the work of a woman twice her size.’

Patricia’s remark reduces us to silence. I steal a glance at my watch, wondering how we are going to occupy the afternoon. As if in answer, Vincent strolls up.

‘Afternoon ladies. Rich.’

‘It’s always ladies first,’ Richard says grumpily.

‘Force of numbers, mate. Good lunch?’

‘It was cold.’

‘Have you come to do some filming?’ I ask quickly.

‘We’ve enough shots of the Jubilates at play. If we’re not careful, the viewers’ll think it’s one big jolly.’ He turns to Richard. ‘Speaking of which, I wonder if I can steal your wife.’ His recklessness makes me gasp.

‘They’ll put you in prison.’

‘They would if they knew what I was really thinking,’ he says, smiling at Patricia, whose frown suggests that she has a fair idea. ‘I want to interview a few of the villagers,’ he adds. ‘And your French is so good.’

‘Gillian has a gift for languages,’ Patricia says. ‘She’s always
listening
to the tapes. Even for countries where she’s never been.’

‘Let’s go then if we’re going,’ I say, alarmed at where the
conversation
might lead.

‘Don’t be late back for the coach.’

‘We won’t,’ Vincent assures them, moving to my side. I stride off, conscious of a tingling on my back, which I trust is the sun and not the weight of collective curiosity.

‘Are you always this subtle?’ I ask, on reaching the gate.

‘You mean you’ve not seen any of my films?’

‘Probably. I can’t remember. Since Richard’s illness we’ve watched wall-to-wall TV. That wasn’t the right answer, was it?’

‘Not really. Still you can make up for it when we get home. I’ve the entire O’Shaughnessy oeuvre on disc.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘Would you prefer it floppy or hard?’ He pauses. ‘I can’t believe I said that.’

‘Me neither.’

‘Still, now I have, you may as well reply.’

‘Good interview with Lester?’ I ask, afraid that he will take my reserve for a ploy and even more afraid that he might be right.

‘We got some usable material.’

‘Material? Is that all we are to you?’

‘It’s my job. But it still touches me. Perhaps if I were to make a film about automated bank telling? But no, there’d still be people somewhere along the line.’ He falls silent.

‘Come on, you’re missing your cue.’

‘What?’

‘Now you’re supposed to say how I touch you.’

‘Am I that cynical?’

‘No, I’m sorry. I am. It’s what comes of being a frustrated romantic.’

‘We can do something about that.’

He drops all pretence of an interview as we amble aimlessly through the cloisters.

‘What time are you supposed to meet them?’

‘Who?’

‘The villagers?’

‘Come on! Even your mother-in-law didn’t fall for that.’

‘I take people at their word.’

‘Since when? You’ve mistrusted me from the moment we met. But don’t worry, I know it comes from all that frustrated romance.’

‘Romanticism. Frustrated
romanticism
!’

‘Either way we can sort it out. Hi ya!’ Startled, I follow his gaze towards Kevin, who lies sprawled on a stone bench, holding up a book to shield his eyes from the sun. ‘Enjoying yourself?’ The instant he sees me, Kevin jumps up, pulling his shirt over his
freckled
stomach.

‘Free time. That’s what it says on the programme. What’s freedom? The right to do what I like, when I like, how I like, without having to answer to anyone.’

‘Whoa there!’ Vincent says. ‘We’re on your side.’

‘Oh sure!’

Such an absolute view of freedom seems suited only to a
dictator
or a hermit, and I start to see Saint Savin’s withdrawal from the world in a whole new light. Reluctant to antagonise Kevin further, I ignore the connection and, instead, point to the dog-eared book that has slipped to the ground.

‘Good read?’

‘
A Season in Hell
. Rimbaud,’ he says curtly.

‘And?’ I ask, refusing to be cowed.

‘It’s more than good. It’s the only book I’ve ever read that tells the truth. He was seventeen when he wrote it. My age! Why can’t I come up with something like that?’

‘Perhaps you’re not in hell?’ I venture, to be met by a look of pure venom. He lies back and picks up the book, which he now uses to shield himself from us.

‘See you then!’ Vincent says. Receiving no reply, we move away and out of the cloisters. ‘Poor kid! I hate to admit it but he reminds me a bit of myself at his age.’

‘I can’t believe you were ever that rude.’

‘True. But then I wasn’t that privileged.’

‘And he hates women. He looks at me like I’m Delilah, Jezebel and Mary Magdalene – the impenitent Mary Magdalene – all rolled into one.’

‘I hate to have to tell you, but he thinks you’ve got the hots for him.’

‘That’s not funny.’

‘I don’t know how high you score on teen-speak.’

‘Abysmally low, I expect, but what does that have to do with anything?’

‘You told him you were fit. To you and me and the Oxford English Dictionary, that means strong, healthy, physically able. But, to today’s
yoof
, it means up for it, sexy.’

‘But he can’t. Oh my God, he did! We must go back and set him straight.’ I turn and he grabs my wrist, dropping it as soon as he sees my expression.

‘No, please don’t. I almost did yesterday, but it’d only make him feel worse about himself – he’d be the smutty one.’

‘What if he tells his friends?’

‘I expect they’d agree: You’re fit.’

I surprise myself by laughing. ‘And to think I was worried about my rusty French!’

‘Through here.’ Vincent leads me out of the cloister and down the hill. I start to relax. Despite having no idea where we are heading, I am ready to put myself in his hands, at least for a couple of hours. I still have my doubts about him, but they are less to do with his character than his style. He has a trick of turning everything to his advantage which, however tongue-in-cheek, makes me feel
manipulated
. Besides, such a smooth operator is bound to have detected my weak spot. Everyone has one. Maybe credulity is mine?

‘Watch out for the step!’ He helps me over a splintery stile into an overgrown orchard, where I am hit by a powerful smell of
honeysuckle
and berries and lightly rotting vegetation. The lushness makes me queasy and I rummage in my handbag. ‘Would you like a
Wet One
?’

‘I beg your pardon!’

‘A tissue!’ I say, holding out the packet.

‘I’d rather have a wet one.’

‘Idiot!’

He wanders among the trees. ‘What are these?’ he asks, gesturing to the hard green fruit. ‘Some sort of Pyrenean pear?’