Jubilate (31 page)

‘You’ll just say this one thing and then you’ll be blotto.’

‘Trust me, it takes more than a couple of whiskies.’ He drinks more moderately than before. ‘Where was I? Oh yes, suffering. Good
Catholics
like you – I mean good people who happen to be Catholics, not good Catholics who happen to be people – spend their lives trying to work out how God can allow us to suffer. And, as I pointed out to Father Paul this morning, nowhere do you see that suffering more vividly than in Lourdes. Instead of tying yourself in knots trying to defend the indefensible, why not look at it the other way and ask how, with so much suffering, you can allow yourself to believe in God?’

‘I won’t give you the standard answer that, if there were no
suffering
, free will wouldn’t have any meaning.’

‘No, please don’t.’

‘But, after Richard’s haemorrhage, a priest – yes, I’m sorry; it was a priest and not a therapist or a counsellor – said something that
has helped me a great deal over the years. He said that pain and suffering were necessary to remind ourselves that there’s another life beyond this one: to stop us becoming complacent and accepting second-best.’

‘Next time you see him – I trust that he’s still in good health (I’d hate to think of him suffering) –’

‘What is it that makes you so angry?’

‘Tell him that there are some of us who are quite happy to settle for second-best so long as we can enjoy it, and those we love – and even those we don’t love – can enjoy it too: some of us who believe that life is meant for living, not for saving up for some eternal pension plan.’

‘That sounds like a recipe for hedonism.’

‘And what’s wrong with that?
Hedonism
has such negative
connotations
in a culture shaped by Christianity, but wanting – and giving – pleasure can be a very positive thing.’

‘I suppose it depends what you mean by
pleasure
. Some people find it in living for other people.’

‘Do you?’

‘I never think about it,’ I reply, anxious to remain detached. ‘I don’t have any choice. Richard requires constant attention. What should I do? Put him in a home and walk away?’

‘No. That is it’s not for me to say.’

‘No, it’s not – it’s really not. My life may be a shadow of what it was – of what it could be – but it’s not nearly such a shadow as his. When we married, I vowed to love him in sickness as well as in health. Is sickness limited to something quick like cancer or a coronary? Is permanent brain damage excluded by the small print?’ I stand and start to leave. He grabs hold of my hand.

‘Forgive me,’ he says. ‘Please don’t go. Not like this. Sit down. Have another drink. Please.’ I waver.

‘It’s still tomato juice. That’s not changed.’

‘Anything you like.’ He summons the waitress and orders more drinks.

‘It may surprise you to learn that peoples’ lives aren’t a television programme you can shoot and edit at will,’ I say, as she walks away. ‘You’ve known me for two days – you don’t know me at all.’

‘I know you’re not happy.’

‘No, really? My husband has lost half his brain cells – should I be jumping for joy?’

‘Isn’t there something you could do just for you? Do you have no unfulfilled ambitions?’

‘Yes, to dance Sleeping Beauty. Now for your next trick …’

‘That’s fascinating! Tell me more. How old were you when you first knew?’

‘About the age Richard is now. I went to classes for years, but it all came unstuck when I hit puberty. Boobs.’

‘I see.’ His gaze is sympathetic rather than prurient.

‘They grew too big. I tried starving myself, but they just went on growing. You’ve no idea what it’s like being fourteen and a size 32D. The sneers from the other girls; the assumptions from the boys; the suspicion from my mother, who was convinced they’d lure me into sin.’

‘And did they?’

‘Only the shallow end.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘So you should be. But thanks for asking. I don’t often get the chance to talk these days. They say widows have it bad once the first wave of sympathy dies down. In my case that was about ten years ago.’

‘You can talk to me.’

‘I thought I was.’

‘I mean
talk
talk.’ He looks at me with all the seriousness of a
six-year
-old, but a six-year-old who is the antithesis of Richard.

‘What about you? I’ve owned up to my Margot Fonteyn fantasies. Did you want to be a TV director as a boy?’

‘As a boy, I didn’t have a TV. I grew up in a town where people would gather outside Radio Rentals in the evenings to watch the sets flickering in the window. There was no sound, but they still stood there. What does that tell you? That they were poor? That they were sheep? That a picture’s worth a thousand words?’

‘Where was this?’

‘Barnsley. In Yorkshire.’

‘But your family’s Irish?’

‘My great-grandfather came over to work in the pits in the 1880s. It’s still a source of deep shame to my mother. My dad sat at a colliery desk all his life, but he might as well have come home black with dust.’

‘She can’t have had an easy life.’

‘She didn’t make it any easier. She was – she is – a bright woman, but I never saw her read a book, just the
Dowry of Mary
and
Catholic
Fireside
magazines with their syrupy stories of wise old priests and plucky Irish nursemaids. Her life has always revolved round the church. She loves all the festivals, but it’s funerals that are her real treat. She just needs to sit next to you on the bus and she’s on her knees beside your coffin. “I go to pay my respects,” she says. The only superiority she feels safe to show is over the dead.’

‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

‘Neither. She took one look at me and decided to cut her losses. Shortly before he died, my dad told me she’d had such a difficult labour that the doctor advised them not to risk another. I’d take a bet she held a gun to his head.’

‘You make her sound very strong-willed.’

‘Let’s just say she visits the doctor when she wants a second opinion.’

‘What about friends?’

‘What about them?’

‘Does she have many?’

‘A few fellow parishioners. Bitter, unfulfilled women working out their frustrations on their families. Not that my mother’s the worst.’ His eyes glisten. ‘I had a friend (this is hard!). When he was twelve or thirteen, his mother caught him jacking off with his dog in his bedroom. I mean the dog was in the bedroom, not that he was jacking off the dog.’

‘Yes, of course.’ I smile wanly.

‘First thing next morning his mother went to the priest and asked him what she should do about it. “Get rid of the dog,” he said. Now, let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. He may have meant: “Put a card in a newsagent’s window”, but she took him at his word. That afternoon, when my friend came home from school, he found she’d been to the vet and had it put down.’

‘But the dog wasn’t to blame!’

‘Neither was my friend! Though he got his revenge. He had a
Saturday
job in the abattoir and a cousin who was an altar boy. And … well, I expect you can guess the rest. They switched the blood with the communion wine. So on Sunday morning when the priest took a swig – and I mean a swig, no symbolic sip for him – he spat it out all over the sanctuary.’

‘You’re making it up!’

‘I swear, on my mother’s life.’

I weigh up the oath. ‘Where is he now – your friend, not the priest?’

‘I’ve no idea. We lost touch when I moved down to university. Sussex.’

‘To study film?’

‘Politics. I wanted to change the world. Don’t laugh. Not that there was much politics left in 1985. To have changed anything at all, I should have read economics. So when I got my degree, I took the classic route of the impotent Leftie and joined the BBC. I’ve worked for it one way or another ever since.’

I note that he has said nothing about his private life and wonder if it is an established strategy to draw out others while revealing as little as possible about himself. ‘Is there a Mrs O’Shaughnessy?’ I ask tentatively.

‘You mean, apart from my mother?’ He gives me a wry smile.

‘Yes.’

‘There was once. Celia.’

‘That’s a lovely name.’

‘She was a lovely person. I still find it hard to talk about her. She was so perfect, I couldn’t imagine what she saw in me. Even her parents made me feel at home, well as much as they could given that they own a large chunk of Lincolnshire. They see themselves as bastions of tradition – in every sense. Her father’s more likely to buy a new coat for his horse than for his wife. The first time we met, he told me he’d worn the same jacket for twenty-five years. I thought that meant he was proud of his figure … We still keep in touch. They send me a smoked salmon every Christmas.’ He laughs mirthlessly.

‘Even though you and Celia are divorced?’

‘Who told you that?’

‘No one. I just assumed.’ To my horror I realise that he may be widowed.

‘And you’re quite right! Vincent O’Shaughnessy: a man so
impossible
no woman can bear to stick around!’

‘Not at all. But the world you move in: the late hours, the
hothouse
atmosphere.’

‘Yes, the stresses and strains of a media marriage … if only things were that simple! Still, Celia’s well out of it. And there’s no one who wants her to be happy more than me. She’s married to the kind of man she should have gone for first time round. They live in a hunting lodge near Inverness with their two children, Rob and Fergus (I’m glad at least they’re boys). I hear occasional news of them from my former mother-in-law. I think she thinks she’s being kind.’

‘What about you? Did you and Celia have no children?’

‘Yes one: a daughter.’

‘Does she live with her mother?’

‘She’s dead.’

‘Oh no, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s fine. Well it’s not, of course; it’s not fine at all, but that’s life. She was knocked down in Battersea eight years ago. She was six.’

‘A car crash?’ I ask, determined to avoid further misunderstanding.

‘Yes. The doctors swore it was instantaneous. But were they telling me the truth or what I wanted to hear? I know she was dead by the time the police arrived, but who’s to say that in those few short moments she didn’t suffer unspeakable agonies?’

‘And you?’ I ask. ‘Are you still suffering them now?’

‘I’m forty-two. She was six.’

‘A moment ago, when you were denouncing the Church, you said that the secret of life was to be happy.’

‘Quite. But I never said that I’d found it.’

‘Would you like another drink?’

‘No thanks. Contrary to appearances, I’m not a complete soak. All I want is to sit here talking to you.’

‘It’s eleven fifteen, I really must go. They’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’

‘I haven’t spoken to anyone like this since Celia left. I haven’t felt about anyone like this since Celia left.’

‘Please don’t say that.’

‘Why not if it’s true?’

‘It means I have to respond. And the only possible answer is “no”.’

‘You haven’t heard the question.’

‘I don’t need to. We’ve only just met.’

‘What was it our saintly director said yesterday? “What we do in Lourdes is God’s gift to us. What we do to one another while we’re here is our gift to God.”’

‘You don’t believe in God.’

‘But I do believe in one another. And I believe – I know – that we have something: an energy, a bond, call it what you will. I’m sitting three feet away from you but I can feel the beat of your heart, the rush of your blood.’

I too feel the bond, although I am less certain of its effect. Then, before I can object, he leans across the table and seals it. I am both relieved and affronted, as when a nurse plunges a needle into my vein while still seeming to swab the skin.

‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

‘Why not? The pilgrimage rules talk of protecting vulnerable people. You can take care of yourself.’

‘Can I?’

‘And if you can’t, I know someone who’ll gladly apply for the post.’

‘I must go,’ I say, standing. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not offended. But I am late.’

‘I’ll walk you back.’

‘There’s no need. This is one town where a woman alone at night is safe.’

‘Not according to the proprietor of my hotel. She claims that the streets are full of marauding gypsies.’

‘I’ll take the risk. I really need to clear my head before I go back to Richard.’

‘Of course,’ he says quietly.

‘I’ve had a lovely evening. Truly. And I hope we can do it again. But in company, not on our own. And please, when you see me tomorrow, don’t mention any of this.’

‘Should I pretend to have forgotten your name?’

‘I’m serious. Think of us as strangers on a train who’ve opened up our hearts during a long journey.’

‘A journey that will last another three days.’

‘But one of us has already changed seats. Believe me, it’s for the best.’

‘No, it’s not. But if that’s what you want.’

‘Thank you.’

As I move away, I wonder whether returning his kiss, albeit on the cheek, would be a gesture of goodwill or a provocation.
Suspecting
the latter, I give him my cheeriest smile and leave.

A
ny hope that Jamie might have kept his mouth shut is dashed as I approach the table. ‘I didn’t know you were a fan of
Mendelssohn
,’ I say, cutting through a snatch of the ‘Wedding March’.

‘Just getting in some practice, chief!’ he replies.

‘So,’ I say, eager to avoid Sophie’s and Jewel’s pointed glances, ‘what’s on the menu this morning? Croissant and cereal?’

‘How did you guess? Though I’m sure if you told them you need to replenish your strength,’ Sophie says wryly, ‘they’d be able to rustle up some sausages or a steak tartare.’

Jewel squirms.

‘I doubt Madame BJ would approve of that.’

‘She wouldn’t want you flopping about –’ Jamie leaves an
excruciating
pause – ‘before a busy day.’

‘No need to worry about me,’ I reply, refusing to feel inhibited.

‘That’s not what I heard.’

‘What did you hear, Jewel? I’m all ears.’

‘Far be it from me to listen to idle gossip.’

‘Perish the thought!’

‘But Jamie said you knocked on his door.’

‘Hammered on it. Practically broke it down.’

‘Right. Hammered on his door in the middle of the night,
desperate
for a condom.’

‘And?’

‘Which rather suggests that you had company … female company.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Jamie says.

‘Oh please!’ Jewel says, rolling her eyes.

‘I don’t see why it should suggest that I had company of either sex. There are plenty of other uses for a condom.’

‘Right,’ Sophie says. ‘You had something stuck in your teeth and you’d run out of dental floss.’

‘No, no!’ Jewel says. ‘He’d cut his finger and wanted a waterproof bandage.’

‘No,’ Sophie says. ‘He wanted to blow one up for a draught excluder.’

‘No, no –’ Jamie says.

‘He wanted to make a hot pad for a stubbed toe!’ Jewel says.

‘No, no –’ Jamie says.

‘He wanted to store the candle wax from the Torchlight
procession
!’ Sophie says.

‘No, no,’ Jamie says. We all look at him expectantly. ‘You’ve made me lose my thread!’

‘Enough!’ I say. ‘All right, I admit it – I had someone with me last night. Now can we drop the subject? As for you …’ I turn to Jamie. ‘Is it too much to expect a little discretion?’

‘What do you mean, chief? There were four other blokes in the room, two of them priests!’

‘Why? Did Father Humphrey say something?’

‘Didn’t he just! You sure put the kibosh on the game. First thing today he’s going to round up all the women, plus a couple of the tastier brancs.’ He pulls a face at Jewel. ‘And force them on pain of … you know, sounds like extermination.’

‘Excommunication?’ Jewel says.

‘That’s it –
excommunication
, to fess up which one of them it was.’

‘You’re having me on?’ I ask, feeling nauseous.

‘You should have heard him! “Not in all my time in Lourdes … bringing the pilgrimage into disrepute …!” He wants you both on the next flight home.’

Two thousand years of Church repression are embodied in a single priest. I am planning how best to defend myself and to protect Gillian, when Sophie intervenes. ‘Don’t be a brute, Jamie. Can’t you see he’s really worried?’

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Honest, chief, look at you!’ Jamie says. ‘Father Humph was pissing himself. He said it was the best laugh he’s had in years.’

Not sure whether to hug him or hit him, I compromise by tapping my spoon on the crown of his head which, to the delight of Jewel and Sophie, gives off a faintly metallic ring. I move to the cornflake queue, where my paranoia returns when the middle-aged man in front winks at me. To my relief, I realise that he has a severe tic.

I rejoin the crew who are busy speculating on the identity of my companion.

‘So who is she then?’ Jamie asks me. ‘One of the handmaidens? A couple of them are quite well-stacked.’

‘Thanks for that, Jamie!’ Jewel says. ‘They’re women, not
supermarket
shelves.’

‘They’re also young enough to be my daughters.’

‘I didn’t say
young handmaidens
,’ Jamie says defensively. ‘I’m not ageist.’

‘But it wasn’t one of the handmaidens, was it, Vincent? Or one of the
malades
. More like someone in between.’ Sophie’s voice tells me that she knows and her smile that she approves.

‘You don’t mean Linda?’ Jamie asks. ‘She’s in between. Here, you’re not the filling in a lesbo sandwich?’

‘Linda and Brenda are …’ The word
partners
dies on my lips as I realise that fidelity is not my strong suit. ‘Gay.’

‘That wouldn’t bother Jamie,’ Sophie says. ‘He’ll go for anything with a pulse.’

‘Yeah yeah!’

‘Forget the pulse,’ Jewel says. ‘I spoke to Frankie Sewell, the AD on the pathology doc. She said that by the end of the shoot there was a distinct whiff of formaldehyde about him.’

‘Enough now!’ I say, feeling sullied by association. ‘I’ll tell you her name – Sophie’s already guessed it – but I swear that if one of you so much as breathes it, Jamie Proud, I’ll personally cut your balls off, and hand them to Father Humphrey on a communion plate.’

‘Cross my heart and hope to die!’

‘It’s Gillian Patterson.’

‘But she’s ….’

‘Yes?’

‘She’s great,’ he says, a moment too late. It does not augur well when even Jamie’s first thought is that she is married.

‘You will be careful,’ Jewel says, proving that of the three she is the one who is genuinely concerned for me. ‘We wouldn’t want you to get hurt.’

‘I promise. Besides, I may not see her again on the pilgrimage, let alone once we leave.’ Even as I speak, I am drawing up a plan of campaign. ‘We have a packed schedule.’

‘Not this afternoon,’ Jamie says.

‘It’s earmarked for an interview with one Gillian Patterson,’ Sophie says.

‘She hasn’t yet agreed to take part.’

I let the rest of the conversation waft over me as I finish my cereal, desperate to keep the vanilla scent of her skin and the lemony tang of her hair from being swamped by the burnt, dark smell of the coffee. I struggle to wipe the broad grin off my face as I relive our lovemaking. It has been so long since I looked to anyone for more than temporary relief that I had forgotten the joy and peace and the extraordinary intimacy that can seep through a woman’s skin. How remarkable that an act of adultery should relieve me of so much guilt!

The thought lingers to mock me. Given my previous record, I would be wise to stop trying to anticipate the future and allow myself to enjoy the present. But there is something in me – in us (no, I lost the right to generalise when I boarded up my heart after the crash) – that refuses to trust my happiness to chance.

The waitress pours me a cup of coffee which Sophie, looking at her watch, tells me that I have no time to drink. I take two scalding gulps before we hurry down to the lobby and make our way to the Acceuil. It is hard to fix my mind on work, but at least we are spared another service since we are taking a tour of the town’s monuments led by Father Dave. A quick glance reveals Gillian prominent among the assembled Jubilates, although her yellow top is eclipsed by
Patricia’s
pink trouser suit and Maggie’s
I
Bernadette
T-shirt. As if by magic she meets my gaze, turning the surrounding hubbub to the trill of birdsong.

‘Let’s be having you all please,’ Ken says, eager as ever to whip us into shape. ‘The
malades
and their carers in front. The rest of us forming an orderly line behind. Father Dave is ready to start.’

I watch Gillian chatting with Lester and Tess and, to my surprise, feel no urge to join them. Unlike yesterday, when the so-near-
yet-so
-far frustration left me desperate for the least contact, I am content just to see her enjoying their company; to admire her affability and charm, while knowing that I alone have witnessed the other side of her: the passionate lover giving herself, body and soul. When she stifles a yawn, I am thrilled to be the only one to realise why she is
tired. ‘Richard had a rough night,’ I hear her say, deceit adding an edge to romance. My head tells me that every one of the fifty or so pilgrims on the walk has a claim to her attention; my heart tell me that she exists only for me.

Father Dave approaches me as we cross the Esplanade. ‘Do you know the story of this statue?’ he asks, pointing to the Crowned Virgin.

‘No,’ I say, wondering why every statue in Lourdes has to have a story when such a wealth of human stories abounds.

‘It originally pointed the other way, towards St Michael’s Gate, but on its very first night it turned to face the Grotto and has done ever since.’

‘Is this some sort of wind-up?’

‘Not at all. It’s been well documented.’

‘How? I don’t recall any CCTV footage in those days, so were there photographs taken before and after? Not that they’d prove
anything
. Bored kids – I suppose they have them in Lourdes – could have sneaked in and switched it round.’

‘All I can do is give you the facts – it’s up to you what you make of them. The legend goes that, if you say three Hail Marys in front of it, then you’ll be sure to return.’

‘Have you?’

‘Of course. Every time. And it hasn’t failed me yet.’

We walk to St Joseph’s Gate, where we film the Jubilates streaming out of the Domain; footage which, even as we shoot it, I know will end up on the cutting room floor. After last night I am more
determined
than ever to focus on the essentials. All the painters and poets (not to mention, their biographers), who make heartfelt pleas for the primacy of love, have long struck me as disingenuous, seeking to justify the hours that they spend between the sheets rather than at their easels or desks. Not any more! Love transforms not just the artist but his work. Women – I don’t claim to be either balanced or inclusive – not only touch the heart, ravish the senses and fire the spirit, but concentrate the mind. Far from creating a distraction, Gillian will inspire me to greater things.

I laugh, which to my embarrassment comes at the exact moment that Fiona, having slipped away from her parents to measure
Martin’s leg, gets the tip of the tape caught in his open fly. The two mothers, Mary and Claire, vie with each other in a pantomime of apology. Although Fiona’s eagerness to measure the world must bear some relation to her failure to understand it, I wonder why she should have a particular fondness for inside legs. Are they simply at a convenient height, or is there a darker impulse at work which, in later life, will transform a harmless eccentricity into a dangerous obsession?

Determined to arouse no one’s suspicion – let alone Jamie’s and Jewel’s mockery – I cast a sidelong glance at Gillian, who is deep in conversation with Sophie. I am surprised to see them together and wonder, with a mixture of excitement and alarm, whether they are talking about me. No sooner have I spotted them than Sophie slips away and joins us outside a shop selling rosaries the size of
flagellants
’ chains. While Father Dave leads the group across the bridge, I risk a fuller look at Gillian who, with her usual intuition, returns it with a flustered smile. I direct her attention to the four nondescript tents on the opposite bank. Pace Madame BJ, I would offer their occupants not just the run but the freedom of the town. From now on, whatever the election, I shall vote for the party that offers the best deal for gypsies. Like a rambler campaigning for the right to roam, I shall fight for the rights of Roma! So what if they made me pay over the odds for the condoms? This is Lourdes; miracles do not come cheap.

We arrive at Bernadette’s birthplace where, feeling constrained by the crowded courtyard, I tell Jamie to switch off the camera and enjoy the tour. Not even proximity to Gillian, however, can reconcile me to Father Dave’s paean to the Soubirous family who, despite injury, penury, industrial change and, worst of all, the death of a child, are cast as first cousins to the Waltons. At the end of his homily, Father Dave asks us to pray for today’s families as ‘the place where we learn our Christian values’. Watching Gillian bow her head, I acknowledge that Richard is not the only obstacle to our happiness. She may be praying for his health, world peace, or even for me, but I suspect that she is sticking to the brief. Longing for a glimpse inside her mind, I consider offering ‘a penny for your prayers’, only to reject it as in every sense mean, as well as uncomfortably close to standard practice.

A commotion at the door is a sign that not everything in Lourdes is designed for the disabled. Nigel is caught in the gap between the authentic past and the accessible present; Richard, undaunted, is trying to shove him through.

‘I can push it. Like this. See.’ He tilts Nigel’s wheelchair.

‘Just stop it, please!’ Gillian says, taking me back a few hours to when she was the one left helpless with laughter as I discovered the sensitive spot behind her knee. ‘You’re keeping everyone waiting. Come in with me and catch up with Nigel later.’