‘You’re staying here?’ I ask inanely.
‘With Richard.’
‘I thought it was only for hospital pilgrims.’ The words slip out as though I had no more self-control than Richard.
‘And their carers.’
‘You’re his carer?’
‘So I’m told. I used to be his wife.’ She disappears down the corridor with an indifference more painful than either anger or contempt. I return to the dining room and to Sophie’s announcement that Louisa has just summoned everyone to mass. It will be my first since my father’s requiem and, for all my disbelief, I have a profound dread of saying or doing anything that will mark me out as a fraud.
We wait our turn at the lifts and go up to the chapel, which is spare, bright and anonymous. The Committee’s concerns about the filming had centred on the services and we are careful to address them, standing unobtrusively at the back. The room quickly fills up. Some of the wheelchair-pushers reveal their inexperience, but good humour prevails, with even a head-on collision eliciting a cry of ‘Hold on! I’ve not bought a ticket for the dodgems.’ Once everyone is settled, Father Humphrey, his stomach straining his surplice, moves to the altar and declares that before the mass ‘She Who Must Be Obeyed’ wishes to say a few words. The epithet is greeted by titters from his flock and a show of diffidence from Louisa, who steps forward with a formal welcome. Claiming that no one pilgrim is more important than any other although some have more prominent roles, she summons those notables to the front: her deputy, Marjorie; the doctors, one, our gaunt fellow-resident at the hotel, the other, rocking a mewling baby; the head nurse, Anthea; chief handmaiden, Maggie; and chief brancardier, Ken. They stand in varying degrees of discomfort while Louisa runs through the programme. Among the pious hopes and practical details, she makes one remark that strikes a chord with me: ‘I hope those of you who are seasoned pilgrims will forgive me if I repeat what I say every year: What we’re doing in Lourdes is God’s gift to us. What we do to one another while we’re here is our gift to God.’
The mass begins, the sequence of Confession, Absolution and Gloria so familiar that it might be imprinted in my DNA. The opening hymn, however, comes as a surprise. Let There Be Love is a saccharine ballad that might have been plucked from a Lloyd Webber musical, an effect accentuated by the accompaniment of guitars, flute and drums played by four of the young helpers. Our emotions are further manipulated by Fiona, who, with what appears to be official sanction, moves to the front and conducts the singing with her tape measure. It is hard to distinguish the Ahs from the Amens. Father Paul leads the prayers: for the sick; for our families; for priestly vocations; for the victims of the recent road crash; for those known to us who have ‘gone home’ since the last pilgrimage; for our fellow pilgrims; and, finally, for ourselves.
The gospel reading is St John’s account of the paralysed man told to ‘take up thy bed, and walk.’ Father Humphrey expands on the theme in his sermon, assuring the sick that they are close to Christ and that their example and forbearance are an inspiration to us all. ‘Remember that, however hard it may be for the human mind to fathom, all suffering has a purpose. The Blessed Virgin has cured many people in Lourdes but not St Bernadette herself, who was tormented all her life by asthma. When she was asked why, she replied that it was not for her to question the ways of God. “I’m happier on my bed of affliction,” she declared, “than a queen on a throne.” She had no more desire to suffer than Our Lord had on His cross, but she knew that it was one of God’s gifts.’ As he draws to a close, I wonder whether Lester and Frank and Brenda are grateful for their gifts; I wonder whether Fiona’s parents and Tadeusz and Lucja take comfort from the knowledge of their children’s proximity to Christ. Above all, I wonder about Gillian, sitting next to her inspirational husband, but the back of her head gives nothing away.
The sermon over, Father Humphrey asks two of the young brancardiers to bring up the Jubilate banner and calls on Father Paul to bless it. ‘No one blesses like Father,’ he quips, to the delight of his audience. Beneath the archness, however, I detect something more sinister. Out of the blue, my mind fills with images of castrati. Although the Church no longer emasculates its choristers, it continues to infantilise its congregations. The thought depresses me and I am grateful for the chance to bury it in the formality of the Eucharistic prayers, but the respite is cut short when Father Dave announces the Peace. I am wrenched back to my childhood and the dreaded moment each Sunday when I had to shake hands, first with Father Damian, whose clammy palm contained the threat of something more intimate, and then with Douglas, my fellow altar boy and weekly nemesis who, daring me not to squeal, turned the exchange into a Chinese burn. While nothing can ever compare with that, I watch in dismay as the room erupts in a tide of hugs and handshakes and kisses. Nor are we observers spared since, in swift succession: Louisa; Marjorie; a bald brancardier; Fiona and her mother; Sister Martha; and a young woman, who from her accent I take to be Lucja head towards us, extending both hands and greetings. Detachment is no longer an option as we are drawn into the heart of the crowd. Suddenly, an extraordinary sensation overwhelms me – if it is peace, then it is a peace that inflames every nerve in my body – as I first hear her voice, at once wry and sincere, and then slowly reach to take her outstretched hand.
GILLIAN
Thursday June 19
I turn away from the camera for fear that it will capture an emotion invisible to the naked eye. Vincent’s film will be broadcast in November. Patricia will insist on watching it with us or, worse, on throwing a small party for her church or Troubridge Hall friends. We will sit in our allotted chairs in her airless sitting room, braving the constant round of crisps and crudités (‘Richard, darling, I bought the olives pitted specially for you,’), counting the minutes until the programme begins. Halfway through, we will see the exterior of the Acceuil, followed by a slow pan across the pilgrims gathering at the gate. ‘Oh!’ Patricia will cry, missing nothing. ‘This was the morning we went on a walking tour of the town. I know because it was the first outing for my pink linen.’ On cue, the camera picks out the suit, more Paris than Lourdes, but the audience’s acclamations fade when it settles on the woman standing next to her, who might as well be in her nightdress, a woman whose every look screams morning-after ecstasy. My secret is out; my shame is exposed.
There again, I may be grateful for the record. In years to come, when I start to doubt my own memory, the film will bear witness to the moment that a decent man – a man of talent and discernment – chose me. The blissful smile on my face, the glow that I know must envelop me, will take me back to the spartan hotel room: to the lumpy mattress on which Vincent O’Shaughnessy – and somehow his full name matters – made love to me. It will conjure up a night when my body was once again the core of my being, when I was with a man who was healthy and lucid: a man who saw me as a woman and not just a cross between a call girl and a nurse.
I am aware that the experience can never be repeated. I am not looking for miracles, at least not for myself. I expect nothing more from him than courtesy and consideration for what remains of the trip. Nevertheless, I do not feel a single regret for what we did and, should I ever be tempted to waver, I will only need to switch on the tape. So let them think what they like of me! I search for the camera and smile.
‘Didn’t I tell you Lourdes would put a bloom in your cheeks?’ Patricia’s voice drags me back to the present. ‘You look positively radiant.’
‘It must be the sun.’
‘Have you put any cream on?’ I shake my head. ‘Here!’ She fumbles for a tube in her bag. ‘It can play nasty tricks.’ I rub some on, to shield myself from scrutiny as much as from harm.
‘It’s done you the world of good,’ she continues with disarming warmth. ‘After all your shilly-shallying, aren’t you glad you came?’
‘I am.’
‘I’ll let you into a little secret. During the procession last night, I said a special prayer for you. Just a small
one. There’s someone we both know needs them more. But Our Lady must have heard. She has room in her heart for us all.’
‘Yes, you’re right. I think I’ve finally begun to understand the meaning of infinity.’
She gazes at me in confusion. ‘Richard looks happy.’ She gestures to her son who is sharing a joke with Nigel and a couple of brancardiers.
‘He’s excited. They’re letting him push Nigel’s wheelchair up the hill.’
‘Is that wise?’
‘He’s discovered the appeal of helping someone needier than himself. It may pall, but then he only has one more day.’
‘It’ll all end in tears.’
‘What?’ Her words make me shudder.
‘Tomorrow at the airport, when they go their separate ways.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’
‘Still, I’m sure he’ll get over it. A friendship that springs up so fast can’t reach down very deep.’
I study her face for a hint of a double meaning. ‘Let’s hope you’re right.’
‘Can we be having everyone please?’ Ken’s request cuts short our exchange. ‘The malades and their carers in front. The rest of us forming an orderly line behind. Father Dave is ready to start.’ At the sound of his name, the priest turns away from the group of youngsters with whom he is chatting, takes a last puff of his cigarette and grinds it underfoot. Temporarily relieved of my caring status, I stand back to allow the hospital pilgrims priority. As ever I am moved to see Linda, beanpole thin beneath several layers of clothing, pushing the hefty Brenda. Woe betide anyone who offers to help, as Matt found out at the Stations of the Cross. I am saddened to see Tess pushing Lester who, after his collapse yesterday, has finally accepted a chair.
‘Still not too steady after the op,’ he says stoically. ‘Giving Tess a chance to make herself useful.’
‘About time too,’ I say, anxious not to betray her trust. ‘Oh excuse me.’ I fail to stifle a yawn.
‘Rough night?’ Tess asks with a glance at Richard.
‘Quite the reverse.’
We set off past the miracle-working statue of the Virgin. The red tint to her crown puts me in mind of Vincent and, breaking all my own rules, I turn to look for him. He is at St Joseph’s Gate, deep in discussion with Jamie and Jewel as they film the walk. All at once the few yards between us seem to extend for miles and a bitter chill sweeps through the air. I feel an acute need to make contact, if only by speaking his name. Jamie and Jewel are preoccupied and, besides, after last night the very thought of Jamie brings a blush to my cheek. So I opt for Sophie and, excusing myself to Patricia, hang back until she catches up.
It is not just her modishly eccentric clothes (today, a red-and-white stripy shirt and white skin-tight jeans with red question marks embroidered on the front and back pockets) that set her apart from the rest of us. She even walks differently, in the emphatic but effortless strides of one to whom people naturally give way. She is the kind of woman I like to pretend that I might have been in other circumstances but, in truth, the disparity runs far deeper. I know nothing about her background except to feel sure that it would not have stood in the way of her ambition. She would never have wound up as a secretary in a family construction firm, a position obtained through the good offices of the parish priest, who had no idea of the proprietary interest Mr Thomas Patterson took in his female staff. But if by some strange quirk of fate she had, she would never have quit her job to marry the boss’s son, let alone agreed to wait the best part of ten years for children: children who would have given her marriage a heart; children who would have given her life a meaning; until, by the cruellest irony, her husband became her child. And if … but I have no wish to speculate what she would have done had she been left with Richard. Suddenly, the hypothetical becomes all too real.
I envy so much about her, but first on the list is her relationship with Vincent. Theirs is an easy, lunchtime, how’s-things-at-home intimacy; ours a furtive, bedtime, somebody’s-going-to-be-hurt one. But, even as I define the difference, I recall last night: the totally unplanned, desperately anticipated perfection of it. I feel his hands as hot on my breasts as if he had crept up behind me. I know now that, no matter how lonely the future may be, I would not swap places with anyone. At last I can understand the heroines of my schoolgirl romances who were willing to risk all for a single night of love.
‘Vincent seems busy,’ I say, trusting that I have not lingered too long on his name.
‘He never stops. The way he works is to shoot as much as possible and then make the film in the editing. We have a schedule of course but, to quote him, it’s a safety net not a straightjacket. He likes to be free to pick up whatever comes his way.’
I flinch, but her friendly smile reassures me. It is clear that Jamie has kept his promise to say nothing of Vincent’s midnight quest, unless – and this is not an option I relish – he failed to realise that the woman in question was me.
‘It must keep you in a state of panic.’
‘More creative tension. At least that’s my story. It only once turned pear-shaped, when he made a film about Estonian strawberry-pickers – Estonian strawberry-pickers in Kent, that is – and found that that was precisely what they were: Estonian strawberry-pickers. No ideological, generational tensions within the group. No East-West, poverty-affluence tensions outside it. Just twenty people picking strawberries and, two weeks later, no film. That was before my time, thank God! Excuse me, I ought to see if I’m needed.’
She walks over to Vincent who is standing in a shop doorway filming the ad-hoc procession as we file towards the bridge. For a moment his eyes meet mine and, with a barely perceptible nod, he indicates the gypsies camping on the bank. I feel my face breaking into a smile when I might have expected it to flush crimson. He switches his attention to Sophie and I switch mine to the road, which is steep enough to challenge even the fittest pilgrims. Some of the young brancardiers are wilting under the weight of their wheelchairs but Richard, licensed for once to exercise his muscles, forges ahead. Father Paul hurries forward to stop him, and I suspect that he has shot past the turning. He seems reluctant to head back but I keep my distance, happy to leave him in someone else’s charge. I wonder if this is the new definition of my carer’s role. I care … oh yes, I will care for ever, but I no longer control.
Having gathered us together, Father Dave leads the way down a shabby side street to Bernadette’s birthplace, an ancient mill which, with its cream plastered walls, wooden balcony and shuttered windows, resembles an artfully restored auberge. He beckons us closer, while waiting for the gaggle of visitors at the door to go inside.
‘This is the Boly Mill, where St Bernadette was born on 7 January 1844, the first child of François Soubirous and his wife Louisa. The mill belonged to Louisa’s mother, Claire Casterot, who initially lived with the family but, after Louisa gave birth to her second child, Toinette, in September 1846, Claire and her three younger children moved in with her eldest daughter, Bernarde, to give them more space.’
‘More space?’ A voice which a few hours ago was cooing in my ear now drips with scorn. ‘They were at daggers drawn. It was a last-ditch solution.’
I am torn between a longing to listen to him and a fear that other people will overhear. ‘In-laws,’ I say with a smile which I hope will satisfy him, only to find myself addressing Patricia who has nudged forward.
‘You’ll see for yourselves how small the house is: just three rooms and the workplace, so it’s no wonder that space was at a premium. Bernadette lived here for twelve years, until a string of misfortunes forced the family to leave. First, her father was blinded in one eye by a chip that flew off the millstone. Then her little brother Jean-Marie was gathered to the Lord.’ I steal a glance at Vincent, whose face is impassive. ‘François had long let his heart rule his head, giving extra measures to this one and selling on credit to that, but the advent of the steam-powered mills dealt him a mortal blow. Driven out of his own mill, he went to work for a
rival who accused him of stealing flour and had him thrown into jail. Of course a few days later he was utterly exonerated, but it broke his spirit. In 1856, he took his family to a derelict hovel, Rives House, but even there the rent proved too high and, in 1857, just when you’d think they couldn’t sink any lower, they moved into the cachot, the punishment cell of the former town prison, which a kind-hearted cousin put at their disposal.’ He turns to Lester. ‘Does that answer your question?’
‘Perfectly, Father.’
‘I thought so. Even through all the bad times the Soubirous remained loving and close-knit, and, before we take a look inside, I’d ask you to bow your heads in prayer for the family, an institution which is under greater threat than ever, yet remains the bedrock of our society, the place where we learn our Christian values.’ Father Dave signals his intent by closing his eyes. I follow suit, but my thoughts are disturbed first by the background noise, which is amplified in the darkness, and then by the image of Vincent, whose prayers – were he to make them – would be full of reproof. I am pulled up by the ‘Amen’, which I emptily echo, and make my way to the front door, which is now clear.
Richard is wreaking havoc by trying to squeeze Nigel’s wheelchair inside, despite Ken’s protests. No longer the detached observer, I hurry to intervene.
‘There’s no room. Look at the stairs.’
‘I can push it. Like this. See.’ He tips the wheelchair right back, causing Nigel to giggle uncontrollably.
‘Just stop it, please!’ I say, unwelcome comparisons making me shrill. ‘You’re holding everyone up. Come in with me and catch up with Nigel later.’
‘No. If Nigel can’t go in, neither will I,’ he says, in a mixture of solidarity and petulance.
‘Don’t worry, mate,’ Vincent says, coming up from behind. ‘How about we do some filming inside and show it to you both? Give you a sneak preview.’
‘Before Gilly?’
Jubilate Page 7
