Jubilate

by Michael Arditti

  ‘Before anyone.’

  ‘Yes please,’ Richard says. ‘Then we can see it all from out here.’

  Brushing aside my thanks, Vincent steps back from the door, leaving me to enter alone. I walk through the kitchen and mill, idly appraising the dilapidated machinery. Then I follow Claire and Martin upstairs and linger on the landing, taking an undue interest in the votive plaques as I wait for Vincent.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to help,’ I say, when he finally arrives.

  ‘Not at all,’ he replies with a heart-warming smile. ‘We’re not planning on filming in here, so Jamie can wipe the tape once he’s shown it to them.’

  ‘Boys and their toys. I mean that in the nicest possible way.’

  ‘I’m sure you always do.’

  ‘So this is where it all began,’ I say quickly, gazing at the room in which St Bernadette was born. The wooden wall-panelling and blue-and-white check counterpane look suspiciously pristine. ‘It all seems a little sanitised.’

  ‘And how! I was biting my tongue during Father Dave’s homily … sorry, history lesson.’

  ‘Not very successfully. More space!’

  ‘That was nothing. How about François Soubirous being utterly exonerated? Says who? He was simply released through lack of evidence. What’s the big deal? Why not admit Bernadette came from a dysfunctional household? Or is the Church so fixated on happy families that it has to cover it up?’

  ‘Let’s discuss it outside,’ I say, as Patricia and Maggie walk into the room. ‘We’re holding everyone up.’

  ‘Ladies, you be the arbiters.’ Vincent shoots me a mischievous glance as they simper. ‘Do you like your saints squeaky-clean from the start, or would you prefer them to show a little human frailty?’

  ‘Well, it’s not up to us, is it?’ Maggie replies. ‘Take St Paul. He persecuted the early Christians and now he’s at the top of the tree.’

  ‘And Mary Magdalene,’ Patricia adds. ‘No better than she should be and yet she was the one next to Our Lady at the foot of the Cross. But if you mean St Bernadette, she was as frail and as human as any other young girl. Maggie, you remember the story Father Dave told us last year about when she was living with the Sisters of Charity and forbidden to go to the vegetable garden, so she threw her clog out of the window for a friend to fill it with strawberries.’

  ‘Wicked!’ Vincent says, with a smirk that cannot fail to escape my mother-in-law’s notice.

  ‘And one day,’ Maggie says, ‘she was even caught putting a block of wood inside her blouse to increase the size of her you know whats.’

  ‘Sh-sh,’ Patricia says, ‘that’s just hearsay. We don’t want Mr O’Shaughnessy repeating it to all and sundry on the BBC.’

  ‘Don’t worry, ladies. Anything you say stays strictly within these four walls. Besides, as a hardboiled film-maker, I find this rebellious, provocative Bernadette far more to my taste.’

  ‘Oh I didn’t mean it like that,’ Patricia says quickly.

  ‘Of course not,’ Vincent replies, with a wink that flusters her further.

  We go back outside and find Jamie holding up his camera to replay the footage of the house to Nigel, who stares at it in frustration. ‘Can’t see,’ he says, as Jamie points out each special feature.

  ‘That’s because you’re not looking straight,’ Jamie says, holding the camera a few inches away from his eyes.

  ‘Gimme,’ Nigel says, groping feebly for the camera.

  ‘Not on your life,’ Jamie says. ‘It’s more than my job’s worth.’

  ‘Can’t see!’

  ‘Don’t mind him. He’s a spastic,’ Richard says casually about the man whom only this morning he described as his best friend ever, a category in which, when pressed, he included his wife.

  ‘You mustn’t use that word,’ I say, fearful that he may have been overheard.

  ‘You did!’

  ‘I was speaking medically,’ I reply, looking to both Vincent and Jamie for endorsement.

  ‘I’m a spastic,’ Nigel says, clapping his hands.

  ‘Richard,’ I say, desperate to move on. ‘Since you’ve offered to push Nigel, you should do the job properly. Father Dave is waiting to get going.’

  We join Father Dave on the short walk to the Lacadé Mill, which is billed in large lettering, as the Maison Paternelle de Ste Bernadette. Even to one unschooled in Lourdes lore, it points to a deep-rooted rivalry with the neighbouring birthplace. Father Dave explains that the designation derives from its being the only house that Bernadette’s family ever owned and, unlike the Boly Mill, it remains in their possession, as we find out on being asked to pay an entrance fee.

  ‘Somewhere along the line the spirit that gave free flour to the poor seems to have vanished,’ Vincent says wryly.

  In place of the room in which she was born, the Lacadé Mill offers the bed in which she slept on her last night in Lourdes before entering the convent of Nevers. The latter-day Soubirous may have been dispossessed of the birthplace, but they make up for it by accentuating their connection to Bernadette. Pre-eminent in the hall is a large family tree with an emphasis on the branch which, through the brother’s second wife, still owns the house.

  ‘It must be odd to have a saint in the family,’ I say to Vincent, whose silent but eloquently critical presence has shadowed me through the building.

  ‘But profitable.’

  At the end of the visit we come to the gift shop, which sells the usual tawdry souvenirs at even more inflated prices than elsewhere in the town.

  ‘Ten euros for a lavender bag?’ I say, holding up one of the few acceptable items.

  ‘But look at it this way! How often do you have the chance to be served by the great-great niece of a saint?’ He points to the unsmiling middle-aged woman at the till and then to the photograph of her in christening robes embroidered by Bernadette herself in pride of place on the wall.

  ‘This must be grist to your mill,’ I say. ‘No pun intended.’

  ‘None taken,’ he replies, studying a shelf on which plastic models of the Virgin and St Bernadette nestle next to fans, oven gloves, barometers, trays, flannels, pencil cases and key-rings embossed with images of the Grotto. ‘Look, two for the price of one!’ He picks up a laminated picture in which Christ’s head morphs into the Pope’s. ‘What about this?’ He winds up a small Madonna that warbles the Ave Maria. ‘She’s playing our tune!’

  ‘People are looking,’ I say as he rummages through the merchandise with open derision.

  ‘The money changers aren’t just in the temple; they’ve taken it over.’ He ignores my warning and continues to delve. ‘Wow, see this!’ He presses the switch on a cherub cigarette-lighter. ‘Come on baby, light my fire! Now this is sad. John Paul II at half-price.’ He holds up a plaster statuette. ‘Poor old Pope! I almost feel sorry for him. Marked down even in Lourdes.’

  ‘Are you going to film here?’ I ask, in a bid to distract him.

  ‘I wish! Sophie and I tried to get permission when we came on our recce, but they’re not fools.’

  ‘Vous désirez quelque chose, Monsieur?’ the illustrious saleswoman asks, as he jiggles a crucified Christ whose eyes open in alternate piety and pain.

  ‘Nous admirons vos objets d’art, Madame,’ he replies with a smile that she takes at face value. ‘Malheursement nous prenons l’avion. Les restrictions de poids.’

  ‘Vous avez des foulards et des choses en tissu pour Madame,’ she says, steering him towards a rack of garish scarves. Meanwhile, Richard, who has been looking round with Patricia, comes over with a miniature Eiffel Tower.

  ‘I want this. Can I have some money?’

  ‘But Richard, it’s hideous.’

  ‘It’s my money.’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ Vincent says, staring at the model. ‘Show it to me, will you Rich?’ I wonder if the name is deliberate. ‘Do you think it slipped in the wrong batch? Some tat-making factory sent it here rather than Paris? Or are they trying to cater for all markets?
’

  ‘I want it.’

  ‘And you shall have it. On me.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ I say.

  ‘It’s my money,’ Richard insists.

  ‘I want to. Rich and I are old mates, aren’t we?’ He nudges Richard, who grins and almost drops the model. Vincent is so good with him that, against all reason, I construct an elaborate fantasy of his returning from Lourdes and moving in with us. My euphoria swiftly turns to despair. Quite apart from the logistics, I have slept with him only once. Once! I don’t doubt his sincerity but, in his world, sex is as casual as a cup of coffee. He would be appalled by my schoolgirl scenario. At most this is – was – a holiday romance: two lonely people seeking solace in each other’s company. Even if we were truly making love, rather than enjoying the quick bonk, screw or fuck with which I charge myself, there is no law that love has to last. I shall defer to Vincent and not attempt to match the human to the divine.

  ‘Penny for them?’ Vincent says. ‘Or would you rather have a shawl?’ He grabs one of the cloths and drapes it round my shoulders.

  ‘What do you say?’ he asks Richard. ‘Shall we buy it for her?’

  ‘I don’t have my money.’

  ‘It’s a tea-towel,’ I say, replacing it on the pile. ‘We’d better go. Father Dave will be losing patience. I don’t suppose he’s on commission.’

  Vincent raises his eyebrows. ‘Okay, Rich,’ he says, ‘let’s pay.’ As he leads him to the till, I nonchalantly scan the shelves. My eyes fix on a Lalique angel, its elegant simplicity a reproach to the surrounding kitsch. I pick it up to admire.

  ‘Oh that’s lovely,’ Patricia says, approaching. ‘Show me. Are you thinking of buying it?’

  ‘I was, until I saw what it cost. Two fifty!’

  ‘Two euros fifty?’

  ‘Come on, Mother!’ I surprise myself by using her preferred form of address. ‘Two hundred and fifty.’

  ‘How can they? And for an angel! But it’s so pretty.’

  Vincent returns with Richard, who holds his packet like an icecream cone.

  ‘Have you found something, ladies?’ Vincent asks. ‘An angel!’ His studied ambiguity makes me blush.

  ‘Gillian wanted to buy it, but I made her see sense,’ Patricia says.‘The way they throw your luggage about these days, it’s bound to break.’

  Honour satisfied, she puts it back on the shelf. Vincent lifts it up, running his fingers over the chest.

  ‘This reminds me of someone.’

  ‘Fragile? Transparent?’ I say, drawn to the game in spite of the danger.

  ‘Luminous.’

  Maggie appears at the door. ‘Come on, slowcoaches. Father Dave has itchy feet.’

  ‘I had athlete’s feet,’ Richard says proudly to Vincent as we walk out.

  ‘You had something else,’ I say sourly.

  ‘I had blisters. They hurt.’

  We make our way through the town to the cachot. Richard has abandoned Nigel in favour of Vincent, who promises him a ‘man to man’ chat as he guides him gently over the rutted pavement. I keep them firmly in sight, their implausible intimacy at once a comfort and a threat, while walking with Claire and Martin. I marvel at Claire’s ability to conduct a normal conversation – one that is packed with the medical details normal for Lourdes – while constantly breaking off to encourage Martin who, even at this snail’s pace, takes two shuffling steps to every one of ours. Her tender solicitude to his slightest need makes me doubly ashamed of my frustration with Richard. Is it that they share a profound bond, forged in the womb, denied to those of us who were coupled at the altar, or rather that she is a decent person who would never seek to escape her obligations in nights of adultery and fantasies of divorce?

  ‘You’re a wonder,’ I say, as she holds a tissue to his runny nose and tells him to blow.

  ‘I’m his mother,’ she replies, perplexed.

  Somehow I’m his wife lacks the same ring.

  We arrive at the cachot, where Bernadette and her family found refuge and which, according to Father Dave, occupies a similar place in the story of Lourdes as the stable in that of the Nativity. He leads us down a well-worn flight of steps into a cramped, cheerless room with a rough stone floor, bare plaster walls and a pervasive smell of damp. Not even the most hostile observer – I refrain from glancing at Vincent – could fail to be moved by the family’s plight. Unlike the Boly Mill, there has been no attempt to disguise the squalor. A large rosary above the fireplace and two jars of irises on the ledge are the sole decoration. It is as though the authorities were determined to emphasise the inauspicious soil from which Bernadette sprang, an emphasis Father Dave echoes as he takes us through the tale. ‘Remember Our Lord said: “Blessed are the poor in spirit.” St Bernadette herself said that, if there had been anyone poorer and meaner than her, then God would have chosen them.’

  ‘Really!’ Patricia whispers in a rare note of dissent. ‘Has political correctness even reached Lourdes? It’s her virtues he should be stressing not her income. Surely we can be poor in spirit whatever our station in life?’

  She leads the way out, her reluctance to dwell in the cell or on its message widely shared. Only Lucja lingers, as though drawn back to the poverty from which she recently emerged.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ Vincent asks, accosting me in the doorway.

  ‘You gave me a shock!’ I play for time. ‘I presume we’re heading back to the Acceuil for lunch. You know how strict they are about timetables.’

  ‘I’m learning. Your mother-in-law and Maggie have gone on ahead to set up.’ I scan the crowd making its desultory way down the hill, but, while instantly alert to Richard walking alongside a young handmaiden, I see no sign of Patricia.

  ‘It’s strange that she should be happy to do all the dirty work here that she runs a mile from at home,’ I say disloyally.

  ‘Like Marie Antoinette playing at milkmaids on her farm.’

  ‘She’s not playing!’ I exclaim, to the surprise of Derek and Charlotte in front. ‘You may think me a hypocrite,’ I add through gritted teeth, ‘jumping into bed with the first man to show me a scrap of kindness. But don’t tar the whole pilgrimage with the same brush!’

  ‘Hey, what’s brought this on?’ He gives me such an affectionate look that, for a horrible moment, I am afraid I may burst into tears. ‘I’m sorry. That was crass of me. I’m sure your mother-in-law is utterly sincere. Where would the world be without its charitable ladies?’

  ‘No, it’s me. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’m a little overwrought.’

  ‘Only a little?’ he asks, smiling. ‘Then you’re doing better than me. Let’s spend the afternoon together.’

  ‘There’s mass in the Notre Dame chapel.’

  ‘Aren’t you massed out?’

  ‘Don’t you have to film it?’

  ‘I refer you to my previous question. There’s a limit to the viewing public’s appetite for Father Humphrey’s quivering jowls.’

  ‘I suppose there’s not much point in my going since I can’t take communion.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Not without going to confession first.’

  ‘So you believe that sleeping with me is sinful?’ he asks, wincing.

  ‘Don’t take it personally.’

  ‘Oh I’m sorry, I thought what we did was personal. Despite what you seem to think, you weren’t just an anonymous fuck.’

  ‘Don’t be angry. I didn’t say I regretted it. That’s the problem; I’m revelling in it. I’m walking down this street, but my head – no, not only my head, my whole body – is back in your room … in your bed … in your arms. I said I’m not a hypocrite. How can I stand before the altar when I don’t repent what we did? On the contrary, I want to repeat it.’

  ‘That can be easily arranged.’

  ‘I’m being serious!’

  ‘So am I. Why do you have to go back for lunch? Richard is among friends.’ Peering forwards, I see to my relief that the handmai
den has been joined by three young brancardiers. ‘Let’s go for a picnic. A Pic-du-Jer-nic.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s a mountain on the other side of town. We can take the funicular railway to the top. Didn’t you see? There’s a poster for it back at the Bates motel.’

  ‘It’s very tempting.’

  ‘Is that mouth-wateringly tempting or Get thee behind me, Satan?’

  ‘Probably both, but I’ll opt for the former. After all, I’ll only draw attention to myself stuck in my pew when everyone else goes up to the altar. But where will we find the food?’

  ‘Leave that to me. This is your respite. The government has promised a better deal for carers and I’m here to deliver.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind. It’s Satan all the way.’

  ‘That’s more like it. What time does your watch say? Ten past twelve. Meet me at St Joseph’s Gate at one.’

  The matter settled, he breaks away from the group and walks back towards the cachot. I press forward to find Richard, eager to make up for my imminent neglect. Tenderness mingles with apprehension as I see him chatting genially with two of the young handmaidens, Jenny and, I think, Eileen, their smiling faces a testament to his distinctive little boy/big man charm. His hands hovering above the smalls of their backs may appear innocent to Sheila Clunes, whose wheelchair is directly behind them, but my more practised eye detects danger. I sweep up and loop my arm through his, receiving a look of pure malice which, as ever, I try not to take to heart.

  I occupy the walk back with descriptive chatter, designed to distract myself as much as Richard. At the Acceuil, I deliver him into Maggie’s charge, explaining that I plan to slip away for an afternoon’s sightseeing.

  ‘Good idea! You deserve a break. Don’t worry about Richard. He’ll be fine.’

  ‘What about mass?’ I am confronted by Patricia who is dispensing handwash at the dining-room door.

  ‘I’ve been every day this week. Surely I can miss one afternoon?’ Her expression leaves no doubt as to whom she will blame should the long prayed-for miracle fail to occur.

  ‘Are you going alone?’ she asks suspiciously.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘If you wait till after lunch, I can come with you.’