I am more grateful than ever for my pose of professional neutrality. After thanking him for his time, we leave the Acceuil and trek down the Esplanade to the Breton Calvary where, to the muted grumbles of a footsore Jewel and parched Jamie, I have arranged to film a joint interview with Maggie and Ken. It comes as no surprise that ‘You don’t want me; I’ll crack the camera’ Maggie and ‘You’ll have to take me as you find me’ Ken have both dressed up for the occasion, with Maggie having added a garish gash of lip-gloss. They each describe the ‘love affair with Lourdes’ (Ken’s phrase, Maggie’s simper) that began on their first visits, Ken accompanying his elderly father and Maggie her pregnant niece.
‘Steve – her husband – wouldn’t come. He’s an agnostic – not an atheist, mind, so there’s still hope. He said to her: “Why not ask Aunt Maggie? She’s a midwife. That way you’ll have your very own medical team.”’
I struggle to remain alert as they trot out their carefully polished anecdotes.
‘I’m sure that none of this can be of interest to you,’ Ken says over-modestly.
‘On the contrary,’ I reply, ‘you’ve both been fascinating.’
The filming over, we make our way back across the Domain in a sweltering heat that shows no sign of abating, to the hillside above the basilicas, ready for the five o’clock Stations of the Cross. The precipitous path would appear to exclude the disabled pilgrims but, as we approach the first station, we find various helpers straining to push wheelchairs.
‘Puts hairs on your chest,’ Jamie says blithely to a handmaiden with a faint moustache.
We amble up to the Jubilates, who are easily identifiable by their sweatshirts, although some of the younger ones have changed into T-shirts and two of the boys have stripped off their tops. Looking around with studied indifference, I spot Gillian walking up the path with Louisa and wonder if she is deliberately seeking to keep me at bay, like a schoolboy sticking to a teacher when he knows that his tormentor is lying in wait at the other end of the yard.
Losing patience with myself, I search for Kevin, whom we are due to follow on the walk. He is angrily putting on his T-shirt after a reprimand from Marjorie. ‘She says it’s disrespectful. Why? Didn’t God make our bodies? Didn’t Jesus walk around in a loincloth?’
‘I’m not too hot – sorry – on Messianic raiments. Still, a T-shirt makes sense if we’re going to film you. Don’t want to set too many female hearts aflame.’
‘Oh sure! Have them switching off more like!’ His pitiful lack of confidence takes me back thirty years.
‘So, are you still happy to be our man on the Way of the Cross?’
‘Don’t see why not. Beats pushing a wheelchair. It’s not my problem if the programme sucks.’
Jewel wires him for sound and we move up to the first station: Jesus is condemned to death. As Father Paul leads the prayers, I study the figures: Christ in Ecce Homo mode, guarded by four legionnaires in front of the Roman wolf. The lack of dynamism within the group and of any relation to the surrounding landscape makes it look both insubstantial and flat.
At the end of the prayers, we continue on a journey which, it soon becomes clear, is to be heavy on faith and light on art. At the third station, I realise that what the figures most resemble are plastic models that have somehow escaped from a cereal packet and landed in Lourdes.
I reserve the thought for possible inclusion in the voice-over and turn to Kevin.
‘So Kevin, do you have any thoughts on the Stations this far?’
‘Thoughts?’ he asks, with mock incredulity. ‘I’m not allowed thoughts. I’m seventeen. What do I know? I just do what my parents say, do what the monks say, do what the Bible says. Thoughts? Me? You’ve come to the wrong place if you want thoughts.’
By the seventh station: Jesus falls for the second time, Kevin appears to have had a change of heart. ‘That’s sick,’ he says, pointing to a soldier holding back a jeering Jew with the tip of his spear. ‘When were these sculptures made?’
‘I’m not sure exactly. Some time before the First World War.’
‘Jesus was Jewish, right?’
‘Of course.’
‘Have you seen how He’s the only one who doesn’t need a nose job?’ I stare at the figure’s hooked nose, ashamed at having failed to pick up the blatant anti-Semitism. ‘It’s all hypocrisy.’
‘You talk of hypocrisy quite a lot.’
‘Would you rather I shut my eyes to it like everyone else?’
‘No, not at all. I wonder if you’d like to elaborate.’
‘Oh yes, I’d like to,’ he says fiercely. ‘But you’d have every Catholic in the country writing letters of complaint to the BBC.’
‘I’ll take that risk.’
‘Look at all these people gazing at Jesus with their holier-than-thou faces, but what do you suppose is going on in their minds? They pretend to be so devout, praying their rosaries, obeying the priests, but it’s not worth dick!’ His pained exclamation causes heads to turn but, to my relief, they are Tess’s and Lester’s. Counting on their indulgence to a fellow contributor, I motion to Kevin to continue. ‘I know a man – let’s call him Mr X – who claims to be a good Catholic, but does he give all his money to the poor? Does he shit! He makes more by buying their houses at auctions when they’ve been repossessed.’
‘Rich men and needles: it’s an age-old dilemma.’
‘But there’s worse. He’s married, of course. And he sits at the dinner table with his wife and kids spouting on about sex and morals and the end of frigging civilisation as we know it … is frigging OK?’
‘Frigging’s fine.’
‘And it turns out he has a tart … a slut … a bit on the side. And when she gets pregnant, what does this good Catholic Mr X do? He tells her to have an abortion, that’s what. And when his son finds out, he doesn’t fall on his knees and beg for his forgiveness. Oh no! He packs him off to a boarding school run by a load of monks. More hypocrites. All paedos!’
‘Come on!’
‘I’m not saying they do stuff, just that they want to. Oh yes, you can see that they want to. And what did Jesus teach? Lusting after a woman is like having sex with her in your heart. Doesn’t that go for boys too?’
‘I suppose so, if you accept the premise.’
‘It’s all sick. It’s all sex. It’s just as bad on this pilgrimage. You know the doctor with the baby?’
‘Yes,’ I say, foreseeing a major edit.
‘The father’s one of the brancardiers. They met here two years ago.’ I feel my heart leap. ‘They got married and came again last year. The baby’s three months old. You don’t have to be a genius to do the maths. Any case, they admit it themselves quite openly.’
‘Shouldn’t people find love where they can? This is as good a place as any.’
‘No, it’s not!’ he cries, and his face contorts in pain. ‘It’s supposed to be holy. St Bernadette was a nun. We should have our minds on God. See that woman!’ To my dismay he points at Gillian. ‘She came on to me the very first day we arrived.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I know a pass when I see one. “Don’t worry about me,” she says, “I’m fit. Really fit.” It’s disgusting.’
I want to laugh out loud at the confusion but fear that I might compound the offence. We hike up the hill but are brought to an abrupt standstill by the Vietnamese group from the Crypt who have lingered at the ninth station.
At last they head off but, just as the Jubilates are about to take their place, a heated altercation breaks out at the rear. Although too far away to catch it, I see Gillian in its midst and presume that it must involve Richard. All my instincts are to rush to her aid, but I know that she would not thank me. So I hang back, happy for once to defer to a priest.
Father Paul quickly restores the peace – while leaving me absorbed in speculation – before moving to the front and offering up a prayer that we should each have the courage to bear our own cross, which seems somewhat perverse, given
that Jesus is here falling for the third time under the weight of His.
He limits the period for private prayer out of consideration for the Dutch pilgrims who are hot on our heels. As we press ahead, I turn my attention back to Kevin.
‘So it would be fair to say that the message of Lourdes has yet to reach you?’
‘And it won’t! I’m an atheist.’ He glances sidelong at the sky, as if in fear of a retaliatory thunderbolt. ‘I’m only here because I had to show willing – penitent (I don’t think!) – or else they’ll chuck me out of school. And I’m only there because I need my As to go to art college.’
‘What did you do that was so terrible?’
‘Drawing. Just drawing. Michelangelo drew nudes all over the Sistine Chapel, the Pope’s private chapel, and they’re masterpieces. I draw nudes and, because some sicko monk thinks he recognises himself, they’re “obscene”; they’re “sordid fantasies”. Wait till I’m a famous artist. Then they’ll be queuing up to interview me. Then people’ll listen to what I say.’
‘I’m sure.’ Although I strive to expunge all trace of doubt from my voice, he looks at me with suspicion.
‘Haven’t you got enough? You won’t use any of it anyway. You’ll say you will, then you’ll cut me out. Everyone always does.’
He rips off the microphone and hands it to Jewel. We have reached the twelfth station: Jesus dies on the cross, which seems an appropriate place to end. As I stand on the crest of the hill, with the three crosses framed against the trees, it feels that at last the landscape has become integral to the journey and, in spite of myself, I am moved.
‘Another of your fans?’ I am startled to find Gillian walking up to me and pointing to Kevin, who is striding down the path.
‘Have you been watching me?’ I ask, both gratified and alarmed.
‘No, just the camera. For us ordinary mortals, it’s as compulsive as a car crash.’
‘I wouldn’t want to put you off your prayers.’
‘Now don’t spoil it! I’m here to apologise for this morning.’
‘No, I’m the one who should apologise. I don’t know what got into me. I don’t usually come on so strong.’
‘Me neither. Telling you how you should live your life when I don’t have the first idea what it’s like!’
‘That’s easily remedied.’
‘No need. Apologies accepted on both sides. Let’s leave it at that.’ She looks around in confusion at finding that she has outstayed the prayers.
‘Have you given any more thought to an interview?’ I ask as, to her evident unease, we walk together to the ridge. ‘We’re free straight after this.’
‘I’m not, I’m afraid. It’s gone six now. Dinner’s at seven. Then the Penitential Service at half past eight.’
‘Stop, too much excitement! Sorry. But how about after that? Won’t you meet me for a drink?’
‘You say drink as if it’s not only in italics but you want me to acknowledge them.’
‘You don’t miss a trick.’
‘Or a trickster.’
‘You can always stick to tomato juice if it makes you feel safer.’
‘It’s not the alcohol that worries me. I know you think that we’re all either fools or phonies. No, don’t deny it! And you may have a point. But I came here with a purpose and, come what may, I mean to see it through.’
She hurries back to Richard, clasping his hand as they make the sharp descent to the thirteenth station, where Jesus is taken down from the Cross. I follow them from there to the fourteenth, where Jesus is laid in the tomb. I presume that we have reached the end and am taken aback when Father Paul guides us towards a fifteenth station, where Jesus is risen from the dead. As he waits for the stragglers to catch up, I move forward to question him. ‘Surely there are only fourteen stations? Or were we labouring under a misapprehension, in that as in so much else, at Holyrood, Barnsley?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he replies wryly. ‘Your practice was perfectly sound. The final station was added here in the 1950s (Father Dave will be able to give you the exact date): a message of hope at the end of the journey.’
Much to my surprise, I find myself agreeing. Far from the kitsch image of my expectations, with plastic angels hanging from wires in the trees, it is a simple – almost stark – circular stone set in front of a crevice. For the first time the sculpture reaches beyond the biblical story to speak directly to me. Then, seeing Gillian standing with Richard, I recall her refusal of my offer. A shadow falls over the stone.
GILLIAN
Wednesday June 18
The prying finger between my legs jolts me awake. I pull it away like a nun on dormitory duty or, worse, at the mercy of illicit desires in the darkness of her cell. The rare relief of the single bed vanishes under sustained assault from the images cramming my brain. Dreams that usually slip out of reach with butterfly elusiveness now linger with shameful clarity.
In the adjacent bed, Richard kicks against a blanket that might have been me, and emits something between a snarl and a snore. I seize on the one moment when his incoherence is not an affront to speculate on his sensations. Is his mind equally muddled by night as by day, or is there some deeper level at which it still functions? Is there a parity, or even a compensation, in the unconscious which ensures that, while my dreams are empty delusions, his make perfect sense? A feral grunt as he thrashes and flails and buries his head in the pillow suggests not.
I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress, relishing the chance to map out my territory. Some women clamour for a room of their own; I would settle for a bed. I could return home and swap our marital double for companionable twins, but it would be too cruel to deprive Richard of the one place in which he still responds to me as a man. This sudden flood of compassion towards him disconcerts me. It smacks of the guilt offerings he used to make me, with their predictable pattern: clothes for a minor dalliance; jewellery for a serious affair. Am I seeking to atone for my mental infidelity with a similarly hollow display?
A knock on the door thrusts me headlong into morning.
‘Just a second,’ I call, jumping off the bed and grabbing my dressing gown from a chair. ‘Come in!’ The door creaks open to reveal the two young brancardiers I turned away yesterday, the helpers’ helpers who, in Louisa’s words, are ‘here to give you the chance to relax and enjoy the pilgrimage too’. The reality is quite the reverse, their intrusion giving me three causes for concern rather than one. On most days I worry about Richard’s inappropriate behaviour; today I worry also about my own.
‘Come right in!’ I say, gathering the flimsy gown around me and trusting that its lily-of-the-valley motif will offset any impropriety. I turn to draw the curtains; a formality, given the sunlight already streaming into the room. Matt ambles in, with bleary eyes, rumpled T-shirt and hair like a trampled cornfield. Kevin hovers behind, his sullen features emphasised by his defiantly unshaven cheeks. His manifest wretchedness brings out my maternal instincts, even as Matt’s broad smile and gentle brawn bring out very different ones.
Before I know it, I am thrown back into the nocturnal landscape. Matt is eighteen years old! And no matter what the agony aunts – and, increasingly, nieces – in my magazines might say, an untried teenager, however potent, however grateful, is not this older woman’s ideal. What is happening? Has Vincent O’Shaughnessy so unsettled me that my every thought – my every impulse – is sexual? Is the dream Gillian, brazenly turning the Grotto into a seraglio, the real me?
‘Morning, boys!’ I say, with an accent on their youth. ‘You look like you had a rough night, Matt.’
‘A gang of us went to the pub,’ he replies sheepishly. ‘It was wicked.’
‘How about Kevin?’ I try to deflect the scowl. ‘Were you one of the party?’
‘We’ve come to give Mr Patterson a shower,’ he says, his bluntness a double rebuff.
‘I didn’t think you’d come to give me one.’ My words seep out with no apparent relation to my brain. I turn i
n desperation to Richard. ‘Right then, old boy. Rise and shine!’
He shifts groggily as my voice engages his nascent consciousness. ‘It’s his pills,’ I say, feeling the need to apologise for a depth of sleep more suitable to one their age than his. ‘Breakfast time!’ I tell him, hoping for the reflex excitement of a puppy who has just learnt the phrase. But my hopes are dashed by the extended sequence of his wakening: first bewilderment; then panic at confronting the day deprived of familiar landmarks; next the partial reassurance of seeing my face; finally, pain and frustration at being dragged out of his dreams into a world over which he has even less control.
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