Jubilate

by Michael Arditti

  Ken’s plea that we should wait by the coaches is widely ignored. Knowing how long it takes to disgorge the wheelchairs, all but the most obedient of us drift down the street.

  ‘I’m just nipping into the café to buy Martin an ice cream,’ Claire says.

  ‘’Scream,’ Martin echoes, with an anticipatory dribble.

  ‘Would you like to join us for a coffee?’ Tess asks as she and Lester follow.

  ‘Or something stronger?’ Lester adds, with a defiant grin.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. Enjoy.’

  Several people, including Vincent, venture into the shop, while others stand outside choosing postcards from the carousels. Richard, who has been waiting for Nigel to roll off the coach, runs up and grabs my hand. ‘Quick! Come on! You’ll be left behind!’ His concern is gratifying though unfounded, given the snail-like pace of the procession up the hill. Whatever Ken’s many talents, the logical organisation of wheelchairs is not one of them. Some old-school sense of propriety prevents his allocating male pushers to female passengers, so that Jenny and a fellow handmaiden (I hear Moira … Maureen) strain behind Sheila Clunes, while Matt and Kevin race up with the bantamweight Nigel. When the girls grind to a halt, Matt steps in with a mixture of gallantry and shyness, taking over from Jenny’s friend. She in turn crosses to Kevin, who plants himself squarely behind Nigel, leaving her forlorn.

  I stand beside Sister Martha, who gazes rapturously at the church.

  ‘This place never fails to move me,’ she says. ‘I missed it last year.’

  ‘Was your team on duty at the Acceuil?’

  ‘No, I missed the pilgrimage. I caught the coxsackie virus from an asylum seeker in Plaistow.’

  ‘But you’re over it now?’ I ask of the sinister-sounding virus, only to find from Richard’s peal of laughter that, to him, it sounds like something else.

  ‘Naughty lady!’ he says, giggling. ‘Naughty nun!’

  ‘Shut up, Richard! You’re not funny. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Not to worry. Water off a duck’s back, or a penguin’s, as Father Humphrey would say.’ As she purses her lips, I suspect that Richard’s misapprehension offends her less than Father Humphrey’s routine ridicule.

  We reach the church which, to my disappointment, turns out not to be white but a greyish-ochre, temporarily bleached by the sun. Patricia walks up to Mona and Fleur who are waiting in the shade of the porch.

  ‘First in line, ladies,’ she says cryptically. ‘I wonder you’ve any puff left after all that singing.’ Mona smiles, as serene as the stones that surround her. I step back. It is hard enough worrying whom Richard may insult without taking responsibility for his mother.

  The rest of the group slowly climbs the hill, among them Vincent, whose coldness towards me is now so marked that a part of me – a very small, irresponsible part which I thought had died twenty years ago – longs for him to abandon all restraint: to run up and clasp me in his arms. Instead he is deep in conversation with Lester and Tess.

  They join us outside the bolted door. ‘No room at the inn?’ Vincent asks pertly.

  ‘It’s the first year it’s been locked,’ Marjorie replies. ‘There’ve been a spate of thefts from local churches.’ She shakes her head. ‘Of course it’s all good practice for me.’

  ‘The thefts?’ Vincent asks innocently.

  ‘Is he always this wicked?’ Marjorie asks Sophie.

  ‘Twenty-four seven.’

  ‘The management! I’ll be stepping into Louisa’s shoes next year.’

  ‘And they’re big ones to fill.’

  ‘Really wicked! Between you and me, I put it down to all the square-bashing when she was a young cadet.’

  ‘Oh you mean literally? I’m sorry, I thought it was a figure of speech.’

  ‘No, of course not!’ She laughs nervously. ‘I mean yes, of course. I’m so confused. It’s this heat … Maggie!’ She prises her away from Patricia. ‘Will you ask some of your girls to take round the water? I’ll just go and see if I can speed things up.’ With a backward glance, she disappears behind the church. I find myself face to face with Vincent.

  ‘Wicked’s the word!’

  ‘Morning,’ he says, gently.

  ‘Morning,’ I reply, praying that he will attribute the inane grin forming on my lips to Marjorie’s mistake.

  ‘You’re looking particularly luscious today.’

  ‘Really? I feel frazzled.’

  ‘Sweet dreams?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you have sweet dreams?’ he repeats with emphasis.

  ‘Oh! No, I’m sorry. I never dream.’

  ‘Everyone dreams. Whether they choose to remember them or not.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ I say, more forcefully than I intend. ‘My mother … at the end of her life she suffered from dementia. In the early stages, before she left us completely, she said the worst thing was not being able to dream.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It must have been dreadful for you,’ he says quietly.

  ‘But worse for her.’ I kick myself for having mentioned it. Suppose he thinks that dementia runs in families or, worse, wonders why two people so close to me should both lose their minds?

  ‘So who was Saint Savin then?’ he asks, in a neat change of tack. ‘What wondrous feats did he perform?’ He spots Father Dave. ‘Ah, here comes the expert!’

  ‘Expert on what? Are you in need of spiritual direction, my son?’ he asks with a genial smile.

  ‘’Fraid not, Father. But when I am, you’ll be the first to know. We were wondering about Saint Savin. Not on the A list, I suspect?’

  ‘The Church venerates some ten thousand or so saints. Even a good Catholic such as yourself can’t be expected to keep track of them all.’ Vincent knows better than to reply. ‘Saint Savin was born in Spain in the Dark Ages. Although how we who live in these benighted times have the gall to describe any other era as Dark is beyond me. He was the son of a wealthy nobleman who gave up everything – family, wealth, status – to devote himself to God. At some stage – I forget when exactly, but I’m sure there’ll be a booklet about it in the church – he withdrew from the world completely, built himself a small hut and lived as a hermit for years – once again I’m a bit hazy on dates. He devoted himself to a life of prayer and poverty.’

  ‘That’s what puzzles me,’ Vincent says. ‘If God created the world and, for the sake of argument (or, more to the point, to avoid it), let’s assume that He did, isn’t that a kind of blasphemy? According to Genesis, He saw that it was good. More: He gave it to man to lord over. In which case why should anyone – no, I’ll go further – what right does anyone have to withdraw from it? Surely it’s our duty to enjoy it to the full?’

  I refuse to catch his eye.

  ‘Who’s to say he didn’t?’ Father Dave asks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who’s to say Saint Savin didn’t sit – or, more likely, kneel – in his hermitage and experience overwhelming joy: that he didn’t see as much of the world in his small patch of ground as any twenty-first century jet-setter?’

  He makes his way to a group of brancardiers, leaving Vincent at a rare loss for words. Trusting in the power of my own silence, I smile and move to Richard, who is plotting with Nigel how to knock a limpet-like lizard off a cornice. I have just persuaded him to drop his pebbles when Louisa returns, followed by Marjorie and a dismayingly youthful sacristan. ‘Success!’ she cries. ‘Not quite the key to the Pearly Gates, but it’ll have to do for the time being.’

  We enter the cavernous church. At first glance it appears as stark as a Baptist chapel, but gradually my eyes adjust and I make out the sanctuary with its black marble altar and richly coloured paintings, the vaulted transept with its golden Eucharistic Tower, the octagonal pilasters from one of which hangs a large wooden crucifix, and, most striking of all, the intricately decorated organ screen with its motifs of flowers, musical instruments and scores. I squeeze into a worm-eaten pew between Patricia and Richard,
who grabs at the dust caught in the light from a turret window, and lean back to breathe in the spirit of simple piety emanating from every knot and crack in the wood.

  Father Humphrey sits alone in the chancel while Father Dave and Father Paul celebrate mass. We begin by singing ‘Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence’, which Louisa accompanies on the organ. Her hesitancy is exacerbated by the audible clunking of the pedals, but the notes pouring out of the ancient pipes are gloriously mellow. In the last verse, displaying an irreverent streak as unsuspected as her musical talent, she pulls out a stop and the three wooden masks at the front of the screen open their mouths to sing along. Steve, who has clearly been primed, holds Fiona up to see, but her terrified howls cut through the Alleluias and he rapidly sets her down. As we kneel to pray, Richard twists alternately to left and right, playing one-sided peek-a-boo with the crucifix, whose haunted eyes seem to reach every corner of the church.

  Father Paul stands to deliver his sermon. ‘Many of us are parents,’ he begins, and I sense Patricia tensing at my side. Never a fan of late vocations, she holds that the least such priests can do is to draw a veil over their past lives. I, as ever, take the opposite view and feel a pang for Father Humphrey and Father Dave whose childlessness is thrown into relief, until the thought of their spiritual parenthood turns my pity insidiously towards myself. ‘All of us have parents,’ he continues, in a less contentious vein. Patricia nods, while I add another failure to my list. My recent exchange with Vincent has reminded me how little I contributed to my mother’s care. My father and sisters – and even my brother – recognised my prior responsibilities. What law or convention (for it certainly wasn’t sentiment) required me to put my husband first? The readiness with which my mother forgave me makes it harder to forgive myself. Tears roll down my cheeks: heavy, gritty tears, as though I am passing through a further stage of mourning. I wonder if they are for my mother or for myself.

  ‘As well as our earthly mother, we have a mother in heaven whose love for us is infinite,’ Father Paul says. ‘A mother who is always watching over us, interceding for us and willing us to do what is right.’ I am curious as to how he defines what is right. Is it the words and example of her son, or the laws that the Church has built around them? Not even the holiest hermit could claim that they were one and the same. Christ made love the basis of His gospel, but what of those of us who have none, who are wives only in name, who are mothers only by the cruellest twist of fate? Am I to sacrifice heart to home for the rest of my life? Is that what God wants of me? Is that what Mary wants for me? I fumble in my bag for a tissue. Patricia puts her hand on mine and, while wishing that she had waited for me to wipe away the tears, I am grateful for the show of support.

  At the end of the sermon, Father Humphrey moves to the altar to bless the oils. The three priests then walk into the nave and along the line of wheelchairs, anointing each person in turn. Nigel squeals as Father Dave makes the sign of the cross on his forehead. ‘Hot! Burns!’ He thrusts his hands beneath the blanket, shaking his head adamantly when Father Dave entreats him to hold them up. ‘You burnt me!’

  ‘Not me, Nigel. God. What you felt is the power of His love.’

  Whether he grasps the distinction or simply responds to the clerical authority, Nigel lifts his hands. He screws his eyes tight as Father Dave turns up the palms and anoints them while praying: ‘May the Lord who frees you from sin save you and raise you up.’ Nigel blows on his hands, leaving Sheila who is seated beside him to supply an awestruck ‘Amen’.

  Having finished with the wheelchairs, the priests prepare for the rest of us. Father Humphrey moves into the centre of the nave while Father Dave and Father Paul take up places at either end of the transept. ‘As you see, it’s a very powerful experience,’ Patricia whispers. ‘But make sure you get Father Humphrey. He’s the best.’ For all that I shrink from the notion of competitive anointing, when Ken directs our row towards Father Paul, I sidestep and lead Richard into the queue for Father Humphrey. As if in consequence, the ritual is underwhelming and I feel nothing but the viscous smear of the oil.

  Struggling to curb my resentment, I make my way back to the pew. I stop to assist a disorientated Frank who, from the broad smile on his usually twisted features, has taken his blessing to heart. A commotion in Father Paul’s queue pulls us up short. Vincent is busy filming and I fear that he may inadvertently have caused offence until I see Tess slip to her knees. Lester has collapsed and, far from showing too little respect, Vincent signals to Jamie to switch off the camera. I watch from the confines of the pew while Dr Robson helps Tess lift Lester to his feet and, brooking no argument, leads him slowly to his seat. I prevent Richard peering round, while for once envying his lack of restraint.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Patricia says. ‘A very powerful experience.’

  The mass ends and we file out, past a squat stone font with a troll-like figure on the base.

  ‘It’s medieval,’ Patricia says, her reverence for the past increasing with age.

  ‘It’s very crude,’ I say.

  ‘No, that’s intentional. Father Dave explained. It was made for a group of people – I forget the name – but there were thousands in Spain and France at the time. They were like lepers and weren’t allowed to be baptised in the same water as everyone else. Isn’t history fascinating?’ I contemplate the line of latter-day outcasts and wonder if history is as remote as she thinks.

  We plod through the ruins of the ancient cloister, our pace determined as much by the baking heat as the cracked path, to arrive at a large enclosed meadow that must once have housed part of the abbey complex but now makes for a perfect picnic ground. The brancardiers set out canvas chairs and spread tartan rugs on the grass, while Maggie and her team of handmaidens unload boxes of packed lunches. Patricia wanders over to help them. ‘I’ll make sure to save an extra-special one for you,’ she promises Richard, to the fury of Sheila Clunes.

  ‘There’s Nigel!’ Richard says, striding towards his friend whose wheelchair is parked in the partial shade of the archway. I follow, eager to learn more about the anointing which has visibly transfixed him. ‘Father’s hands. First, they’re cold. Then they’re hot. Then they’re burning!’

  ‘Me too. Is this a blister?’ Richard asks, reluctant to be left out.

  ‘What sort of heat was it, Nigel?’ I ask gently. ‘Was it like the sun is now or more like putting your fingers on an oven?’

  ‘It was burning.’

  ‘Yes, you said. But was it on the top of your skin or somewhere inside?’

  ‘Just hot.’

  ‘I know it’s hard, but try to remember. Was it just where he touched you on your forehead and hands, or did it seem to cover you all over?’

  ‘This is boring!’ Richard says, digging his heel in a patch of primroses.

  ‘It was hot. Just hot. He said it was cold but it was hot.’

  The artlessness that made him unable to fake the incident makes him equally unable to analyse it. Anxious not to browbeat him, I shall never know whether he had a transcendental experience or merely an extreme reaction to the oil.

  ‘Let’s see if we can find a four-leaf clover,’ Richard says.

  ‘Yes!’ Nigel shouts, straining against his protective strap as he watches Richard rip up clumps of grass.

  With your luck you’re bound to find one, I think meanly. ‘Try not to overexcite yourself,’ I tell Richard, before moving away to admire the landscape, a glorious vista which, whatever Father Dave might say, offers considerable compensations for the solitary life. The real test would be to withdraw from the world at the top of a tower block, finding God above all the squalor and din. I am shocked to hear myself sounding like Vincent but, when I look round, he is nowhere to be seen.

  Instead, Maggie walks towards me with a tray of paper cups. ‘Having a prayerful moment?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Don’t let me stop you. I came to see if you wanted a drink. Wine or blackcurrant? Wine’s on the lef
t. They look the same but that’s my little trick to make sure no one feels left out.’

  ‘How thoughtful!’ I say, stifling my surprise. I take a cup of wine and raise it to my lips as if toasting the view.

  ‘Pretty as a picture,’ she says, following my gaze. ‘We’ve a café with a mural just like it on the front in Deal.’

  She continues on her round and I turn back to the mountains. In the meadow a brancardier starts to strum his guitar and I am filled with a deep sense of peace. I sit on the sun-soaked wall above the steep hillside and close my eyes. When I open them again, I find myself staring at Tess.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you a shock.’

  ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘I’m in need of some intelligent conversation.’

  ‘I don’t know about that but … sit down.’

  ‘I’ve just been targeted by Brenda.’

  ‘Don’t tell me she’s still trying to flog those bracelets?’

  ‘She never stops. Apparently, they absorb all the negative energies and attract the positive ones. She ran down a list of conditions they’re supposed to work for. If she’d said cancer, I swear I’d have hit her.’

  ‘She means well.’

  ‘She claims it’s the one thing that’s kept her MS from getting worse.’

  ‘How much worse could it get?’ She says nothing. ‘I’m sorry.’ She sinks down with a heavy sigh and flings back her head. ‘How’s Lester?’

  ‘Don’t ask! Sorry about all the hoo-ha in church. The heat and the incense and the hocus-pocus were a bit too much for him. He fainted. Nothing more dramatic. He’s the world’s least mystical person. With the exception of me.’