‘You won’t let go?’
‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘I thought you’d already answered that.’
‘Scout’s honour.’ He holds out his arm. Putting more weight on it than I would have wished, I step on to the first stone which, though slippery, is reassuringly stable.
‘I feel like St Bernadette at the Grotto.’
‘As long as you don’t start seeing things!’
‘No chance. I’m not that pure in heart.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it.’ He moves to the third stone and steers me on to the second. I stop to savour the heady combination of heat, light and gently lapping water when I am startled by a distant voice. ‘Hello down there!’ Vincent’s firm grip saves me from taking a tumble, as I gaze up the hillside to meet Maggie’s eager wave.
‘Bloody woman,’ he says under his breath, as he returns both her wave and greeting. ‘Come on!’ He leads me carefully over the two remaining stones to the safety of the bank.
‘Thank you,’ I say, before waving listlessly at Maggie. ‘I didn’t realise we were so conspicuous. What’s she doing anyway?’
‘Indulging her “filthy habit,” I expect,’ he says, in a wicked parody. ‘Jamie and I are convinced it’s a smokescreen.’
‘Very witty!’
‘While she indulges a far more intimate craving.’
‘Thank you for that. It’s a picture I’ll always treasure.’
‘We aim to please.’
‘We’re back on dry land. You don’t have to keep hold of my hand.’
‘I know I don’t have to.’ He makes no attempt to release it and I make none to break free.
‘She’s bound to tell Patricia she’s seen us.’
‘So? You’re a grown-up. She has no hold on you.’
‘No practical hold, it’s true. But how about an emotional one? You’ll think it odd, given the way I moan about her, but she knows me better than anyone. I suppose we share a sense of disillusion.’
‘Don’t tell me … Men!’
‘How did you guess?’ He smiles, encouraging me to elaborate. After years of confiding in no one but Father Aidan, I feel the urge – no, the compulsion – to open my heart to a man I scarcely know. ‘My father-in-law was a goat. No woman – well, at any rate no secretary – was safe. It was only twenty years ago (we’re not talking the Middle Ages) but, far from objecting, most of the other girls were flattered. He wasn’t bad-looking, it’s true, but so slimy!’
‘Did he try it on with you?’
‘Of course. I was a woman; I was in his employ; I was fair game. He didn’t get anywhere, I should add, and he backed off as soon as I started going out with Richard. But he never let up the innuendo. Endless insinuations: in front of Patricia, in front of Richard, in front of their friends.’
‘And Richard did nothing?’
‘Never. He’d stand up to everyone, except his father. I couldn’t get to the bottom of it. I’ve known plenty of love-hate relationships, but never one that extreme. Half of him seemed to detest Thomas, while the other half wanted to be him.’
‘Lots of sons have mixed feelings about their fathers.’
‘And you?’
‘Sure. Though mine were pitched somewhere between pity and scorn.’ He seems taken aback by the rawness of the revelation.
‘Even Richard’s relentless womanising seemed to be modelled on his father’s,’ I add grimly. ‘To prove that he was as much of a man. Though of course he failed when it came to delivering the goods – that is the children … no, the goods! And Thomas now directed his digs at him: a long slow process of emasculation. Until one day I couldn’t take any more and claimed – quite spuriously – that the problem lay with me. I was the one standing between him and his precious grandchildren. If he hadn’t been such a pillar of the church, I’m certain he would have made Richard divorce me on the spot.’
‘Isn’t there some contradiction here?’
‘Excuse me? There’s a bloody great contradiction. But adultery was a matter between him and his priest. Divorce was a public scandal.’
‘So Richard was the one with the problem?’
‘No, not at all. At least not then. Now of course with all the drugs he’s on, he has a zero sperm count. Which I suppose is one blessing.’
‘But I’d have thought … didn’t you want kids?’
‘No.’ He looks surprised. ‘I wanted children. Trust me, I’m not splitting hairs. Kids are for women with the luxury of choice. The irony, of course, is that we could have had them, but Richard insisted we waited. He’d worked out this master plan to build up his share of the business and sell up when he was thirty-five (which is why he could never be honest with his father). And it was the mid-nineties, so he was well on the way.’
‘And then do what?’
‘We were going to come south. Maybe here. The Pyrenees was on our list. Another irony! We wanted to watch our children grow up. He even talked of teaching them himself. That was Richard at his best. He’d have made a good father. It’s important you understand that.’
‘Me?’
‘People. So now you know the story of my life. Shall we turn back?’
‘Not the whole story. You’re thirty-nine. Barely halfway.’
‘Believe me, you might as well write THE END in capital letters. The rest is just repetition.’
We follow a furrow to the bottom of the field. The packed earth feels heavy underfoot. As we approach a clump of almond trees, a dog runs out and barks ferociously.
‘Take care!’ Vincent says.
‘Don’t worry. He’s just marking his territory. Here boy!’ He switches to a low-level growl and trots towards us. ‘Aren’t you the handsome one?’
‘He may be rabid.’
‘Nonsense. Look!’ I crouch and stroke him with one hand, while holding out the other for him to lick. ‘He wants to be friends.’
‘Tough!’
‘I thought you liked dogs.’
‘Who’s been spreading such libellous rumours?’
‘Not even as a boy?’
‘I never had one. According to my mother, they were riddled with germs. But then she said the same about library books. Why? Do I look like a dog person?’
‘I just assumed. All the best people are.’ I bury my blushes in the dog’s muzzle.
‘We did promise Pippa one for her sixth birthday, on the strict understanding it was a rescue dog. Celia wasn’t going to support breeders when there were thousands of abandoned puppies looking for a home. I remember asking jokingly how she could justify having Pippa when there were all the kids waiting for adoption. It doesn’t seem so funny now.’
‘No.’
He sinks into a silence that it would be callous to break. Besides I am anxious to do nothing that might alert him to my confusion. How can I have been so crass? Must I project my own self-obsession on to everyone else? Why didn’t I take Vincent’s story last night at face value, rather than seeking to identify his ‘friend’? As if refusing to associate with anyone so shallow, the dog emits a final snarl and darts off, leaving us to walk through the trees into the magnificence of the surrounding valley.
‘So beautiful,’ Vincent says, snapping out of his melancholy and gently pressing my hand. ‘It takes my breath away.’
‘Not just beautiful. Majestic. Mysterious. You can’t tell me that anything this sublime is the product of chance.’
‘Pure and utter serendipity. The glaciers melting. The formation of rivers and rocks.’
‘What made the glaciers melt? Yes, I know. Global warming. And what made the earth heat up?’ I cut him off before he can answer. ‘There’s always a scientific explanation. Like Chinese boxes. But when the very last scientist opens the very last box, what he’ll find inside is God.’
‘I admit it’s easier to make out a case for God as we stand here than it is back in London or even Lourdes.’
‘Because you’re filled with the wonder of creation. There’s none of
the man-made mess in the way.’
‘Actually, I’m rather fond of the man-made mess.’
‘Then?’
‘Because I’m filled with the wonder of you.’
‘You really shouldn’t say that.’
‘Didn’t the nuns who stuffed you with all that religion teach you to tell the truth?’
‘Your truth?’
‘What other truth do I have?’
‘This.’ I gesture to the landscape around us.
He does not reply, but stares into the distance. I follow his gaze but my eyes have started to blur. I wonder why we are both so determined to set out our spiritual stalls. Are we trying to prove to each other that we have nothing in common and should walk away before it is too late? Or are we making our positions clear, so that neither can cry foul in the future?
‘Suppose I were to grant your hypothesis. Do you believe that any God who could create all this – the vastness, the splendour and so forth – do you truly believe that such a God would care whether two people – two deeply frustrated romantics (I think we’ve established that) – choose to share a few moments of intimacy?’
‘The Church says that God doesn’t make that kind of distinction. What’s great or small to us is one and the same to Him.’
‘I’m not interested in what the Church says but what you say. Take this.’ He leans over and plants his lips on mine, drawing back before I have time to register my surprise. ‘Has anything changed? Are God and His majesty and mystery in any way diminished?’
I know that he expects me to reply, but I can think of nothing but the sweetness of his breath: the rightness of the kiss. ‘Part of me wants to sleep with you so much,’ I say, afraid that my words fail to make any sense, let alone convey my full meaning. ‘And not because I’m frustrated – not just because. But it’s not that simple. There’s Richard.’
‘There always will be. That’s an epitaph, not a life.’
‘I told you about his women.’
‘That’s all in the past.’
‘Not entirely. Please hear me out – this is very hard for me. When I first found out, I was distraught. All that talk about how different he was to his father and it turned out he was exactly the same! I threatened to leave. He begged me to give him another chance. He even called on Patricia to persuade me.’
‘From what you’ve said, I’d have thought she’d have been glad to see the back of you.’
‘Better the daughter-in-law you know? She was surprisingly supportive. Well, she’d been through the same thing herself. I can’t swear she said “all men are beasts”, but it’s what she implied. What she did tell me – and this I remember perfectly – was to stick it out; things get better after twenty years.’
‘And you believed her?’
‘On the contrary, it’s what convinced me to leave. There’s a lot I admire about Patricia – no, truly! For a start, she never let Thomas drag her down. When he looked elsewhere, so did she.’ Vincent grins. ‘Don’t get too excited. I’m not talking men here but church work and charities. There was no question of her kicking him out, so she made the best of what she had. She never became bitter or sorry for herself. She’s always kept herself busy. Of course it’s a strategy! But it’s one that she’s put to good use.’
‘But it wasn’t one for you.’
‘Not at all. The way I saw it I was still young. I was a qualified secretary. And I had this gift for languages. I thought I’d try for a job with the EU or even the UN. But it was a big step and – you won’t be surprised to learn – I kept putting it off. Then I discovered a note to Richard from Nicola, one of the secretaries, and … let’s just say there was a physical disparity that turned my stomach. I could no longer look at him the same way. At last I was spurred into action. Then the day before I was planning to go – do you really believe things happen by chance? – I had a phone call from the woman’s mother. She – the daughter, that is – had been with Richard when he’d had the haemorrhage. She’d gone with him to the hospital.’
‘Your mother-in-law told me he was playing golf.’
‘For once she’s not being cagey. I felt she had enough to deal with as it was. I did tell Thomas, but he died not long afterwards. Patricia and Lucy – that’s Richard’s sister – think it was seeing Richard so impaired that killed him.’
‘And you?’
‘I’d say he had a lucky escape. Richard was in a coma for six weeks. Six weeks when we knew nothing and feared the worst. Then he came round and I realised that the worst had just begun. What’s more I realised I’d have to be part of it. What kind of a woman would abandon her brain-damaged husband?’
‘A brave one?’
‘Maybe in the world of the BBC. I even wondered if God was punishing my decision to leave by forcing me to stay.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘Though maybe He was making it easier for me: knowing that, when the crunch came, I’d never have had the guts to go.’
‘There’s still time to find out.’
‘Is there? There’s something else I should tell you.’
‘You mean there’s more? Don’t worry, there’s nothing that’ll make me walk away,’ he says, so tenderly that I can hardly bear to continue.
‘Richard lost so much of who he was but he didn’t lose his libido. If anything it grew stronger when he lost all inhibitions. Once he was back on his feet, a couple of his friends started taking him out for the odd evening. At first I thought they were being kind. Then I realised they were having a laugh at his expense. Or maybe it was a bit of both. All I know is they were taking him to visit girls in the local brothels –’
‘In Dorking?’
‘You’d be surprised. It took me a while to realise what was happening. He was always so much more overbearing when he came home, but I put it down to the drink. Then I started to get symptoms: itching, lumps, blisters. Must I go into details?’ I long for the anonymity of the confessional. ‘He gave me herpes. Most of the time it’s dormant. I can go for months – years even – without symptoms. Then all of a sudden … boom! And who’s to say what triggers it? Stress? Well I’ve had my fair share of that this past week: bringing Richard here; meeting you.’
‘Meeting me?’
‘It may even be the sun,’ I say, refusing to be deflected. ‘It’s not just the prospect of Richard on the beach that keeps me away from the Caribbean.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘You’ve had a rotten deal. But if, as you say, you have no symptoms …’
‘That’s just it. I think I may be having an attack now. It’s hard to tell. There’s a rawness, a tingling – oh, you don’t want to know! You’re right – it’s tough but I have to live with it. Though it doesn’t do much for my self-esteem, or the thought of a new relationship. Which is why, whatever my feelings for you, I can’t just jump into bed, let alone join you for a quickie behind that rock. There’s a lot more to sort out first.’
I wait for him to reply, but he says nothing. Then he turns and kisses me full on the lips for several seconds, although it is not a kiss that bears any relation to time. It is only when he moves away that I realise that its message is goodbye.
‘Thank you for being so candid with me. I’m humbled – I know how difficult it must have been. And there’s a lot I’d like to say in return, but it’ll have to wait until later. It’s gone four now. We’d better hurry back if we don’t want to miss the coach.’
‘Of course,’ I say, equally eager to escape.
As we make our way down the path, he seems shrouded in thought. Both my mind and my body are numb, but gradually a few sensations return: first confusion, then pain, then anger. At the very least I had expected a greater acknowledgement of what my admission had cost me. Even the emptiest praise would have been preferable to this silence. On the other hand, I have lost nothing but the chance of heartbreak. The knowledge that our relationship was built on sand is strangely cheering. At a stroke, all the conflicts and doubts that have
plagued me since meeting him are resolved. There are two – no, two and a half days – left of the pilgrimage. I shall return to Lourdes and pray for a miracle.
We reach the stream but, when he holds out his hand, I shake my head and walk across alone.
VINCENT
Wednesday June 18
We drive through Lourdes nose to tail with a coach full of African children whose faces, squashed against the back window, are too like those on charity appeals to elicit a light-hearted response. Since the narrow streets predate Bernadette, I resist the urge to see them as indicative of the religious mindset. Nevertheless, as we inch past a lorry unloading liquid gas, I question the providence that consigned such momentous apparitions to such an ancient town. ‘Breathe in,’ Father Humphrey shouts to a few sycophantic titters and widespread embarrassment about his girth.
A Spanish coach pulls out too fast at the crossroads, provoking a stream of very un-Lourdes-like invective from our driver, who adds to the danger by turning to the passengers to solicit support. Father Humphrey seeks to calm him with a fulsome tribute to his steering, before asking everyone to join in a round of applause, which is prolonged to the point of parody. ‘And let’s not forget the one who guided Christophe’s hand,’ he says. For a moment I suspect that he may be proposing a similar round to the Lord, but he contents himself by leading us in His Prayer.
Scarcely drawing breath, he embarks on a full-blown comedy routine. I reflect on the direct line that stretches from the bread and circuses of Roman politicians to the communion wafers and wisecracks of Catholic priests. As I sit through his extensive repertoire of nun jokes, I feel an unexpected sympathy for Sister Anne and Sister Martha. What is it that makes priests as obsessed with nuns as their smuttiest altar boys? Still, I suppose it keeps them from being obsessed with those same smutty altar boys.
Beside me Sophie is texting her boyfriend, her sporadic chuckles a welcome counterpoint to the fawning laughter echoing through the coach.
‘Giles?’ I ask, when she finally signs off.
‘He’s in Abu Dhabi. Some legal stuff for the airport.’
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