Jubilate

by Michael Arditti

  I nod tersely, but the shot is lost. By the time Jamie returns, Lester has recovered and resumed his seat. The rest of the service proceeds without incident and, at the end, we walk out past a crudely carved font at which the initiated gaze with reverence.

  ‘Do you think it’s pre-Christian?’ Sophie asks.

  ‘No,’ Ken interjects behind her. ‘Sorry to butt in, but I couldn’t help overhearing. It was made especially for the Cagots. They were a group of medieval pariahs – the lowest of the low – not just in France, but across Europe.’

  ‘Why?’ Sophie asks. ‘What had they done?’

  ‘No one knows, at least not according to Father Dave,’ he replies with a laugh. ‘Some experts think it was because of their ancestry (which may have been Arab); others because they were lepers or cretins.’ He looks uncomfortable. ‘That’s in the strict medical sense. Either way, they had to wear special clothes and keep themselves apart.’

  ‘Even in Church?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Ken says. ‘They had their own door and were made to stand behind a rail. Sometimes they weren’t allowed to take communion at all and, when they were, it was handed to them on a long stick. So whenever you think the Church is set in its ways, it’s as well to remember that some things have changed.’

  As we make our way outside, I catch sight of Gillian walking through the cloisters with Richard and Patricia. I long to join them but, in the first place, I can think of no suitable pretext and, in the second, I have to concentrate on the matter in hand. The film may be billed as a ‘personal journey’, but it is a journey into faith not love. So I turn back to the church and wait for Lester and Tess to emerge. He recoils from the heat, but straightens himself up the moment he sees us.

  ‘Are you better?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ Tess answers for him. ‘Just a little giddy.’

  ‘I was dehydrated,’ Lester says. ‘I feel a bit of a fraud. Everyone looking at me as if I’ve had some kind of mystical experience.’

  ‘People should mind their own business,’ Tess says.

  ‘Brenda was quite resentful. She’s been coming here for years and never felt a thing.’

  ‘Cow,’ Tess says.

  ‘We can postpone the interview if you like,’ I say.

  ‘That sounds like a good idea,’ Tess says.

  ‘Nonsense. I’m looking forward to it,’ Lester says. ‘If you’ll give me ten minutes to grab something to eat.’

  ‘Of course. As long as you’re sure.’

  ‘Never more. I just need to build up my strength.’

  We follow them through the ruins of the ancient abbey and into a large enclosed meadow, where their fellow pilgrims mill about, spreading rugs, sipping wine and opening hampers in festive mood. All thought of disease and disability has vanished. Even the shadow of death has been wiped out by the midday sun. It feels like a vision of paradise: not Eden, for which it is both too casual and too crowded, but the Greek Golden Age, at least as it appeared in the vast Victorian canvas of frolicking nymphs and shepherds that made such an impression on me as a boy.

  Two latter-day nymphs hand us our packed lunches. My analogy breaks down as we contemplate the pork pie, apple, chocolate and crisps.

  ‘Helps keep our minds on higher things,’ I say.

  ‘How?’ Jamie asks, ‘when all we can think of is our stomachs.’

  Father Humphrey stands in the middle of the grass and struggles to make himself heard. ‘Has everyone got their meal?’ He is greeted by a chorus of assent. ‘Good, because I’m not sure I’ve got the hang of the loaves and fishes routine yet. Shall we say grace?’ The silence is broken by a gust of laughter from the edge of the field where Patricia, Maggie and some of the helpers are gossiping out of earshot. A concerted ‘Shush’ prompts them to bow their heads.

  ‘Jesus Christ, King divine

  You changed water into wine.

  Please forgive us foolish men

  When we change it back again.’

  His levity seems to suit the alfresco setting, although Louisa’s smile is visibly forced. ‘Did you like that? You did? I’m not sure She Who Must Be Obeyed would agree.’ Louisa’s smile wavers. ‘All right, let’s have another go. Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts which from Thy bounty we are about to receive – and which Frank Maloney already has received.’ Frank looks up at the mention of his name, piecrust speckling his chin. ‘Through Christ Our Lord. Amen.’

  Frank’s impatience generates affectionate laughter, which sets the tone for the meal. I blame my lack of appetite on the heat, a factor that has clearly not affected Jamie, who scoops up my entire lunch, along with Jewel’s pork pie. In this light, his earlier remark about waste and starvation in Africa seems particularly glib. Refusing him time to digest, I lead the way to the cloisters, picking up Lester en route.

  ‘Are you happy to stand?’ I ask him. ‘We can dig out a chair if you’d rather.’

  ‘I’m good. Honestly. It’s amazing the difference a pork pie can make.’

  ‘How about here?’ Jamie asks, indicating a spot beside a buttress. ‘The stone makes an interesting background and the sun won’t be in his eyes.’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  ‘And me,’ Lester says, moving into position.

  ‘Right!’ I launch straight into the interview. ‘Lester, you’re with the Jubilate as a hospital pilgrim. Am I correct in thinking that, unlike most – if not all – of the group, you are not a believer?’

  ‘Yes. That is no, I’m not. I don’t know if it’s from conviction or just circumstance. Until recently, when I was diagnosed with cancer – terminal cancer – I never thought much about God or death or anything otherworldly. Well you don’t, do you, when you have a family to support (not just financially) and a business to run? You have your work cut out dealing with the state of the garage roof, never mind the state of your soul.’

  ‘But things have changed?’

  ‘Well obviously – though not that much. Perhaps I’m hedging my bets a little? Who was it said you might as well believe in God because, if you’re wrong, you’ve lost nothing and, if you’re right, you’ll be on the winning side? I’ve not gone that far but I’d say I’ve grown a little less dogmatic in my disbelief.’

  ‘Has coming on the pilgrimage helped that?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve been very moved by the way people cope with their disabilities. Who wouldn’t be? But, if they’re anything like me, they won’t want to hear that. Some of my friends think I should be fighting harder, but it’s no use. Every time I start to ask: “Why me?”, I hear my own voice answer: “Why not me?” Don’t get me wrong; if you could wave a magic wand – or, better still, something more scientific – and blast the cancer to kingdom come, I’d be first in the queue. But as far as I know, you can’t. There’s no law says I have to live three score years and ten, let alone four score years and senile. I’m just grateful for what I’ve had.’

  ‘And what you have left?’

  ‘There won’t be much of it. Two months – three, if I’m lucky. It’s hard to take in because I don’t feel that bad. A bit breathless every now and then. Some cramps in my stomach but, if you didn’t know better, you’d think they were indigestion. That’s why I left it for so long. By the time this film is broadcast, I’ll be dead. It’s difficult to get my head round. This will be the last people see of me. So perhaps you’ll give me a moment to say thank you to everyone: to all my friends; my mum and dad; my two sisters; the greatest kids any man could wish for; and most of all my wife, Tess, my Tess …’ He starts to sob. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know it would hit me like this. She’ll kill me. Well she would if it wasn’t too late.’

  ‘Do you find humour a useful weapon?’ The question rallies him and he rubs his eyes.

  ‘Not intentionally, no, but I suppose I must. Here we are, in this gorgeous countryside: the sort that makes some people feel that there must be a God, but makes me feel that there’s no need for one. How could anyone be morbid or depres
sed in the midst of all this?’

  ‘Does that make it harder to leave it all behind?’

  ‘Not in the least. I know I’ll be leaving other people to enjoy it, although, with luck, they won’t be riddled with cancer. That’s why I’m happy to be here. I know that most of my fellow pilgrims are hoping for a miracle cure or, at any rate, some kind of spiritual revelation. I just want the chance to spend time with my wife before the disease really kicks in. And, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to say a few words directly to her.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I don’t want her to grieve. If I’ve learnt anything from all this, it’s that life is short. She mustn’t waste hers on regrets. And I trust my boys not to make things hard for her. I expect them to support her in everything she does, including – especially – moving on.’

  His words touch me deeply, and I am relieved to be able to wrap up the interview and let him return to Tess.

  ‘What now, chief?’ Jamie asks. ‘Do you still want to go for the Polish guy?’

  ‘Let’s wait till we’re back in Lourdes.’ I turn to Sophie. ‘Would you speak to him? We’ve earned a break. It’d be a crime –’ Even as a hyperbole, I baulk at sin – ‘not to take the chance to explore the landscape.’ Sophie gives me a wry smile as if she suspects my motives, but I refuse to respond. We walk back into the meadow, past Fiona who is holding up a toy windmill, willing its sails to turn without a breeze, and Frank who is blowing the seeds off a dandelion clock. He stares forlornly at the bare stem, rocking on the balls of his feet, until Louisa hurries over and calms him with a hug.

  ‘Strange,’ I say to Sophie. ‘He’s the last person I’d have thought she’d develop a rapport with.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why?’

  We almost trip over Father Humphrey who lies prostrate on a rug, like a small hillock, his sleeves rolled up to reveal two beefy forearms, one of which is marked with the faint outline of an anchor. I am intrigued by this hint of a former life, but my speculations are curtailed when Geoff, egged on by Father Dave, waves a buttercup under his nose. He snorts in his sleep until Geoff, exceeding his brief, pokes the stalk into his nostril. He sits up with a jolt amid widespread laughter, which he takes in good part.

  ‘The dead awakened and appeared to many,’ Father Dave says, repeating it moments later for effect.

  I slip away to join Gillian, who is standing in a group at the far end of the meadow. As I walk over, I see her sneak a glance at her watch which cheers me, although it may just be that she is checking the time for Richard’s pills.

  ‘I wonder if I can steal your wife,’ I say to him.

  ‘They’ll put you in prison.’

  ‘They would if they knew what I was really thinking.’

  I am surprised by how readily she agrees, and wonder if it is due to enthusiasm for my company or fear of my indiscretion. She strides ahead, as if to convince any casual observer that we are leaving separately. Once through the archway she relaxes and asks about my interview with Lester, showing a gratifying familiarity with my schedule, before pretending to take my request for her translation skills at face value. We stop to talk to Kevin who has chosen to dramatise his alienation by sprawling on a bench in the middle of the cloisters, like a lone wolf baying outside the city gates. His wretchedness adds to my unease. I have no plan or goal other than to be with Gillian, and yet I have too many teenage memories of trudging through Barnsley, desperate for a deserted bus shelter, to be happy leaving things to chance. So, assuming an air of confidence, I propose that we head down to the fields at the bottom of the hill, praying that we won’t be met by a locked gate, let alone an irate farmer with a gun.

  Fate (I refuse to credit a higher power) smiles on us, as I guide Gillian over a rickety stile and into an ancient orchard. The atmosphere is deliciously mellow, with luminous butterflies fluttering over lush foliage and strange fruit. The beauty of the setting enhances hers, or she encompasses it, or perhaps it is just that for the first time in years I feel at one with nature. I am wondering how best to take her hand without its seeming either forced or threatening when, by a stroke of luck, we arrive at a stream and she needs my help to cross. I have a wild impulse to lose my balance and land us both in the water in the hope that, crawling out, she will throw off her soaking clothes – among other constraints – and make passionate love to me on the bank. But, given my record with romantic schemes, we are more likely to hobble back to the coach on twisted ankles. Besides, how can I risk ruining such a delightful dress?

  I have to be content with keeping hold of her hand and, either because she has come to trust me or else because she has a compelling need to unburden herself, she embarks on the story of her unhappy marriage. Halfway through – although she has already declared it to be THE END – we are confronted by a snarling dog. She bends down and beckons it to her, ignoring my warnings of deadly disease.

  ‘He wants to be friends,’ she says, letting it slobber all over her arm.

  ‘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.’ She refuses to elaborate, burying her face in the dog’s fur, and I realise that she has totally misinterpreted what I told her last night. Half of me wants to burst out laughing, while the other half is offended that she should think me so craven as to offload my humiliation on to an imaginary friend. But, given her account of her philandering husband and his lecherous father, it is no wonder that she sees all men as self-serving liars.

  We walk further into the valley but, rather than surrendering to its charm, we dispute its creation. The familiar battle-lines are drawn. To Gillian, the magnificent landscape is conclusive evidence of God’s design; to me, it is the fortuitous result of millions of years of rock formation. But, however much I reject her views, I am enchanted by their expression, a split that leaves me confused. All the earnest debates at college as to whether it would be a betrayal to sleep with a Tory pale beside the one now engaging me. Can a committed atheist (no bet-hedging agnostic here) truly love and respect a Christian, and a Catholic to boot? As I gaze at her face, the loveliness of her lips far surpasses the words flowing from them, and the answer comes back a resounding yes.

  Seizing the moment, I kiss her: a kiss as far removed from last night’s beery fumble as these mountains from a child’s mud-pies. Steeped in my own sense of the sacred, I ask: ‘Has anything changed? Are God and His majesty and mystery in any way diminished?’, but, rather than replying, she returns to the subject of her marriage. I am caught in a tide of emotion: first, joy as she describes how she had been planning to leave Richard, which proves that, whatever else, she does not regard her vows as inviolable; then, horror as she recounts the full extent of his betrayal. Fearing the worst from the roster of itching, lumps and blisters, I am weak with relief on hearing that it is only herpes. I long to make light of it, explaining that the virus was rife during my early years at the BBC. But I am afraid of accentuating the gulf between our worlds.

  Moreover, I feel that her honesty demands as much from me but, before I can speak up, I need a more intimate setting, less pressure of time and, not least, a measure of Dutch courage. So I kiss her as tenderly as possible, and promise that we will talk later.

  ‘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.’

  The earth is hard underfoot, but I feel as though I am sinking into a quagmire. What right have I to sit in judgement on Richard? He is not the only husband to have cheated on his wife. He, at least, had his father’s example to lead him a
stray, whereas I had a father who was faithful all his life to his youth-group sweetheart. So what’s my excuse? When Celia left, I vowed that I would never again hurt another woman, even if it meant that I could never again be close to another woman. Now I find myself reaching out to Gillian, whose past gives her a dual claim on my fidelity. Why should she trust me when I cannot trust myself? Or must I rest my hopes on greying hair and a waning libido?

  Gillian rebuffs my attempts at conversation, as if she can read my guilt and already regrets her disclosure. We head back into the village to find everyone preparing to leave. She thanks me for the walk as if I were a tour guide, and moves to Richard, who is watching his friend Nigel being wheeled on to the lift. Either from a reluctance to separate them or, more likely, a desire to escape from me, she steers Richard into the second coach. Desperate for distraction I join Kevin, who looks more isolated than ever now that Matt is chatting with the handmaidens.

  ‘Did you finish your book?’ I ask.

  ‘She had us picking up litter,’ he says, pointing to Louisa. ‘Even apple cores. I told her they’re biodegradable. I’m surprised she didn’t take before-and-after pictures of the grass.’

  ‘You may find it hard to believe, but I promise you things get better.’

  ‘Even for them?’ he asks, with a nod at the wheelchairs. Stumped for an answer, I step into the coach, sitting beside Sophie who is glued to her iPod. The trip back to Lourdes feels endless which, despite the dull road and the lack of a commentary, I attribute to Gillian’s defection. Meanwhile, I run through some questions for Tadeusz. He refuses to be filmed in any kind of religious setting, which poses problems in a town where the only cinema is permanently devoted to the life of Bernadette, but Sophie is confident of finding somewhere suitable along the river. So, leaving our fellow pilgrims at the Acceuil, we take the path past the Saint Bernadette church and up to the Adoration Tent, where the landscape starts to become wooded. We stop beside an ancient beech tree with two low branches protruding at almost perfect right angles to the gnarled and twisted trunk.