I walk on, preoccupied.
‘Brace yourself, Bridget!’ Richard whispers in my ear.
‘What?’
‘That’s what he says.’
‘Who?’
‘The Irishman!’
‘Oh, I see. Very good.’ I force a laugh.
‘That’s wrong.’
‘The joke?’
‘No, you! You shouldn’t laugh when you don’t think it’s funny. Like being friends with someone you don’t like.’
‘I’m sorry. My mind was –’
‘It’s wrong!’
My guilt increased, I plod on. As we reach the seventh station, I dismiss the thought that I too am weighed down by a cross. But as Richard drags his heels, complaining about heat, tiredness and ‘digestion’, leading me to half-cajole, half-drag him up the hill, the burden becomes unbearable.
Father Paul truncates the prayers in consideration of the oncoming groups, but his courtesy is not reciprocated. We are brought to a halt by a party of Asian pilgrims who linger at the ninth station. When they finally set off, Linda has trouble getting Brenda’s wheelchair to move. I wonder whether to lend a hand but, thankfully, Matt steps in first.
‘Do you want some help?’
‘No, we don’t!’ Brenda snaps. ‘£53.10 a week carer’s allowance she’s paid. And what does she do for it? Sweet FA!’
I feel my cheeks sting, but Linda seems unruffled. ‘Yak, yak, yak! Miss High and Mighty. I’d like to see you try to get by without me.’
‘Ladies, please!’ Father Paul hurries over. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘It’s him!’ Brenda nods at Matt who stands, nonplussed. ‘Sticking his filthy mitts all over my chair. “Do you want some help?” I know their help. Give them an inch!’
‘An inch!’ Linda repeats smugly.
‘First, it’s the chair; next thing, their hands are everywhere. They think I can’t feel anything but I can.’ She rounds on Matt. ‘I can!’
‘But I never touched you,’ he says, ashen-faced.
‘No, we know. No harm done,’ Father Paul reassures him, before turning back to Brenda. ‘But if you do need help, perhaps one of the handmaidens, or me?’
‘Let her do it,’ Brenda says. ‘Lazy cow! Look!’ She nods at the tableau in front of her. ‘Our Lord flat on the ground, pinned down by the Cross. And Simon of Cyrene holding up the end as if nothing’s wrong. That’s you, Madam,’ she screeches at Linda, ‘Simon of bloody Cyrene!’
‘Yak, yak, yak,’ Linda says blithely. ‘It’s like she’s slowly sinking in cement. It’s swallowing her up bit by bit. Pity it’s not reached her mouth.’
‘I heard that!’
‘You were meant to.’
Richard watches them, as engrossed as by a row on reality TV. I pull him away, for fear that someone should accuse him of involvement. Father Paul steps forward and leads us in prayer: ‘Lord, help each of us to accept the cross that is our lot, be it pain, illness, betrayal or bereavement. Give us the grace to know that You are carrying it with us so that we can move on with You to new life. Amen.’
We continue along the path but, despite vowing to treat the camera as if it were CCTV, I find myself drawn to it at the twelfth station on seeing Kevin tear off his microphone in mid-interview and stomp down the hill. I wonder what Vincent can have said to provoke him, but as I walk across to find out, a more assertive Gillian takes my place.
‘Another of your fans?’
‘Have you been watching me?’
‘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 say, disarmed by the gentle teasing. ‘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.’
Honour is satisfied on both sides, but I am conscious of a very different conversation taking place beneath the words. I linger in defiance of all my good intentions until I find that the prayers have ended and Father Paul is leading the Jubilates down the hill. I am left behind, my distraction doubly culpable as I gaze at a weeping Mary Magdalene.
Eager to return to the path, I refuse Vincent’s offer of a drink and, grabbing Richard, who stands spinning on the spot, hurry to rejoin the group.
‘Ow!’ Richard protests, ‘you’re making me dizzy.’
‘I’m making you dizzy?’ I reply, deflecting my frustration. ‘You’re the one going round in circles – I’m walking in a straight line.’
I recite the prayers at the thirteenth and fourteenth stations, but am reduced to silence by the fifteenth: Jesus is Risen from the Dead; which is represented simply by a rough-hewn stone rolled away from the rock. The landscape is no longer the backdrop to the story; it is the story. The biblical figures have been abandoned and we are the living witnesses, not to a historical event but to an eternal mystery that is re-enacted every day. I long to share my excitement with Vincent, but I am aware that my responsibilities lie elsewhere and, quashing any sense of disappointment, steer Richard back down the hill and through the Domain.
We return to the Acceuil and go straight to dinner, which is slightly more tolerable than breakfast and lunch, if only because the distaste for salad shared by three of my four fellow diners makes the meal that much shorter. The fourth seems not to care what he eats so long as it is well chewed. After a brief coffee break during which Richard and Nigel play an anarchic game of ludo, we make our way to the St Bernadette Chapel for the Penitential Service.
‘Another church, another concrete monstrosity,’ Vincent whispers, as he greets us at the entrance. ‘Have you thought about my offer?’
‘What offer’s that?’ Patricia asks sharply.
‘They want to interview me after the service.’
‘Don’t forget to mention the Holy Redeemer. Father Aidan will appreciate it.’
Patricia flashes Vincent a smile, which I fear that he will take as genuine, and ushers us into a building which is even less attractive inside. Rows of utilitarian benches face a stark wooden dais backed by olive green screens. A cat’s cradle of steel piping covers the ceiling with, above the altar, a huge disc with the crucified Christ. Father Humphrey leads a service which supplies much of the warmth that the decor lacks. The hymns, sung to the slightly discordant strumming of two young brancardiers, are once again conducted by Fiona, with her flexible baton. After a wildly uncoordinated version of ‘Guide me, O thou great Redeemer’, Father Dave steps forward to deliver a sermon on the three ‘p’s of pilgrimage: prayer; perseverance; penitence.
‘We all say our prayers, don’t we?’
‘I do,’ Nigel says, to a roar of laughter.
‘And we all persevere on our journey towards God? That’s not a question you need answer out loud.’
‘I do,’ Nigel repeats, to a similar response.
‘But the most important of the three is penitence: to admit that we are miserable sinners who are dependent on God’s grace. And what lies at the heart of sin? Think for a moment how it’s spelt: S – I – N. What’s the letter at the centre? I. And the letter at the centre of the word is at the centre of the deed. I’m the one who’s responsible for sin. It’s putting myself first instead of God. So now let’s acknowledge what we are, both to God and to one another. Put up your hands if you’re a sinner!’ Fathers Humphrey and Paul, who are with him on the dais raise their hands to a murmur of approval. A young brancardier thrusts up both of his, despite his friend’s attempt to pull one down. Richard waves his right hand as if trying to attract attention (is it Father Dave’s or God’s?). Patricia lifts her arm at the elbow as though her mild arthritis exempts her from such emphatic profession of sin as everyone else. The entire congregation is a forest of hands, with one exception. His cameraman has his hand in the air; his sound recordist has her hand in the air; his producer has her hand in the air; his own hands lie clasped in
his lap.
At a stroke I feel my sympathies transformed. Is this the epiphany for which I yearned at the Grotto? Far from condemning his defiance, I am full of admiration for his resolve. This is a man who will not put profit over principle or convenience over conscience; this is a man who will not be swayed by emotion or led by the crowd. And, while it may be reading too much into a single gesture, the ‘I’ at the centre of sin has never felt more certain. This is a man who has broken the ice of my heart.
At the end of the service I seek out Derek, who is escorting Nigel back to the Acceuil. He agrees to take Richard, who has no qualms about deserting his wife in favour of his friend. I walk up to Vincent, who is talking to Sophie in the vestibule.
‘So,’ he says. ‘Are you giving in to temptation?’
‘Must you put it like that?’
‘Subtlety has never been his strong point,’ Sophie says.
‘Judas!’ Vincent says, with a flourish.
‘Have fun,’ Sophie says, walking off.
‘We intend to.’
‘It’s only a drink,’ I say firmly. ‘There can be no harm in that.’
‘It depends whether you’re putting the i in inebriation or the u in drunk. Shall we go?’
We make our way through the Domain, past the huge Torchlight procession in which we are due to take part tomorrow. As we weave through the crowd, Vincent is sunk in thought, and I wonder whether he already regrets having invited me. We reach St Joseph’s Gate but, instead of heading for one of the nearby cafés, he leads me deeper into the town.
‘Is that one over there no good?’
‘We’re going to a hotel.’
‘Not yours?’ I ask, more primly than I intend.
‘No, not mine,’ he replies with a smile. ‘The Gallia Londres. It was your mother-in-law who put me on to it. She says it’s the best in Lourdes.’
I refrain from pointing out that, like so many of Patricia’s recommendations, it will be based on hearsay rather than experience, and follow him into an old-fashioned lobby, lined with plush armchairs and display cabinets crammed with antique china.
‘I presume we can have a drink without staying here?’ he asks warily.
‘There’s an easy way to find out,’ I reply, walking over to check with the receptionist. ‘Yes, it’s fine,’ I report back.
‘You speak French?’
‘Passably. And you?’
‘Don’t ask. Not that it matters here. You don’t need a French phrasebook in Lourdes, just a medical dictionary.’
‘Are you always this hard on everyone?’
‘Usually. But I’m even harder on myself.’
We walk through an anteroom hung with nineteenth-century prints of religious orders into a spacious bar, decorated with heavy chandeliers, festooned columns, Empire furniture and urns of drooping lilies. We take our seats, and a waitress in a low-cut blouse better suited to her granddaughter fetches our drinks. Vincent downs his double whisky in two gulps, and I am perturbed to find Patricia’s anti-Irish prejudices popping into my head. He summons the waitress for a refill.
‘I hope it’s not anything I’ve done,’ I say quickly.
‘Of course not. Well, maybe by association. That bloody service.’
‘Ah that.’
‘Yes that. At the end, when I was waiting for you – just on the off-chance – I saw this guy, Dennis, I don’t know if you’ve met him: early twenties, light brown hair, motor-neurone disease, in a wheelchair.’
‘There are several …’
‘Quite. Just one of many. Which is why I didn’t pick him to interview. He was waiting for one of the brancs to push him back to the Acceuil. He looked miserable, so I asked what was wrong. He answered in that tortuous way: you know, as if every word had its roots twisted around his gut.’ I nod. ‘It turned out to be what Father Paul had said about everyone going to confession at least once during the pilgrimage. Dennis couldn’t think of any sins to confess. “That’s all right, mate,” I said, “I’ll give you some of mine.” But he couldn’t see the joke. He’s terrified that, with nothing to confess, he can’t be absolved and he’ll be shut out of heaven.’
‘That’s very sad –’
‘Sad! It’s tragic. He’s a young man. He should be sinning all over the place, but he’s paralysed. He can’t touch himself, let alone anyone else.’
‘But he’s the exception. It doesn’t apply to the rest of us.’
‘Doesn’t it? I don’t believe in God but if I did, I’d give Him far more credit than the Church does. Can you think of any more loathsome creed than that God created the world to reflect His own glory, for which He demands our constant praise? That’s not love; it’s narcissism to the nth degree! When you give someone a present, you don’t wrap it up in a load of conditions. You want them to enjoy it to the full, to make it their own.’
‘You can’t argue against God from an analogy.’
‘Well, you sure as Hell can’t argue for Him from the facts! Look at all the suffering in the world.’ As the waitress brings him his drink, I wonder whether his interest in me is primarily as a sparring partner. ‘I promise you, I’ll just say this one thing and then I’ll shut up.’
‘You’ll just say this one thing and then you’ll be blotto.’
‘Trust me, it takes more than a couple of whiskies.’ He drinks more moderately than before. ‘Where was I? Oh yes, suffering. Good Catholics like you – I mean good people who happen to be Catholics, not good Catholics who happen to be people – spend their lives trying to work out how God can allow us to suffer. And, as I pointed out to Father Paul this morning, nowhere do you see that suffering more vividly than in Lourdes. Instead of tying yourself in knots trying to defend the indefensible, why not look at it the other way and ask how, with so much suffering, you can allow yourself to believe in God?’
‘I won’t give you the standard answer that, if there were no suffering, free will wouldn’t have any meaning.’
‘No, please don’t.’
‘But, after Richard’s haemorrhage, a priest – yes, I’m sorry; it was a priest and not a therapist or a counsellor – said something that has helped me a great deal over the years. He said that pain and suffering were necessary to remind ourselves that there’s another life beyond this one: to stop us becoming complacent and accepting second-best.’
‘Next time you see him – I trust that he’s still in good health (I’d hate to think of him suffering) –’
‘What is it that makes you so angry?’
‘Tell him that there are some of us who are quite happy to settle for second-best so long as we can enjoy it, and those we love – and even those we don’t love – can enjoy it too: some of us who believe that life is meant for living, not for saving up for some eternal pension plan.’
‘That sounds like a recipe for hedonism.’
‘And what’s wrong with that? Hedonism has such negative connotations in a culture shaped by Christianity, but wanting – and giving – pleasure can be a very positive thing.’
‘I suppose it depends what you mean by pleasure. Some people find it in living for other people.’
‘Do you?’
‘I never think about it,’ I reply, anxious to remain detached. ‘I don’t have any choice. Richard requires constant attention. What should I do? Put him in a home and walk away?’
‘No. That is it’s not for me to say.’
‘No, it’s not – it’s really not. My life may be a shadow of what it was – of what it could be – but it’s not nearly such a shadow as his. When we married, I vowed to love him in sickness as well as in health. Is sickness limited to something quick like cancer or a coronary? Is permanent brain damage excluded by the small print?’ I stand and start to leave. He grabs hold of my hand.
‘Forgive me,’ he says. ‘Please don’t go. Not like this. Sit down. Have another drink. Please.’ I waver.
‘It’s still tomato juice. That’s not changed.’
‘Anything you like.�
� He summons the waitress and orders more drinks.
‘It may surprise you to learn that peoples’ lives aren’t a television programme you can shoot and edit at will,’ I say, as she walks away. ‘You’ve known me for two days – you don’t know me at all.’
‘I know you’re not happy.’
‘No, really? My husband has lost half his brain cells – should I be jumping for joy?’
‘Isn’t there something you could do just for you? Do you have no unfulfilled ambitions?’
‘Yes, to dance Sleeping Beauty. Now for your next trick …’
‘That’s fascinating! Tell me more. How old were you when you first knew?’
‘About the age Richard is now. I went to classes for years, but it all came unstuck when I hit puberty. Boobs.’
‘I see.’ His gaze is sympathetic rather than prurient.
‘They grew too big. I tried starving myself, but they just went on growing. You’ve no idea what it’s like being fourteen and a size 32D. The sneers from the other girls; the assumptions from the boys; the suspicion from my mother, who was convinced they’d lure me into sin.’
‘And did they?’
‘Only the shallow end.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you should be. But thanks for asking. I don’t often get the chance to talk these days. They say widows have it bad once the first wave of sympathy dies down. In my case that was about ten years ago.’
‘You can talk to me.’
‘I thought I was.’
‘I mean talk talk.’ He looks at me with all the seriousness of a six-year-old, but a six-year-old who is the antithesis of Richard.
‘What about you? I’ve owned up to my Margot Fonteyn fantasies. Did you want to be a TV director as a boy?’
‘As a boy, I didn’t have a TV. I grew up in a town where people would gather outside Radio Rentals in the evenings to watch the sets flickering in the window. There was no sound, but they still stood there. What does that tell you? That they were poor? That they were sheep? That a picture’s worth a thousand words?’
‘Where was this?’
‘Barnsley. In Yorkshire.’
‘But your family’s Irish?’
‘My great-grandfather came over to work in the pits in the 1880s. It’s still a source of deep shame to my mother. My dad sat at a colliery desk all his life, but he might as well have come home black with dust.’
Jubilate Page 26
