‘A fiddle?’ Jamie asks with a smirk.
‘A Stradivarius. I’ve found so much love in Lourdes – and I’m not just speaking personally. Take Brenda and Linda – they’ve been together thirty-seven years.’
‘I wish I was a dyke,’ Jewel says. ‘Yeah yeah, I saw that look, Jamie! And that’s one of the reasons. Women are so much more loyal than men.’
‘Those two certainly are,’ I say. ‘A year after they met, Brenda was diagnosed with MS. It spread rapidly and within five years she was in a wheelchair. Linda gave up her job to care for her. For all their bickering, I’ve never seen such a practical expression of love.’
‘So you think that everyone should stick with partners who are incapacitated?’ Jewel asks. Sophie and Jamie look nervous.
‘Yes,’ I reply firmly, ‘as long as they do it out of love and not out of duty or guilt.’
After an uncomfortable few minutes, we return to our rooms to finish packing, before bringing our cases down to the foyer where Madame BJ instructs us to pile them under the statue of Bernadette. Given her warnings about gypsies, she seems remarkably sanguine about the security of our unguarded bags, but then her gimlet eye must be a greater safeguard than the sturdiest lock. That said, she announces that she will be away for the rest of the day.
‘Every Friday – when the weather is fine – I go climbing with a group of friends. So this is goodbye. It has been a pleasure.’
‘Really?’
‘Or perhaps I should say an education to welcome you. We have 2,000 guests each year at the Bretagne, but I shall remember my pilgrims from the BBC.’
She retreats into her office and we make our final trip to the Domain. Jewel stops to buy a bottle, explaining, as sheepishly as if she were buying dope, that she has promised to take some spring water back to her grandparents. Dissociating myself from Jamie’s mockery, I reflect on Gillian and whether she will maintain her resolve once we are back in England. I must find a way to keep her with me both in body and spirit, convincing her that the problems we face are mere practicalities.
‘Earth to Vincent!’ Jamie says, predictably. ‘Are we going straight to the baths?’
‘No, the Acceuil. I want to squeeze in a final interview.’
‘That wouldn’t by any chance be with one Gillian Patterson?’
‘No, but you’re warm – her mother-in-law. I sounded her out at Stansted and then never got round to it.’
‘Are you sure it’s a good idea?’ Sophie asks warily.
‘I’ve a hunch she’ll have some interesting things to say.’
We reach the Acceuil and call the lift, which opens to reveal a group of Jubilates, among them Richard and Nigel.
‘We’re going to the baths,’ Richard says.
‘Save a place for us, mate. We’ll be along any minute.’
‘’Old,’ Nigel says.
‘You’ll find it’s quite warm in the sun,’ Jewel says.
‘’Old!’ he insists.
‘Does he need a sweater?’ Sophie asks Geoff, who is pushing him.
‘No, the water’s cold,’ Richard says, and Nigel breaks into a smile. ‘He’s been here before.’
We take the lift to the third floor where the vestibule is already stripped of much of its Jubilate clutter. Brancardiers and handmaidens are packing up boxes, taking down notices and piling rubbish in green plastic bags. I find Patricia with Maggie in the dining room, wiping down tables and stacking chairs.
‘Gillian’s not here,’ she says icily.
‘I know – she’s at the baths … I mean I saw a crowd heading that way. Aren’t you having one?’
‘One thing I’ve learnt in life, Mr O’Shaughnessy, is that some of us are Marthas and some Marys. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Not necessarily. I believe in choice.’
‘That’s as may be. But for some it’s a luxury and others it’s a trap. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do.’
‘That’s why I’m here. I’d like to film a short interview, if Maggie can spare you.’
‘Now? I thought you’d given up on me.’
‘Other fish to fry,’ Maggie says sourly.
‘On the contrary, saving the best till last,’ I reply, forcing a smile.
‘But I’ve been clearing up. I look a fright.’
‘Not at all. The picture of elegance. Isn’t that so?’ I turn to Maggie, who gives me a suspicious nod.
‘Well, I believe in keeping up standards. Out of respect for the malades.’
After a little more cajoling, followed by several minutes at a mirror to ‘repair the damage’, Patricia is ready. We collect the crew and go down to the non-functioning fountain, which provides the perfect setting.
‘Is this all right for you, Jamie?’ I ask, as I steer Patricia into position.
‘Sure, chief.’
‘Will people be able to hear me? There’s a lot of background noise.’
‘Don’t worry. Jewel’s going to wire you for sound.’
‘Is that safe?’
‘Not a real wire,’ I assure her. ‘Just a microphone in your lapel. There we are. OK for levels?’ I ask Jewel, who gives me the thumbs-up. ‘Now look at me, Patricia. Not at the camera, at me.’
‘Oh dear, there’s so much to remember.’
‘No, to forget. Starting with the camera and the microphone. Ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’
‘Good. Patricia, you’ve come to Lourdes as a handmaiden several times, I understand.’
‘Nine. Not that I’m counting.’
‘What drives you to make such a commitment?’
‘It’s a way of giving back. My life hasn’t always been easy, but I still have my health. And that’s a great blessing. I’ve seen someone very dear to me – someone I love very much – struck down by illness, and I haven’t always been able … haven’t always been allowed to help. Coming here does a little to make up for that.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, disconcerted.
‘Besides, I believe it’s what God wants me to do.’
‘Like a calling?’
‘Oh nothing so grand. But Our Lord called on us all to visit the sick, feed the hungry and clothe the naked (not that I’ve had to do much of that!).’
‘Do you try to live all your life according to the Church?’
‘Of course. Not that I always succeed.’ She gives an ingratiating laugh. ‘God has given us this extraordinary gift of life. It’s up to us to try to live it according to His will.’
Her confidence fuels mine and I press her harder than I had intended. ‘When you were a little girl, did your father ever make you anything? I don’t know: a rocking horse or a doll’s house?’
‘Yes, yes he did.’ Her eyes shine. ‘He made me a Noah’s Ark: the most beautiful one you’ve ever seen, filled with stalls and coops and hutches. And he bought me a set of miniature animals to put inside. How funny! I haven’t thought of it in years.’
‘And did he also give you strict instructions on how you should use it? Did he say you could only put the zebras in this stall and the elephants in that? Did he tell you which animals you were allowed to bring out on deck?’
‘I see where this is heading.’
‘Well did he?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘No, your father wanted you to enjoy it: to make it your own. Which is what people do when they give presents. So why should God, the supreme present-giver, be any different? Why should His gifts come wrapped in a long list of rules and regulations? I’m talking about the Bible, the most arcane instruction manual of them all.’
‘It’s easy to argue through stories.’
‘But didn’t Christ?’ She looks shocked. Glimpsing Sophie’s uneasy expression, I resolve to change my line of questioning. ‘On a different point, I’ve been surprised – impressed, of course, but also surprised – by how many of the helpers take on tasks, quite menial tasks, that they would never do at home. I once made a film about Armistice D
ay, and I remember reading notices in The Times in which young women whose fiancés had been killed in the trenches offered to marry any maimed or blind or injured officer. And I wonder, with the greatest respect, if there might be an element of that in what people are doing here: getting their hands not just dirty, but as filthy as possible.’
‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me. All I can say is that many of the hospital pilgrims are severely disabled. They need help with their basic functions.’
‘I don’t dispute that, but what is it that motivates you – you, Patricia – to help them? You said it was giving thanks, but is it gratitude or guilt? Are you trying to humble yourself in penance, not just for being healthy but for being alive: the debt with which all of us – that is all of us who are Catholics – are saddled with at birth and which we can never repay?’
‘Not in the least,’ she replies fervently. ‘That may sound clever, but it isn’t true. For a start I’ve had more than my share of suffering. Do you know what it is to watch your child spend six weeks in a coma?’
‘No.’ I refuse to trade tragedies with her.
‘No, I didn’t think so, or you wouldn’t see this week as separate from the rest of my life. But I’m not complaining. I count it a privilege to have suffered as I have – it’s a sign that God considers me worthy. He knows I’m strong enough to endure it, that my faith will survive.’
‘I’m glad to hear it and I hope it brings you comfort, but what right do you have to impose your beliefs on anyone else?’
With a cutthroat gesture Sophie indicates that I should wind up the questions. Patricia misinterprets it, her eyes widening in alarm.
‘What am I imposing? I’m simply answering the questions you’ve asked.’ She looks for support to Sophie and Jewel, who remain impassive. ‘Impose! I’ve no idea what you mean?’
‘Oh I think you do. You have a daughter-in-law.’
‘Is this going out on air?’ she asks, so helplessly that even I feel a tinge of compassion.
‘No!’ Sophie interjects, stepping in front of the camera. ‘I think we have more than enough material. Shall we leave it there, Vincent?’
‘Sure.’ I walk up to Patricia and remove the microphone. ‘The interview’s over but I’d still be glad of an answer.’ I sweep aside Sophie, who is trying to intervene. ‘You have a daughter-in-law. What right do you have to impose your beliefs on her?’
‘I could ask you the same thing. You want to make her forget – no, to throw out – all her ties and responsibilities.’
‘No, I’m trying to remind her of her primary responsibility – her responsibility to herself.’
‘She came here on pilgrimage, not for a dirty weekend.’
‘Vincent, it’s time for us to go to the baths.’ Sophie says.
‘Just a moment! Please, a moment!’ Disturbed by the urgency in my own voice, I turn back to Patricia. ‘We only have one life. Even if you believe it extends into eternity, it’s still only the one. Doesn’t she have the right to love?’
‘She has a husband whom she vowed to love and honour.’
‘Wasn’t that vow mutual? Didn’t he break it over and over again with his casual affairs?’
‘Lies! Is that what she told you? Well, did she also tell you that she was the one who caused his haemorrhage?’
‘What?’
‘Yes, that’s knocked the stuffing out of you! She threatened to leave him. The stress it caused went straight to his brain.’
‘You can’t really believe that?’
‘Who are you to tell me what I believe?’
‘And you’ve said so to Gillian?’
‘Of course not. What do you think I am? But she knows my mind.’
‘The guilt must be unbearable.’
‘No guilt is unbearable if it’s absolved by the Church. But perhaps you realise now that, whatever promises you may have made, you won’t be seeing her again once we leave the plane. She’s come back to her senses and to her husband and to God.’
‘So you really think that Richard was enjoying a relaxing round of golf when the threat of Gillian’s departure hit home?’
‘Yes, of course. What are you saying?’
‘I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m going down to the baths,’ Sophie says. ‘It’s almost nine thirty and the women’s queue will be half a mile long.’
‘Yes, you and Jewel go. Have your baths. Jamie, if you keep a place for me, I’ll be along any minute.’
‘Are you sure, chief? I can wait here.’
‘No, run on down. Then they’ll know we’re on our way.’
‘What about you?’ Sophie asks Patricia. ‘Would you like me to stay?’
Whether because she fears further public revelations or is convinced that she can refute my charges, she shakes her head. With some hesitancy, Sophie, Jamie and Jewel move away.
‘Do you want to sit down?’ I ask Patricia. ‘There’s an empty bench.’
‘What? You mean like two old friends out for a stroll? No, thank you. You overestimate your power to wound, Mr O’Shaughnessy. Just say what you wish to say and have done with it.’
‘I want you to understand Gillian’s position. Richard didn’t collapse on the golf course but in bed with one of his secretaries. She was the one who took him to hospital. It was her mother who rang Gillian.’
‘Oh really! Were you there?’
‘She’s tried to keep it from you all these years. She thought you’d been through enough.’
‘Whereas you evidently don’t?’
‘I think you should know the truth. The haemorrhage didn’t put an end to his affairs, although affairs is too kind a word for visits to local prostitutes.’
‘What prostitutes? He’s like a little boy. He could never …’ She abruptly changes tack. ‘He would never find a way.’
‘Some of his old friends arranged it. I don’t know if they thought they were doing him a good turn or amusing themselves at his expense.’
‘This is vile! It’s a slur on someone who can’t answer back. Is this how she tries to gain sympathy? Where’s the proof?’
‘At the doctor’s surgery,’ I say deliberately.
‘What?’
‘On one of the visits he contracted herpes, which he passed on to her.’ Fearing that Patricia is about to faint, I move to take her arm, but she steadies herself and thrusts me away. Meanwhile we are attracting unwelcome attention from a pair of gardeners.
‘But isn’t that like AIDS?’
‘Don’t worry, it’s not life-threatening. I had a PA –’ She looks blank. ‘An assistant. The doctor assured her she was as safe as the Queen Mother except when she was having an attack.’
‘What sort of attack? How will I know?’
‘You won’t. Gillian thought she was having one this week; it turned out just to be thrush. But it’s more than her blood that’s infected – it’s her self-respect. If she’d moved in the circles I have, she’d know it’s no big deal. But she’s been left on her own with Richard.’
‘She had me.’
‘Really?’ I try not to sound incredulous.
‘I’m not a monster, Mr O’Shaughnessy, whatever you may think.’
‘What I think is immaterial. It’s what Gillian thinks – and feels – that counts. And that’s ashamed. It may not be logical – it’s certainly not right, but that’s how it is. Ashamed in front of you and your Church and all that bloody purity.’
‘She should have told me. You can’t blame me for something I didn’t know.’
‘And not just ashamed but inadequate. She saw everything you’d had to put up with in your marriage.’
‘She’d no right to say that. It’s nobody’s business but mine!’
‘Precisely. The more she saw you hanging on, making the best of things, the harder it was for her to complain about Richard.’
‘But it’s not the same. My marriage may not have been perfect, but my husband respected me. Whatever mischief he may have got up to – not
that I’m saying he did, you understand – he kept it to himself. He would never bring dirt into the hall, let alone the bedroom.’ She begins to weep. ‘He always took his boots off at the back door.’
‘That’s why I’m begging you not to stand in Gillian’s way.’
‘She’s thirty-nine years old,’ she says tonelessly. ‘She doesn’t need permission from me.’
‘There are other ways to hold someone back besides locking them in their room. She needs your blessing.’
‘I can’t do that!’
‘Don’t begrudge her this chance of happiness!’
‘And Richard?’
‘She’ll never leave him. I might want … but she’ll never leave him. Anyway, there are plenty of alternatives. We’ve not begun to explore them of course, not yet. But look how well he gets on with Nigel. Maybe in the right sort of home?’
‘I won’t let you shut him away with a lot of hopeless cases.’
‘Of course not. Gillian … I … no one would dream of it. But there are homes of all sorts, for all ages. Or else he’ll live with Gillian – with us – and have a carer when necessary. What I’m trying to say is that there is a solution. Life doesn’t have to be either … or.’
‘Or right and wrong, I suppose?’
‘Oh I believe in right and wrong, just so long as they’re not writ in stone.’
‘I shan’t ever come to Lourdes again.’
‘Of course you will. You must. The Jubilate wouldn’t be the same without you.’
‘I have to go inside. I have to think.’ She moves away and turns back. ‘I shouldn’t thank you for telling me this, but I do.’
She nods and walks slowly towards the Acceuil. I make my way across the bridge, wondering whether my revelations will have any effect. If ever I supposed that my mother was unique in her self-serving servility, Lourdes has disabused me. It beggars belief that, at the start of the twenty-first century, millions of people still cling to the notion that our birthright is sin and suffering. What use is proclaiming that God is dead, when His reach extends so far beyond the grave?
‘On your way to the baths?’ I look up to see Louisa, who is heading back to the Acceuil.
‘That’s right. Have you just been?’
Jubilate Page 35
