Jubilate (10 page)

‘Don’t be angry. I didn’t say I regretted it. That’s the problem; I’m revelling in it. I’m walking down this street, but my head – no, not only my head, my whole body – is back in your room … in your bed … in your arms. I said I’m not a hypocrite. How can I stand before the altar when I don’t repent what we did? On the contrary, I want to repeat it.’

‘That can be easily arranged.’

‘I’m being serious!’

‘So am I. Why do you have to go back for lunch? Richard is among friends.’ Peering forwards, I see to my relief that the handmaiden has been joined by three young brancardiers. ‘Let’s go for a picnic. A Pic-du-Jer-nic.’

‘What?’

‘It’s a mountain on the other side of town. We can take the
funicular
railway to the top. Didn’t you see? There’s a poster for it back at the Bates motel.’

‘It’s very tempting.’

‘Is that mouth-wateringly tempting or Get thee behind me, Satan?’

‘Probably both, but I’ll opt for the former. After all, I’ll only draw attention to myself stuck in my pew when everyone else goes up to the altar. But where will we find the food?’

‘Leave that to me. This is your respite. The government has
promised
a better deal for carers and I’m here to deliver.’

‘I’ve changed my mind. It’s Satan all the way.’

‘That’s more like it. What time does your watch say? Ten past twelve. Meet me at St Joseph’s Gate at one.’

The matter settled, he breaks away from the group and walks back towards the
cachot
. I press forward to find Richard, eager to make up for my imminent neglect. Tenderness mingles with apprehension as I see him chatting genially with two of the young
handmaidens, Jenny and, I think, Eileen, their smiling faces a
testament
to his distinctive little boy/big man charm. His hands
hovering
above the smalls of their backs may appear innocent to Sheila Clunes, whose wheelchair is directly behind them, but my more practised eye detects danger. I sweep up and loop my arm through his, receiving a look of pure malice which, as ever, I try not to take to heart.

I occupy the walk back with descriptive chatter, designed to
distract
myself as much as Richard. At the Acceuil, I deliver him into Maggie’s charge, explaining that I plan to slip away for an afternoon’s sightseeing.

‘Good idea! You deserve a break. Don’t worry about Richard. He’ll be fine.’

‘What about mass?’ I am confronted by Patricia who is
dispensing
handwash at the dining-room door.

‘I’ve been every day this week. Surely I can miss one afternoon?’ Her expression leaves no doubt as to whom she will blame should the long prayed-for miracle fail to occur.

‘Are you going alone?’ she asks suspiciously.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘If you wait till after lunch, I can come with you.’

‘You should put your feet up. Anyway it’d leave too little time before the Blessed Sacrament procession. I promise I’ll be back at five.’ I head for the lift which, to my relief, is waiting.

‘Watch out for your purse!’ Patricia calls as I step inside, making me wonder if I may have misheard.

Such a tide of guilt engulfs me on my way through the Domain that I fear I may be forced back. Last night I could pretend, at least to myself, that Vincent’s offer of a drink was nothing more than that. This afternoon I have no such excuse. I am skipping mass to meet my lover. Even if his intentions are pure, mine are not.

I have barely left the square when I spot him among the crowd swarming through St Joseph’s Gate. I am amazed by my sharp sight, which I attribute first to love, then to Lourdes and, finally, to his conspicuous shopping bags. If it is love, it cannot be mutual, since he stares straight through me with no sign of recognition. Each step I take brings his anxiety into clearer focus. Half of me wants to run
and reassure him, while the other half wants to steal up on him
unawares
so as to savour his delight. Suddenly he sees me and swings one of the shopping bags above his head, only to put it down fast before it bursts.

‘Your carriage awaits, Madame,’ he says, leading me out of the gate.

Having pictured us riding through Lourdes in a tourist buggy, I am grateful to find that his romantic spirit runs to nothing more reckless than a cab.

‘You’re mad! The meter’s ticking.’

‘We’ve no time to lose. A mere four hours – no, three hours fifty-six minutes (Madame is fashionably late) – before our next engagement.’

‘Madame is unfashionably sweaty. I’ve rushed.’

‘Then don’t stand out here in the heat. Go in and … stick to the seats.’ He gives me an apologetic smile as he ushers me inside and directs the driver to the Pic. We crawl through the town, my
sympathy
with jaywalkers shamefully diminished now that I am the one delayed.

At each left turn, the cross dangling from the mirror is struck by a blinding ray of light. ‘Wouldn’t that be just my luck?’ Vincent says squinting. ‘Death by dangerous crucifix.’

‘Maybe it’s a sign?’ I say.

‘Come on! You’re not that credulous.’

‘Joke! You’re not the only one who’s allowed a sense of humour.’

His pained expression melts into a smile as quickly as the
laminated
Christ turned into the Pope.

We arrange for the driver to pick us up at four, my preference, rather than four thirty, Vincent’s; his protests that we will have barely an hour on the peak undermined by the sign announcing a six-minute ascent. We buy our tickets and take our place in a short queue behind a German couple whose young daughter voraciously licks a Mickey Mouse lollipop. She flashes a coquettish, gap-toothed smile at Vincent, whose eyes well up.

A cloud passes over her face and she tugs her father’s sleeve.
‘Warum weint der Mann denn?’
she asks. He turns round to find the tears now streaming down Vincent’s cheeks.

‘Er hat zu viel Sonne in die Augen bekommen,’
he replies with a frown, pulling the girl in front of him.
‘Deshalb müssen wir immer unsere Brillen tragen.’

I squeeze Vincent’s arm and stroke his hair, full of pity for his pain and frustration at my helplessness to relieve it. ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ I say, feeling an intimacy that reaches beyond the flesh into the very marrow of our bones. ‘I’m here. You’ll be all right.’

‘I already am,’ he says with an effort. ‘That’s why it’s so absurd. It’s when I’m happy that I start to remember. And I’m truly happy.’ He continues to weep, while deploring his feebleness.

I am so grateful for the arrival of the train that I barely wait for the passengers to descend before grabbing our bags and pushing him in. The one benefit of his tears is that they guarantee us a car to ourselves. I settle him on the hard wooden seat and hold him close, as he gradually shrugs off the past and returns to me.

My concern for Vincent overrides my usual fears about safety as we make our rickety ascent through the cedar and pine. Those fears return when we enter a rocky tunnel and the carriage begins to jolt.

‘Relax,’ he says, feeling me tense. ‘This train’s been running for a hundred years.’

‘It feels as if that was the last time they had it checked.’ I grip his hand. ‘We make a fine pair,’ I say, as we emerge into the light.

‘Yes,’ he says, ‘we do.’

We arrive at the terminus, where I am relieved to find our fellow passengers heading for either the café or the entrance to the
Highest
Grotto in Europe
, leaving us to set off for the peak alone. There are two paths: one wide and gentle; the other narrow and steep. True to form, he favours the latter. ‘How are your shoes?’

‘They’re fine. I’m not so sure about my legs.’

‘Wimp!’ he says, spirits fully restored, as he clambers up a path which looks like little more than a gap through the bushes.

I trudge behind, my weariness intensified by the sweetly soporific scent of juniper and eglantine. Brilliant white butterflies, as powdery as pollen, flit in front of us. The beauty of the scenery almost
reconciles
me to the climb.

‘Keeping up?’ Vincent asks, without looking round.

‘I’m right behind you,’ I say, sensing that he too is starting to flag
under his heavy bags. All at once he turns. ‘Watch out where you tread. We don’t want to wipe out some rare Pyrenean plant.’

‘Of course not,’ I say, amused by this blatant excuse for a pause.

We press on, both too proud to acknowledge any strain, before stepping out of the bushes on to a grassy knoll topped with an old observation platform and a giant masthead.

Vincent finds a shaded spot and sets down the bags, while I recover my breath. ‘Aren’t we going up to admire the view?’ I ask.

‘OK, OK. I admit defeat,’ Vincent says, collapsing on the ground. He opens his arms and I happily sink into them. He is hot and sticky but, far from the revulsion I feel with Richard, I relish his every touch.

After taking the edge off our appetites, we turn to the food. He opens bags of bread and olives, cheeses and ham, pâté and salads, sausage and roast chicken, peaches, strawberries, and apple tarts.

‘Do you like your women big?’

‘I just like my women.’

‘There’s enough here for ten.’

‘I wanted to go overboard. I wanted to be extravagant. I’m sorry, I’m sure it makes no sense.’

‘Oh but it does. It makes perfect sense to me.’

‘I went to the market. I couldn’t resist.’ He takes out a bottle and jauntily pops the cork. ‘Wait for it!’ He grabs a plastic cup as the bubbles gush out. ‘Quick!’

‘Champagne!’

‘Well no, actually. Blanquette de Limoux. The local sparkling wine. I’m told that experts consider it vastly superior.’

‘I’m told that too.’

‘Champagne’s a bit vulgar, wouldn’t you agree? A bit two-for-one at Tesco?’

‘Absolutely. I refuse to allow a bottle into the house.’

‘Cheers, my darling. Here’s to us.’

‘To us,’ I echo, wondering whether the toast will ever be more than an empty phrase. We both gulp the tepid liquid. ‘Delicious,’ I say after a pause. ‘A distinctly superior woody tang.’

‘Especially when it’s served almost at boiling-point. You’re a
wonderful
liar! I love you.’

For all my misgivings, we make considerable inroads into the food, our party spirits surfacing as, first I dangle a sliver of ham into his mouth, and then he scoops up some pâté on his finger, pressing it between my lips.

Suddenly, I am aware that we have an audience.
‘Warum nuckelt die Frau denn an seinem Finger
?’ the German girl asks her parents.

‘Die sind Englisch
,’ her mother says, which makes me laugh.

‘Einen schönen Nachmittag noch
.
Die Aussicht von hier oben ist wirklick herrlich, nicht
,’ I reply. She looks appalled, as much by the realisation that she has been understood as by the prospect that this flagrantly immodest woman might engage her in conversation.

The Germans beat a hasty retreat, leaving us to refresh our
intimacy
with alternate bites of a
tarte tatin.

‘Tell me,’ I say, ‘as a matter of idle curiosity, what was it about me that first attracted you?’

‘Idle curiosity?’ he asks, with a smile that rips through my defences. ‘Sure! Though I can point to a moment more easily than a reason. It was when you took my hand at the opening mass. It was a touch … a feeling. No, it was
the
feeling. I knew at once that I’d found a bright, warm, wonderful woman: a woman who’d lived.’

‘Really?’ I ask, uncertain whether he is speaking of experience or years. ‘But you must meet so many interesting people.’

‘Perhaps what Father Dave said about St Savin applies to you? You’ve seen more in your quiet corner of Surrey than those of us rushing blindly around the metropolis.’ Yesterday, I would have
suspected
him of mocking me; today, I am afraid that he may be
deluding
himself. ‘Do you want me to go on?’

‘Yes please,’ I say, eager for anything that fleshes out the fantasy.

‘There’s a sadness in you, but it’s a strength not a weakness: a
brokenness
that –no surprise – matches mine. And I’ve not even started on your smile.’ He traces it with his fingertips. ‘Your hair.’ He runs it through his hand. ‘The nape of your neck.’ He brushes it with his lips.

‘You’re making me blush!’

‘And your blushes, so innocently provocative! Your turn.’

‘Oh I’ve not given it any thought,’ I reply, terrified of saying
something
that he will find trivial.

‘Liar!’

‘Your honesty,’ I retort. ‘Your intelligence; your vivacity; your charm. Don’t laugh! The fact that you weren’t at all what I was expecting. Which made me want to look more closely at what you are.’

‘And you’re not disappointed?’ he asks, with affecting diffidence.

‘Quite the opposite. I’m even attracted by your views on the Church.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘Not in themselves I’m afraid, but because they’re the antithesis of mine. My religion is so much a part of me; I could no more think of living without it than without an arm or a leg.’ I shiver. ‘Perhaps that’s not the most sensitive comparison to make in Lourdes.’  

‘I promise not to tell.’  

‘I’m used to being with people who take faith for granted. Meeting you has been a challenge.’  

‘So long as you don’t make it your mission to convert me.’

‘Strange as it may seem, I’d like to keep you exactly as you are.’  

‘Thank you,’ he says softly. ‘That’s another thing I love about you: you allow me to see myself through your eyes.’  

I lean back against his chest, the baking sun mingling with the life-giving heat of his body. A few minutes later he leaps up. ‘Come on, lazybones! Mattress temporarily withdrawn. It’s time to explore.’ He hauls me up and, after packing away the picnic in best Patricia mode, we climb the ramshackle flight of steps to the platform. The scenery is spectacular but, before I can take it in, Vincent points to the ladder running up the masthead. ‘Shall we?’

‘I dare you.’ Flinging down the bags, he heaves himself on to the bottom rung. ‘Don’t you dare!’ I pull him back on to the platform.