Jubilate (32 page)

‘No. If Nigel can’t go in, then I won’t,’ he says, with a blend of loyalty and spite.

Seeing Gillian’s frustration, I am quick to intervene. ‘Don’t worry, mate. How about we do some filming inside and show it to you both? Give you a sneak preview.’

‘Before Gilly?’

‘Before anyone.’

‘Yes please,’ he says. ‘Then we can see it all from out here.’

Shrugging off Gillian’s thanks, which I trust will find more private expression later, I go in search of Jamie, whom I find sharing
Maggie’s
‘filthy habit’ behind the mill.

‘There’s been a slight change of plan. We are going to film inside the house after all.’

‘But you said …’

‘I know. This isn’t for public consumption. Nigel’s wheelchair won’t fit through the door so he and Richard are stuck outside. We’ll show them the highlights on camera.’

‘How thoughtful!’ Maggie says. ‘I knew the spirit of Lourdes would touch you in the end.’

‘Yeah, it touched him in a big way last night,’ Jamie says, as I drag him off. ‘This Richard – he wouldn’t happen to be Richard
Patterson
?’ he asks, as soon as we are out of Maggie’s earshot.

‘And your point is?’

‘Just asking. So you want me to put company property to your private use. Very dodgy. I’ll have to square it with the Union. I know, I know – I’ve been meaning to join for years.’

‘What would the Union say to a pint at lunchtime?’

‘Make it two and you’re on.’

I follow Jamie into the house, afraid that Gillian will have long since exhausted its limited appeal but, to my delight, she is
standing
at the top of the stairs, seemingly fascinated by the cracks in an ancient beam. I take advantage of the narrow landing to graze her thigh and, during a lull in the stream of visitors, am poised to steal a kiss when Patricia and Maggie arrive to thwart me. Addressing my remarks to them but my point to Gillian, I ask how human they like their saints. They reply with twee anecdotes about Bernadette’s childhood, which are compounded by Maggie’s prudery. I smile in disbelief at her ‘you know whats’. The woman was a midwife! Did her patients give birth through their
front bottoms
?

We return outside, where Jamie is showing the footage of the house to Nigel for whom it all remains a blur.

‘Don’t mind him. He’s a spastic,’ Richard says lightly.

‘You mustn’t use that word!’ Gillian says.

‘You did!’

‘I was speaking medically,’ she replies, looking to Jamie and me for support. I shake my head in mock disapproval. I know how human I like my saints.

‘I’m a spastic,’ Nigel says, clapping his hands, to the amusement of a bevy of Belgian schoolgirls who file past with an escort of
unusually
indulgent nuns. Two of the girls giggle and point at Nigel. Maggie shoos them away, at which one sticks out a purple-stained tongue.

‘Did you see that?’ Maggie asks, outraged. ‘I don’t know what’s got into young girls today!’

‘I don’t know what’s got into the nuns,’ Patricia says. ‘If ever I
misbehaved
at school, I was given the ruler.’

As we walk the short distance to the Lacadé Mill, otherwise known as the
Maison Paternelle
, it is clear that, whatever the
competition
between the two mills during Bernadette’s lifetime, it has intensified since her death. They flaunt their rival attractions: the one offering the room in which she was born; the other the bed in which her mother died and she herself slept on her last night in Lourdes. I am intrigued as to how today’s Soubirous, who emphasise their relationship to the saint in the large family tree in the foyer, are viewed by their fellow citizens. Are they revered for the prosperity
that their ancestor has brought to the town, or resented for their self-importance, like the couple in medieval Jerusalem who used to infuriate their neighbours by referring to the Virgin as ‘Cousin Mary’?

Wandering around the cheerless rooms, I feel a tinge of pity for the vain attempt to generate interest in the few paltry objects left over from a lifetime of poverty. That soon evaporates when we reach the shop, which is in every sense the climax of the tour. The souvenirs themselves are no shoddier than those on sale elsewhere in town, but the setting highlights their commercialism. I rummage through the Bernadette handbells and nightlights, oven gloves and fridge magnets, pointing out the worst excesses to Gillian, who struggles to remain composed. To her marked relief I turn to Sophie, who is standing by the till sniffing a bar of cellophaned soap. ‘I came for a cure for cancer and ended up with this lousy T-shirt,’ I say, holding up a garish
Our Lady of Lourdes.

A cuckoo clock shaped like the Grotto, with Bernadette kneeling at one side, strikes the hour. ‘Kitsch or what?’ Sophie asks. Before I can reply, the face springs open and a miniature Virgin slides out to a mechanically warbled Ave Maria.

We stare at it open-mouthed. ‘We must …’ I say. ‘Would the budget stretch?’

‘Don’t even go there! Look out, the manager has her eye on us. She’ll call security.’

‘She already has,’ I say, indicating the Virgin who, after the
eleventh
Ave, retreats into the clock. I move back to Gillian, picking up a laminated portrait of Christ whose expression shifts from rapture to agony at a flick of the wrist. The proprietress, despairing of a sale, intervenes, directing us towards a rack of scarves which, though less obtrusive than the other items on display, are equally gaudy. The only one to find anything to his taste is Richard, who lumbers up to Gillian with a model Eiffel Tower. Its innate vulgarity, together with its utter inappropriateness to Lourdes, tickle me, and I offer to buy it for him. Overriding Gillian’s objections, I take him up to the till to pay.

‘It’s in Paris,’ he says to the salesgirl who wraps it. ‘I like Paris more than Lourdes.’

We return to Gillian, who stands with Patricia appraising a small glass angel. It is no surprise to find her drawn to the one stylish item in the shop.

‘Gillian wanted to buy it, but I made her see sense,’ Patricia says. ‘The way they throw your luggage about these days it’s bound to break.’

I am affronted that anyone, let alone Patricia, should deny Gillian anything, and have to stop myself snatching it from the shelf and offering it to her on the spot. Instead, I carefully lift it down and, with a glance at Gillian, stroke the smoothly amorphous chest, making her blush.

‘This reminds me of someone.’

‘Fragile? Transparent??’ she asks defiantly.

‘Luminous.’

I replace the angel on the shelf, resolving to call in and buy it later, to give it to Gillian at a more opportune – more intimate – moment. ‘An angel for an angel,’ I say to myself, and wonder if it is lack of practice or of soul that makes the words sound so trite.

We return outside, where Father Dave gathers everyone together for the walk to the
cachot
. Hearing Matt and Geoff discussing songs for this evening’s concert, I suddenly see a foolproof way to make a public profession of my love for Gillian. Everything hinges on
convincing
Richard, and I grab him while he is showing off his Eiffel Tower to Nigel.

‘Sorry to disturb you, but we have business to discuss, man to man.’

‘Man to man,’ Richard repeats blithely to Nigel. ‘So you can’t come.’

Any guilt I might feel about using Richard as a ventriloquist’s dummy vanishes in my excitement. For two days Louisa has been pressing me to take part in the concert, insisting that anyone who works in TV must be a practised performer or, at the very least, have a fund of stories about the stars with whom he has rubbed shoulders at the BBC. Having taken my refusal for aloofness, she is sure to welcome my change of heart. I shall explain that I am not
appearing
on my own account but to support Richard, who wants to pay tribute to his wife. It is the perfect cover and will suit us all: Richard
will have his moment centre-stage; I will speak out without fear; Gillian will be confident that she alone can see my lips move.

‘Can you sing, mate?’ I ask, facing up to the first hurdle.

‘Like a log. Ask Gilly.’ He searches for his wife, who is walking a few steps behind us with Claire and Martin.

‘No, we mustn’t. It’s important to keep this a secret. Do you understand?’

‘Of course. I don’t like surprises but I like secrets.’

‘This will be our secret, yours and mine.’

‘Not Gilly’s?’

‘No.’

‘Good. She’s always making me do things. All day long. I told her that in some countries abroad, men are allowed to hit their wives.’

‘Really?’ I say, gritting my teeth.

‘And their mothers too,’ he says gleefully. ‘Their wives and their mothers and their aunts and their sisters and their cousins … their girl cousins. The man’s in charge.’

‘But not in England.’

‘No, not in England,’ he says sadly. ‘I used to be her boss, now she’s mine.’ This time I play my required part, although the laughter is hollow.

‘Well we’ll surprise her by singing a song in tonight’s concert. Just you and me. Would you like that?’

‘A song with words?’

‘Some, yes. Not too many.’

‘Do I know them?’

‘You tell me. What are your favourite songs?’

‘”God save the Queen”!’ he replies after a pause. ‘God save our gracious Queen, Long live our noble queen,’ he sings lustily. The elderly handmaiden in front turns round, as if she suspects mockery.

‘That’s great!’ I cut him short. ‘But it’s not quite what we’re looking for. Gillian may be a queen to you and me, but she’s not the Queen. We need something personal.’

‘I can do “Me and My Shadow”. We sang it – Dad and me – at a party. And Lucy held a torch at the side so you could see our shadows on the curtain. She made them large and then small. And everyone laughed and clapped. Everyone clapped and said I was good.’ His
eyes fill with tears to which he seems oblivious. ‘Everyone clapped.’

‘And they will tonight, mate, I promise. We’ll sing a love song to Gillian.’

‘A love song?’ he asks uneasily.

‘A lovely song. Funny too.’ A tune pops into my head. ‘And I know one that’s just the ticket. If I write out the words, can you read them?’

‘Course I can! It’s my brain that was hurt, not my eyes.’

‘I want you to read them so often that you know them by heart. But you must promise not to show them to Gillian.’

We arrive at the
cachot
and, while waiting for the rest of the group to assemble, I borrow Sophie’s clipboard and write out the lyrics of a song that was a staple of my childhood. My mother had a record of it by Bing Crosby who, after
Going My Way
and
The Bells of St Mary’s
, was not only her favourite film star but almost an honorary priest. She would sing it when she was doing her housework,
complaining
– unconvincingly – that she could not get the tune out of her head. Being barely out of nappies myself, I naturally assumed that the ‘beautiful baby’ was me but, in line with her view that emotional deprivation was an essential part of growing up, she immediately set me straight, explaining that: first, it was only girls who ‘drove the little boys wild’; second, the words were addressed to an adult; third, I had never won a prize, nor was I likely to unless I pulled my socks up.

Thank you, Mother, for leaving me with such an indelible memory of other peoples’ happiness.

Father Dave leads us into the
cachot
, the former punishment cell where the family sought shelter after being evicted from the mill. Now practically empty, it would only have boasted a few sticks of furniture at the time. In spite of myself, I worry about the sleeping arrangements: the parents in one bed and the four children in the other.

‘How old were they all?’ I ask Father Dave, whose smile remains fixed while his furrowed brow shows that he catches my drift.

‘Bernadette was fourteen; Toinette eleven; and their brothers, Jean-Marie and Justin, were seven and three.’ I am both reassured by the girls’ seniority and surprised that no one else in the group seems to have shared my misgivings. Yet, as I gaze at their open trusting
faces, what would once have felt like culpable naivety now feels like blessed innocence.

The close cell and cloying story intensify my need for a few hours’ break from all things Bernadette. As soon as we are back outside, I seek out Gillian and put forward a plan. My exhilaration at her willingness to skip mass fades when I learn that it is because she believes herself to be in a state of sin. After thirty years of attacking the Eucharist, I am in danger of becoming its advocate. If generals are given communion before they send troops into battle, is she to be denied it because of an act of love? On her own admission she is more of a widow than a wife, so the ‘sin’ is a mere technicality. How can any God, let alone the God she invoked last night – the God who created more stars than heartbeats – condemn her heart for beating a little faster?

Careful not to squander my advantage, I refrain from further argument and persuade her to join me on a mountain picnic. Leaving before she can change her mind, I trek back up the hill in search of Sophie and Jewel, who have sneaked into a confectioner’s.

‘Take your time,’ I tell Sophie, who is wavering between nougat and truffles. ‘The Gillian Patterson interview is definitely off. We’re not filming until the procession at five.’

‘Great!’ Jewel says. ‘Ken told me of this amazing salad bar tucked away behind the bridge.’

‘Count me out, I’m afraid. I need some fresh air. I’m going for a walk on the Pic-du-Jer alone.’

‘Is that
alone
alone?’ Sophie asks, ‘or alone-without-us alone?’

‘It’s alone-don’t-ask-questions alone. So I’ll meet you back at the Acceuil at half-past four.’

‘Take care, Vincent,’ Jewel says gently.

‘Don’t worry. I shan’t stray too far off the beaten track.’

‘I wasn’t speaking literally.’

‘Neither was I.’

My first stop is the Lacadé Mill to buy Gillian her angel.
Undeterred
by the price, I hand it to the assistant, admiring her elegant wrapping, until the Virgin of the Clock makes a midday
appearance
, to remind me that time is short. I hasten to the nearby market, its abundance of meats and cheeses and fruits and pastries in stark
contrast to the gimcrack goods on sale elsewhere in town.
Extravagance
is my watchword; I want to provide a feast that is the opposite of the meagre fare we had yesterday at San Savin. I want to throw away more food than we eat, without a single thought for African famine or sustainable farming. I want a world where there is no one to be happy or loved or fed but us.