Jubilate (7 page)

‘Tell us where’s the shops please, Miss?’ one asks.

‘What is it you want to buy?’ she replies coldly.

‘Oh you know, things.’

‘Ah
things
, of course. If you want souvenirs, there’s the hotel gift shop. If you want clothes or shoes or cosmetics, climb the hill to the main square. If you want food, try the market. But, if you want
things
, I’m not sure that we can help you in Lourdes.’

Bewildered, the girl takes a gulp from her can and drags her
companion
outside. The proprietress returns her attention to us.

‘Do you get a lot of British guests?’ Jamie asks, with such
exceptional
politeness that for one ghastly moment I fancy he may be applying his law of averages to her.

‘Oh yes.’

‘Perhaps it’s the name?’ he says.

‘Thank you, I have never thought of that,’ she replies dryly. ‘The meal times are printed on your bedroom doors. Breakfast is six thirty to eight thirty, lunch twelve thirty to one, and dinner at seven.’

‘Seven to when?’ Jewel asks.

‘Seven.’

She hands us our room keys, each attached to an oblong block
of a size that would make Mae West blush. ‘When you go out, you should leave them on there.’ She points to a half-filled board in full view of the door.

‘What about thieves?’ I ask, exercised by the lack of security. ‘Surely someone could walk in off the street and pick them up?’

‘The desk is always manned. We have never yet had a problem. Not even from gypsies. Of course there’s always a first time.’ She smiles grimly, as if she would welcome it in my case.

‘I suppose they’d target the grander hotels,’ I say, goaded to retaliate.

‘We don’t aim for
grandeur
, Monsieur,’ she replies, opting for the native pronunciation. ‘We’re very basic Jesus.’

She turns back to her computer screen, underlining our dismissal. We go up to our rooms in a lift so rickety that Jewel starts to panic.

‘Basic Jesus, indeed,’ Sophie says with a snort. ‘Did you see the
Hermès
scarf?’

Jamie and Jewel get out at the fourth floor, the latter so desperate to escape that she is willing to haul her case up a flight of stairs. With Jamie’s foot wedged in the door, we agree to rendezvous in the street in an hour, to avoid the frosty foyer. Sophie and I brave the lift for a further floor. I drag my case to my room, which seems more suited to an anchorite than a pilgrim. The ceiling is low, so low over the window that I am unable to stand upright. A heavy oak wardrobe with a recalcitrant door faces the bed. The fixed coat hangers show that the proprietress has less faith in the probity of her guests than that of the passers-by. An oxblood carpet falls two foot short of the door where it is replaced by a floral runner. A small daguerreotype of nineteenth-century peasants hangs on an otherwise empty wall and a television sits on a metal arm above a frayed wicker armchair. I hurriedly unpack, draping T-shirts over the chair, spreading books on the floor, and placing my travelling photo-frame by the bed in a vain attempt to infuse the room with personality. Then I peel off my clothes: sweater, shirt and vest in one swoop, which even after thirty years fills me with a sense of defiance, take a tepid shower, dress and go downstairs.

The proprietress fails to look up as I rattle my key on the board. I dash outside and apologise for being late.

‘How’s your room?’ Jewel asks.

‘Functional,’ I reply with a shrug.

‘You’re lucky,’ she says. ‘The plug won’t fit my basin.’

‘Very basic Jesus,’ Jamie says.

‘The sash on my window is broken,’ Sophie says.

‘Very basic Jesus,’ Jamie and Jewel chime.

‘There’s no porn channel on the TV,’ Jamie says.

‘Oh please!’ Sophie says.

‘Hello!’ Jamie replies. ‘Has someone had a sense of humour bypass?’

‘Shall we go over to the Domain?’ I interject.

‘Do you know the way?’ Jamie asks.

‘Director’s intuition,’ I say, pointing to a sign.

We edge through the milling crowds, down a narrow side street lined with cheap religious souvenir shops.

‘Welcome to the town that taste forgot,’ I say.

‘The perfect place for Christmas shopping,’ Jamie says.

‘Sure, if all your friends are nuns,’ Jewel says.

‘I’ve never felt so Protestant in my life,’ Sophie says.

We join the hordes streaming in to the Domain. The
preponderance
of elderly pilgrims feels strangely blasphemous, as if the miracle that they seek is eternal youth. Passing a memorial to a cured
cardinal
, we come across a line of officials, each one pushing an empty wheelchair that resembles a miniature brougham carriage.

‘Do you think they belong to people who’ve got up and walked?’ Jamie asks. I appropriate one of the proprietress’s scowls. ‘Sorry, chief.’

Once in the square we pause to take our bearings. Despite seeing them only six weeks ago on my research trip, I remain impressed by the twin basilicas: the lower one, bulbous, breasty, its gilded cupola gleaming in the afternoon sun, flanked by two flights of steps that lead to the upper one, its grey-and-white stone spires like a
Disneyland
model. Twisting around, I gaze past a crowned statue of the Virgin, down a long, grassy esplanade to the Breton Calvary, a rare image of the Son in a landscape that is largely maternal. An
unintelligible
prayer crackles over the loudspeakers, and a heavy, musky fragrance fills the air.

Sophie ushers us over a stone bridge, which spans a river so clear that the empty crisp packet being swept along looks even more of a desecration.

‘Bet that’s the Brits,’ Jewel says, and no one chooses to argue.

‘
Voilà
, the Acceuil,’ Sophie says, pointing to a vast stone-clad structure like an open concertina, with two shimmering copper roofs. We walk towards it, past a small rockery with an elaborate fountain.

‘So what’s an Acceuil when it’s at home?’ Jewel asks.

‘It comes from the French for welcome,’ Sophie says. ‘A kind of hostel.’

‘It’s fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A,

‘It’s fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A,’ Jamie sings.

‘You’ll be lucky,’ Sophie says. ‘It’s run by nuns.’

We walk into the lobby, dominated by a huge photograph of John Paul II, looking much like a hospital pilgrim himself as he sits slumped at the altar during his last Lourdes mass. A taciturn nun directs us to the third floor, where we enter a scene of complete
disarray
. Suitcases, rucksacks and shopping bags are piled high along one wall. Boxes of food, medical and cleaning supplies, rugs and windcheaters are stacked up along another. A uniformed nurse of indeterminate rank is handing out instructions to a trio of
brancardiers
, none of whom looks to be over twenty. Scanning their earnest faces, I wonder if they are here of their own accord or have been bullied into it by parents and priests.

I identify Kevin, a painfully thin lad with acne scars and a thicket of tawny hair, and ask if he will share his first impressions with the camera.

‘First impressions of what?’

‘Anything you like. The town. The journey. The pilgrimage. They’re your impressions, not mine.’

Ignoring his friends’ taunts, he takes out a comb and runs it through his hair. ‘I’ve my reputation to think of,’ he says shyly.

‘This will do wonders for it, believe me,’ I say, steering him into position and nodding to Jamie to start filming. ‘It’s early days yet, Kevin, but perhaps you can tell us what you’re hoping for from your time in Lourdes?’

Answers,’ he replies with unnerving intensity. ‘Why? Are you going to give us some?’

‘Answers to what?’

‘People come to Lourdes cos they’re good people, right?’

‘In the main, yes; I expect so,’ I reply, taken aback.

‘Then God lets them die. Why?’ My studied silence forces him to expand. ‘This morning, we passed a pile-up on the autoroute. A coach full of Poles … Polish people. It skidded across three lanes, straight into the opposite traffic. There was blood and guts
everywhere
. You could see the bodies.’

‘No you couldn’t, Kev.’ One of his friends interjects. ‘They were all covered up.’

‘Well you could see the stretchers, so you knew they were there! And there was this stink of burning flesh.’

‘Burning tyres, you dork!’

Kevin draws me aside. ‘But they weren’t ordinary Poles. They were pilgrims who’d been to Lourdes. Yesterday – maybe this morning even – they were at mass. Some of them were sick. Some of them were kids. Some of them were sick kids. Maybe some of them had been cured. What’s the point of coming here then if God allows that to happen? Tell me: what?’ I say nothing, signalling to Jamie to zoom in on Kevin’s tortured face, confident that it is far more
eloquent
than any doubts I might express.

I wind up the interview, leaving Kevin to resume his duties. Venturing further on to the ward, I spot Gillian outside the nurses’ station.

‘You’re staying here?’ I ask inanely.

‘With Richard.’

‘I thought it was only for hospital pilgrims.’ The words slip out as though I had no more self-control than Richard.

‘And their carers.’

‘You’re his carer?’

‘So I’m told. I used to be his wife.’ She disappears down the
corridor
with an indifference more painful than either anger or
contempt
. I return to the dining room and to Sophie’s announcement that Louisa has just summoned everyone to mass. It will be my first since my father’s requiem and, for all my disbelief, I have a profound
dread of saying or doing anything that will mark me out as a fraud.

We wait our turn at the lifts and go up to the chapel, which is spare, bright and anonymous. The Committee’s concerns about the filming had centred on the services and we are careful to address them, standing unobtrusively at the back. The room quickly fills up. Some of the wheelchair-pushers reveal their inexperience, but good humour prevails, with even a head-on collision eliciting a cry of ‘Hold on! I’ve not bought a ticket for the dodgems.’ Once
everyone
is settled, Father Humphrey, his stomach straining his
surplice
, moves to the altar and declares that before the mass ‘She Who Must Be Obeyed’ wishes to say a few words. The epithet is greeted by titters from his flock and a show of diffidence from Louisa, who steps forward with a formal welcome. Claiming that no one pilgrim is more important than any other although some have more
prominent
roles, she summons those notables to the front: her deputy, Marjorie; the doctors, one, our gaunt fellow-resident at the hotel, the other, rocking a mewling baby; the head nurse, Anthea; chief handmaiden, Maggie; and chief brancardier, Ken. They stand in varying degrees of discomfort while Louisa runs through the
programme
. Among the pious hopes and practical details, she makes one remark that strikes a chord with me: ‘I hope those of you who are seasoned pilgrims will forgive me if I repeat what I say every year: What we’re doing in Lourdes is God’s gift to us. What we do to one another while we’re here is our gift to God.’

The mass begins, the sequence of Confession, Absolution and Gloria so familiar that it might be imprinted in my DNA. The opening hymn, however, comes as a surprise.
Let There Be Love
is a saccharine ballad that might have been plucked from a Lloyd Webber musical, an effect accentuated by the accompaniment of guitars, flute and drums played by four of the young helpers. Our emotions are further manipulated by Fiona, who, with what appears to be official sanction, moves to the front and conducts the singing with her tape measure. It is hard to distinguish the Ahs from the Amens. Father Paul leads the prayers: for the sick; for our families; for priestly vocations; for the victims of the recent road crash; for those known to us who have ‘gone home’ since the last pilgrimage; for our fellow pilgrims; and, finally, for ourselves.

The gospel reading is St John’s account of the paralysed man told to ‘take up thy bed, and walk.’ Father Humphrey expands on the theme in his sermon, assuring the sick that they are close to Christ and that their example and forbearance are an inspiration to us all. ‘Remember that, however hard it may be for the human mind to fathom, all suffering has a purpose. The Blessed Virgin has cured many people in Lourdes but not St Bernadette herself, who was
tormented
all her life by asthma. When she was asked why, she replied that it was not for her to question the ways of God. “I’m happier on my bed of affliction,” she declared, “than a queen on a throne.” She had no more desire to suffer than Our Lord had on His cross, but she knew that it was one of God’s gifts.’ As he draws to a close, I wonder whether Lester and Frank and Brenda are grateful for their gifts; I wonder whether Fiona’s parents and Tadeusz and Lucja take comfort from the knowledge of their children’s proximity to Christ. Above all, I wonder about Gillian, sitting next to her inspirational husband, but the back of her head gives nothing away.

The sermon over, Father Humphrey asks two of the young
brancardiers
to bring up the Jubilate banner and calls on Father Paul to bless it. ‘No one blesses like Father,’ he quips, to the delight of his audience. Beneath the archness, however, I detect something more sinister. Out of the blue, my mind fills with images of
castrati
. Although the Church no longer emasculates its choristers, it continues to infantilise its congregations. The thought depresses me and I am grateful for the chance to bury it in the formality of the Eucharistic prayers, but the respite is cut short when Father Dave announces the Peace. I am wrenched back to my childhood and the dreaded moment each Sunday when I had to shake hands, first with Father Damian, whose clammy palm contained the threat of
something
more intimate, and then with Douglas, my fellow altar boy and weekly nemesis who, daring me not to squeal, turned the exchange into a Chinese burn. While nothing can ever compare with that, I watch in dismay as the room erupts in a tide of hugs and handshakes and kisses. Nor are we observers spared since, in swift succession: Louisa; Marjorie; a bald brancardier; Fiona and her mother; Sister Martha; and a young woman, who from her accent I take to be Lucja head towards us, extending both hands and greetings. Detachment
is no longer an option as we are drawn into the heart of the crowd. Suddenly, an extraordinary sensation overwhelms me – if it is peace, then it is a peace that inflames every nerve in my body – as I first hear her voice, at once wry and sincere, and then slowly reach to take her outstretched hand.