Jubilate (6 page)

‘Perhaps you’d remind her?’ I say, desperate to escape the skein of regrets and recriminations.

‘Why not tell her yourself?’ she says, gesturing to an
approaching
figure. ‘This is my daughter-in-law, Gillian. Gillian, this is Mr Vincent O’Shaughnessy, the film director.’ She cites my profession as if basking in the reflected glory of an Oscar-winner. As I hold out my hand to the tall, stiff, slightly frowning woman, I feel such a looseness inside me that I fear I may be losing control of my bowels. I cannot explain my response. She is undoubtedly attractive, with delicate features, full lips, piercing blue-grey eyes and chestnut hair pinned in a chignon, a style which, schooled in my mother’s
devotion to Princess Grace, I have long seen as a sign of refinement; but her looks are not the kind to make grown men melt. So I ascribe my fluttering stomach to pre-shoot nerves and a hurried breakfast rather than to her cool, firm touch.

She too is more elegant than the standard pilgrim in an ivory tailored jacket and knee-length floral skirt with a chunky suede belt buckled loosely around her hips, but the wooziness in my head keeps me from appreciating the effect. Smiling, I introduce myself but she ignores me.

‘Where’s Richard?’ she asks, looking round and, although her words take unusually long to reach me, I immediately register her concern. ‘I left him with you,’ she says to Patricia.

‘He was here a moment ago.’

‘You’re always saying you want to help and look what happens. You know you mustn’t let him out of your sight.’

‘That’s not fair. I’ve just introduced him to Mr O’Shaughnessy.’

‘He can’t have gone far,’ Louisa says with practised practicality. ‘We’ll soon track him down.’

‘Such a fuss,’ Patricia says, determined to save face. ‘He’s probably gone to the little boys’ room.’

‘I can take a look there if you want,’ I say.

‘More likely the little girls’ room,’ Gillian says, with revealing
bitterness
. ‘But you’re right. We’re bound to find him if we spread out. I’d be glad of your help.’ She looks me in the eye and the wooziness returns.

At that moment two security guards run past and the colour drains out of Gillian’s face. It is as though, for all the threat of bombs and fires and robberies, experience has taught her to attribute any incident to Richard. As we follow the guards into Accessorize, her instinct turns out to be sound. The guards have grabbed hold of Richard, while a flustered woman slumps in a chair tended by a pair of salesgirls. A small group of passengers, drawn by the disturbance, watches from the lobby.

‘Gilly,’ Richard says, lurching forward to touch his wife. The guards tighten their grip on his arm, and he makes no attempt to resist. The guards exchange an uneasy glance as though recognising that this is not a cut and dried case.

‘Oh darling,’ Patricia says. ‘What have you done now?’

‘Nothing, honest! She was my friend. Gilly …’ He appeals to his wife who ignores him and crosses to the women.

‘My son’s had an accident. He’s quite harmless.’ Patricia addresses the guards as if they were waiters. ‘You can let him go.’

‘I’ll take care of this,’ Louisa says, proficient in damage limitation. ‘Louisa Brennan, director of the Jubilate pilgrimage.’ She holds out her hand to the nearest guard, who keeps his firmly on Richard. ‘We’re taking a group of sick – some very sick – people to Lourdes. This gentleman’s had a brain haemorrhage which, among much else, has destroyed all his inhibitions. He has no awareness of what he’s doing.’

To judge by his shamefaced demeanour, he has every awareness of what he has done, but it is not my place to comment. So I fix my attention on Gillian, who stands by the counter talking to the victim. I long to eavesdrop but fear that my presence is already intrusive enough. It is left to Louisa to bridge the gap, as she strides across to the cluster of women.

‘I’m extremely sorry, Madam,’ she says. ‘Richard’s one of the
hospital
pilgrims we’re taking to Lourdes.’

‘They ought to lock him up,’ one of the salesgirls says.

‘It was the shock,’ the victim says softly. ‘He came into the cubicle and wouldn’t leave. So I panicked. I’m sorry.’

‘No, you mustn’t be,’ Gillian says.

‘And throw away the key,’ the salesgirl adds.

‘Is there someone we can fetch?’ Louisa asks. ‘Your husband?’

‘No!’ the woman shouts. ‘No,’ she says more quietly, ‘he’d only get worked up. No harm done. Not even the shirt,’ she says, examining the sleeves.

‘You must at least let us offer it to you,’ Gillian says. ‘A token.’

‘No, really. It’s not necessary. I understand.’

‘I’d like to. Please.’

‘Well, if you’re sure. Thank you. I’ll go and change.’ She stands unsteadily and, with an anxious gaze at Richard, moves into the cubicle. The two guards look relieved to find the matter settled with the minimum of pain and paperwork. At the same time, they are determined to protect themselves against repercussions.

‘What time’s your flight?’ one asks Louisa.

‘Eleven o’clock. We’ll be called any minute,’ she adds, as if this were further reason to let the matter drop.

‘I knew it was something and nothing,’ Patricia says, smiling at Richard. ‘A silly mix-up.’

As she walks past to take charge of Richard, Gillian shoots her a glance that speaks of years of suppressed hurt and fury. I long to learn the story of a woman who I am now intent on including in the film. Moreover, I can no longer keep silent. I feel an aching need for Gillian to acknowledge me, if only as the unwitting cause of the confusion.

‘It’s my fault,’ I say. ‘I’m so sorry. I distracted your mother-in-law with talk of the documentary.’

‘Yes, well, she’s easily distracted. Maybe one day you people will learn that the whole world doesn’t revolve around a camera. Not everyone’s burning ambition is to appear on TV!’

‘I’d put him straight on the plane if I were you, love,’ one of the guards says. ‘And take better care next time. The place is full of kiddies!’

‘Oh God!’ Gillian says, and, with her arm tucked through
Richard’s
, turns to the counter to pay for the shirt. The guards leave; the onlookers disperse; a customer scans the shelves; and life returns to normal. To my chagrin, Patricia starts to apologise for Gillian.

‘I wouldn’t want you to think she’s an uncaring wife.’

‘I don’t.’

‘But it can be hard for her. Though I say so myself, he’s a handful. It would be easier if she had children.’ She sighs. ‘She’d know from
experience
how to deal with him. That’s where I could help. But she’s proud. You’ve seen for yourself. And you know what they say about pride.’

‘Well, we all fall sometimes,’ I say quickly. Then, checking that we are not overheard, I make my pitch. ‘I think that Richard and Gillian – and you, of course – would make a very interesting strand of the documentary. I hope you’ll agree to be interviewed.’

‘Really? How flattering! Who am I to refuse? If it helps put the message of Lourdes across … It is for the BBC?’

‘A new series of
Witness
.’

‘I can’t speak for Gillian. She has a mind of her own.’

‘I’m relying on you to persuade her. To work, it will need the entire family.’

‘I promise to try my very best.’

Keen to escape while Gillian is still at the counter, I say a hurried goodbye to Patricia and return to the bar. No sooner have I sat down than the flight is called. We gather our bags and make our way to the gate.

‘You took your time,’ Sophie said. ‘Anything special?’

‘I got caught up in an ugly scene when one of our lot – a
middle-aged
guy with brain damage – broke in on a woman in a changing cubicle.’

‘Why didn’t you text us, chief? We’d have come over.’

‘Have a heart, Jamie! You’ve got to allow people some privacy.’

‘You are joking?’

To my surprise, I find that I am not.

The long delay in boarding gives us a further taste of the ‘
wheelchair
factor’ that looks set to dominate the trip. I edge down the aisle, hoping for a smile from Gillian, but she is preoccupied with Richard’s seatbelt and I have to be content with Patricia’s skittish wave. I sit next to Jamie, who struggles to accommodate himself to the narrow seat, his one compensation being the ‘well-stacked’
stewardess
whom he summons with embarrassing frequency.

‘Enough, Jamie! It’s humiliating,’ I say, after he has pressed the bell for the fourth time, simply to ask whether it is
hot
in Lourdes.

‘She’s cracking, chief. She smiled then.’

‘She curled her lip. What are you playing at? She’s way out of your league.’

‘Then she can lean back and relax. Leave me to make the running.’

‘So far it’s all been her: up and down the aisle! You’re incorrigible. Do you try it on with every woman you meet?’

‘Pretty much. It’s the law of averages. Sooner or later, one of them’s bound to break. You should go for it, chief. Good-looking bloke like yourself. Lighten up a little.’

‘Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind.’

I turn back to my novel, but Jamie’s fidgeting makes it hard to concentrate. Retribution is at hand in the form of the captain’s announcement when, in answer to ‘the gentleman who asked about
the weather on the ground’, he informs us that conditions are normal for mid-June with a high of seventy-two degrees, a low of fifty-eight and sixty-nine per cent humidity. Jamie’s embarrassment is capped when the stewardess swaps places with a male colleague who,
bringing
round a mid-flight snack, winks at him and, echoing his tone, asks if he would ‘like to sample one of my buns’.

He declines.

On arrival at Tarbes, we are greeted by such a fleet of wheelchairs that several remain empty. I am amazed to hear the pushers
speaking
with Birmingham accents and immediately ask one of them for an interview. He identifies himself as Pete, a British Gas fitter, who travels here for a fortnight every summer with a gang of his mates. All the porters, all the attendants and all the baggage handlers are volunteers. ‘Sounds weird, don’t it? Coming away and staying in the airport. Most people can’t get out of it quick enough. But we have a good laugh. And we go out on the piss in the evenings. Oh fuck, can I say that on the BBC?’

‘We’ll edit it later. Don’t worry.’

‘I made a promise to the wife,’ he says with a diffident smile. ‘We came here ten years ago when the kids were kids. She was fairly far gone with the big C. Breasts. Lungs. Ovaries. You name it.’

‘But she was cured?’ I ask incredulously.

‘No, not at all. She died four months later.’

‘So there was no miracle?’

‘You tell me, mate? I’m down here, aren’t I?’ He rubs his knuckle against his cheek. ‘Along with the rest of the lads. Coming to Lourdes made all the difference to Jackie. She said she saw so much goodness that she felt safe about leaving me and the kids. Oh fuck, now you’ve got me going.’ That’s one
fuck
I’m determined to fight for and I signal to Jamie to carry on filming as, without a jot of self-consciousness, Pete pulls out his handkerchief and wipes his eyes.

‘Have you brought the children with you?’ I ask, for some reason picturing surly teenagers.

‘Fat chance! They’re both grown up. One’s a good Catholic girl; the other’s more of a good-time girl. Oh no, she’ll kill me! But
seriously
, mate, it’s a very special place. Forget the Costa del Sol, this is the Costa del Hope.’

My fear that the filming will cause a delay proves to be unfounded, given the logistics of loading a dozen wheelchairs on to the coaches. Discreetly waiting till last, I clamber to the back where I pass
Patricia
sitting alone, a bag forbiddingly placed on the adjacent seat.

‘Have you been deserted?’ I ask lightly.

‘Richard and Gillian took the coach to the Acceuil. Hospital
pilgrims
.’ She mouths the
hospital
as if, even in this setting, it is taboo. ‘Which hotel are you staying at?’

‘The Bretagne.’

‘Really? I’m at the St Claire.’ Her tone hints at its superiority. ‘I thought you’d be staying there or the Gallia Londres.’

‘BBC cutbacks,’ I say, with rare gratitude to the financial squeeze for sparing me this fellow guest, while plotting – precipitately, futilely – how my shooting schedule might compel me to spend a couple of nights at the Acceuil.

I am appalled by my readiness to conjure a romantic scenario out of thin air. I am a documentarist, not a drama director. My metier is facts not fantasies. Yet every relationship springs from a seed of fantasy, so why not this? For the first time in years I am open to the possibility of intimacy. No wonder I feel scared. But is it the
prospect
or the setting that scares me? Do I mistrust myself even more than Lourdes?

The questions hang in the air as I am distracted by Father
Humphrey
, who fills the forty-minute journey with a running
commentary
, first informing us that ‘watches, tick-tocks and time-bombs need to be advanced by an hour,’ then telling a succession of hoary priest jokes which draw the same enthusiastic response from his audience as their favourite hymns, and finally leading us in the Five Joyful Mysteries. I seek solace in the landscape, but the relentlessly flat countryside convinces me that south-west France looks better from 25,000 feet in the air. So I am doubly grateful when we reach town, dropping off passengers at three hotels on the way to the Bretagne. I note, with a mixture of relief and alarm, that there are only three other Jubilate guests besides ourselves: two elderly West Indian women, one with synthetic blond curls, and a gaunt
middle-aged
man with a disconcerting amount of luggage for a four-night stay. The short straw scratches my hand.

From the moment we enter the hotel it is clear that its three stars have been awarded very liberally. The walls are bare, apart from two large noticeboards plastered with information about current
pilgrimages
, a black-and-white poster for son-et-lumière at the town castle and a brightly coloured one for a funicular railway. The only decoration is a life-size statue of St Bernadette holding a chipped crucifix, with a vase of plastic lilies at her feet. A stylishly ageless woman with long fair hair, porcelain skin and half-moon glasses, an autumnal scarf draped artfully around her neck, looks up from her desk to greet us. We huddle behind Sophie who introduces us in fluent French, only to be trumped by the proprietress’s flawless English. We fill in the registration forms while she perfects a look of exquisite boredom that puts me in mind of a penniless countess forced to open her stately home to hoi polloi. Her contempt seems more admissible when two plain girls in their early teens, dressed in bright pink shell-suits, run through the foyer, carrying cans of shandy.