‘That’s Frank. I think he’s on your list.’
‘Oh yes, of course. The guy with Lyme Disease.’
‘No control of his emotions. The slightest thing can set him off. He used to be a churchwarden.’
‘It must be hell.’
‘And here’s someone else you wanted to meet: Fiona, our youngest pilgrim, always excepting Dr Gilpin’s baby, but we won’t count her, will we?’
Fiona shakes her head solemnly. I ponder her mother’s defensive ‘personable’ as I gaze at the discordant face with its elongated brow and elderly features, crowned by immaculately brushed golden hair. Her detached expression springs to life as, in response to my greeting, she pulls out a retractable tape measure and holds it against my left leg, disconcertingly close to the groin.
‘Are you going to be in my film?’ I ask, gently disengaging myself. Fiona looks confused and turns to Louisa.
‘Of course,’ she says. ‘You’re going to be the star.’
‘Star,’ Fiona repeats, clapping her hands.
‘Right then. Shall we go and find Mummy and Daddy?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Fiona says, running off into the crowd.
‘Bless!’ Louisa says. She moves to follow, when a tall grey man with a bulging briefcase strides up to her. ‘May I borrow you for a moment, Louisa? There’s been a slight accident.’
‘How slight?’ she asks. ‘Is anyone hurt?’
‘No, nothing like that.’ He whispers in her ear.
‘Is that all?’ she says with a laugh. ‘No need to be shy. Sister Anne or Sister Martha should have some spares in the emergency bag.’ The man hurries away. ‘Pants,’ she explains. ‘One of the ladies couldn’t reach the lavatory in time. Still, worse things happen at sea.’
On which note she hurries off, leaving me to speculate further as to why she was so happy to approve our film. Why should she expose the Jubilate to a medium that is notoriously inimical to religion? She cannot be seeking her fifteen minutes of public validation; her sights are set on something far more enduring, not to say eternal. She must have an unshakeable belief in the merits of her mission, along with the confidence that it will transcend anything that I and my camera might put in its way. She must have an absolute faith in faith.
I finally complete the check-in and line up with the crew for the departure lounge. Our equipment provokes the usual consternation at security. The days may have passed when my name alone ensured a rigorous body search, but the guards remain intent not simply to root out suspects but to cause the maximum discomfort and humiliation to everyone else. Impotent in the face of Sophie’s official documents, they retaliate by checking every item in our bags, the only dubious ones they find being Jamie’s magazines, which a jowly guard holds up with as great a display of distaste as if they were hard-core porn. Released at last, we move up to passport control where we are transfixed by a series of piercing screams.
The cause soon becomes clear. Not content with requiring people who can barely bend to remove their shoes and others who can scarcely walk to give up their sticks and totter through the scanner, the guards have forced Fiona to put her tape measure through the X-ray machine. Her mother tries to assure her that it has done no damage, grabbing the tape measure off the conveyor belt and pulling it open to show that it functions exactly as before, but Fiona is inconsolable. It is as though the magic powers with which she has invested it have been wiped out by the rays.
Lamenting that this is the one place that we are forbidden to film, we inch our way through passport control to the departure lounge. Dodging the passengers weighed down with duty-frees, we head for Wetherspoons, where Jewel is surprised by the number of limegreen luggage tags at the bar.
‘Catholics drink,’ I explain, buying a round.
We grab a table and are sitting down when Louisa catches sight of us and walks over. ‘All present and correct,’ she says, which may or may not be a question. ‘Mind if I…?’
‘Please do,’ I say, half-standing as she draws up a chair.
‘Ten years and it doesn’t get any easier! Still, one last stretch and then it’s Marjorie Plumley’s turn. Squadron Officer Brennan reduced to the ranks. I can’t wait!’
‘But you must enjoy it to have gone on for so long.’
‘I’m not sure enjoy is the word I’d choose, but I like to see it as my contribution – almost my vocation.’ She gives another embarrassed laugh. ‘Please don’t think that I’m putting myself on a par with the nurses or sisters, let alone the priests. Not at all. But give me some letters to write or forms to fill or doors to knock on and I’m in my element. The Jubilate is a working pilgrimage. Which suits yours truly down to the ground. Everyone, from Father Humphrey to the youngest brancardier, is here to ensure that our hospital pilgrims get the most out of Lourdes.’
‘What’s a brancardier?’ Jewel asks.
‘What indeed? You must feel like you’re back at school: it was weeks before I figured out that going to the Congo meant choir practice…! Brancardier was – is – the French for stretcher-bearer and it stretches – whoops! – back to the early days of Lourdes. We use it for all our male helpers, young and old. The women are called handmaidens.’
‘Young and old too?’ Jewel asks.
‘Yes, although I fear there are more of the latter.’
‘You’re telling me,’ Jamie says.
‘Don’t worry,’ Louisa replies, in a voice that sends him fumbling for his beer. ‘It’s not as one-sided as it looks. There are two minivans full of young people currently making their way through France.’
‘How long does that take?’ Sophie asks.
‘A couple of days. Believe it or not, they enjoy it. For one thing it’s a lot cheaper. And they have the chance to make friends en route, as well as sorting out the music for the services.’ She turns to me. ‘I do hope you’ll feature as many of them as you can. They’re a real tonic. Some come back year after year, even though the work is quite menial. You should see the boys – I doubt if they so much as pick up a dirty plate at home – happily making beds and mopping floors. It’s a chance to show viewers that teenage life isn’t all about knife crime and hoodies. But the numbers have been steadily falling. We need more to sign up if we’re to carry on taking as many of our hospital pilgrims.’ It hits me that she is hoping to use the programme as a recruitment tool. To my surprise, I find myself less averse to the idea than I would have been half an hour ago. ‘Between you and me, that was what swayed the committee in your favour. And when we sent out the release forms, not a single person said “no”. I tell a lie. There’s one couple we haven’t heard from.’
My chest tightens at the thought of the constant struggle to avoid the two dissidents. ‘Might they be open to persuasion?’
‘Oh I’m sure it’s just an oversight. They’re first-timers so I don’t know them, but the husband’s – I think it’s the husband’s – mother is an old-hand. I’ll introduce them to you this evening.’ She seems to sense my dismay. ‘Or would you prefer it now?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind. We may catch them in shot when we arrive in Lourdes.’
Louisa leads me through the lounge, which feels sterile despite the clutter. We stop beside an elegant woman of about seventy, with her ash blonde hair swept up, neatly plucked eyebrows and a lightly powdered face. She sits flicking through a copy of the magazine that I filmed last year. Her baby blue jacket, opal brooch, cream silk blouse and black-and-white pleated skirt mark her out from the average pilgrim. She stands to greet Louisa, extending a perfectly manicured, slightly arthritic hand.
‘Patricia, how lovely to see you again,’ Louisa says, ‘looking as chic as ever.’
‘We try not to let the side down. Can’t all be lilies of the field, can we?’ She breaks off as if in doubt about the appropriateness of the reference.
‘This is Vincent O’Shaughnessy, who’s making a documentary on the pilgrimage.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ I say, taking a hand that feels st
rangely weightless.
‘We’re all very excited about your film,’ Patricia says.
‘Me too.’
‘Not that I watch much television,’ she adds. My eyes drift to the copy of Hello, open at the story of a daytime presenter and her long-awaited bundle of joy. ‘My husband – my late husband, that is – used to say that scientists had shown how our brain waves when we watch TV are the same as when we’re asleep.’
‘Is that so?’ I say, taken aback. ‘Perhaps they meant when we’re dreaming? At our most responsive.’
‘Perhaps. You must be sure to let us know when it’s on, so we don’t miss it.’
‘Patricia’s one of our most treasured handmaidens. Ten visits now, is it?’
‘Nine.’
‘She’s the queen of the dining room. Not silver service, gold. This year she’s brought her son and daughter-in-law.’
‘Yes,’ Patricia says with a sigh. ‘I finally persuaded Gillian. She’s just popped to Boots for some aspirin. And this is my Richard.’ She points across the aisle to a handsome man in his mid-forties with fine sandy hair, a strong chin, a strikingly clear complexion, and a frame that looks constrained by his jacket. He sits, shifting his gaze between the departure board and his wristwatch as if daring the times to differ. ‘Richard, darling, this is Mr O’Shaughnessy. He’s going to make a film of the holiday.’
‘In the Grotto?’
‘We’ll certainly do some shooting there.’
‘Shooting?’ He sounds alarmed.
‘With the camera.’ I mime a tracking shot, which I trust will not be seen as condescending.
‘I’m going climbing in the Grotto.’
‘It’s not that sort of grotto, darling, I’ve explained.’
‘You can’t stop me. I’m forty-six years old. You’ve no right to tell me what to do.’ He starts to cry. Louisa pats his arm; I wince; his mother remains impassive.
‘Please don’t be alarmed,’ she says. ‘Sometimes he’s worse than a child.’ Her voice darkens. ‘That’s what he is now: a child. If only you’d known him before. He had fifteen men working under him, to say nothing of the casuals. The youngest president of the Surrey Rotary since the war, elected unopposed when his father retired. Then one day he had a haemorrhage on the golf course. Just like that. The blood poured into his brain and wiped out so many of the connections, so many of the hundreds of thousands – or is it millions? – of connections that make us who we are. And it’s left him a boy. But a boy with the strength and … and the urges of a man. Which is very hard: hard for him and hard for us. So we’ve come to ask the Blessed Virgin for a miracle, to give him back those connections, to give him back to himself.’
‘Do you honestly expect one?’ I ask, more abruptly than I intend.
‘Aren’t you a Catholic, Mr O’Shaughnessy?’ she asks.
‘With a name like mine?’ I reply evasively.
‘You’re very like my daughter-in-law.’
‘Really? In what way?’
‘Faint-hearted. “What’s the point of being a Catholic,” I said, “if you can’t ask God for a favour?” It’s not easy for her. Richard can be a handful. It’s no wonder she gets headaches. I sometimes think she doesn’t want help from anyone. Are you married, Mr O’Shaughnessy?’
‘No.’
‘Really?’ she asks. ‘I’d have thought some bright young woman would have snapped you up years ago.’
‘Some bright young woman did,’ I say, refusing to elaborate.
‘I brought Vincent over to discuss the release form for the filming,’ Louisa interjects, sensing danger.
‘Didn’t I send it back? I’m sure I did.’
‘Yes, of course. Everyone has, except your son and daughter-in-law. Well your daughter-in-law …’
‘I can’t say I’m surprised. She worries herself to death over trivial things and neglects what’s really important.’
‘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 w
as 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.
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