Jubilate

by Michael Arditti

The impasse resolved, the Cracow contingent move to the front of the procession and the Milanese draw back, as if in a collective sulk. Just as we are about to set off, Vincent arrives with Sophie, Jewel and Jamie, all four clad in the official green.

  ‘High drama there,’ he says.

  ‘Mediterranean temperament,’ Patricia says, eager as ever to put the best gloss on everything Lourdes. ‘Have you spent the afternoon filming?’

  ‘Researching,’ he says with a direct, if inscrutable, look at me. ‘How about you?’

  ‘We had a lovely mass,’ Patricia says. ‘Father Humphrey gave a sermon on broken people. How we’re all of us broken but some of the cracks are easier to spot.’ She strokes Richard’s arm. He recoils.

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’ Vincent asks me.

  ‘I’m afraid I skived off. I went for a walk around town.’

  ‘Did you enjoy that?’

  ‘It was nothing special.’ My desire to punish him proves to be unsustainable. ‘Yes. Yes, I did.’ Patricia’s eyes narrow.

  ‘What about you, mate?’ Vincent turns to Richard. ‘Good afternoon?’

  ‘I’ve been practising.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  ‘Practising what?’ I ask.

  ‘Babies.’

  ‘What?’ I am gripped by a succession of alarming images.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Vincent says to Richard. ‘Remember it’s a surprise.’

  ‘I don’t like surprises,’ I say, considerably reassured to find that Vincent is party to this one.

  ‘Me neither,’ Richard says, ‘but you always make me have them.’

  We process along the Esplanade, turning back on ourselves to approach the Pius X Basilica. By the time we arrive at the bunkerlike entrance, I am so caught up in the collective euphoria that I forget my aberrant top. Once inside, we move down a stark concrete aisle into a vast subterranean hall. We take our seats on one side of the raised altar, with a canopied dais for clergy to our left and the choir and organ to our right. Wheelchairs and invalid carriages are given pride of place, but even Brenda, who is determined to exploit her Lourdes privilege to the full, has to defer to the row of comatose pilgrims in hospital beds. I sit beside Richard, while Patricia is relegated to the back of the nave. Lucja slips in next to me with, to my amazement, Tadeusz on her other side. It is not only the first time I have seen him at a service, but the first time I have seen him holding Pyotr.

  Lucja senses my surprise. ‘He does it for me,’ she says, with a mixture of sorrow and pride.

  The Italian desire for precedence feels even more wrong-headed, since those of us towards the front of the procession are left to kick our heels – literally, in Richard’s case – until those at the back arrive. The rows slowly fill, with many of the young brancardiers and handmaidens forced to stand in the recesses at the sides. When everyone is settled, representatives of each pilgrimage take their banner to be blessed at the altar, circling it with a dignity and precision that are all the more impressive for their being unrehearsed. I feel a deep surge of emotion at seeing Jenny, who has blossomed beyond recognition, carrying the Jubilate banner with Geoff. They are followed by two thurifers, causing dismay to several asthmatics, and a crocodile of priests and bishops including Fathers Humphrey, Dave and Paul. The Cardinal of Cracow brings up the rear, holding a glittering monstrance which he places on the altar, before walking backwards down the steps to take his seat beneath the canopy.

  I abandon any attempt to follow the proceedings as each priest speaks in his native language with translations, chosen seemingly at random, relayed on giant screens. No sooner have I adjusted to a passage in French or German than the voice switches to Swedish and the translation to Dutch. The hymns are subject to the same linguistic lottery as the readings, and I whisper to Richard that it will be safer to hum. He jumps at the suggestion and I find myself beside a wayward bassoon. At the climax of the service, the Cardinal moves into the congregation and raises the monstrance to bless each section in turn. I feel none of the unease that I felt about attending mass. This is Christ coming to me in pity for my weakness, not me coming to him in defiance of my sin.

  The Cardinal gives the benediction, after which the clergy and the banners process out and the congregation disperses with remarkable speed. As the organ thunders to a halt, I search for Vincent, defying him to have watched unmoved, but he is nowhere to be seen. Instead I am accosted by Patricia, who appears to have forgiven my impropriety in the joy of the service.

  ‘You can always rely on a Cardinal in Lourdes,’ she says, wiping her eyes. Richard giggles. ‘I don’t see why that’s funny.’ He ignores the reproach and laughs even more loudly, pointing to one of the crudely sketched posters of saints which hang from the roof.

  ‘He’s eating a strawberry,’ he says.

  ‘Nonsense,’ she replies, reading the legend, ‘it’s St Jean Eudes holding the Sacred Heart.’

  We walk outside and bump straight into Vincent.

  ‘Fancy seeing you here!’ Patricia says with deceptive airiness.

  ‘I know,’ he says, emulating her tone. ‘The proverbial bad penny.’

  ‘Did you enjoy the service?’ I ask quickly.

  ‘The choreography was impressive.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘I couldn’t make head nor tail of anything else. How about you?’

  ‘I couldn’t make sense of it but I could understand it … if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Then it must be a long time since you were in love.’

  ‘We ought to be off,’ Patricia interjects. ‘We’re holding people up. And we mustn’t monopolise Mr O’Shaughnessy. People will talk.’

  Her reserve fills me with foreboding. She may know nothing but she clearly suspects. Our sanctuary has been smashed open and there are eyes peering through the cracks.

  ‘I wonder if I might borrow Richard?’ Vincent asks.

  ‘Like a library book?’ Richard asks.

  ‘To interview?’

  ‘It’s part of our surprise.’

  ‘I have to go with him,’ Richard says.

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ I say, ‘but it’s half past six. There’s only an hour before dinner.’

  ‘That’ll be enough.’

  ‘I have to go!’ Richard grabs Vincent’s arm.

  ‘Take care of him,’ Patricia says anxiously.

  ‘I’m not a library book!’

  Vincent and Richard walk off, leaving me to return with a glacial Patricia.

  ‘Are you sure you’re being sensible?’

  ‘What?’ I did not expect such a direct challenge.

  ‘Letting them go off like that. What do we know of that young man?’

  ‘He’s forty-two,’ I say numbly. ‘At a guess.’

  ‘You know what I mean. You stopped Richard going out with his friends at home.’

  ‘With good reason.’

  ‘So you say. You should be grateful that they still took an interest.’

  ‘Took advantage, more like!’ I struggle to keep my temper. ‘They behaved like idiots.’

  ‘Surely you don’t begrudge him a little fun? He’s lost almost everything else.’

  ‘Do you think he’s the only one?’

  ‘I’ve offered to help. You could pay someone. People must think we can’t afford it!’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’

  ‘All I’m saying is that you don’t need to be tied to Richard twenty-four hours a day.’

  ‘You object when I take myself off for a single afternoon.’

  ‘It’s not your going. It’s where you go.’

  ‘In Lourdes?’ I ask incredulously.

  ‘And who you go with. I don’t want to see you get hurt.’ Her voice is at once caring and cold.

  ‘Don’t worry! I’m a big girl.’

  ‘Film people are notoriously feckless.’

  ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers,’ I s
ay, hiding from the full implication of her words.

  ‘They flit from project to project and person to person. I repeat; I don’t want to see you get hurt.’

  ‘Thought it was you!’ Maggie lumbers up, bringing at least temporary relief. ‘Been indulging my filthy habit in the bushes. Tilda and Ruth are looking after the malades.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Maggie?’ Patricia leads the witness. ‘Film people aren’t to be trusted.’

  ‘Can’t say as I’ve had many dealings with them. Charles Hawtrey – you know, from the Carry On films – lived down the road before he died. I never met him myself but …’ She mimes drinking.

  I escape down the Esplanade and, to delay my return to the Acceuil, wander along the riverbank towards the Grotto. At first I shrink from the lime green sweatshirt in my path but, identifying the mop of blonde curls as Lucia, I wave. She walks up, carrying two large bottles of spring water.

  ‘Do you want any help with those?’

  ‘What?’ She laughs. ‘I am strong Polish girl.’

  ‘You’ll have to put them in your case. No liquids allowed inside the plane.’

  ‘Yes, Tadeusz gives me warning. They will be burst all over our clothings. But they are for my mother.’

  ‘Say no more!’

  ‘She has come from home to look after the twins. We should be thankful.’

  ‘I know all about those shoulds. Never mind! The sun’s shining. And Tadeusz is spending time with Pyotr.’

  ‘Yes. This makes me so happy. If there is nothing else – no, I must not say this so soon – but, if there is nothing else good that comes from here, it is that he is starting to hold Pyotr as if he has been one of the twins.’

  ‘Has it taken him so long?’

  ‘Being father to Pyotr is hard for Tadeusz. He does not have the faith of you and me.’ I recall my struggle to reconcile a loving God with a damaged Richard and question her assumption. ‘This is not because he is a man. In Poland, it is not like in England where the Church is for woman. In Poland, it is strong to believe. But Tadeusz, he does not believe in anything but himself. He wants to take no more orders, not from the priests, not from the Party. It is true, when he comes to England he has to take little orders: “Drive to this place!” “Bring this box to this place!” But he says he will soon be making his own business and giving the orders himself.’

  ‘He seems a very enterprising man.’

  ‘We are happy. We have the twins and they are growing up big and clever. I have a murmuring of the heart –’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh it is nothing. Nothing then and much more nothing now. I work in the morning and then I bring the twins home in the afternoon. It is a good life, but I am tired. Sometimes I am so tired. And so, sometimes, life is not so good in the night. You understand?’

  ‘I understand.’ I understand so well.

  ‘I say this so as you know Tadeusz. He is a good man, but he is a man. And he met a woman. It was just for a few months. Then it was over. And I was pregnant. And Pyotr was born. And he blames himself. This man of reason blames himself like he was still in his grandfather’s village. When the doctors told us what was wrong, he told me about this woman.’

  ‘How noble of him! As if you weren’t going through enough!’

  ‘Perhaps he was thinking it would help if I had all the pain together?’

  ‘Men … no, I mustn’t generalise. Yes, men seem to think that they can behave like shits and then we’ll respect their honesty in admitting it. Poor dears, it must cost them so much!’

  ‘Tadeusz asked if I wanted him to leave me. Leave? I had two three years old childrens and Pyotr. Leave? We were married in the church. So he stays. He stays now for one year and a half. He is a good father, a best father, to Agata and Filip. But he keeps away from Pyotr. To me, he has the feeling that even picking him in his arms will do him harm.’

  ‘Yet he’s looking after him now?’

  ‘You must not laugh when I tell you it is a miracle. And if there is no miracle for Pyotr, there is still one for Tadeusz. He sees that he is not a bad man. He sees that his baby could have been born like this even if he has spent every minute he has spent with this woman with me.’ She clasps the bottles to her chest as we enter the Acceuil. ‘So what must I care if we will have a few wet clothings? It is a very little cost.’

  I arrive at the Jubilate floor, refreshed by my short stay in someone else’s story. We are soon called into dinner and, to my relief, Patricia’s team is not on duty. The meal is marred by Richard’s and Nigel’s tacit agreement to mirror one another’s movements. I am prepared to concede the slow-motion eating and napkin headscarves, but I draw the line when Richard crams three spoonfuls of spaghetti into his mouth.

  ‘Nigel doesn’t have your coordination. He’ll choke!’

  After raspberry jelly, which the two men remould into miniature breasts, we return to the bedroom, leaving the handmaidens to clear the tables and the brancardiers to arrange the room into a makeshift auditorium for the farewell concert. Richard monopolises the bathroom, his pride in his appearance one of the few remnants of his former self. As he stands at the mirror, an uneasy cross between Beau Brummell and Dennis the Menace, I feel a deep surge of affection for him.

  ‘You’re very thick with Vincent all of a sudden,’ I say casually.

  ‘I am not thick!’

  ‘I mean that you seem to have a lot to discuss.’

  ‘I’m helping him.’

  ‘With his film?’

  ‘Wait and see. You won’t tell me your surprises.’

  ‘That’s true, I suppose.’ Poor man! How he resents the ‘wait and see’ I apply to everything from food to outings. Yet the only way to maintain even a modest control over my life is to keep him in the dark.

  We are summoned back to the dining room which has undergone a rapid transformation. The tables have been pushed to one side and the chairs laid out beneath the window. Two drip-stands decked with balloons have been placed by the door and the Jubilate banner draped over the serving hatch. The room soon fills up. Patricia comes in with Maggie, pointedly taking a seat two rows in front of us. Vincent comes in with Jamie, who sets up his camera in the far corner. For all that he is following instructions, I am tortured by Vincent’s disregard. Swiftly looking around, I join in the smattering of applause when Linda, with tinsel threaded over her glasses, pushes in Brenda, who is wearing a cardboard crown in a wheelchair garlanded with streamers. ‘Queen!’ Fiona shouts with wide-eyed enthusiasm, turning my admiration for their spirit into sadness at the masquerade.

  Once everyone is settled, Father Humphrey takes the floor, to a roar of approval. He opens proceedings with a decade of the rosary, before launching into a comedy routine, great chunks of which, to judge by the response, have made as many appearances in Lourdes as he has himself. Patricia laughs immoderately at an account of the three nuns in a priest’s life (‘None yesterday, none today and none tomorrow,’) that she would have deplored from anyone else. Only a quip that the favourite hymn in a crematorium is Light up thy fire, Oh Lord! falls flat. After a rare non-clerical joke (‘horse sense is what stops horses betting on humans’), he solicits contributions from the floor. My fears of an embarrassing silence prove to be groundless when Sheila Clunes wheels herself forward to sing ‘Danny Boy’ in a quavering soprano, accompanied by the gentle guitarist from Saint Savin. She is followed by four young brancardiers, in precariously padded nurses’ uniforms, who high-kick their way through ‘Dancing Queen’.

  An element of decorum returns when Frank, his eyes shut tight as though the slightest distraction might unbalance him, croaks ‘How Much Is That Doggy in the Window?’, his erratic tempo making it doubly hard for the accompanist to keep up. Martin then shuffles to the front and, with a supreme effort, makes a speech in which only the odd word – ‘friends’ or perhaps ‘ends’, ‘love’, and ‘ease’ – is intelligible. Ease turns out to be Louisa when, with thumbs twitching in clenched fists, he thanks her
for her kindness and, nodding at the increasingly beleaguered guitarist, performs a version of ‘The Shadow of Your Smile’ which, despite having little or no connection with the tune, has our imperturbable director in tears.

  Martin’s song is so affecting that no one is ready to risk comparison, and his return to his seat is followed by a lull, which Father Humphrey threatens to fill with a second round of jokes. Then, to my horror, Vincent steps out and starts to speak. ‘I want to thank you all for your kindness in allowing us to share in your pilgrimage. It’s been a most enlightening experience in so many ways.’ I have the chilling sensation that he is about to name them. ‘I know that some of you had reservations about letting in the camera. I hope you’ll feel that your trust has been vindicated when the film is broadcast later in the year. Now, if you’ll indulge me a moment more, I too have prepared a party piece. But there’ll be no filming. It’s the director’s privilege to call the shots. So come on up, Rich!’

  Richard jumps to his feet with appalling alacrity and moves to Vincent, who places his hand on his shoulder. I struggle not to make comparisons as, with Richard gazing at Vincent and Vincent at the ceiling, they sing ‘You Must Have Been A Beautiful Baby’, directing the final refrain at me. Several people turn round, beaming congratulations as though I were a part of the performance, and I try to rescue a smile that has slipped six inches down my face. Only Patricia looks sour as if she too is trying to work out the implications of the double act.

  ‘That was lovely, Richard. Thank you so much,’ I say, as he bounds back to his seat, flushed with pride.

  ‘I said you’d like it.’

  ‘You were right. Was it your idea or Vincent’s?’

  ‘Mine!’ he says, affronted.

  ‘Good,’ I reply equivocally. My attention is distracted by Father Humphrey’s announcement of a special guest star, Fiona, who, despite tumultuous applause, has to be coaxed to the front by Mary. Her reluctance is not, as I presumed, the result of shyness, but of distress at her song having been pre-empted by Frank.

  ‘Great minds think alike,’ Father Humphrey says blithely. Fiona remains intransigent until he reminds her that ‘there’s more than one doggy in the window’, whereupon she embarks on a version that bears even less resemblance to the original than its predecessor. At Louisa’s suggestion, Fiona and Frank reprise it as a duet, with the audience supplying the canine chorus, ranging from Father Dave’s Rottweiler to Marjorie’s Chow. Then Maggie, urged on by various handmaidens, sings I’m a Pink Toothbrush, You’re a Blue Toothbrush to – or, at any rate, towards – a squirming Ken. Theresa, one of the nurses, follows with a love song from The Lion King. Finally, Mona, looking flushed, offers a soaring rendition of ‘Climb Every Mountain’, demonstrating that her talents are not confined to hymns.