‘You’ve missed your vocation,’ Sister Martha tells her, as she moves back to her seat.
‘If I may have your attention a moment longer,’ Louisa says, stepping forward. ‘First, I’d like to thank all the wonderful performers for the very best show I can remember.’
‘You say that every year,’ Brenda says, with a cackle.
‘It just gets better and better,’ Louisa replies, without missing a beat. She then calls on Father Humphrey to draw the raffle. It could not have turned up a more fitting list of winners had it been rigged; as, in the view of one disgruntled loser, it was. The prizes having been claimed, with varying degrees of reticence, Louisa brings the formal part of the evening to a close. ‘I’d like to remind you all that we’re due at the baths at nine thirty. Meanwhile enjoy the rest of the party. The night is yet young.’
‘Well I’m not,’ Patricia says, turning to face us. ‘So I’m off to bed. You should do the same, darling,’ she tells Richard. ‘All this excitement. I hope you’ll sleep.’
‘Oh Richard has no trouble,’ I say, a veteran of his snoring. ‘I’m the insomniac in the family.’
Fixing me with a knowing look, she moves away, to be replaced moments later by Sophie.
‘Jamie, Jewel and I are going for a final stroll up to the castle. We wondered if you’d care to join us.’
‘What a lovely idea!’ I say, grateful for both Vincent’s guile and her discretion. ‘I’d be delighted. Can you hold on while I see Richard to bed?’
‘Of course. Will you meet us at the hotel?’
‘Why not?’
Why not indeed? It is the last night of the pilgrimage. After tomorrow, I shall never see Vincent O’Shaughnessy again.
VINCENT
Tuesday June 17
I have discovered why so many young people want to come to Lourdes. Forget serving God and helping the sick and all those other application-form platitudes. If last night is anything to go by, it’s for the chance to hang out with their friends till the early hours and, what’s more, to do so under the windows of clean-living television directors!
Am I showing my age? I pat my stomach for reassurance, but my head tells a different story. Where is the Vincent O’Shaughnessy I used to know, who would sit up until dawn righting the world’s wrongs and then be hard at work at nine? Rolling a spliff at some nineties tribute party? Well, good riddance to him! He has no right to sneer at his elders. How would he like to spend a neck-cricking night on a threadbare bolster, struggling to drown out the clatter from the street, while a soft-voiced ‘Peace be with you!’ echoed insidiously through his brain?
I throw myself under a listless shower which seems to predate Bernadette, the dribble of water barely sufficient for its primary purpose, let alone its secondary one of washing Gillian Patterson out of my system. I step out smartly to brush my teeth, but the sight of the eager face in the chipped mirror is more than I can bear. ‘In the first place,’ I remind him, ‘you’re here to work. Lion’s Share are paying you – a pittance, but that’s a different story – to make a fifty-minute documentary, not to try to patch up your irreparable love life. In the second place, she’s married and a Catholic, both of which should sound a thunderous alarm bell. In the third, fourth and fifth places, you are Vincent O’Shaughnessy and, even if she were interested in you, which as we’ve established she’s not, you have absolutely no right to inflict yourself on another human being in an intimate context ever again.’
Relieved to have spelt things out, I put on my Jubilate sweatshirt, which gives me the surprisingly pleasant sensation of being subject to other peoples’ rules. Steering well clear of the lift, I go down to the dining room, where the clamour of English voices depresses me. I stop to greet the two West Indian Jubilates who are sitting at a table by the door.
‘Not on breakfast duty?’
‘Not till lunchtime, thank the Lord,’ the blonde-wigged one says, lowering her voice. ‘Poor Mona suffers terribly from jet lag.’
‘Really?’
‘My Hector used to say I needed a sick-note when I went to the market. Still,’ Mona says, pointing to the logo on her generous bosom. ‘Let’s pray that Gabriel blows some of the cobwebs away.’
I leave them ordering more bread, the English pronunciation of pain fuelling my suspicions of their self-lacerating faith, and join the crew by the window.
‘Morning gang! How’s tricks?’
‘Wrong question!’ Sophie says.
‘Zambia was bad enough, but this place takes the biscuit!’ Jamie says, scarcely giving me a chance to sit down. ‘You’re lucky I don’t get the Union on to it, chief.’
‘You’re not in a union,’ Jewel says.
‘So I’ll join. Forget the mattress that feels like a beanbag. Forget the death-trap lift. What about the plumbing?’
‘It is a tad antiquated, I admit,’ I say.
‘Turn on the cold tap and the water’s scalding.’
‘Lucky you!’ Sophie says. ‘Even my hot was tepid.’
‘I could have been scarred for life,’ Jamie says, piqued at our lack of sympathy. ‘And what about people with sticks who can’t jump out of the way? Turn on the C and –’
‘Wait a minute,’ Sophie says. ‘You are joking?’
‘I’m bloody not. I could have got third degree burns.’
‘What do you think the F stands for?’
‘What F?’
‘On the taps. C and F. Chaud and Froid. Not cold and freezing!’
‘You div!’ Jewel says to him. ‘What next? Life-membership of the BNP?’
‘We’re in France,’ Sophie says. ‘It’s in French.’
‘I don’t see why,’ he says, refusing to back down. ‘The staff speak to us in English. All the notices are in English. They even serve us Rice Krispies and Shredded Wheat.’
‘Speaking of which, I’d better grab a bowl before they run out,’ I say, as a smiling man with ill-fitting dentures walks past with a pyramid of Corn Flakes. I return to find Jamie and Jewel debating whether to ask for another roll. Concluding that Mr Bumble has nothing on Madame Basic Jesus, they decide not to take the risk.
‘What sort of night did you guys have? Was anyone else kept up by the noise?’
‘I could have sold tickets!’ Jewel says. ‘I gave up around six and went for a wander in the Domain. I bumped into the head honcho. You know, the priest who looks like Jamie in twenty years time –’
‘Très amusing!’
‘He told me that all the kids gather on the bridge at night for the crack. He came out with it bold as brass. “For the crack”!’ Jamie bursts out laughing. ‘You may find it funny but I didn’t know where to put myself. I know the Church has become more liberal, but crack … do you think that’s why there are so many gypsies?’
‘Oh sure Jewel, they’re all dealers!’ Jamie says. ‘Do you have any Irish blood in you?’
‘Not unless you count Guinness,’ she replies, perplexed.
‘It’s craic. C-R-A-I-C. Fun and games. I’m not the only one who needs to swot up on his C-words.’
We run over the day’s schedule, sketching out a possible interview rota. ‘I’d like to add Gillian and Patricia Patterson,’ I say casually. ‘The wife and mother of the guy who acted up at the airport. I’m sure they’ll have a story or two.’ Whatever my misgivings about Gillian or, rather, about my own attraction to her, I am determined to put the interests of the film first.
After breakfast, we send Jamie back upstairs to change into his sweatshirt.
‘Must I?’
‘It’s for the photo,’ Sophie says.
‘But I won’t be in it.’
‘It’s a sign of respect,’ Jewel says. ‘Besides, if the rest of us have to look like genetically modified peas, so do you.’
With Jamie duly homogenised, we stroll towards the Pius X Basilica for the International Mass. I am amazed by the size of the crowd, which is more reminiscent of Oakwell on a Saturday afternoon than Holyrood on a Sunday mornin
g. Crossing an avenue of pollarded plane trees, their lopped branches a cruel parallel to the truncated human limbs everywhere on display, we position ourselves by the subterranean entrance and prepare to film the arriving Jubilates. The lime green is a useful marker, although a party of Malaysian girl guides causes momentary confusion. We pick out Tess and Lester, the former rosy-cheeked, the latter with a complexion to match his sweatshirt; Fiona, dragging her tape measure along the path; Lucja, with her baby but not her husband; Maggie, who breaks away at the door and sneaks into the bushes; and a posse of priests.
Gillian, Patricia and Richard bring up the rear. Patricia greets us with a regal wave, affording us a clear view of the amber brooch, like a mute in Gabriel’s horn, with which she has personalised her sweatshirt. Gillian fixes her gaze straight ahead, acknowledging neither me nor the camera. Nevertheless, I take a perverse pleasure in the thought that, if nothing else, we are united by our shirts.
Louisa walks past just as we finish filming. ‘Ready when you are, Mr De Mille,’ she says with a shy smile. ‘Wasn’t he the one with the crowd scenes?’ she adds quickly. ‘The basilica holds twenty-five thousand. And on days like these it’s standing room only. It makes me quite weepy. So many people from every corner of the globe. A truly catholic church. Oh, I don’t want to offend any one! Are you a Protestant?’ she asks Sophie.
‘In principle.’
‘It’s the principles that cause the problems.’
We follow her into the church which, with its thick grey walls and low concrete roof, could double as an underground car park, complete with shadowy aisles to shelter muggers. There is no decoration apart from a few rows of small stained-glass windows, given a sinister glow by the artificial lighting, and a circle of posters of seconddivision saints. We walk down to the lower level, a vast oval arena with a raised altar at the centre. Beside it a tubular Christ hangs from the cross, flanked by two skeletal mourners, whose brokenness makes a welcome contrast to the ribbed bulk of the building. The sight of so many priests sitting through a service in which only a handful can take part offends my socialist as well as my humanist principles, and I long to see them gainfully employed.
‘Do you think the collective noun for priests may be a superfluity?’ I ask Sophie, who gives me a guarded smile. ‘If I weren’t already a committed atheist, this would do the trick.’
After listening to the lengthy prayers, I feel a surprising sympathy for advocates of the Tridentine mass. At least Latin would leave us all equally lost. Louisa’s ‘truly catholic church’ has become a linguistic hotchpotch, with one unintelligible language booming through the loudspeakers while another is flashed on the screen. ‘They should give us headphones, chief!’ Jamie whispers. I laugh, only to be admonished by a wagging finger from Marjorie, who is evidently fluent in Swedish (or is it Norwegian?) by way of Dutch. It is my first black mark and I am determined that it shall be the last. So, after asking Jamie to pan over the congregation, lingering on a few vacant faces, we switch off the camera and join the Jubilate youngsters in an aisle. Several, having abandoned all pretence of alertness, sprawl bleary-eyed on the floor, but Kevin, whose rebelliousness makes me nostalgic, directs his gaze at the altar in an expression midway between hatred and despair. As ever, adolescent angst is at its most intense when it focuses on God.
The mass ended, we walk out into dazzling sunlight.
‘Looking for someone?’ Sophie asks, as I peer down the path.
‘Just looking,’ I say quickly. This is one meeting that I cannot ask her to broker. Nonchalance is the key. So, putting all thoughts of Gillian to one side, I join the Jubilate pilgrims heading back to the Basilica Square for the group photograph. Striding more purposefully than I had intended, I find myself walking alongside a priest.
‘We’ve not been introduced yet,’ he says. ‘I’m Father Paul.’
‘Vincent O’Shaughnessy,’ I say, shaking an unexpectedly calloused hand.
‘You may not want to bother with me. I’m not on your list.’
‘Please don’t take it personally,’ I say, angry at my need to apologise. ‘We had to stop somewhere, so we went with Father Humphrey and Father Dave.’
‘A wise choice. They’re old hands. I’m comparatively new to this business.’
‘Pilgrimage?’
‘Priesthood. I’ve only been ordained five years.’ I look at the weatherworn face and pepper-and-salt hair and wait for him to elaborate. ‘I was a British Telecom engineer until I was fifty-four.’
‘What happened then? Redundancy?’
‘I can think of easier ways to earn a living,’ he says, with a twinkling smile that makes me feel contrite. ‘I was married for just under thirty years: eight days under, to be precise. Rosemary and I had five children. Then she got cancer. Of the bones. The sort that tests your faith to its utmost.’
‘And did it yours?’
‘Most certainly. But it emerged stronger. Look, I’m happy to discuss it if you like, but you must have testimonies coming out of your ears.’
‘They all make good background.’ He laughs. ‘I’m sorry, that sounded wrong. I’d like to hear. Truly.’
‘On your own head be it. At first I was angry, so angry with God. I wanted to scream and shout and punch and kick. I used to wish He really were an old man in the clouds so I’d have somewhere to aim my fists. But, try as I might, my anger couldn’t wipe out my faith. I could feel myself wilfully turning against the truth, like a spoilt child who can’t get his own way. I stopped attending mass. I used to go every day, sometimes before work and sometimes after, and I really missed it. The strangest thing – and this may be hard for you to accept (it was for me) – is that I missed being one with Christ more than being one with my wife.’
‘Yes it is … hard to accept, I mean.’
‘Please don’t misunderstand. I loved my wife; I loved her so much. She was the only woman I’ve ever wanted.’ His once-in-a-lifetime love makes me feel shallow. Despite resolving to stick to my bystander’s role, I have a compelling urge to make a similar disclosure, but the last person to whom I would confess would be a priest. So I wait for him to resume. ‘Rosemary insisted that I go back to the Church. She said she couldn’t bear the thought of my losing everything.’
‘Although she did.’
‘I have to believe that she’s gone to a better place.’
‘Have to?’
‘Do. But, if you’re asking about doubts, then of course I have them. Didn’t the apostles? Didn’t Our Lord himself? I’d hate myself if I didn’t have some doubts, although, in case it’s your next question, that’s not why I do. I still find it hard to believe that I’m Father Paul. Sometimes I catch my reflection in a shop window and wonder who on earth is that bloke in the collar. I never even noticed what was happening to me. Then one morning after mass – I was a twice-a-day man again – I cornered the priest in the sacristy and asked if he could spare a moment. It wasn’t until I’d come out with it that I knew what I was going to say. “Father, how can you tell if you have a vocation?” I was frightened. I wanted to take back the words. I couldn’t believe my nerve. “Ask God for a sign,” he said. So I did. I mentioned to two old friends and one of my sons that I was thinking of changing my job. And they all said, quite separately, without the slightest hesitation: “You want to become a priest.” What clearer sign could He have sent?’
‘I don’t know. The Bible seems to have plenty. Anything from plagues of frogs to the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.’
‘If you’ll forgive my saying so, you seem rather confused.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, Father, but most people would say I was boringly well-adjusted. I couldn’t even drink myself to death when I tried. The trouble, if there is any, is that I was raised a Catholic. The last twenty-five years I’ve been able to put it all behind me, but being here – just seeing those kids serving at the altar this morning – has brought it all back.’
‘Is growing up Catholic so much worse than growing u
p anything else?’
‘Is that a serious question?’
‘It is to me. I was on an ecumenical retreat not that long ago and we were asked to write down one word for how we visualised God as children. The difference between us and the Protestants was marked. Where we put loving or kind or gentle, they put angry or authoritarian or all-seeing.’
‘In which case there must have been some crypto-Protestant priests in 1970s Yorkshire.’
‘Did something happen to destroy your faith?’
‘Lots.’ I am distracted by the sight of a man walking past with a boy inexplicably dressed as Batman. ‘Lots. But that’s not why I lost it. I took a considered decision after weighing up the evidence. I used that greatest of evolutionary organisms, the mind.’
‘And you think the world is entirely rational?’
‘Not at all. But I don’t mistake the irrational for the mystic. Just look around you – not at the world, but at Lourdes. Don’t you find it paradoxical that people come all this way, some of them in great pain or with an immense effort, to petition God in a place where His failure is most apparent?’
‘So you think illness and handicap are a sign of God’s failure?’
‘You disappoint me, Father. But the answer is “no”. I think they are a sign – one of many – of His non-existence. Look at all these people surging towards the Grotto – the word lemming springs inexorably to mind. What is it they’re after? Some form of cure, either for themselves or a loved one? Why waste so much energy when they know that, as good Catholics, they’ll die and end up in Heaven?’
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