‘Here are Matt and Kevin ready to help you up. You said you were tired of seeing the same old face every day.’ In company I am careful to drop the ugly. ‘Now’s your chance!’
‘Go away,’ he replies, pulling the covers over his head in what may or may not be a game but I lack the patience to find out. As the two young men step aside, reluctant witnesses of our morning routine, I wonder if they are more disturbed by the evidence of brain damage or of marriage. Any illusions that the extended families of television soap operas may have left them will be stripped away by the petty power struggle being played out here.
Eventually my mixture of threats and blandishments pays off. He stands up with a wide stretch which, to my shame, his insouciance, Matt’s amusement and Kevin’s disgust, reveals an erection. I feign blindness, bustling him into the bathroom with the boys, praying that his loathing of being manhandled will counteract the female caresses that must have sweetened his sleep.
‘He can shower and shave for himself,’ I explain. ‘You don’t need help, do you, Richard?’
‘I don’t need help,’ he repeats proudly.
‘So just make sure that he has everything he needs: that the water’s not too hot; that he plugs his razor in the right socket; that he doesn’t spray his after-shave under his arms. Oh, why am I telling you all this? It’s obvious,’ I say, painfully aware that it would be quicker and easier to attend to it myself.
‘In here, sir,’ Matt says, as though Richard were wearing a dinner jacket rather than dubiously stained pyjamas. I give thanks for the deference that has steered him away from the ubiquitous mate.
I follow them to the bathroom door which Kevin slams in my face. Baffled, I walk to the window and watch the Irish pilgrims assembling outside the Acceuil. A priest glances up and I spring back for fear of embarrassing him. I drift around the room desultorily sorting out clothes, before spotting the Jubilate programme. Halfway through an account of today’s service of anointing, I hear the Basilica clock strike eight and wonder what further humiliations to expect before it does so again.
Relieved of responsibility but not of concern, I focus my attention on the bathroom where the harsh splash of the shower is followed by the insistent whir of the toothbrush and electric razor. Intermittent shouts and muffled laughter give way to an ominous silence, after which Richard emerges, wrapped in a towel, led by a shaken-looking Matt and a soaked Kevin.
‘Oh my goodness,’ I say, as Kevin’s glare threatens to dispel my sympathy. ‘That shower’s deceptive. Water comes at you from every angle.’
‘Yeah, especially when it’s chucked in your face!’ he exclaims, prompting Richard to laugh. ‘Look at me, I’m drenched! And my clothes are all back at the hotel.’
‘It may not be ideal, but I’m sure I can find you a T-shirt of Richard’s.’
‘One of mine!’
‘I’m not taking my clothes off for you!’ His outraged tone makes me suspect a recent split from his girlfriend.
‘Come on, Kev, don’t be a prat!’ Matt says. ‘It’s ninety degrees in the shade out there. You’ll soon dry.’
‘I’ll sue. If I get pneumonia, I’ll sue you. I’ll sue the pilgrimage.’
‘How about the Pope while you’re at it?’ Matt says. ‘I’m sure the Holy Father must be personally responsible for the dicky plumbing.’ He ruffles Kevin’s hair, adding to his fury.
‘Fuck … get off!’
Matt turns to Richard. ‘Does he need a hand with dressing?’ he asks hesitantly.
‘Not at all. You run along. Thanks so much. You’ve both been a tremendous help,’ I say, resolving to refuse any future assistance that might be offered.
‘Only we’ve got to do Mr Redpath in Room Seven.’
‘You boys are wonders. Whatever they’re paying you it’s not enough.’
‘They don’t pay us anything,’ Kevin says savagely. ‘We have to pay them for the privilege of being here.’
‘I’m sorry. I was being funny. Or rather, trying.’
The boys go out, leaving me to the familiar task of watching Richard dress. Cheered by my sanctioning of a blazer and cravat, he insists on putting on a sweater.
‘You’ll swelter.’
‘It’s my skin.’
‘True.’ Surprising us both by my compliance, I dispatch him to the dining room before taking my own turn in the shower, where I linger under the jet, soaping every pore. What I don’t know, or rather, have no wish to discover is whether I am trying to wash away my night-time self or to become her.
I too spend longer choosing my clothes than the occasion might merit, nevertheless a trip to the countryside requires careful thought. As I run through my checklist: shoulders covered for the church and the sun; skirt long enough for a picnic; flat shoes for any uneven ground; I settle on my new lilac-and-white check dress with a white stole, a last-minute inclusion after Patricia’s mention of the year she had ‘cocktails with the Cardinal’. Ignoring the possibility of grass stains, I slip on the dress and relish its softness against my skin.
I make my way to the dining room, where my marital antennae immediately pick up Richard, sitting beside Nigel dipping crusts in an egg. Patricia gives me a discreet wave as she weaves around the tables replenishing cups. Whatever our private differences, I salute her sense of duty. No doubt at ninety she will still be volunteering at Troubridge Hall, serving lunches to old soldiers ten years her junior and doing so with no relaxation of her ruthless fashion code. Although she has been setting tables and doling out food since seven, her hair is as impeccably coiffed as if she had just emerged from the salon. Her jewellery is tastefully understated, especially the gold oyster-shell earrings which – I realise with a smile – turn her lobes into pearls. Her waxed apron printed with French herbs, a souvenir from Sissinghurst, is as spotless as the peach cotton twinset it protects.
Uncertain whether the wave is a greeting or a summons, I walk towards her. ‘Good morning, my dear,’ she says breezily. ‘Your liein’s done you the world of good. See how pretty you can look when you make the effort.’
‘I haven’t made any effort. No more than usual,’ I insist, for the benefit of the two West Indian toast-makers to whom I have yet to be introduced. ‘You’re the one who deserves the praise. Waiting on everyone hand and foot while looking as spruce as ever.’
‘Not hand and foot, dear. It’s Fleur and Mona who do the donkey work.’ She sighs in relief at having deflected the menial image. ‘Have you met my daughter-in-law Gillian?’ They shake their heads and hold out their hands. ‘It’s her first pilgrimage too, but I’m sure it won’t be the last, not for any of you. Fleur and Mona are real assets to the kitchen. Mona was a school dinner lady so she keeps us all on our toes.’
‘I can see they’re working wonders,’ I say, hoping that my gentle compliment will compensate for Patricia’s condescension. This is a woman who makes a beeline for any black visitors to her church to prove her lack of prejudice, while lambasting the Anglicans down the road for appointing a West Indian vicar. ‘It’s all very well in Brixton,’ she declared, ‘but this is Dorking. The Church is supposed to console people not confuse them.’
Smiling at Mona and Fleur as warmly as if they had overheard the exchange, I move to my table. While accepting Louisa’s argument that the number of special diets necessitates fixed seating, I suspect that she would bend the rules had she been placed alongside Richard, Nigel, Frank and Sheila Clunes. With Richard encouraging Nigel to play the clown (literally, given the eggshells on their noses), Frank chewing every morsel twenty times and returning to ‘one’ at the slightest interruption, and Sheila wolfing down her food in a constant bid to be first for seconds, I gaze at more congenial tables as wistfully as I used to gaze at more popular ones at school.
‘Morning Sheila, morning Nigel, morning Frank!’ I say, instantly regretting my mistake, as Frank’s strangled reply is followed by a lengthy recount.
‘Good breakfast?’ I ask, prising the shell off Richard’s nose.
‘Ow!’ he protests. ‘It was finished.’
‘I had two yellows in my egg,’ Nigel says.
‘That’s a lucky sign,’ I say.
‘No, it’s not,’ Richard says. ‘It’s like eating twins.’
No sooner have I sat down than Patricia and Fleur head my way, advancing the rival attractions of tea and coffee. Placing my morning drug over family loyalty, I apologise lightly to Patricia, who takes the opportunity to linger at the table.
‘Sorry I had no time to talk to you earlier, darling,’ she says to an indifferent Richard. ‘You arrived bang in the middle of the Corn Flake rush. Did you enjoy your breakfast?’
‘I had two yellows in my egg,’ Nigel interjects.
‘Sh-sh. Don’t speak too loud, or they’ll charge you double.’ Nigel giggles unrestrainedly. ‘Aren’t you eating anything?’ she asks me. ‘I’m sure we could rustle up an egg.’
‘Thanks, no. I don’t have any appetite.’ I watch Sheila shovelling butter on her toast, and wonder what perversity prompts the caterers to shun the local baguettes in favour of thick, white – and increasingly stale – bread brought from home.
‘You need to keep up your strength. Doesn’t she?’ She picks an unfortunate ally in Sheila.
‘Is there any more toast?’ Sheila asks. ‘I still have a little hole that needs filling.’
Patricia purses her lips at such lack of restraint. ‘Don’t forget we have to climb the hill at Saint-Savin.’
‘Not me! I’m in my chair,’ she replies, with a grin far too wicked for Lourdes. Dismayed, Patricia turns back to Richard. ‘You’re looking very perky this morning.’ Nigel’s second burst of giggles makes her shudder. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘No! Gilly stayed out all night and came back drunk.’
Patricia stares at me in horror.
‘Don’t be silly, Richard. I went for a quick drink with the film crew.’
‘You came back singing.’
‘Humming. I was humming. Though with my voice, I grant it’s hard to tell.’ I force a laugh. ‘Elkie Brooks’ “Sunshine After The Rain”. I haven’t heard it for years. Now I can’t seem to get it out of my mind.’
‘But why?’ Patricia asks. ‘It hasn’t rained here in weeks.’
‘It’s just a song.’
‘Still, it’s put a bit of colour in your cheeks.’ I cannot escape the feeling that she knows, or rather, imagines, since there is nothing to know. This makes it even more absurd that I should have extended the drink to the crew, as though there were something to hide.
‘I’m a fine figure of a man,’ Richard says abruptly.
‘Yes, dear. But it doesn’t do for you to say so yourself.’
‘I didn’t,’ he says, affronted. ‘She did.’ He points to Louisa, who is patrolling the room, exhorting people ‘not to rush but just to hurry on down to the coaches’.
I wonder what it is about the phrase that has stuck in his mind, leading him to repeat it so often over the past few days. I wonder, even more urgently, what it is about his mind that filters out some phrases while latching on to others. The man who was once a mystery to me in jest is now one in earnest. But what would I do if I found the key? Do I want to move closer to him or just to feel better about drifting away? In my current state, I suspect everyone’s motives, starting with my own. Who was it said that a pilgrimage to Lourdes would bring me peace?
I urge Richard to use the loo before boarding the coach. ‘But my bladder’s strong. Go on. Feel.’ A wave of repugnance turns first to pity and then to confusion, as he flexes his biceps in what may or may not be intended as a joke. We walk through a complex of white-walled corridors, as immaculate as the nuns who sweep them, and out into the open air. Ken stands beside the coaches directing wheelchair-users into one and the able-bodied into the other. Richard’s disappointment at being separated from Nigel grows on watching him being hauled up on a hydraulic lift. Louisa meanwhile fights a losing battle against the young brancardiers who steer their wheelchairs across the courtyard as if in a stock car race. The girls look on, their expressions poised between admiration and scorn, instinctively drawn into a mating ritual that has flourished in these hills since the first cavemen brought back the bison. Or have I missed the point? Do they genuinely admire the boys’ skill while scorning their swagger? Is mine the inevitable cynicism of one whose bison has been vacuum-packed for years?
Vincent walks into view, his curls as tight on his head as if he had just stepped out of a shower, an everyday image that gives me a singular thrill. He wears a moss green T-shirt and neatly pressed beige chinos, although it would be as absurd to suggest that he had chosen them for my benefit as that I had chosen my new dress for his. I bundle Richard on to the coach in a blaze of self-consciousness. Then, risking a glance at Vincent, I realise that my scruples are superfluous since he has yet to acknowledge my presence. Either he has taken my protests to heart or else he has lost interest: when we finally talked, he found that I was not clever or witty or charming enough or was simply too straitlaced. Did I misread the signs? Should I have fallen into his arms at the first sip of tomato juice? Or am I misreading them now? If he blames me for anything, is it for encouraging him to drop his mask, not least with the story of the friend and the murdered dog.
My mind is so preoccupied that I push past Richard into a window seat, usurping his prerogative. ‘That’s not fair,’ he complains.
‘Don’t be such a baby!’ I say, standing to swap seats, only to find myself staring at Lucja sitting in the row behind with Pyotr slumped in accusatory silence on her knee. Smiling feebly, I turn round and wait for what Patricia has promised will be one of the highlights of the week.
The journey out of Lourdes is dispiriting, as we crawl through streets that would be dangerously cramped even without the parked cars. ‘Breathe in!’ Father Humphrey yells, as we edge past a lorry unloading liquid gas. A near miss with a Spanish coach, which would provoke an ugly incident elsewhere, here leads to nothing more than a flurry of friendly waves and flourished crosses. With a missionary zeal that has lain untapped since the sixth form, I long to point it out to Vincent who sits, oblivious, several rows in front.
Father Humphrey passes the time by telling a series of jokes, of which only one, about a philanthropic American offended by an English bishop’s prayer for ‘our American succour’, amuses me. Richard, however, takes the opportunity to tell one of his own. ‘I have a joke.’
‘I know. I’ve heard it.’
‘How? It could be a new one.’
‘It’s not.’
‘You don’t know till I tell you.’
‘Is it the one about the Irishman and foreplay?’
‘How did you know?’
‘I just knew.’
‘How did you know?’ he asks, with growing alarm.
‘I didn’t. I just guessed.’
‘You don’t know everything.’
We finally arrive at the autoroute and I feel a Boxing Day relief. It is only on leaving Lourdes that I realise how heavily the atmosphere of faith and expectation has weighed on me. I turn to look out of the window but, as ever, Richard blocks the view.
Father Humphrey hands the microphone to Father Dave with a show of deference which, to the uninitiated (I picture one in particular), might sound like derision. As we trundle up the winding road, he leads us in two decades of the rosary, the familiar cadences gliding off my tongue. These are followed by the hymns ‘Hail, Queen of Heaven’ and ‘Faith of Our Fathers’, to which Mona adds such a thrilling descant that I find it hard not to applaud. Then, as fervently as he was praising the Virgin, he extols the beauty of the landscape and reports on its growing popularity for winter sports.
I marvel at the verdant slopes and snow-capped summits, which can be glimpsed even from my restricted viewpoint. ‘Look, Richard, a ski-lift,’ I say, trying to regain his favour.
‘You can’t ski.’
‘I’ve never tried,’ I reply brusquely. ‘That doesn
’t mean I can’t. There are lots of things I haven’t tried that I might be very good at.’
He is as surprised by my tone as I am myself. ‘I love you, Gilly.’
‘I know you do,’ I say, squeezing his hand.
‘I love you more than all these mountains put together.’
‘And I love you,’ I reply uneasily.
‘To your right,’ Father Dave points out, ‘is the Cirque de Gavarnie, or to us the Gavarnie Circus, a natural amphitheatre formed by millions of years of erosion. Those of you with sharp eyes might just be able to make out the waterfall which is the highest in France.’
‘Are there elephants?’ Richard asks me.
‘It’s not that sort of circus. More like a circus ring.’
‘I know that,’ he drawls. ‘Like Oxford Circus.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Like Piccadilly Circus.’
‘That too.’
‘You didn’t think I knew that, did you? You’re not so clever after all.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m certainly not.’
‘I love you, Gilly,’ he says, smothering my hands with kisses. My perpetual hope of reaching through the mulch of his mind to a kernel of understanding turns to fear that at times he may understand too much.
The coach continues to Saint-Savin, a village so modest that we scarcely know we have arrived. We spill out into the main street or what may be the only street, two rows of terraced houses with the kind of shuttered windows that promise both privacy and protection. In front of us looms the church, a white stone building with fortress-thick walls topped by a conical turret which, it soon becomes clear, is not just Saint-Savin’s main attraction but its entire raison d’être. To our left is a café with a bank of outdoor tables, at one of which sits a portly man in a pinstriped waistcoat who is either its proprietor or sole customer. Next to it is a general store with a stock of groceries, souvenirs, and ornate liqueur bottles that serve for both. A few doors down is an antique shop, its discreet sign barely distinguishing it from the houses on either side. The entrance is forbiddingly locked, but the window is filled with porcelain dolls and small clocks, all of which have stopped and several of which have missing hands, reinforcing the impression of a village outside time.
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