Tadeusz stands uneasily as I ask the first question. ‘Tadeusz, the rise in British Catholicism in recent years has been largely ascribed to Polish immigrants. Are you part of this trend?’
‘I have no love for the Church. I have much love here.’ He strikes his chest in a way that suggests the violence of his emotion rather than its depth. ‘I have love for my wife; I have love for my childrens; I have love for my fellow peoples; but I have no love for the Church. I was married in church for the sake of my wife. It is big thing for her; it is small thing for me. I have my childrens christened in church for the sake of my wife. It is big thing for her; it is small thing for me. Then we have third baby, Pyotr. At first we are happy he is such a good baby since he does not cry. But he does not cry for too long. He does not move his eyes like this … how you say?’
‘Blink.’
‘Yes, he does not blink. And I cannot say: God has done this for reason. Yes, it would be big thing for my wife; but it is big thing for me also. I cannot say that, if we fall down to our knees and if we follow what priests tell us, then God will heal Pyotr and all the other Pyotrs. No, all I can say is: Life is not perfect. We do not need rules – if they are Catholic rules or Communist rules, it makes no difference – that punish us when we are not perfect. We need only to admit that this is who we are and it is for us and only for us to do the best things we can.’
‘Then why have you come to Lourdes?’
‘Because of love, like everyone else. But not like everyone else for love of God. It is for love of Lucja and for love of Pyotr. No, this is not always true.’ His face clouds over. ‘It is for love of Lucja and for love I try to find for Pyotr. And this is all I have to say.’ He pulls off his microphone to emphasise his withdrawal. ‘I am sorry. This is not what you want to hear.’
‘It’s exactly what I want. Thank you.’
‘But it is not what I want to say. I must go.’
‘Are you sure? We’ve no more filming until the Torchlight procession. Can I take you for a drink? Or will Lucja be waiting?’
‘She is always waiting. She has made it her life.’
I arrange to meet the crew at the hotel and take Tadeusz to a small café on the edge of the Domain. It is packed with early diners and the conversational din is exacerbated by the synthesised plainsong blasting from the loudspeakers. I order two demis and try to draw him out.
‘How long have you been living in England?’
‘Seven years,’ he says impassively.
‘Are you happy?’
‘This is not a question. I mean it is not a question I can reply. Some of my friends, they move abroad to make new life. Some of my friends, they stay at home to make new country. I cannot make this choice. Let me explain. There is house in Oldham, two streets away from us, where family were killed … stabbed with knife. Woman, her mother, her father and her two childrens by husband. It is good house: much light with many rooms and big garden. But no one wants to live in this house and so it sells for little piece of its worth. This is one house. How can I live in country where peoples were killed all around?’
‘Too many ghosts?’
‘No, it is more real than this. It is friends of me. Men and women who are stronger than me, who fight and who are destroyed. So we come to England to make new life. But Lucja changes. She reads English magazines. She thinks to make new life means to build new kitchen. Every time she speaks begins with “need”. Do not mistake – I still love her. But this word – this “need” – comes between us. And through my work – I drive van for drinks company; I am not Polish plumber – I meet Susan.’ He falls silent. ‘Excuse me. I am not quiet with happiness or with sadness, just with thoughts. Susan was waitress. She wanted me for funny times, nothing more. And I am man. Which means I am fool. And I think of nothing more than what is to be man in bed with Susan.’
‘You’re not alone, mate.’
‘It is different from being man in bed with Lucja. With Susan, it is nothing but bed. With Lucja, there is always “we need new socks for Filip; we need new shelves for wall.” Once, when we are loving, she stops and puts on light (ever since we have childrens, she no longer wishes to love with light) and she picks up pen for shopping list. She says she is sorry but, if she does not write list down, she will forget. This is bed with Lucja. But she is pregnant again and we are happy. And I tell Susan and she ends with me.’
‘She feels bad about Lucja falling pregnant?’
‘She feels bad; she feels boring? Who knows? She says one thing but I think she means another. And I am glad to be back with Lucja: to be father and mother – this is what we do best. Then we learn truth about Pyotr: why he does not cry; why he does not blink (you see, I remember). And I tell Lucja about Susan –’
‘Really? I understand why you’d want to make a fresh start, but wasn’t she going through enough already? Weren’t you?’
‘You think I feel bad about me and this is true, but it is not because I feel responsible for Pyotr. I feel bad because life is so small, that Lucja cannot be Susan and Susan cannot be Lucja, that Tadeusz cannot be so many men and that Pyotr … that Pyotr cannot be anything. Doctors tell us that he will not live for long, that in his small life he will have many diseases and he will not be able to fight them. This makes me feel very bad, but I also feel good to know that there will be ending. And of course I feel bad because I feel good. And most of all I feel bad because Lucja blames herself for Pyotr: that she works too hard to buy things – magazines things – and she is so tired that baby is born weak. So I think, if I tell her about Susan, I will make her blame me. For once I am glad of her Church, since it is better she blames me than she blames herself.’
‘And did she?’
‘No, she didn’t blame me or, if she did, it was small blame. She blamed herself for pushing me away, for pushing me to Susan. Now we come together again in bed and I feel great love for her. But it is different. It is love with colour of sadness. I want her to be happy. I work many hours; I make much money; I can buy her kitchen. But, since she has Pyotr, she is not caring. She spends so much time in church. Is she praying for Pyotr? Does she really believe – not with mouth but in heart – that if she prays enough times, God will make him well?’
‘Why not ask her? You’ve been honest about everything else.’
‘Because it is too important. If she answers “yes”, it makes space between us too big.’
I feel his story as if it were my own in translation. ‘But you’re here?’
‘Yes, her church pays for trip. I tell her to bring her mother. It is her dream to see Lourdes. But no, Lucja says if I won’t come, then she won’t come too. So I am come – and now I must go. I must help her with Pyotr before meal. This is strange. I find how much more I want to help since I am here. Do not mistake. This is not miracle. There is no magic, no Madonna. It is just peoples. I see parents carrying childrens and husbands pushing wives, and women like Brenda and her friend. I do not like these women; I cannot pretend. But when I see their love to each other, I think: Tadeusz, you can be this loving to Pyotr. No, I think: you are already this loving to Pyotr, but you are too afraid to show it.’ He stands up. ‘This is big surprise. If you ask friends, they tell you: Tadeusz, he is man of little words.’
‘Then I feel even more honoured that you’ve used so many on me.’ His hand hovers over the bill. ‘No, this is mine. I’ll catch you later at the procession.’
He walks out of the café and I know that I should return to the hotel, but I need some time to myself. I may be growing mawkish in my middle age, but I find that so much of both Lester’s and Tadeusz’s stories resonates with my own. When Lester urged Tess to move on, it was as if he were speaking not just to her but to me; when Tadeusz described how he and Lucja rebuilt their relationship after his affair, he pointed the way for one who has been far too inclined to wallow in guilt. If I were a religious man – and Lourdes holds out that possibility, however violently I reject it – I might conclude that, far from
my choosing the two interviewees, they were chosen for me. Why else did I schedule them on the very afternoon I was moving closer to Gillian? But I prefer to believe that coincidence is one of the happier outcomes of living in a world without God.
‘Mademoiselle!’ I err on the side of caution. ‘Encore un demi, s’il vous plaît.’
The question I have to address is not why I was told the stories, but what use to make of them. For years I have scoffed at the concept of Catholic guilt, even as it held me in thrall. It is what kept me from opening my heart to Gillian this afternoon. I could not bear to see my own unworthiness reflected in her eyes or, worse, drowned in her compassion. So I backed away, just when she needed me most.
My conviction that I will destroy any chance of love has led me to harden my heart against it. The irony is that, after so many years of loneliness, my most intimate relationship is with the woman whose gospel of guilt I blame for blighting my hopes of intimacy. Is it any wonder that I deplore the cult of the Madonna? At last, however, I feel strong enough to break the mould. I am ready to place my trust: not just in Gillian (that’s easy!), but in myself. Which means accepting the fallible man whom Celia and Pippa loved, rather than the fallen man who was given to me as my birthright and whom, despite every effort, I have been unable to shake off.
My head is buzzing. Is it the air or the alcohol? Like Tadeusz, I have no need to share someone’s faith to be moved by its manifestation. Come what may, I am determined to declare myself to Gillian tonight. After texting Sophie that I will be ready in half an hour, I head back to the hotel to freshen up. I retrieve my key, smiling wanly at Madame Basic Jesus, who has lost much of her mystique since Jamie reduced her to Madame BJ. As if on cue, she dabs her lips and I feel my smile broadening. Once in my room I take a stuttering shower, scrubbing myself like a nerve-racked teenager. Trusting that any excess after-shave will evaporate outside, I join the crew in the lobby and lead them to the Acceuil, where the pilgrims are assembling for the procession. Great excitement greets the news that the Jubilates are to be at the front, a position which Ken, an old hand at Lourdes diplomacy, has secured by sending five young brancardiers to be stewards in the Basilica Square.
Our first place remains relative, since the procession is as ever led by pilgrims in beds: some propped up on pillows; others with sheets like shrouds; most attached to drips. Although there are fewer than at yesterday’s International Mass, the cumulative effect is of a hospital being evacuated during a fire.
Jamie weaves through the crowd, enjoying the challenge of the chiaroscuro, picking out our chosen pilgrims, their faces lit up by candle flames in the gathering dusk. I follow him to Gillian and her family, where I take the opportunity to linger.
‘Are you filming the whole procession?’ Patricia asks.
‘Just odd moments. Then we’ll go for an overview once it reaches the square.’
‘It’s my favourite service of the week. All of us walking together in the darkness. So powerful.’
‘Of course,’ Gillian interjects. ‘The interplay of light and shadow. The Nazis recognised that.’
‘It’s nothing like it!’ Patricia says, with a shudder.
‘That’s my line,’ I say to Gillian.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise. Do you have the copyright?’
‘There’s no call to snap at Mr O’Shaughnessy,’ Patricia says. ‘He’s only doing his job.’
I let that pass. ‘Is anything wrong?’ I ask Gillian, whom I note with interest has changed into a navy trouser suit, with a white V-neck jumper and long red scarf.
‘I’m just tired, I guess. This is a very emotional place. You can lay yourself open in ways that aren’t always wise.’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, trying to sound both knowing and neutral. ‘Sometimes the benefits can take time.’
I rejoin the crew as the procession moves slowly down the Esplanade towards the Breton Calvary, from where it turns back past the Pius X bunker and up to the Basilica Square, like a snake swallowing its tail. The crowd is so vast that, when the Jubilates reach the square, some of the later groups are still waiting to set off. Babel is redeemed as the jumble of prayers crackling over the loudspeakers is intercut with the universal Ave Maria. Even I am impressed by the concerted surge of ten thousand candles at every repetition of the phrase.
Entering the square, we are herded towards the steps by a series of stewards, including Kevin, who wears his official armband like a badge of shame. ‘It’s humiliating,’ he says. ‘Loaning us out like plates for a church supper.’
‘You’re doing a great job,’ Sophie says.
‘A great job is working with slum kids in Calcutta or Tutsi refugees in Rwanda, not a load of coffin-dodging –’
‘Stop now!’ I say.
‘Why? You’re not filming.’
‘Stop, because you don’t mean it,’ I say. ‘And you’ll regret it later. I know.’
‘Think you know me better than I know myself?’
‘I think I know you because I know myself.’
‘You’re as bad as all the rest of them.’ He sees a group of Swiss pilgrims breaching an invisible barrier. ‘No, stay in line. Pas permitter. Pour les chaises roulantes.’
Jamie, Jewel and I climb the ramp to the upper level from where we have a spectacular view of the Esplanade. ‘No one can accuse us of playing down the numbers now, chief,’ Jamie says, sweeping his camera over the panoply of lights below. With the shot in the can, we pack up filming for the night and head back down to the square. I struggle to detect the Jubilates in the crush and finally spot them by the steps, following the service. A large statue of the Virgin rests on a plinth in front of the Rosary Basilica with ranks of robed priests behind it, forming a great swell of clerical stomachs, prominent among them Father Humphrey’s. To the left, representatives of each pilgrimage hold up their banners. A cursory glance at the lime green, conspicuous among a sea of reds, purples and silvers, reveals that Marjorie, Frank, Geoff and a young handmaiden whose name I can never remember are doing the honours for us.
I edge towards Gillian and find myself alongside Louisa, who immediately hands me a candle. ‘I always carry a few spares just in case,’ she says, reminding me of the knickers at the airport. I hold it sheepishly and squeeze between Gillian and Patricia, who seizes the opportunity to give me a light.
Richard plays with his candle, jiggling it like a sparkler before mingling its flame with Gillian’s. Both flare up, whereupon she whips hers away and he turns his attention to mine, which is promptly snuffed out. I feel mildly aggrieved, until Gillian leans across and relights it.
‘You’ve revived my flame,’ I say pointedly.
‘Anyone would have done it.’
‘No, they’d just have relit my candle.’
We both laugh, and I feel her mood lighten. We hold each other’s gaze with only the drone of the prayers to root us to the world, when a burst of flames behind the statue makes me jump.
‘What’s that?’
‘Lumen Christi. The light of Christ.’
‘Trust Him to put me in the shade.’ She turns back to the service and I am afraid of losing her. ‘Come for a drink with me.’
‘We had a drink yesterday.’
‘And you’re still here to tell the tale!’
‘I have to help Richard get ready for bed.’
‘I’m sure he’d be happy with one of the handmaidens.’
‘I’m sure he would,’ she says sharply. ‘Wasn’t the Departure Lounge enough for you?’
‘Maggie’s a handmaiden. So’s Mona,’ I reply, chastened. ‘Or how about his mother?’ Before she can object, I tap Patricia on the shoulder. ‘Sorry to disturb you, but I wonder if you can help? I want to show Gillian the view from the Upper Basilica and she’s worried about leaving Richard.’
‘Someone has to see him back to the Acceuil and into bed,’ she interjects.
‘I’m his mother – you only have to ask. All this special treatment! She’ll be
expecting the leading role in the film.’
‘It’s not a casting couch,’ Gillian snaps, turning swiftly away as if to keep the remark from registering. ‘Richard!’ She grabs his wrist, just as his candle strays perilously close to a blind girl’s ponytail. ‘Take care!’ He chuckles, and I am not convinced that the peril was accidental. ‘Vincent and I are walking up to the old church.’
‘Me too,’ he says.
‘No. You’ll find it boring. We’re going to pray.’ I am both surprised and encouraged by the lie. ‘Besides, don’t you want to go back with Nigel?’
‘He’s at the front so he can see.’
‘Not for much longer. Stay close to your mother.’ She kisses him warmly, which I suspect may be as much for my benefit as for his. We steal off, our defection doubly brazen at the climax of the service. I take her hand under cover of the crowd, only to run into Kevin, who turns away in disgust, his disillusion with the adult world complete.
‘So,’ she says, ‘do you really want to show me the view?’
‘Far more, I fancy, than you want to pray. Your call: steps or ramp?’
‘Steps,’ she says, and we climb to the upper level, gazing over the balustrade into the square. ‘It’s so beautiful. Don’t laugh, but I feel as if each one of us is a spark of light that merges into a single stream. Have you noticed the way the lights down there are reflected up above?’ She points to the sky. ‘This afternoon you said it was easier to get a sense of God in the country –’
‘For some people.’
‘Yes, of course. Well it’s certainly easier to get a sense of the universe. Look at all the stars! Even the brightest are usually hidden from us in the city. And when you think how many … Did you know that there are more stars in the universe than heartbeats in the history of mankind?’
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