‘I’m sorry. Are my hands cold?’
‘No. Gentle.’
Moved, I press my lips to her breasts while caressing her stomach. I feel her shiver and myself stir. She is slimmer than I had expected and I thrill to the suppleness and fragility of her flesh. As I reach downwards, she clasps my wrist.
‘No, not like kids in the back row of a cinema.’ She points to the bed. ‘Can’t we make use of all the facilities?’
‘Of course.’ I kick off my shoes and pull down my trousers, wondering whether she will be gratified or alarmed by my erection.
‘I never thought I’d make love to another man. Now I know that all we need is a condom.’ She catches the look of dismay on my face. ‘You do have one? I assumed …’
‘What? That I never leave home without one? Whatever you may suppose, I don’t make a habit of this.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Is it absolutely essential?’ I ask, hating myself for broaching a subject that causes her pain. ‘You said you weren’t sure about the symptoms.’
‘I’m still not. But that’s not the only reason to take precautions.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘As I’ve told you, Richard’s drugs have reduced his sperm count, so I’m not on the pill.’
I have no wish to think of Richard, let alone his sperm count, and I refuse to be thwarted by the lack of a condom like a teenager too bashful to talk to the barber. ‘I’ll nip down to Reception,’ I say, pulling up my trousers and shuffling on my shoes.
‘You’re not going to ask that ogress?’
‘For a condom? God no! But I’ll find out where the nearest chemist is. I’ll be as quick as I can. Promise you won’t run away?’
‘What do you think?’
‘There’s BBC World and yesterday’s Guardian. Have some more vodka.’
I give her a final kiss and go out. I bound down the stairs two at a time, imagining myself on a chivalric quest. Madame Basic Jesus looks more disapproving than ever, as she stares at me over the top of her glasses.
‘Would you be kind enough to direct me to the nearest pharmacie?’
‘It’s nearly midnight, Monsieur.’
‘Don’t you have late-night shopping in Lourdes?’
‘Yes of course, until eight o’clock every evening. Do you or your friend –’ Never has a rolled r sounded so forbidding – ‘have a problem?’
‘Just a slight headache. Nothing serious.’
‘Wait here. I will fetch you a pill.’
‘Please don’t go to any trouble. It’ll pass.’
‘It’s no trouble, Monsieur. The health of our guests is our premier concern.’
She retreats to her inner sanctum, leaving me in an agony of frustration. Racking my brains, I think of Jamie, whose ‘nothing ventured’ philosophy must lead him to prepare for all eventualities. A quick glance at the key-board confirms that he is in his room but, before I can entreat his help, I have to wait for Madame to play her part in a charade of my own instigating.
‘Here you are, Monsieur.’ She comes out and hands me a foil strip containing two huge pills. ‘One for now and one for the morning.’ My throat constricts.
‘Do you swallow these whole?’
‘Mais non, Monsieur. They are suppositoires. Far more effective. If you need any help –’
‘No really. That’s very kind.’ I quail. ‘I’ll manage.’
‘I was on the point of saying that you have your pilgrimage doctor in the hotel. I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige.’ She dismisses me with a disdainful smile. I dash up to the fourth floor and pound on Jamie’s door, oblivious of the sleeping neighbours.
‘Who is it?’ he shouts, in a voice that is reassuringly alert.
‘Vincent.’
‘Can’t it wait, chief? I’m busy.’
‘It’ll only take a moment.’
‘I’ve got company.’
I start. Has Jamie been conducting his own romance? Notwithstanding his catholic tastes, he would be hard-pressed to find a suitable candidate among the Jubilates. The gruesome prospect of an amorous Maggie or Marjorie gives way to the growing fear that he may have played the media card on one of the more impressionable young handmaidens. Doubly determined, I knock again.
‘It’s an emergency!’ After checking that the coast is clear, I call through the door: ‘I need a condom.’
‘What was that?’
‘A condom!’
The door springs open and I tumble on to Jamie, who stands in his shirtsleeves holding a hand of cards. He steps aside, revealing his company: Father Humphrey, who sits in a clerical stock over a vast string vest; Father Paul who, either less hot or more reserved, has merely loosened his collar; and two of the older brancardiers. ‘We’re playing poker, chief,’ Jamie says with a grin.
‘So I see,’ I say, struggling to retain a thread of dignity. ‘Who’s winning?’
‘Father Humphrey of course,’ says Father Paul, who alone comes to my rescue. ‘Look at his nuts!’
‘Do you have business to discuss with young Jamie here,’ Father Humphrey asks, ‘or is it just a social call?’
I feel a spark of hope that some unique acoustic in the room may have muffled my words, but Father Humphrey’s smirk, not to mention Jamie’s guffaw, douses it.
‘Just a word about tomorrow’s schedule, but it can wait.’
‘Are you sure, chief?’ Jamie asks, dragging out my humiliation. ‘You said it was an emergency.’
‘You know me, ever one to exaggerate.’
‘Because if there’s anything I can do to help.’
‘Not at all. I’ll see you at breakfast. Enjoy the game.’
I leave his room feeling three foot tall, and walk up to mine, where I find Gillian laid out on the bed like a gift that will have to be returned. I sit down beside her, gently stroking her back.
‘Here,’ I say, handing her the foil.
‘What are these?’
‘Headache pills.’
‘I don’t have a headache.’
‘You will when I tell you that the chemists are closed. Jamie … Jamie can’t help.’ I think it wise to draw a veil over his guests.
‘You asked him?’
‘Don’t worry, he promised to say nothing. Meanwhile we’re back where we started. Please don’t say it’s a sign. If you do, I swear I’ll throw myself out of that window.’
‘Of course it’s a sign: one that you should be more resourceful. I’m not giving myself to a wimp.’
‘What can I do?’ I ask, desperate for a hint that she may be joking. ‘Raid the kitchen for sausage skins?’
‘That’s disgusting!’
‘Besides it’s a continental breakfast. We could steal a car and drive to Biarritz. It’s only a couple of hours. No, I know! Why didn’t I think of it before? Listen, what can you hear?’
‘It sounds as if someone’s having a party.’
‘Near enough. The kids from all the different pilgrimages meet on the bridge after dark and let their hair down. I’ll try them.’
‘You can’t! They’re young. Good Catholics. They’ll be shocked.’
‘Take it from me, every good Catholic boy over the age of sixteen keeps a condom in his wallet, just waiting for what the Lord will provide. Though, if my experience is anything to go by, it’ll be well past its expiry date. No, forget I said that. Think of all the mortal sins I’ll be saving them from. Don’t go away!’
I race down the stairs for the second time in half an hour. To my relief, Madame BJ has been replaced by a male receptionist who greets my parting wave with a friendly smile. I head outside and down the surprisingly busy street. After two sleepless nights, I now welcome the proximity of the bridge. Young brancardiers and handmaidens are bunched along its length: some leaning against bollards; others squatting on the pavement; an intrepid pair perched on the parapet, gazing into the fast-flowing waters of the Gave. After checking that there are no Jubilates nearby, I head for a group of boys, who
se fair hair and Nordic features, caught by the moonlight, bode well for our mutual understanding.
‘Hi there,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry to butt in. Do you speak English?’
‘Naturally,’ one of them replies with singsong vowels.
‘You may think this odd, but do you happen to have any spare condoms?’ They look at me blankly. ‘Condoms. You know: Durex; johnnies?’ I am rapidly running out of euphemisms. ‘French letters?’
‘You wish to post your letters?’ another asks. ‘You must make inquiries at the hotels.’
Fearing that the language barrier is too great to surmount, I resort to gestures. ‘Do any of you have something to put on this?’ I point to my crotch. ‘I’ll pay.’
Their outraged faces prove that gestures are equally open to misinterpretation. I want to set them straight, but the mood has turned ugly. ‘Fuck off!’ one shouts. A second spits and a third crushes his beer can. Heads turn in our direction, and I find myself subject to whatever sixth sense protects clean-living youths from predatory older men. Reluctant either to entangle myself further or to confirm their suspicions by turning tail, I brave the row of hostile stares and continue across the bridge. On the far side, I come to the Café Pub, Au Roi Albert, a beacon of light in a row of closed souvenir shops. While I know better than to expect a condom machine in the Gents, I hope to meet one customer with some sympathy and, more importantly, some solution for my plight. But a glance through the glass door reveals Pete, the widower from the airport, standing at the narrow bar with a crowd of his mates. There is something about his heartfelt faith that humbles me and, for all his jokes about his ‘good-time girl’ daughter, I refuse to offend it with my request.
Forced to admit defeat, I turn right down a small side-road, willing to walk for miles to avoid recrossing the bridge. Nowhere but Lourdes could two people go through so much, only to be kept apart by the lack of a condom. Even if I manage to buy some tomorrow, I fear that the moment will have passed and Gillian be back with Richard. I walk down to the river, where I see the small gypsy encampment which is, according to Father Dave, a sign of Bernadette’s universal appeal and, according to Madame Basic Jesus, the source of every unsolved crime in the town. Either way I feel a rush of hope and, trusting in the solidarity of the outcast, I leap over the chain-link fence and scramble down the bank.
GILLIAN
Tuesday June 17
The basilica bells offer a welcome alternative to the brashness of the alarm; the fitful birdsong offers a welcome corrective to the measured bells. Reminding myself that I never sleep well in a strange bed, I stand and move to the window where an overemphatic stretch threatens to crick my back. Lourdes at seven in the morning looks eerily similar to Lourdes at seven at night. A nurse in a navy blue uniform walks down the path with a nun in a dove grey habit. An old man pushes an unseen passenger in a hooded wheelchair. A blonde girl in a dun-coloured blouse carries a furled banner towards the river.
I am distracted, first by a knock at the door and then by an elderly handmaiden who walks straight into the room without waiting for a reply. Should I be touched by the assumption of innocence or angered by the disregard? We sat next to her at the flight gate but, hard as I try, I cannot remember her name. Still, if she can ignore the niceties, so can I.
‘Good morning, my dear,’ she says.
‘Good morning. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Ruth,’ she says. ‘Plain and simple. When I was a girl, how I envied all the Angelicas and Antonias, but I’ve grown into a Ruth. Did you sleep well?’
‘Like a log,’ I say, effortlessly reverting to social mode.
‘I’ve come to collect your dirty sheets.’ I see her cast her eyes over the sleeping Richard and wonder whether she intends to drag him out of bed.
‘Oh!’ I say, surprised at the level of service. ‘I’d no idea you changed the sheets every day.’
‘Only the soiled ones.’
‘We don’t soil our sheets,’ I reply coldly.
‘Are you sure?’ She sounds unconvinced.
‘Quite. Richard has perfect control of his bladder, though not all his biological functions. And so have I.’
‘Splendid! You’re the kind of guests we like.’ She turns and walks out briskly. ‘Don’t forget, breakfast in half an hour.’
I watch in stunned silence as she leaves. Has my life been reduced to this? You can put out your best bedlinen for the Pattersons. No need for a mattress protector with the Pattersons. Count on the Pattersons for a stain-free weekend.
A second knock cuts short my ruminations. ‘Come in!’ I call, determined to give myself at least the illusion of choice. Two young brancardiers hover at the door, one of them the boy who behaved so oddly yesterday.
‘Morning,’ the other says, with breezy confidence. ‘I’m Matt; this is Kevin. We’ve come to help.’
‘How amazing!’ I say. ‘You wouldn’t get this level of service at the Ritz.’
‘I’ve never been to the Ritz,’ Kevin says.
‘Neither have I.’
‘Then how do you know?’
‘Leave it out, Kev,’ Matt says.
‘Just a turn of phrase.’
‘We’ve come to help Mr Patterson get ready,’ Matt says.
‘Really? That’s very kind but quite unnecessary. We manage perfectly well by ourselves.’
‘He’s on the list.’
‘Then I suggest you cross him off it. He might react badly. He’s not used to being touched by men.’
‘Can’t have gone to a Catholic boarding school,’ Kevin says, with disturbing flippancy. Then he smiles, revealing unusually small front teeth. ‘Just a turn of phrase.’
‘Well if you’re sure,’ Matt says.
‘Positive.’
The boys walk out: Matt with reluctance, Kevin with relief. I brace myself and move to wake Richard, aware that this marks the end of my repose as much as his. He responds with his habitual resentment, as though the return to consciousness is the first of the many indignities to which he will be subjected during the day. I lure him into the bathroom with the promise of excitements which I trust he will forget in the morning rush. I slip off my nightdress before switching on the shower, a precaution which proves to be justified when he waves the shower-arm above his head, sending jets of water across the room. Bowing to the inevitable, I soap myself at the same time, brushing off his routine groping while pondering the irony that we now take a joint shower from necessity, when we once did by choice.
Discouraging his fascination with the drenched floor, I lead him back to the bedroom where he refuses to put on the Jubilate sweatshirt. ‘It looks like sick.’
‘Which is very practical,’ I reply, my patience exhausted. ‘If you are sick, you won’t have to change it.’
‘Yes, I will. You’ll say I smell. I want to wear this one.’ He picks up a powder blue polo shirt which complements his colouring. I feel a stirring of affection for him and, not for the first time, wish that there were some way to exploit his innate dress sense. Might a brain-damaged stylist take his place alongside a blind piano tuner? ‘You can change into that later,’ I say quickly, as much to distract myself as him. ‘There are two occasions when we have to wear our pilgrimage shirts. Today for the official photograph and on Thursday for the Blessed Sacrament procession. I’m wearing mine too.’
‘I’ll look like a girl.’
‘You’ll look like the group.’
He sits listlessly on the bed, and I seize the chance to thrust the sweatshirt over his head. He turns suddenly, grabbing my wrists. ‘Richard, let go! You’re hurting me!’ The pain is intense, but I dare not shout for fear of attracting attention. ‘Please stop!’ He drops my wrist, which I press hard in a bid to disperse the pain around my body. I sniff and wipe away the tears which are welling in my eyes.
‘You’re not crying?’
‘Don’t worry, it’s over.’
‘You’re not crying! It’s just a game.’
&n
bsp; ‘I know you didn’t mean it.’
‘You shouldn’t pretend to cry. It makes me feel bad. Here.’ He taps his head and his own eyes start to water.
‘I know it’s just a game, but you shouldn’t play so roughly,’ I say, taking advantage of his docility to slip his arms through the sleeves. ‘Just gentle games from now on.’ He puts on the rest of his clothes and slumps on the bed, lost in a world that is as closed to me as nuclear physics. I pull on my sweatshirt and skirt and brush and pin up my hair, the one physical feature of which I remain proud and which, despite the leverage it allows him, I have refused to cut short.
‘Come on,’ I say, my preparations complete. ‘Breakfast!’ He shows no sign of having heard. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ I ask, prising him off the bed and hoping that it does not provoke a tantrum. Luck is on my side, since he follows me compliantly to the door.
‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ he says, dragging his heels, ‘but I’m in prison.’
‘What on earth are you talking about? You’re in Lourdes.’
‘There are electric wires running across the door.’
‘Look, I’ve just walked through it.’
‘That’s because you’ve turned them off.’ He looks at me with heart-rending helplessness.
‘Come on,’ I say, linking arms. ‘We’ll both feel better once we’ve eaten.’ On reaching the dining room, I am forced to revise my opinion. Sister Anne stands by the door holding a tub of anti-bacterial handwash, which she squirts on everyone who passes through. Richard recoils.
‘I’ve just washed my hands. They’re clean. See!’
‘I’m sure they are,’ she says. ‘But this will give you added protection. When you leave church, you dip your fingers in the holy water even after you’ve been to mass.’
Jubilate Page 23