Jubilate

by Michael Arditti

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Of course. Every time. And it hasn’t failed me yet.’

  We walk to St Joseph’s Gate, where we film the Jubilates streaming out of the Domain; footage which, even as we shoot it, I know will end up on the cutting room floor. After last night I am more determined than ever to focus on the essentials. All the painters and poets (not to mention, their biographers), who make heartfelt pleas for the primacy of love, have long struck me as disingenuous, seeking to justify the hours that they spend between the sheets rather than at their easels or desks. Not any more! Love transforms not just the artist but his work. Women – I don’t claim to be either balanced or inclusive – not only touch the heart, ravish the senses and fire the spirit, but concentrate the mind. Far from creating a distraction, Gillian will inspire me to greater things.

  I laugh, which to my embarrassment comes at the exact moment that Fiona, having slipped away from her parents to measure Martin’s leg, gets the tip of the tape caught in his open fly. The two mothers, Mary and Claire, vie with each other in a pantomime of apology. Although Fiona’s eagerness to measure the world must bear some relation to her failure to understand it, I wonder why she should have a particular fondness for inside legs. Are they simply at a convenient height, or is there a darker impulse at work which, in later life, will transform a harmless eccentricity into a dangerous obsession?

  Determined to arouse no one’s suspicion – let alone Jamie’s and Jewel’s mockery – I cast a sidelong glance at Gillian, who is deep in conversation with Sophie. I am surprised to see them together and wonder, with a mixture of excitement and alarm, whether they are talking about me. No sooner have I spotted them than Sophie slips away and joins us outside a shop selling rosaries the size of flagellants’ chains. While Father Dave leads the group across the bridge, I risk a fuller look at Gillian who, with her usual intuition, returns it with a flustered smile. I direct her attention to the four nondescript tents on the opposite bank. Pace Madame BJ, I would offer their occupants not just the run but the freedom of the town. From now on, whatever the election, I shall vote for the party that offers the best deal for gypsies. Like a rambler campaigning for the right to roam, I shall fight for the rights of Roma! So what if they made me pay over the odds for the condoms? This is Lourdes; miracles do not come cheap.

  We arrive at Bernadette’s birthplace where, feeling constrained by the crowded courtyard, I tell Jamie to switch off the camera and enjoy the tour. Not even proximity to Gillian, however, can reconcile me to Father Dave’s paean to the Soubirous family who, despite injury, penury, industrial change and, worst of all, the death of a child, are cast as first cousins to the Waltons. At the end of his homily, Father Dave asks us to pray for today’s families as ‘the place where we learn our Christian values’. Watching Gillian bow her head, I acknowledge that Richard is not the only obstacle to our happiness. She may be praying for his health, world peace, or even for me, but I suspect that she is sticking to the brief. Longing for a glimpse inside her mind, I consider offering ‘a penny for your prayers’, only to reject it as in every sense mean, as well as uncomfortably close to standard practice.

  A commotion at the door is a sign that not everything in Lourdes is designed for the disabled. Nigel is caught in the gap between the authentic past and the accessible present; Richard, undaunted, is trying to shove him through.

  ‘I can push it. Like this. See.’ He tilts Nigel’s wheelchair.

  ‘Just stop it, please!’ Gillian says, taking me back a few hours to when she was the one left helpless with laughter as I discovered the sensitive spot behind her knee. ‘You’re keeping everyone waiting. Come in with me and catch up with Nigel later.’

  ‘No. If Nigel can’t go in, then I won’t,’ he says, with a blend of loyalty and spite.

  Seeing Gillian’s frustration, I am quick to intervene. ‘Don’t worry, mate. How about we do some filming inside and show it to you both? Give you a sneak preview.’

  ‘Before Gilly?’

  ‘Before anyone.’

  ‘Yes please,’ he says. ‘Then we can see it all from out here.’

  Shrugging off Gillian’s thanks, which I trust will find more private expression later, I go in search of Jamie, whom I find sharing Maggie’s ‘filthy habit’ behind the mill.

  ‘There’s been a slight change of plan. We are going to film inside the house after all.’

  ‘But you said …’

  ‘I know. This isn’t for public consumption. Nigel’s wheelchair won’t fit through the door so he and Richard are stuck outside. We’ll show them the highlights on camera.’

  ‘How thoughtful!’ Maggie says. ‘I knew the spirit of Lourdes would touch you in the end.’

  ‘Yeah, it touched him in a big way last night,’ Jamie says, as I drag him off. ‘This Richard – he wouldn’t happen to be Richard Patterson?’ he asks, as soon as we are out of Maggie’s earshot.

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘Just asking. So you want me to put company property to your private use. Very dodgy. I’ll have to square it with the Union. I know, I know – I’ve been meaning to join for years.’

  ‘What would the Union say to a pint at lunchtime?’

  ‘Make it two and you’re on.’

  I follow Jamie into the house, afraid that Gillian will have long since exhausted its limited appeal but, to my delight, she is standing at the top of the stairs, seemingly fascinated by the cracks in an ancient beam. I take advantage of the narrow landing to graze her thigh and, during a lull in the stream of visitors, am poised to steal a kiss when Patricia and Maggie arrive to thwart me. Addressing my remarks to them but my point to Gillian, I ask how human they like their saints. They reply with twee anecdotes about Bernadette’s childhood, which are compounded by Maggie’s prudery. I smile in disbelief at her ‘you know whats’. The woman was a midwife! Did her patients give birth through their front bottoms?

  We return outside, where Jamie is showing the footage of the house to Nigel for whom it all remains a blur.

  ‘Don’t mind him. He’s a spastic,’ Richard says lightly.

  ‘You mustn’t use that word!’ Gillian says.

  ‘You did!’

  ‘I was speaking medically,’ she replies, looking to Jamie and me for support. I shake my head in mock disapproval. I know how human I like my saints.

  ‘I’m a spastic,’ Nigel says, clapping his hands, to the amusement of a bevy of Belgian schoolgirls who file past with an escort of unusually indulgent nuns. Two of the girls giggle and point at Nigel. Maggie shoos them away, at which one sticks out a purple-stained tongue.

  ‘Did you see that?’ Maggie asks, outraged. ‘I don’t know what’s got into young girls today!’

  ‘I don’t know what’s got into the nuns,’ Patricia says. ‘If ever I misbehaved at school, I was given the ruler.’

  As we walk the short distance to the Lacadé Mill, otherwise known as the Maison Paternelle, it is clear that, whatever the competition between the two mills during Bernadette’s lifetime, it has intensified since her death. They flaunt their rival attractions: the one offering the room in which she was born; the other the bed in which her mother died and she herself slept on her last night in Lourdes. I am intrigued as to how today’s Soubirous, who emphasise their relationship to the saint in the large family tree in the foyer, are viewed by their fellow citizens. Are they revered for the prosperity that their ancestor has brought to the town, or resented for their self-importance, like the couple in medieval Jerusalem who used to infuriate their neighbours by referring to the Virgin as ‘Cousin Mary’?

  Wandering around the cheerless rooms, I feel a tinge of pity for the vain attempt to generate interest in the few paltry objects left over from a lifetime of poverty. That soon evaporates when we reach the shop, which is in every sense the climax of the tour. The souvenirs themselves are no shoddier than those on sale elsewhere in town, but the setting highlights their commercialism. I rummage through the Bernadette hand
bells and nightlights, oven gloves and fridge magnets, pointing out the worst excesses to Gillian, who struggles to remain composed. To her marked relief I turn to Sophie, who is standing by the till sniffing a bar of cellophaned soap. ‘I came for a cure for cancer and ended up with this lousy T-shirt,’ I say, holding up a garish Our Lady of Lourdes.

  A cuckoo clock shaped like the Grotto, with Bernadette kneeling at one side, strikes the hour. ‘Kitsch or what?’ Sophie asks. Before I can reply, the face springs open and a miniature Virgin slides out to a mechanically warbled Ave Maria.

  We stare at it open-mouthed. ‘We must …’ I say. ‘Would the budget stretch?’

  ‘Don’t even go there! Look out, the manager has her eye on us. She’ll call security.’

  ‘She already has,’ I say, indicating the Virgin who, after the eleventh Ave, retreats into the clock. I move back to Gillian, picking up a laminated portrait of Christ whose expression shifts from rapture to agony at a flick of the wrist. The proprietress, despairing of a sale, intervenes, directing us towards a rack of scarves which, though less obtrusive than the other items on display, are equally gaudy. The only one to find anything to his taste is Richard, who lumbers up to Gillian with a model Eiffel Tower. Its innate vulgarity, together with its utter inappropriateness to Lourdes, tickle me, and I offer to buy it for him. Overriding Gillian’s objections, I take him up to the till to pay.

  ‘It’s in Paris,’ he says to the salesgirl who wraps it. ‘I like Paris more than Lourdes.’

  We return to Gillian, who stands with Patricia appraising a small glass angel. It is no surprise to find her drawn to the one stylish item in the shop.

  ‘Gillian wanted to buy it, but I made her see sense,’ Patricia says. ‘The way they throw your luggage about these days it’s bound to break.’

  I am affronted that anyone, let alone Patricia, should deny Gillian anything, and have to stop myself snatching it from the shelf and offering it to her on the spot. Instead, I carefully lift it down and, with a glance at Gillian, stroke the smoothly amorphous chest, making her blush.

  ‘This reminds me of someone.’

  ‘Fragile? Transparent??’ she asks defiantly.

  ‘Luminous.’

  I replace the angel on the shelf, resolving to call in and buy it later, to give it to Gillian at a more opportune – more intimate – moment. ‘An angel for an angel,’ I say to myself, and wonder if it is lack of practice or of soul that makes the words sound so trite.

  We return outside, where Father Dave gathers everyone together for the walk to the cachot. Hearing Matt and Geoff discussing songs for this evening’s concert, I suddenly see a foolproof way to make a public profession of my love for Gillian. Everything hinges on convincing Richard, and I grab him while he is showing off his Eiffel Tower to Nigel.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, but we have business to discuss, man to man.’

  ‘Man to man,’ Richard repeats blithely to Nigel. ‘So you can’t come.’

  Any guilt I might feel about using Richard as a ventriloquist’s dummy vanishes in my excitement. For two days Louisa has been pressing me to take part in the concert, insisting that anyone who works in TV must be a practised performer or, at the very least, have a fund of stories about the stars with whom he has rubbed shoulders at the BBC. Having taken my refusal for aloofness, she is sure to welcome my change of heart. I shall explain that I am not appearing on my own account but to support Richard, who wants to pay tribute to his wife. It is the perfect cover and will suit us all: Richard will have his moment centre-stage; I will speak out without fear; Gillian will be confident that she alone can see my lips move.

  ‘Can you sing, mate?’ I ask, facing up to the first hurdle.

  ‘Like a log. Ask Gilly.’ He searches for his wife, who is walking a few steps behind us with Claire and Martin.

  ‘No, we mustn’t. It’s important to keep this a secret. Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course. I don’t like surprises but I like secrets.’

  ‘This will be our secret, yours and mine.’

  ‘Not Gilly’s?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. She’s always making me do things. All day long. I told her that in some countries abroad, men are allowed to hit their wives.’

  ‘Really?’ I say, gritting my teeth.

  ‘And their mothers too,’ he says gleefully. ‘Their wives and their mothers and their aunts and their sisters and their cousins … their girl cousins. The man’s in charge.’

  ‘But not in England.’

  ‘No, not in England,’ he says sadly. ‘I used to be her boss, now she’s mine.’ This time I play my required part, although the laughter is hollow.

  ‘Well we’ll surprise her by singing a song in tonight’s concert. Just you and me. Would you like that?’

  ‘A song with words?’

  ‘Some, yes. Not too many.’

  ‘Do I know them?’

  ‘You tell me. What are your favourite songs?’

  ‘”God save the Queen”!’ he replies after a pause. ‘God save our gracious Queen, Long live our noble queen,’ he sings lustily. The elderly handmaiden in front turns round, as if she suspects mockery.

  ‘That’s great!’ I cut him short. ‘But it’s not quite what we’re looking for. Gillian may be a queen to you and me, but she’s not the Queen. We need something personal.’

  ‘I can do “Me and My Shadow”. We sang it – Dad and me – at a party. And Lucy held a torch at the side so you could see our shadows on the curtain. She made them large and then small. And everyone laughed and clapped. Everyone clapped and said I was good.’ His eyes fill with tears to which he seems oblivious. ‘Everyone clapped.’

  ‘And they will tonight, mate, I promise. We’ll sing a love song to Gillian.’

  ‘A love song?’ he asks uneasily.

  ‘A lovely song. Funny too.’ A tune pops into my head. ‘And I know one that’s just the ticket. If I write out the words, can you read them?’

  ‘Course I can! It’s my brain that was hurt, not my eyes.’

  ‘I want you to read them so often that you know them by heart. But you must promise not to show them to Gillian.’

  We arrive at the cachot and, while waiting for the rest of the group to assemble, I borrow Sophie’s clipboard and write out the lyrics of a song that was a staple of my childhood. My mother had a record of it by Bing Crosby who, after Going My Way and The Bells of St Mary’s, was not only her favourite film star but almost an honorary priest. She would sing it when she was doing her housework, complaining – unconvincingly – that she could not get the tune out of her head. Being barely out of nappies myself, I naturally assumed that the ‘beautiful baby’ was me but, in line with her view that emotional deprivation was an essential part of growing up, she immediately set me straight, explaining that: first, it was only girls who ‘drove the little boys wild’; second, the words were addressed to an adult; third, I had never won a prize, nor was I likely to unless I pulled my socks up.

  Thank you, Mother, for leaving me with such an indelible memory of other peoples’ happiness.

  Father Dave leads us into the cachot, the former punishment cell where the family sought shelter after being evicted from the mill. Now practically empty, it would only have boasted a few sticks of furniture at the time. In spite of myself, I worry about the sleeping arrangements: the parents in one bed and the four children in the other.

  ‘How old were they all?’ I ask Father Dave, whose smile remains fixed while his furrowed brow shows that he catches my drift.

  ‘Bernadette was fourteen; Toinette eleven; and their brothers, Jean-Marie and Justin, were seven and three.’ I am both reassured by the girls’ seniority and surprised that no one else in the group seems to have shared my misgivings. Yet, as I gaze at their open trusting faces, what would once have felt like culpable naivety now feels like blessed innocence.

  The close cell and cloying story intensify my need for a few hours’ break from all things Berna
dette. As soon as we are back outside, I seek out Gillian and put forward a plan. My exhilaration at her willingness to skip mass fades when I learn that it is because she believes herself to be in a state of sin. After thirty years of attacking the Eucharist, I am in danger of becoming its advocate. If generals are given communion before they send troops into battle, is she to be denied it because of an act of love? On her own admission she is more of a widow than a wife, so the ‘sin’ is a mere technicality. How can any God, let alone the God she invoked last night – the God who created more stars than heartbeats – condemn her heart for beating a little faster?

  Careful not to squander my advantage, I refrain from further argument and persuade her to join me on a mountain picnic. Leaving before she can change her mind, I trek back up the hill in search of Sophie and Jewel, who have sneaked into a confectioner’s.

  ‘Take your time,’ I tell Sophie, who is wavering between nougat and truffles. ‘The Gillian Patterson interview is definitely off. We’re not filming until the procession at five.’

  ‘Great!’ Jewel says. ‘Ken told me of this amazing salad bar tucked away behind the bridge.’

  ‘Count me out, I’m afraid. I need some fresh air. I’m going for a walk on the Pic-du-Jer alone.’

  ‘Is that alone alone?’ Sophie asks, ‘or alone-without-us alone?’

  ‘It’s alone-don’t-ask-questions alone. So I’ll meet you back at the Acceuil at half-past four.’

  ‘Take care, Vincent,’ Jewel says gently.

  ‘Don’t worry. I shan’t stray too far off the beaten track.’

  ‘I wasn’t speaking literally.’

  ‘Neither was I.’

  My first stop is the Lacadé Mill to buy Gillian her angel. Undeterred by the price, I hand it to the assistant, admiring her elegant wrapping, until the Virgin of the Clock makes a midday appearance, to remind me that time is short. I hasten to the nearby market, its abundance of meats and cheeses and fruits and pastries in stark contrast to the gimcrack goods on sale elsewhere in town. Extravagance is my watchword; I want to provide a feast that is the opposite of the meagre fare we had yesterday at San Savin. I want to throw away more food than we eat, without a single thought for African famine or sustainable farming. I want a world where there is no one to be happy or loved or fed but us.