‘Mother?’
‘Yes, darling.’
‘What’s an Irishman’s idea of foreplay?’
‘Finish your egg, Richard!’ I interject.
‘I don’t know, darling. You tell me,’ Patricia says abstractedly.
‘Brace yourself, Bridget!’
‘That’s not funny,’ I say.
‘You laughed. Two times!’
‘I was being polite,’ I reply, eager not to lose face in front of his mother.
‘You mustn’t repeat that on the pilgrimage, darling,’ she says, enjoying my discomfort. ‘There may be someone called Bridget. In fact I’m sure there will.’
I picture a coachload of Bridgets and shudder. I cannot believe that I agreed to join them. Since Thomas’s death, Patricia’s annual trip to Lourdes has been the highpoint of her year. Yet the louder she has sung its praises, the surer I have been that it is not for me. ‘It’s a tonic,’ she says. ‘The malades – I find it helps to think of them in French – are so grateful for everything; they give us back far more than we give them.’ It is clear that she has not abandoned her usual priorities! For years she has been urging me to go. ‘You owe it to Richard. What kind of message does it send to God if you can’t make the effort to take him to the Grotto?’ But I have resisted her blandishments, more afraid of the message that God would send to me by leaving him as he is. Then this spring, without further reflection, I said yes.
Why? Did she catch me at a moment of weakness? Had I said no so often that it no longer rang true? Am I hoping to revive my schoolgirl devotion to St Bernadette by going in her Jubilee year? Or is there some secret part of me, hidden behind the vanished hopes and vanquished efforts – a part I am afraid to acknowledge even to myself – which believes that Richard can be cured?
Life would be so much easier if I were an apostate or an atheist, railing against a cruel or a nonexistent God but, try as I might, I have never been able to shed my faith. From as far back as I can remember, it has been the one constant in my life. Even in the darkest days of Richard’s haemorrhage and my mother’s dementia, when belief in divine will was more of a burden than a blessing, I could not shake the absolute conviction that God is, that it is my understanding, not His goodness, that is flawed.
‘There’s a reason why God has given you this challenge,’ Father Aidan told me, after visiting Richard in hospital. ‘He never gives any one of us more than He knows we can bear. It may take you a lifetime to figure out His purpose, but you must never doubt it.’ And I never have. I go to confession and mass, and say my prayers every day, even though ‘Thy will be done’ rings hollow from one who is forever pressing Him to see things her way.
‘Faith that moves mountains’ may be overstating it, but I have always believed in miracles: not just the easy, everyday ones of beauty and birth: the scent of a flowering rose or the smile of a newborn baby (not that that is always so easy); but the tricky, transcendental ones: the blind seeing; the lame walking … the brain-damaged recovering their wits. There have, however, been so few in recent years – even in Lourdes – that it is hard to see why God should spare one for Richard. On the other hand, it is not as if health were a finite resource, like the rainforest, that he could only enjoy at someone else’s expense. Doctors prolong lives every day. They are forever finding cures for previously chronic conditions. It is simply a matter of time before they discover a way to reverse the effects of a haemorrhage. So I am asking for Richard’s recovery to be brought forward a few years: more like an experimental treatment than a suspension of natural law.
I must take care not to expect too much, exposing myself to disappointment. Instead of looking for the lightning flash when Richard steps out of the baths, brain cells fully restored, I should look for the gentle glimmer when I step out, fortified for the years – the decades – ahead with a malade who is not grateful for anything. That, too, would be a miracle in its way.
The doorbell rings and Patricia leaps up, unbuttoning her housecoat to reveal an immaculately pressed skirt and blouse. ‘That’ll be the driver. You let him in, Gillian. Send him upstairs for the other cases.’
‘Of course.’
Patricia goes to ‘the little girl’s room’, re-labelling it for Richard on her return. ‘I am not a little boy!’ he says, bridling at the inadvertent slur. I make a last-minute tour of the house, which Patricia deems to be unnecessary – despite having left her bedroom window open – before joining mother and son outside.
‘Is that everything, love?’ the driver asks Patricia, whom he correctly judges to be in charge.
‘Quite. Except for one thing. I’m sure you won’t mind me mentioning it.’ She flashes him a steely smile. ‘I am not your love – I’m your passenger. At least I will be if we ever set off.’
‘Yes, of course, lo … Missus,’ he replies, cracking his fingers. ‘No offence meant.’
‘And none taken.’ Patricia steps graciously into the front, leaving Richard and me to squeeze behind with the hand-baggage. No sooner has she settled than she twists round, just far enough to show the driver that he is not party to the conversation. ‘I’m sure you’ll like the Jubilates, Gillian,’ she says. ‘They’re a friendly bunch. No airs and graces. You might have found my other pilgrimages a bit intimidating. On one – I can laugh about it now – we had a handmaiden from Argentina. She owned half of … I forget the name of the capital.’
‘Buenos Aires,’ the driver volunteers.
‘She flew to Lourdes in her private jet,’ Patricia continues, tightlipped. ‘Then in the dining room, instead of gathering a pile of dirty plates like everyone else, she picked them up, one by one, and handed them to her maid.’ Despite her disapproving tone, I suspect that she secretly admires such fastidious piety. ‘You’d never get that with the Jubilates. Our only concern is the comfort and enjoyment of the malades. Though between you, me and the gatepost, I sometimes think it does more harm than good. They come to Lourdes for a week where they’re made to feel special, then they go back home where the rest of the year they’re ignored.’
The driver snorts; I swallow a laugh; Patricia gives me a furious look and turns back to the front, sitting in silence for the rest of the journey. Mightily relieved, I attend to Richard, who is drawing big-breasted women in his breath on the window.
We arrive at the terminal just as a coach carrying our fellow pilgrims draws up, a synchronism that delights Patricia. ‘Be good enough to fetch us a porter,’ she tells the driver, with the assurance of a seasoned traveller on the Orient Express or, more accurately, an avid reader of Agatha Christie.
‘Don’t worry,’ I countermand quickly. ‘I’ll pick up a trolley. Richard, you wait here with your mother.’ I hurry into the vestibule, returning to find Patricia engulfed by a group of Jubilates. She introduces me to several and, while I fail to keep track of their names, the breadth of her smile is a reliable indicator of their place in the pecking order.
A bald man in horn-rimmed glasses directs us to the check-in desk. ‘You don’t need to bother about him,’ Patricia says, after greeting him like a long-lost brother. ‘Derek. He’s in charge of travel. Bit of a loner. Hello again!’ She waves at a tall poker-backed woman with severely cut pepper-and-salt hair and a large gold crucifix. ‘This is Marjorie, our deputy director. She keeps us all on our toes.’
‘Not you, Patricia. I gave up trying long ago,’ Marjorie replies, only to contradict herself by insisting that we wear our name badges, despite Patricia’s claim that ‘surely everybody knows me by now?’
The claim appears to be borne out by the number of people who come up to greet her. Any semblance of a queue breaks down as passengers roam around, abandoning their cases to chat to friends, to the despair of both Jubilate organisers and airline officials. A nun, whom in the melee I identify as either Martha or Mary, holds up her mobile to show Patricia some pictures of the asylum seekers with whom she works. Patricia, whose belief that we are all sisters under the skin fails to stand up to scrutiny,
glances at them casually, breaking off at the sight of an elderly woman in a dusty pink raincoat, with short white hair, a whiskery face and a prominent mole on her chin.
‘Maggie!’
‘Pattie!’ As they fall into one another’s arms, I marvel at Patricia’s tolerance of the diminutive.
‘Maggie, meet my son Richard. No, don’t disturb him while he’s quiet!’ We watch Richard pushing the baggage trolley back and forth, as though cleaning a persistent carpet stain. ‘This is my daughter-in-law, Gillian. Gillian, you’ve heard me talk about my friend, Maggie, from Deal.’
‘Of course,’ I say, as though the name were never off her lips.
‘Maggie and I have been on nine pilgrimages together. Gillian is a Lourdes … this is her first time.’ Maggie looks at me with a mixture of complacency and compassion. ‘I’ve told her there’s nowhere to beat it.’
‘Nowhere in the world. I just wish that it weren’t in the blessed EU.’
‘Really?’ I ask, presuming that she shares the other Maggie’s loathing of Brussels.
‘I have a filthy habit.’
Bewildered, I flash her a noncommittal smile. Meanwhile, I am distracted by a young girl with Down’s Syndrome who strolls up and down the queue measuring various legs and cases. She approaches me, holding her tape measure loosely against my thigh.
‘Hello,’ I say.
‘This is Fiona,’ Patricia interjects. ‘Do you remember me?’ Fiona responds to Patricia’s stiff smile by sliding towards Richard and pressing the tape measure to his leg. He grins and extends it to his groin.
‘No, Fiona, you mustn’t bother Richard,’ I say, pulling her away. ‘He’s doing a very important job looking after the luggage.’ She stares at me in confusion.
‘I’m so sorry,’ a flustered woman rushes up to us. ‘She does so love to measure things.’
‘I’m big,’ Richard says with a chuckle which, to my relief, she ignores.
‘I know that some people find it disconcerting.’
‘Not at all. She can measure me whenever she likes,’ I say lamely. ‘But she’d do well to avoid Richard.’
‘Of course,’ she says brightly. ‘Come along, darling, let’s find Daddy. I’m Mary, by the way.’ She holds out the hand that was clutching Fiona. ‘I hope to catch up with you later. Oh dear!’ She spots the middle-aged man in front of us who is flinging about the contents of his suitcase like a wilful child. One sandal hits a corpulent woman in a wheelchair, only to be hurled back by her companion, a scrawny woman with a pink tuft of hair that looks as if it has been treated with food dye. Two helpers try to calm the man, who seems to be having some kind of fit, while a third comforts the indignant woman. My sense of having stumbled into a freak show intensifies at the sight of a film crew making a documentary about the airport. No one else shows any concern.
‘Never a dull moment, eh Maggie?’ Patricia says.
‘You took the words right out of my mouth.’
After check-in, we are herded towards the security gates. The long queues make me unusually grateful for Patricia’s brazen cajoling of one of the guards to let us join the wheelchairs in Fast Track. ‘We’re the walking wounded,’ she says with a chintzy smile. I tag along, trying to look alert whenever Patricia or Maggie include me in their conversation about the cataracts that Maggie has either just had or is about to have removed.
‘Don’t Richard, that’s disgusting!’ I say, grateful that the film crew is no longer present to catch his rigorous nose-picking.
Even the fast track slows to a crawl at the scanning machine, where all but the most infirm are required to step out of their wheelchairs, give up their sticks, and take off their shoes. Much to his delight, Richard finds a large hole over his right big toe, which he accentuates by wriggling it. Patricia shoots me a black look, which she softens on turning to Maggie. ‘You mustn’t blame Gillian. Richard can be a handful. And she won’t let anyone help.’ I try to force my features into a suitably harassed but dedicated expression, while concealing the frustration beneath.
We finally reach the departure lounge. ‘Shall we try that café over there?’ Patricia asks, diverting my gaze from Wetherspoons, as though I were not just a lazy slattern but a chronic alcoholic.
‘Fine, I’ll grab a table. Do we need an extra chair?’ I ask, wondering whether Maggie is to be a permanent fixture.
‘Of course, there are four of us,’ Patricia says, answering both my questions. ‘I suppose it’s too much to expect them to come and take our order.’
‘I’ll do it,’ I say brightly. ‘What does everyone want?’
‘Black coffee for me, please,’ Maggie says. ‘It’ll keep me going till my next fix.’
‘I’ll have a latte,’ Patricia says, lingering over the name with a novice’s relish.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Richard says.
‘No. You’ll be bored. I know!’ I say wickedly. ‘Why not tell Maggie one of your jokes?’
I slip out of range of Patricia’s fury, taking my place in a queue that is already liberally dotted with lime green. Gazing aimlessly across the concourse, I spot Fiona and her parents greeting a pair of priests who have the contrasting physiques of a classic double act: the first, sleek and round; the second, weatherworn and wiry. The large one sweeps Fiona off the ground and kisses her cheek, at which she throws her arms around his neck and tickles it. It is cheering to see a child who displays such affection for a priest. Either she is unusually trusting or else the black clothes and heavy breath that used to terrify me have the opposite effect on her.
The woman ahead of me turns round. ‘Excuse me,’ she says softly, ‘but I couldn’t help noticing a fellow Jubilate.’ She holds up the tag on her handbag.
‘That’s right,’ I say, grateful for the normalcy of both her voice and greeting.
‘I expect you’re a regular.’
‘Not at all, it’s my first trip.’
‘Mine too!’ She sounds relieved. ‘We can make our mistakes together. Martin and I have been to Lourdes with the diocese, but we thought we’d try something smaller. Last year he was put in a room with a lot of older men.’ Her voice trails off. ‘I’m sorry! Where are my manners? This is Martin.’ She draws him round to face me. He is a chubby boy in his late teens, with a long, blank face that looks like a sheep in a biblical painting.
‘Hi Martin, I’m Gillian.’ I am rewarded by a distended vowel.
‘Martin’s great but he doesn’t say much, do you, love? The strong silent type.’ He grins as she rubs his arm. ‘Right now he’s thinking: what a pretty lady! She looks kind and a little lost like me. I hope she’s going to be my friend.’
‘Wow, you’re thinking all that, Martin! Well I hope you and your mum are going to be my friends too.’
Mother and son break into smiles, highlighting the family resemblance. We have not yet left the airport, but Patricia’s words about Lourdes making me count my blessings are already ringing true.
‘Is Martin’s condition permanent?’
‘Since birth.’
‘Always excepting a miracle,’ I say lightly.
‘Oh no,’ she replies with a smile. ‘I haven’t come here hoping that Martin will be cured, but to find the strength in myself to cope with the fact that he never, ever, ever will be.’
Her smile grows more strained as her eyes fill with tears. ‘I think she’s ready for you now,’ I say gently, as the assistant stares at her with chain-store indifference. Watching her pick up her tray and lead a shuffling Martin back to his seat, I reflect on our respective responsibilities and wonder whether it might not, after all, be easier to care for a son whose disability has extended his dependence, than a husband who was once a free man.
I collect my drinks and carry them back to the table, when I am accosted by the woman who was hit by the flying sandal.
‘You’re one of us!’ she says, her green visor casting a sinister shadow over her face.
‘I beg your pardon,’ I say, struggling not t
o tilt the tray as I stoop.
‘A Jubilate.’
‘Oh yes, hello. I’m Gillian.’
‘Brenda. This is my eighth pilgrimage.’
‘I’m afraid it’s only my first. I’d shake hands but mine are full.’
‘And hers are useless,’ her companion interjects. ‘No better than a man’s nipples.’
‘This is Linda,’ Brenda says unperturbed, pointing to the spindly woman buried beneath layers of shabby, shapeless woollens. ‘She’s my carer. At least that’s what it says on the giro. They should ask for their money back.’ She cackles.
‘Well I must be on my way before these grow cold. Good talking to you.’
‘You with her?’ Brenda nods at Patricia.
‘She’s my mother-in-law.’
‘I’ve been here with her before. Lady Muck!’
‘I met a real Lady Muck once, on the ferry, only it was spelt: k k e,’ Linda says.
‘Why do you want to tell her that for? She doesn’t want to hear that. Think you’re clever, you do!’ Brenda looks venomously at Linda before turning back to me. ‘I’ve been watching you. You’re magnetic deficient.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘See this!’ She nods to Linda, who leans forward and lifts Brenda’s arm from under a blanket. A copper bangle hangs from her flaccid wrist. ‘It’s a life-saver. A miracle-worker. Your own private blood purification bank.’
‘It sounds amazing.’
‘It helps circulation, disperses nutrients, reduces lactic acid and … what have I left out?’
‘Endorphins.’
‘That’s right: promotes the production of endorphins. Without it, I’d be long gone.’
‘Don’t tempt me,’ Linda says.
‘She doesn’t mean that.’
‘I don’t mean that.’
‘And it just so happens that I’ve brought a few with me. You can have first pick.’
‘That’s very kind, but I really couldn’t accept.’
‘I’m not giving it away,’ she says, affronted. ‘I’m a certified agent! I’ll take pounds, euros, dollars.’
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