Jubilate (5 page)

‘That’s some green,’ I say of her sweatshirt.

‘Easy to spot in a crowd,’ she says. ‘You need it in Lourdes. Of course it’s not so useful when we hold mass in a meadow.’ I smile politely.

‘What’s that?’ Jamie asks, pointing to the logo stretched across her impressive bust.

‘Oh, it’s the Jubilate angel blowing her horn. His horn; her horn: you can’t tell with angels.’ I find myself warming to her. ‘We have one for each of you. It’s designed specially for the anniversary. You never know,’ she adds with an embarrassed laugh, ‘it may turn out to be a collector’s item.’

Louisa leads us to the check-in counter, where she introduces us to Sister Anne, whose title is the only sign of her vocation. As I shake hands with the sturdy forty-year-old in sensible shoes and an anorak, wearing a more discreet cross than many of her charges, I think back to all the penguin jokes of my boyhood and wonder how we are supposed to know who’s who any more. I picture myself as a McCarthyite commentator in fifties America, warning the honest citizen of the subversives in their midst. ‘Ten telltale signs to detect a nun.’ But even I have to admit that the only one in evidence is compassion, as she hears a paralysed man sniffing beside her and tenderly wipes his nose.

Louisa is summoned to deal with a missing ticket. ‘Duty calls,’ she says apologetically. We take our places in the queue. Check-in counters are not built for wheelchairs and the staff seem more
forbidding
than ever as they peer down at the confined figures in front of them. I suddenly become aware of a commotion to my left. A middle-aged man has opened his suitcase and is tossing out the
contents
. Clothes fly everywhere, causing nothing more serious than confusion until a sandal hits his chair-bound neighbour, provoking an indignant howl. The man then throws down the case and twists
his neck back and forth as though to ward off a persistent wasp. Two pilgrimage officials rush up to him. One puts his arms around his shoulders, gently calming him; the other gathers up the scattered clothes. Meanwhile Sister Anne consoles the victim, whose
overemphatic
wails sound increasingly like pleas for sympathy and less like genuine pain. Jamie has captured it all on film and gives me a thumbs-up sign which is intercepted by Louisa who approaches, hand-in-hand with a little girl.

‘That’s Frank. I think he’s on your list.’

‘Oh yes, of course. The guy with Lyme Disease.’

‘No control of his emotions. The slightest thing can set him off. He used to be a churchwarden.’

‘It must be hell.’

‘And here’s someone else you wanted to meet: Fiona, our
youngest
pilgrim, always excepting Dr Gilpin’s baby, but we won’t count her, will we?’

Fiona shakes her head solemnly. I ponder her mother’s defensive ‘personable’ as I gaze at the discordant face with its elongated brow and elderly features, crowned by immaculately brushed golden hair. Her detached expression springs to life as, in response to my
greeting
, she pulls out a retractable tape measure and holds it against my left leg, disconcertingly close to the groin.

‘Are you going to be in my film?’ I ask, gently disengaging myself. Fiona looks confused and turns to Louisa.

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘You’re going to be the star.’

‘Star,’ Fiona repeats, clapping her hands.

‘Right then. Shall we go and find Mummy and Daddy?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Fiona says, running off into the crowd.

‘Bless!’ Louisa says. She moves to follow, when a tall grey man with a bulging briefcase strides up to her. ‘May I borrow you for a moment, Louisa? There’s been a slight accident.’

‘How slight?’ she asks. ‘Is anyone hurt?’

‘No, nothing like that.’ He whispers in her ear.

‘Is that all?’ she says with a laugh. ‘No need to be shy. Sister Anne or Sister Martha should have some spares in the emergency bag.’ The man hurries away. ‘Pants,’ she explains. ‘One of the ladies couldn’t reach the lavatory in time. Still, worse things happen at sea.’

On which note she hurries off, leaving me to speculate further as to why she was so happy to approve our film. Why should she expose the Jubilate to a medium that is notoriously inimical to religion? She cannot be seeking her fifteen minutes of public validation; her sights are set on something far more enduring, not to say eternal. She must have an unshakeable belief in the merits of her mission, along with the confidence that it will transcend anything that I and my camera might put in its way. She must have an absolute faith in faith.

I finally complete the check-in and line up with the crew for the departure lounge. Our equipment provokes the usual consternation at security. The days may have passed when my name alone ensured a rigorous body search, but the guards remain intent not simply to root out suspects but to cause the maximum discomfort and
humiliation
to everyone else. Impotent in the face of Sophie’s official
documents
, they retaliate by checking every item in our bags, the only dubious ones they find being Jamie’s magazines, which a jowly guard holds up with as great a display of distaste as if they were hard-core porn. Released at last, we move up to passport control where we are transfixed by a series of piercing screams.

The cause soon becomes clear. Not content with requiring people who can barely bend to remove their shoes and others who can scarcely walk to give up their sticks and totter through the scanner, the guards have forced Fiona to put her tape measure through the X-ray machine. Her mother tries to assure her that it has done no damage, grabbing the tape measure off the conveyor belt and pulling it open to show that it functions exactly as before, but Fiona is
inconsolable
. It is as though the magic powers with which she has invested it have been wiped out by the rays.

Lamenting that this is the one place that we are forbidden to film, we inch our way through passport control to the departure lounge. Dodging the passengers weighed down with duty-frees, we head for Wetherspoons, where Jewel is surprised by the number of
limegreen
luggage tags at the bar.

‘Catholics drink,’ I explain, buying a round.

We grab a table and are sitting down when Louisa catches sight of us and walks over. ‘All present and correct,’ she says, which may or may not be a question. ‘Mind if I…?’

‘Please do,’ I say, half-standing as she draws up a chair.

‘Ten years and it doesn’t get any easier! Still, one last stretch and then it’s Marjorie Plumley’s turn. Squadron Officer Brennan reduced to the ranks. I can’t wait!’

‘But you must enjoy it to have gone on for so long.’

‘I’m not sure
enjoy
is the word I’d choose, but I like to see it as my contribution – almost my vocation.’ She gives another embarrassed laugh. ‘Please don’t think that I’m putting myself on a par with the nurses or sisters, let alone the priests. Not at all. But give me some letters to write or forms to fill or doors to knock on and I’m in my element. The Jubilate is a working pilgrimage. Which suits yours truly down to the ground. Everyone, from Father Humphrey to the youngest brancardier, is here to ensure that our hospital pilgrims get the most out of Lourdes.’

‘What’s a brancardier?’ Jewel asks.

‘What indeed? You must feel like you’re back at school: it was weeks before I figured out that going to the Congo meant choir practice…! Brancardier was – is – the French for stretcher-bearer and it stretches – whoops! – back to the early days of Lourdes. We use it for all our male helpers, young and old. The women are called handmaidens.’

‘Young and old too?’ Jewel asks.

‘Yes, although I fear there are more of the latter.’

‘You’re telling me,’ Jamie says.

‘Don’t worry,’ Louisa replies, in a voice that sends him fumbling for his beer. ‘It’s not as one-sided as it looks. There are two minivans full of young people currently making their way through France.’

‘How long does that take?’ Sophie asks.

‘A couple of days. Believe it or not, they enjoy it. For one thing it’s a lot cheaper. And they have the chance to make friends en route, as well as sorting out the music for the services.’ She turns to me. ‘I do hope you’ll feature as many of them as you can. They’re a real tonic. Some come back year after year, even though the work is quite menial. You should see the boys – I doubt if they so much as pick up a dirty plate at home – happily making beds and mopping floors. It’s a chance to show viewers that teenage life isn’t all about knife crime and hoodies. But the numbers have been steadily falling. We need
more to sign up if we’re to carry on taking as many of our hospital pilgrims.’ It hits me that she is hoping to use the programme as a recruitment tool. To my surprise, I find myself less averse to the idea than I would have been half an hour ago. ‘Between you and me, that was what swayed the committee in your favour. And when we sent out the release forms, not a single person said “no”. I tell a lie. There’s one couple we haven’t heard from.’

My chest tightens at the thought of the constant struggle to avoid the two dissidents. ‘Might they be open to persuasion?’

‘Oh I’m sure it’s just an oversight. They’re first-timers so I don’t know them, but the husband’s – I think it’s the husband’s – mother is an old-hand. I’ll introduce them to you this evening.’ She seems to sense my dismay. ‘Or would you prefer it now?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind. We may catch them in shot when we arrive in Lourdes.’

Louisa leads me through the lounge, which feels sterile despite the clutter. We stop beside an elegant woman of about seventy, with her ash blonde hair swept up, neatly plucked eyebrows and a lightly powdered face. She sits flicking through a copy of the magazine that I filmed last year. Her baby blue jacket, opal brooch, cream silk blouse and black-and-white pleated skirt mark her out from the average pilgrim. She stands to greet Louisa, extending a perfectly manicured, slightly arthritic hand.

‘Patricia, how lovely to see you again,’ Louisa says, ‘looking as chic as ever.’

‘We try not to let the side down. Can’t all be lilies of the field, can we?’ She breaks off as if in doubt about the appropriateness of the reference.

‘This is Vincent O’Shaughnessy, who’s making a documentary on the pilgrimage.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I say, taking a hand that feels strangely weightless.

‘We’re all very excited about your film,’ Patricia says.

‘Me too.’

‘Not that I watch much television,’ she adds. My eyes drift to the copy of
Hello
, open at the story of a daytime presenter and her
long-awaited
bundle
of joy
. ‘My husband – my late husband, that is – used
to say that scientists had shown how our brain waves when we watch TV are the same as when we’re asleep.’

‘Is that so?’ I say, taken aback. ‘Perhaps they meant when we’re dreaming? At our most responsive.’

‘Perhaps. You must be sure to let us know when it’s on, so we don’t miss it.’

‘Patricia’s one of our most treasured handmaidens. Ten visits now, is it?’

‘Nine.’

‘She’s the queen of the dining room. Not silver service, gold. This year she’s brought her son and daughter-in-law.’

‘Yes,’ Patricia says with a sigh. ‘I finally persuaded Gillian. She’s just popped to Boots for some aspirin. And this is my Richard.’ She points across the aisle to a handsome man in his mid-forties with fine sandy hair, a strong chin, a strikingly clear complexion, and a frame that looks constrained by his jacket. He sits, shifting his gaze between the departure board and his wristwatch as if daring the times to differ. ‘Richard, darling, this is Mr O’Shaughnessy. He’s going to make a film of the holiday.’

‘In the Grotto?’

‘We’ll certainly do some shooting there.’

‘Shooting?’ He sounds alarmed.

‘With the camera.’ I mime a tracking shot, which I trust will not be seen as condescending.

‘I’m going climbing in the Grotto.’

‘It’s not that sort of grotto, darling, I’ve explained.’

‘You can’t stop me. I’m forty-six years old. You’ve no right to tell me what to do.’ He starts to cry. Louisa pats his arm; I wince; his mother remains impassive.

‘Please don’t be alarmed,’ she says. ‘Sometimes he’s worse than a child.’ Her voice darkens. ‘That’s what he is now: a child. If only you’d known him before. He had fifteen men working under him, to say nothing of the casuals. The youngest president of the Surrey Rotary since the war, elected unopposed when his father retired. Then one day he had a haemorrhage on the golf course. Just like that. The blood poured into his brain and wiped out so many of the
connections
, so many of the hundreds of thousands – or is it millions? – of
connections that make us who we are. And it’s left him a boy. But a boy with the strength and … and the urges of a man. Which is very hard: hard for him and hard for us. So we’ve come to ask the Blessed Virgin for a miracle, to give him back those connections, to give him back to himself.’

‘Do you honestly expect one?’ I ask, more abruptly than I intend.

‘Aren’t you a Catholic, Mr O’Shaughnessy?’ she asks.

‘With a name like mine?’ I reply evasively.

‘You’re very like my daughter-in-law.’

‘Really? In what way?’

‘Faint-hearted. “What’s the point of being a Catholic,” I said, “if you can’t ask God for a favour?” It’s not easy for her. Richard can be a handful. It’s no wonder she gets headaches. I sometimes think she doesn’t want help from anyone. Are you married, Mr O’Shaughnessy?’

‘No.’

‘Really?’ she asks. ‘I’d have thought some bright young woman would have snapped you up years ago.’

‘Some bright young woman did,’ I say, refusing to elaborate.

‘I brought Vincent over to discuss the release form for the filming,’ Louisa interjects, sensing danger.

‘Didn’t I send it back? I’m sure I did.’

‘Yes, of course. Everyone has, except your son and daughter-
in-law
. Well your daughter-in-law …’

‘I can’t say I’m surprised. She worries herself to death over trivial things and neglects what’s really important.’