blush.
‘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.’
Honour satisfied, she puts it back on the shelf. Vincent lifts it up, running his fingers over the chest.
‘This reminds me of someone.’
‘Fragile? Transparent?’ I say, drawn to the game in spite of the danger.
‘Luminous.’
Maggie appears at the door. ‘Come on, slowcoaches. Father Dave has itchy feet.’
‘I had athlete’s feet,’ Richard says proudly to Vincent as we walk out.
‘You had something else,’ I say sourly.
‘I had blisters. They hurt.’
We make our way through the town to the cachot . Richard has abandoned Nigel in favour of Vincent, who promises him a ‘man to man’ chat as he guides him gently over the rutted pavement. I keep them firmly in sight, their implausible intimacy at once a comfort and a threat, while walking with Claire and Martin. I marvel at Claire’s ability to conduct a normal conversation – one that is packed with the medical details normal for Lourdes – while constantly breaking off to encourage Martin who, even at this snail’s pace, takes two shuffling steps to every one of ours. Her tender solicitude to his slightest need makes me doubly ashamed of my frustration with Richard. Is it that they share a profound bond, forged in the womb, denied to those of us who were coupled at the altar, or rather that she is a decent person who would never seek to escape her obligations in nights of adultery and fantasies of divorce?
‘You’re a wonder,’ I say, as she holds a tissue to his runny nose and tells him to blow.
‘I’m his mother,’ she replies, perplexed.
Somehow I’m his wife lacks the same ring.
We arrive at the cachot , where Bernadette and her family found refuge and which, according to Father Dave, occupies a similar place in the story of Lourdes as the stable in that of the Nativity. He leads us down a well-worn flight of steps into a cramped, cheerless room with a rough stone floor, bare plaster walls and a pervasive smell of damp. Not even the most hostile observer – I refrain from glancing at Vincent – could fail to be moved by the family’s plight. Unlike the Boly Mill, there has been no attempt to disguise the squalor. A large rosary above the fireplace and two jars of irises on the ledge are the sole decoration. It is as though the authorities were determined to emphasise the inauspicious soil from which Bernadette sprang, an emphasis Father Dave echoes as he takes us through the tale. ‘Remember Our Lord said: “Blessed are the poor in spirit.” St Bernadette herself said that, if there had been anyone poorer and meaner than her, then God would have chosen them.’
‘Really!’ Patricia whispers in a rare note of dissent. ‘Has political correctness even reached Lourdes? It’s her virtues he should be stressing not her income. Surely we can be poor in spirit whatever our station in life?’
She leads the way out, her reluctance to dwell in the cell or on its message widely shared. Only Lucja lingers, as though drawn back to the poverty from which she recently emerged.
‘So what’s the plan?’ Vincent asks, accosting me in the doorway.
‘You gave me a shock!’ I play for time. ‘I presume we’re heading back to the Acceuil for lunch. You know how strict they are about timetables.’
‘I’m learning. Your mother-in-law and Maggie have gone on ahead to set up.’ I scan the crowd making its desultory way down the hill, but, while instantly alert to Richard walking alongside a young handmaiden, I see no sign of Patricia.
‘It’s strange that she should be happy to do all the dirty work here that she runs a mile from at home,’ I say disloyally.
‘Like Marie Antoinette playing at milkmaids on her farm.’
‘She’s not playing!’ I exclaim, to the surprise of Derek and Charlotte in front. ‘You may think me a hypocrite,’ I add through gritted teeth,
‘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.’
Honour satisfied, she puts it back on the shelf. Vincent lifts it up, running his fingers over the chest.
‘This reminds me of someone.’
‘Fragile? Transparent?’ I say, drawn to the game in spite of the danger.
‘Luminous.’
Maggie appears at the door. ‘Come on, slowcoaches. Father Dave has itchy feet.’
‘I had athlete’s feet,’ Richard says proudly to Vincent as we walk out.
‘You had something else,’ I say sourly.
‘I had blisters. They hurt.’
We make our way through the town to the cachot . Richard has abandoned Nigel in favour of Vincent, who promises him a ‘man to man’ chat as he guides him gently over the rutted pavement. I keep them firmly in sight, their implausible intimacy at once a comfort and a threat, while walking with Claire and Martin. I marvel at Claire’s ability to conduct a normal conversation – one that is packed with the medical details normal for Lourdes – while constantly breaking off to encourage Martin who, even at this snail’s pace, takes two shuffling steps to every one of ours. Her tender solicitude to his slightest need makes me doubly ashamed of my frustration with Richard. Is it that they share a profound bond, forged in the womb, denied to those of us who were coupled at the altar, or rather that she is a decent person who would never seek to escape her obligations in nights of adultery and fantasies of divorce?
‘You’re a wonder,’ I say, as she holds a tissue to his runny nose and tells him to blow.
‘I’m his mother,’ she replies, perplexed.
Somehow I’m his wife lacks the same ring.
We arrive at the cachot , where Bernadette and her family found refuge and which, according to Father Dave, occupies a similar place in the story of Lourdes as the stable in that of the Nativity. He leads us down a well-worn flight of steps into a cramped, cheerless room with a rough stone floor, bare plaster walls and a pervasive smell of damp. Not even the most hostile observer – I refrain from glancing at Vincent – could fail to be moved by the family’s plight. Unlike the Boly Mill, there has been no attempt to disguise the squalor. A large rosary above the fireplace and two jars of irises on the ledge are the sole decoration. It is as though the authorities were determined to emphasise the inauspicious soil from which Bernadette sprang, an emphasis Father Dave echoes as he takes us through the tale. ‘Remember Our Lord said: “Blessed are the poor in spirit.” St Bernadette herself said that, if there had been anyone poorer and meaner than her, then God would have chosen them.’
‘Really!’ Patricia whispers in a rare note of dissent. ‘Has political correctness even reached Lourdes? It’s her virtues he should be stressing not her income. Surely we can be poor in spirit whatever our station in life?’
She leads the way out, her reluctance to dwell in the cell or on its message widely shared. Only Lucja lingers, as though drawn back to the poverty from which she recently emerged.
‘So what’s the plan?’ Vincent asks, accosting me in the doorway.
‘You gave me a shock!’ I play for time. ‘I presume we’re heading back to the Acceuil for lunch. You know how strict they are about timetables.’
‘I’m learning. Your mother-in-law and Maggie have gone on ahead to set up.’ I scan the crowd making its desultory way down the hill, but, while instantly alert to Richard walking alongside a young handmaiden, I see no sign of Patricia.
‘It’s strange that she should be happy to do all the dirty work here that she runs a mile from at home,’ I say disloyally.
‘Like Marie Antoinette playing at milkmaids on her farm.’
‘She’s not playing!’ I exclaim, to the surprise of Derek and Charlotte in front. ‘You may think me a hypocrite,’ I add through gritted teeth,
Similar Books
