Read Online Jubilate by Michael Arditti - Free Book Online Page B

‘the gentleman who asked aboutthe weather on the ground’, he informs us that conditions are normal for mid-June with a high of seventy-two degrees, a low of fifty-eight and sixty-nine per cent humidity. Jamie’s embarrassment is capped when the stewardess swaps places with a male colleague who, bringing round a mid-flight snack, winks at him and, echoing his tone, asks if he would ‘like to sample one of my buns’.
    He declines.
    On arrival at Tarbes, we are greeted by such a fleet of wheelchairs that several remain empty. I am amazed to hear the pushers speaking with Birmingham accents and immediately ask one of them for an interview. He identifies himself as Pete, a British Gas fitter, who travels here for a fortnight every summer with a gang of his mates. All the porters, all the attendants and all the baggage handlers are volunteers. ‘Sounds weird, don’t it? Coming away and staying in the airport. Most people can’t get out of it quick enough. But we have a good laugh. And we go out on the piss in the evenings. Oh fuck, can I say that on the BBC?’
    ‘We’ll edit it later. Don’t worry.’
    ‘I made a promise to the wife,’ he says with a diffident smile. ‘We came here ten years ago when the kids were kids. She was fairly far gone with the big C. Breasts. Lungs. Ovaries. You name it.’
    ‘But she was cured?’ I ask incredulously.
    ‘No, not at all. She died four months later.’
    ‘So there was no miracle?’
    ‘You tell me, mate? I’m down here, aren’t I?’ He rubs his knuckle against his cheek. ‘Along with the rest of the lads. Coming to Lourdes made all the difference to Jackie. She said she saw so much goodness that she felt safe about leaving me and the kids. Oh fuck, now you’ve got me going.’ That’s one fuck I’m determined to fight for and I signal to Jamie to carry on filming as, without a jot of self-consciousness, Pete pulls out his handkerchief and wipes his eyes.
    ‘Have you brought the children with you?’ I ask, for some reason picturing surly teenagers.
    ‘Fat chance! They’re both grown up. One’s a good Catholic girl; the other’s more of a good-time girl. Oh no, she’ll kill me! But seriously , mate, it’s a very special place. Forget the Costa del Sol, this is the Costa del Hope.’
    My fear that the filming will cause a delay proves to be unfounded, given the logistics of loading a dozen wheelchairs on to the coaches. Discreetly waiting till last, I clamber to the back where I pass Patricia sitting alone, a bag forbiddingly placed on the adjacent seat.
    ‘Have you been deserted?’ I ask lightly.
    ‘Richard and Gillian took the coach to the Acceuil. Hospital pilgrims .’ She mouths the hospital as if, even in this setting, it is taboo. ‘Which hotel are you staying at?’
    ‘The Bretagne.’
    ‘Really? I’m at the St Claire.’ Her tone hints at its superiority. ‘I thought you’d be staying there or the Gallia Londres.’
    ‘BBC cutbacks,’ I say, with rare gratitude to the financial squeeze for sparing me this fellow guest, while plotting – precipitately, futilely – how my shooting schedule might compel me to spend a couple of nights at the Acceuil.
    I am appalled by my readiness to conjure a romantic scenario out of thin air. I am a documentarist, not a drama director. My metier is facts not fantasies. Yet every relationship springs from a seed of fantasy, so why not this? For the first time in years I am open to the possibility of intimacy. No wonder I feel scared. But is it the prospect or the setting that scares me? Do I mistrust myself even more than Lourdes?
    The questions hang in the air as I am distracted by Father Humphrey , who fills the forty-minute journey with a running commentary , first informing us that ‘watches, tick-tocks and time-bombs need to be advanced by an hour,’ then telling a succession of hoary priest jokes which draw the same enthusiastic response from his audience as their favourite hymns, and finally