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Authors: Stef Penney
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thin rain.
“We should’ve done this ages ago. Isn’t it too late?”
“No. No, it’s . . .” I search for some words of comfort. “I’ll do my best.” She nods, unhappy. Clearly I do not inspire her with much confidence. She turns without another word and trudges, head down, to her car.
9.
JJ
At last we’re at Lourdes. Everyone is tense, wondering what’s going to happen. We arrived last night, having got lost three times driving down little roads among green hills. Down here in the South of France, every single road is signposted to a place called Pau. So every time we thought we were on the road to Lourdes, we ended up heading for Pau instead. It was a bit funny, really, heading for a cartoon punch in the face. I thought so, anyway, but I didn’t say anything, as Gran was getting cross. It was so late when we finally found Lourdes that it was dark, and we drove about looking for a place to pull on, blind as bats. There aren’t any streetlights outside the town, so we pulled onto a dark field that seemed quiet and where we thought we wouldn’t bother anyone.
This morning, we were woken up at six o’clock by a giant groaning, roaring noise. I leaped out of my bunk and looked out the window—and it turned out we had pulled onto a bit of land right next to a factory, and all the machinery was starting up for the day. We all got up really quickly, and sure enough, in a few minutes a man came over from the factory to shout at us. I’m not sure what he said, but we kept saying “Lourdes” and pointing to Christo and Great-uncle’s wheelchair, and eventually he calmed down and went away.
Lourdes is kind of a weird place. The shrine seems quite separate from the town proper. For a while we drove around, not sure where to go; then I realized that we had to follow the signs to “Sanctuaires” to get to the grotto, where it all happens. There are lots of churches, and there are a lot of people. Lots of coach trips and people in uniforms. Most of the people are old. Some of them really old. I watch this one coach spewing out its load of passengers, and it takes ages. The ones who aren’t in wheelchairs can hardly walk, and cling on for dear life as they clamber down the coach steps. They’ve all had plenty of life. Between them, there must be a couple thousand years in that one coach alone. Literally. Christo’s had only six years, and all of them with the disease. I think he deserves a miracle more than any of them. I hope God takes note of this.
We park in a coach park and set off for the grotto first, as that’s where Mary apparently appeared to Saint Bernadette many years ago. Ivo carries Christo, and I push Great-uncle. It’s funny. Now that I’m here, I’m quite excited. I really feel that something might happen, even though I’ve been secretly doubtful up until now. I mean, Bernadette was this girl who had special needs—a retard, in other words. And she was my age. I can’t imagine anyone appearing to any of the girls I know at school. Most of them are incredibly stupid or really tedious, or both. Helen Davies, for example, who is supposed to be such a devout Catholic, would love it if something appeared to her, as she could be even more high and mighty than usual. But she’s totally prejudiced against Gypsies. Then I wonder what Saint Bernadette thought of Gypsies. Great-uncle is always saying how in all parts of Europe people have persecuted us, usually much worse than they have in Britain, so actually we’re quite lucky. Like, during the Holocaust, Gypsies were gassed like Jews. But if you were only a quarter Jewish, you counted as not Jewish and were allowed to live. But if you were only one-sixteenth Gypsy, then you were still a Gypsy and they would gas you. That’s how much they hated Gypsies. And in Romania, for centuries and centuries Gypsies were actually slaves, bought and sold like cattle. They don’t teach you that in school. But Great-uncle tells me. He knows a lot about
“We should’ve done this ages ago. Isn’t it too late?”
“No. No, it’s . . .” I search for some words of comfort. “I’ll do my best.” She nods, unhappy. Clearly I do not inspire her with much confidence. She turns without another word and trudges, head down, to her car.
9.
JJ
At last we’re at Lourdes. Everyone is tense, wondering what’s going to happen. We arrived last night, having got lost three times driving down little roads among green hills. Down here in the South of France, every single road is signposted to a place called Pau. So every time we thought we were on the road to Lourdes, we ended up heading for Pau instead. It was a bit funny, really, heading for a cartoon punch in the face. I thought so, anyway, but I didn’t say anything, as Gran was getting cross. It was so late when we finally found Lourdes that it was dark, and we drove about looking for a place to pull on, blind as bats. There aren’t any streetlights outside the town, so we pulled onto a dark field that seemed quiet and where we thought we wouldn’t bother anyone.
This morning, we were woken up at six o’clock by a giant groaning, roaring noise. I leaped out of my bunk and looked out the window—and it turned out we had pulled onto a bit of land right next to a factory, and all the machinery was starting up for the day. We all got up really quickly, and sure enough, in a few minutes a man came over from the factory to shout at us. I’m not sure what he said, but we kept saying “Lourdes” and pointing to Christo and Great-uncle’s wheelchair, and eventually he calmed down and went away.
Lourdes is kind of a weird place. The shrine seems quite separate from the town proper. For a while we drove around, not sure where to go; then I realized that we had to follow the signs to “Sanctuaires” to get to the grotto, where it all happens. There are lots of churches, and there are a lot of people. Lots of coach trips and people in uniforms. Most of the people are old. Some of them really old. I watch this one coach spewing out its load of passengers, and it takes ages. The ones who aren’t in wheelchairs can hardly walk, and cling on for dear life as they clamber down the coach steps. They’ve all had plenty of life. Between them, there must be a couple thousand years in that one coach alone. Literally. Christo’s had only six years, and all of them with the disease. I think he deserves a miracle more than any of them. I hope God takes note of this.
We park in a coach park and set off for the grotto first, as that’s where Mary apparently appeared to Saint Bernadette many years ago. Ivo carries Christo, and I push Great-uncle. It’s funny. Now that I’m here, I’m quite excited. I really feel that something might happen, even though I’ve been secretly doubtful up until now. I mean, Bernadette was this girl who had special needs—a retard, in other words. And she was my age. I can’t imagine anyone appearing to any of the girls I know at school. Most of them are incredibly stupid or really tedious, or both. Helen Davies, for example, who is supposed to be such a devout Catholic, would love it if something appeared to her, as she could be even more high and mighty than usual. But she’s totally prejudiced against Gypsies. Then I wonder what Saint Bernadette thought of Gypsies. Great-uncle is always saying how in all parts of Europe people have persecuted us, usually much worse than they have in Britain, so actually we’re quite lucky. Like, during the Holocaust, Gypsies were gassed like Jews. But if you were only a quarter Jewish, you counted as not Jewish and were allowed to live. But if you were only one-sixteenth Gypsy, then you were still a Gypsy and they would gas you. That’s how much they hated Gypsies. And in Romania, for centuries and centuries Gypsies were actually slaves, bought and sold like cattle. They don’t teach you that in school. But Great-uncle tells me. He knows a lot about
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