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Authors: Stef Penney
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it. So maybe Bernadette was prejudiced againstGypsies, too. Maybe no one’s ever asked. I did wonder at first whether we shouldn’t go and ask for a miracle from Saint Sara—who is the patron saint of Gypsies, after all. Her shrine’s not that far from here—and we could all go to the seaside at the same time. But no one listens to me.
There’s a railing along the side of the road, next to a cliff, and Bernadette’s grotto is up above our heads. You can’t actually climb up to it because of the railings. People wander past, quite casually, as if it’s no big deal. I wonder if they all really believe in how holy it all is—they don’t look that bothered, most of them. There’s a big candelabra thing at the bottom, also behind the railings. It’s pretty. I prefer it to the statue of Mary that’s in the grotto—which is rather plasticky, in my opinion. I shut my eyes, though, like Gran, and try to pray. She has her eyes shut, and her lips are moving silently. When I open my eyes, Christo is gazing up at the statue with a look of total calm. I wonder what he’s thinking. At this point, Great-uncle suddenly swings his chair around and starts pushing himself off as if he’s in a hurry. He doesn’t say anything to any of us. I start to go after him, but Ivo puts his hand on my arm.
“Leave him,” he says. Gran opens her eyes and looks furious.
After we’ve looked and prayed, Ivo takes Christo off to the bathhouses. This is where the afflicted are bathed in the holy water—presumably where the miracles take place, if they’re going to. Before we got here, I was a bit worried about whether I would manage to explain things to people here, but there are lots of helpers here of different nationalities—in fact, most of the young people you see seem to be helpers rather than supplicants. That’s what we are—supplicants. Ivo has found one who speaks English, although he’s actually a French-Canadian called Balthazar (cool name!), and he goes to the bathhouses with them. Ivo doesn’t look him in the eye, as though he’s embarrassed about the whole thing. I wish he’d make a bit more of an effort. I ask Ivo if he wants me to go with them, but he says no. He has a towel around his shoulders, although it’s really warm and sunny, so I don’t think he needs to worry about Christo getting cold. I’m sure Lourdes will have thought of that, anyway. Maybe they have hair dryers.
Then Gran and I are left behind. Gran joins the queue to touch the walls of the grotto and look at the spring. She wants me to stay with her.
“I don’t want you wandering off by yourself. What if something happened to you?”
“Like what?”
“We’re abroad. Anything could happen!”
I point out that we are in a place of pilgrimage that’s full of unhealthy religious people. Christians aren’t going to do anything bad to me, are they? And I can speak French, unlike her. She can’t think of a reply to that, so I promise to come back—she’s obviously going to be stuck in her queue for ages—and she sulkily lights a fag.
Balthazar told us where we could get holy water to take home with us—you help yourself to it, which is very Christian of them, so good for Lourdes. You can buy little plastic bottles to fill, which have a picture of Mary on them and the word “Lourdes,” but I realize that actually you can use anything you want. So I go all the way back to the trailers and get a couple of plastic jerry cans.
I join the queue at the tap. Most people have got little bottles—mainly official Mary ones, although some people are filling Coke bottles and water bottles as well. Some of them look at the jerry cans and mutter, but I don’t know what they’re saying, so I don’t care. When it’s my turn I hold the jerry cans under the tap and fill them up, ignoring the muttering that’s going on behind me. Honestly, it’s just a tap coming out of the ground, like a standpipe on a site. I don’t know what makes it so
There’s a railing along the side of the road, next to a cliff, and Bernadette’s grotto is up above our heads. You can’t actually climb up to it because of the railings. People wander past, quite casually, as if it’s no big deal. I wonder if they all really believe in how holy it all is—they don’t look that bothered, most of them. There’s a big candelabra thing at the bottom, also behind the railings. It’s pretty. I prefer it to the statue of Mary that’s in the grotto—which is rather plasticky, in my opinion. I shut my eyes, though, like Gran, and try to pray. She has her eyes shut, and her lips are moving silently. When I open my eyes, Christo is gazing up at the statue with a look of total calm. I wonder what he’s thinking. At this point, Great-uncle suddenly swings his chair around and starts pushing himself off as if he’s in a hurry. He doesn’t say anything to any of us. I start to go after him, but Ivo puts his hand on my arm.
“Leave him,” he says. Gran opens her eyes and looks furious.
After we’ve looked and prayed, Ivo takes Christo off to the bathhouses. This is where the afflicted are bathed in the holy water—presumably where the miracles take place, if they’re going to. Before we got here, I was a bit worried about whether I would manage to explain things to people here, but there are lots of helpers here of different nationalities—in fact, most of the young people you see seem to be helpers rather than supplicants. That’s what we are—supplicants. Ivo has found one who speaks English, although he’s actually a French-Canadian called Balthazar (cool name!), and he goes to the bathhouses with them. Ivo doesn’t look him in the eye, as though he’s embarrassed about the whole thing. I wish he’d make a bit more of an effort. I ask Ivo if he wants me to go with them, but he says no. He has a towel around his shoulders, although it’s really warm and sunny, so I don’t think he needs to worry about Christo getting cold. I’m sure Lourdes will have thought of that, anyway. Maybe they have hair dryers.
Then Gran and I are left behind. Gran joins the queue to touch the walls of the grotto and look at the spring. She wants me to stay with her.
“I don’t want you wandering off by yourself. What if something happened to you?”
“Like what?”
“We’re abroad. Anything could happen!”
I point out that we are in a place of pilgrimage that’s full of unhealthy religious people. Christians aren’t going to do anything bad to me, are they? And I can speak French, unlike her. She can’t think of a reply to that, so I promise to come back—she’s obviously going to be stuck in her queue for ages—and she sulkily lights a fag.
Balthazar told us where we could get holy water to take home with us—you help yourself to it, which is very Christian of them, so good for Lourdes. You can buy little plastic bottles to fill, which have a picture of Mary on them and the word “Lourdes,” but I realize that actually you can use anything you want. So I go all the way back to the trailers and get a couple of plastic jerry cans.
I join the queue at the tap. Most people have got little bottles—mainly official Mary ones, although some people are filling Coke bottles and water bottles as well. Some of them look at the jerry cans and mutter, but I don’t know what they’re saying, so I don’t care. When it’s my turn I hold the jerry cans under the tap and fill them up, ignoring the muttering that’s going on behind me. Honestly, it’s just a tap coming out of the ground, like a standpipe on a site. I don’t know what makes it so
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