After Purple (20 page)

Ray didn't even put his tumbler down. Adrian would have said “impossible” and started lecturing me on the commercialisation of peasant superstition; Leo would have muttered “
where?
” and gone on with his
Listener
, and my mother would have closed the conversation with a shudder.

Ray just wiped his mouth and said, “What a
good
idea. Funnily enough, I'm going there myself.”

I was so astounded, I dropped my spoon and splattered the sheets with raspberry. Though I suppose it wasn't that surprising — all priests land up at Lourdes. But I kept forgetting Ray was God's Anointed, especially when he was mopping up icecream.

“
When?
” I stuttered. It would probably be next year. I'd be dead by then, or unable to get time off from my job as a receptionist. Receptionists never go to Lourdes in any case, only Acapulco.

“Early April,” he said. “It's glorious then. All the blossom out and the buds unfurling. I'll be there for Easter Day.”

I pushed my bowl away. I was so light and white and radiant inside, I didn't need icecream. I'd always planned to go to Lourdes at Easter. That was the date of my First Communion. It wouldn't be my nineteenth year, but not really that far off it, and anyway, I doubt if God bothers with a calendar. I could receive the host from Ray's own hands. A Ray dressed not in gym shoes, but in snowy alb and golden chasuble.

“But that's three months off,” he was saying. “Far too late for you. You need your convalescence right away, if it's to do you any good.”

“No,” I said. “I
must
go to Lourdes and I want to go with you.”

“I'm afraid that won't be possible, Thea dear. I'm taking a group of handicapped boys who need a lot of looking after. Sometimes, I don't get off till after midnight.”

I frowned. There wasn't room for boys. I wanted to be alone with him, holding his hand in the Grotto, sharing his poverty, mending his holes.

“I still want to go when you're there.”

“But it won't be convalescence, then.”

“I don't care. You can't go to Lourdes in January, anyway. It's freezing cold and all shut up.” The girls at school had told me that. They'd always been in August, but it was very crowded then. Easter would be better. Easter was the time of the Resurrection and I needed resurrecting.

Ray was looking worried. “Yes, I suppose it is. I hadn't really thought about the weather.”

“
Every
where's freezing cold in January. Except ritzy places like Barbados. And if I had the cash to zip off there, then I could afford to stay in the hospital and wouldn't
need
any stupid convalescence.”

“Weymouth's quite warm in winter. I've got a cousin there who might …”

“Weymouth
stinks
.”

“Or there's a convalescent home in Bath. Really nice. It's even got a squash court.”

“I don't
play
squash.”

“Well, how about your mother?”

“She doesn't play, either.”

“No, I thought perhaps …”

“I want to go away with
you
, Ray, not my bloody mother.”

“Look, Thea, I'd love to take you with me, but priests can't just rush off on holiday with beautiful young girls.”

“I'm not beautiful, I'm
hideous
. That's why I want to go to Lourdes, with all the other wrecks and write-offs. And I want to go at Easter.”

“But Easter's thirteen weeks away. Even if you came with me, there's still the problem of what you're going to do meanwhile.”

“I'll go back to Leo's, where I live.”

“But that's not convalescence.”

“It
could
be …”

“But do you think you
should
? I mean, aren't you worried that …”

“Look, Ray, if I
know
I'm going to Lourdes, then everything feels different. It's something to look forward to. Something special. I've wanted to go there ever since I was thirteen. I had a sort of thing about it. The whole school went except me — every year in our summer holidays. I begged and prayed to be included, but I was always left behind. My mother said she simply couldn't afford it.” (I didn't tell him what she
really
said. After all, he assumed my mother and I were good conventional Catholics like the rest.) “That's why I've
got
to go now, Ray. Don't you see, it's the first real chance I've ever had. I know I'll get better if you let me go. I don't care when it is, or how, but I
must
be there when you're there.”

“Look, Thea, dear, I don't want to be a spoilsport, but it really isn't on. Once I get to Lourdes, I'll hardly have time to turn round. It's a full-time job. The boys take all my time. They have to — they're sick and disabled. Some of them can't even feed themselves. I'd
love
to be with you, but it's just not possible. I'm even on call at night.”

“That's OK,” I shrugged. It wasn't. The last thing I wanted was a gang of greedy boys devouring all of Ray, but I didn't intend to lose Lourdes altogether. Not when I'd got this far. “Then I'll go on my own,” I said. Once we'd both arrived there, I could always fiddle his timetable.

“You can't go alone, my girl. That's no fun. Why don't you ask one of your mates to go with you? Then you'd have some company.”

I almost said, “I haven't got any mates”, but I didn't want to ruin everything, not after that “my girl”. I'd never been called that by a priest before. It was the sort of thing Père Soubirous would have called me, fatherly and caring.

“Good idea,” I said. “I'll ask Patricia Jane.”

“Is she nice? I mean, will she look after your mouth and not let you do too much, and be willing to sit around and eat the odd icecream in between the services?”

“Oh yes,” I lied. “She's terribly kind and very sort of sensible. She used to be a nurse.” I didn't even know her, but I suspect she was the daughter my mother should have had. She was the least of my problems. There were more serious things like cash to be considered. If I couldn't afford the hospital, then how could I pay my way to the very bottom bit of France? Ray's famous poverty didn't seem to stop him travelling halfway across Europe.

“There is one slight problem, Ray. I mean Patricia's
loaded
, but I'm — well …”

“Yes, I'd thought of that.” Ray put his glass of water down, as if even that must be rationed. “I'm working on it. Have you any savings at all?”

I didn't know whether to rival Patricia's riches and buy up my share of Lourdes, or come clean and admit I didn't own a tin-tack. “I've … er … got a little in the Abbey National,” I said.

“I may be able to help. There's various funds and things for deserving cases.”

“I'm not deserving.”

“Of
course
you are. I think the best thing to do is to book you on a package tour. Some of them are pretty cheap and have guides and couriers and a proper daily programme. You even get your own priest.”

Priests were becoming as common in my life as pain-killers. Once, they'd been rare and elusive; now they came cut-price in a package.

“In fact, there's one company I've got a bit of sway with. You might be able to fly with them and then book your own accommodation. That sometimes works out cheaper. Especially if you don't mind slumming it a bit. Would Patricia Jane object?”

Too bad if she did. I shrugged her off. “Is that what
you're
doing?” I asked.

Ray grinned. “I
have
done — many times — bed-bugs and all! I can't do it with the boys, though. We're staying at a special place which can cope with wheelchairs and stretcher cases.”

I stared. He seemed to be turning into a cross between Florence Nightingale and Albert Schweitzer, and I wasn't sure I could keep up with him.

“Can't I stay there too, then?”

“Not possible, I'm afraid. There's hardly room for the helpers, as it is.”

“Well, can't
I
be a helper?”

He took my hand. “That's a very lovely thought, Thea. A very
holy
one, in fact, but I don't think you're quite well enough, just yet.”

“I'll be well enough by Easter.”

“I'm
sure
you will. But I'm afraid all our helpers are already booked by now. It's quite a business, you know — forms and references and things. But we're bound to see each other down at the Grotto, or at the Blessing of the Sick, or the processions. Lourdes is a very friendly place. It's crowded, of course, but every group has banners or badges to distinguish them. The children wear little woollen hats, different colours for all the different groups. You'll find us, Thea. We've got a banner big enough to be seen from the other end of France! Just come over and say hallo. Then you can help a little, unofficially. Even talking to the lads is a tremendous service. Sometimes, they feel no one has time to really bother with them.”

I didn't answer. Disabled people make me nervous. I'm always scared they're judging me or envying me, or may suddenly make a grab at me, or weep or shriek or leak.

“And I'll tell you what, Thea.”

“What?”

“You and Pat could come up to our house in Lourdes and give us a hand — just sort of casually.”

“Pat?” I frowned.

“Your friend. Patricia Jane.”

“Oh, I
see
.” I'd already ditched her, especially if Ray was on such familiar terms. My mother would never have stood for Pats.

“We can always do with an extra pair of hands, even if it's only washing dishes. That's holy work, you know.”

I
loathe
washing up, but somehow the way he said “holy work” made me burn to be a Schweitzer or a Nightingale, to labour and serve like he did, don a Franciscan's robe and devote myself to lepers. I would go to Lourdes and become a stretcher-bearer, a
brancardier
, as they were called. My schoolfriends had shown me photographs of those dedicated, self-sacrificing men who carried the sick and led the blind and were the unofficial gods and saints of Lourdes. I lay back on the pillows. I could see myself walking shoulder to shoulder with Ray, dividing the stretcher's weight between us.

“What's the exact date you're going?” I asked. I wanted to pin him down, turn fantasy into tidy concrete fact.

“Easter Saturday. Well, that's when we arrive. We leave on the Friday on a special coach. Most of the package tours fly from Saturday to Saturday.”

“So we could arrive on the same day?”

“Mmmm.” He still didn't sound too rapturous about it.

“And I'll see you in the meantime?”

“If you want to, Thea, of course. But look, we still haven't decided about your convalescence.”

I waved it away. “Where do I find you?” I asked. “I mean, what's the address of your monastery?”

“It's not a monastery.”

“Well, friary, then, or whatever you call it.”

“Well, I'm not exactly
there
at the moment.”

“You mean, you ran
away
?”

He laughed. “No. Look, my girl, I've got to go now. Don't worry, I'll make sure you have my address before you leave. I'll pop in and see you again tomorrow. OK?”

“OK,” I said. He was probably stalling. There were always tricks in things. But at least I was his girl again.

When he'd gone, I masturbated. I felt so excited about Lourdes and my First Communion and my service to the sick, I had to calm down somehow. There was a little icecream left in the second bowl. I daubed it on my fingers and smeared it between my legs. Although it had melted, it still felt cold because I was burning hot down there. I kept remembering the way he'd squeezed my hand and said “holy thought” and “holy work”. I
ached
to be holy. While I rubbed myself, I thought of lepers and spastics and multiple sclerosis. I came so hard, I cried.

Sister Aidan popped in later on, to take my tray away. She seemed a bit of a simpleton — only good for carrying trays and washing dishes. She had a wide moon face and white eyelashes. You could always get things out of her when the other nuns clammed up.

“You know Father Murphy,” I said.

“Yes, dear.” She was removing half a bread roll from the bed. Out in the world, she'd have been a failure and a fool; safe in the convent, she was the radiant Bride of Christ.

“Where does he live?”

“Well, actually he's living here at the moment.”

“Here?”

“Yes, in one of the hospital maisonettes. Only for a week or two. He's normally up at the hostel with his handicapped boys. But they had a little fire there. Nothing serious. But everything got soaked. He said the Fire Brigade made more mess than the fire itself. So while they're mopping up, we offered him a bed.”

“Is he living alone?” I asked. If we were going to share the stretchers, then I ought to find out all I could about him.

“Well, he hasn't got a housekeeper, if that's what you mean. He doesn't really need one. He still has most of his meals up at the hostel. The kitchen part escaped.”

“Do you think he gets lonely?”

“Oh
no
, dear. You're never lonely with God.” I think she really believed it. She carried God around inside her like a pregnant woman with an embryo. “Anyway, he hasn't time. He works with those boys seven days a week.
And
half the nights. They're terrible cases, some of them. Someone told me he hardly sleeps at all. He's quite a holy man, I would imagine.”

I felt excited when she called him holy. The word was a sort of turn-on, like those magazines you see on Soho bookstalls. But instead of naked-breasted slave-girls wearing nothing but their chains, it was saints I saw, in tatty cords and gym shoes.