‘One of the ladies couldn’t reach the lavatory in time. Still, worse things happen at sea.’
On which note she hurries off, leaving me to speculate further as to why she was so happy to approve our film. Why should she expose the Jubilate to a medium that is notoriously inimical to religion? She cannot be seeking her fifteen minutes of public validation; her sights are set on something far more enduring, not to say eternal. She must have an unshakeable belief in the merits of her mission, along with the confidence that it will transcend anything that I and my camera might put in its way. She must have an absolute faith in faith.
I finally complete the check-in and line up with the crew for the departure lounge. Our equipment provokes the usual consternation at security. The days may have passed when my name alone ensured a rigorous body search, but the guards remain intent not simply to root out suspects but to cause the maximum discomfort and humiliation to everyone else. Impotent in the face of Sophie’s official documents , they retaliate by checking every item in our bags, the only dubious ones they find being Jamie’s magazines, which a jowly guard holds up with as great a display of distaste as if they were hard-core porn. Released at last, we move up to passport control where we are transfixed by a series of piercing screams.
The cause soon becomes clear. Not content with requiring people who can barely bend to remove their shoes and others who can scarcely walk to give up their sticks and totter through the scanner, the guards have forced Fiona to put her tape measure through the X-ray machine. Her mother tries to assure her that it has done no damage, grabbing the tape measure off the conveyor belt and pulling it open to show that it functions exactly as before, but Fiona is inconsolable . It is as though the magic powers with which she has invested it have been wiped out by the rays.
Lamenting that this is the one place that we are forbidden to film, we inch our way through passport control to the departure lounge. Dodging the passengers weighed down with duty-frees, we head for Wetherspoons, where Jewel is surprised by the number of limegreen luggage tags at the bar.
‘Catholics drink,’ I explain, buying a round.
We grab a table and are sitting down when Louisa catches sight of us and walks over. ‘All present and correct,’ she says, which may or may not be a question. ‘Mind if I…?’
‘Please do,’ I say, half-standing as she draws up a chair.
‘Ten years and it doesn’t get any easier! Still, one last stretch and then it’s Marjorie Plumley’s turn. Squadron Officer Brennan reduced to the ranks. I can’t wait!’
‘But you must enjoy it to have gone on for so long.’
‘I’m not sure enjoy is the word I’d choose, but I like to see it as my contribution – almost my vocation.’ She gives another embarrassed laugh. ‘Please don’t think that I’m putting myself on a par with the nurses or sisters, let alone the priests. Not at all. But give me some letters to write or forms to fill or doors to knock on and I’m in my element. The Jubilate is a working pilgrimage. Which suits yours truly down to the ground. Everyone, from Father Humphrey to the youngest brancardier, is here to ensure that our hospital pilgrims get the most out of Lourdes.’
‘What’s a brancardier?’ Jewel asks.
‘What indeed? You must feel like you’re back at school: it was weeks before I figured out that going to the Congo meant choir practice…! Brancardier was – is – the French for stretcher-bearer and it stretches – whoops! – back to the early days of Lourdes. We use it for all our male helpers, young and old. The women are called handmaidens.’
‘Young and old too?’ Jewel asks.
‘Yes, although I fear there are more of the latter.’
‘You’re telling me,’ Jamie says.
‘Don’t worry,’ Louisa replies, in a voice that sends him fumbling for his beer. ‘It’s not as
On which note she hurries off, leaving me to speculate further as to why she was so happy to approve our film. Why should she expose the Jubilate to a medium that is notoriously inimical to religion? She cannot be seeking her fifteen minutes of public validation; her sights are set on something far more enduring, not to say eternal. She must have an unshakeable belief in the merits of her mission, along with the confidence that it will transcend anything that I and my camera might put in its way. She must have an absolute faith in faith.
I finally complete the check-in and line up with the crew for the departure lounge. Our equipment provokes the usual consternation at security. The days may have passed when my name alone ensured a rigorous body search, but the guards remain intent not simply to root out suspects but to cause the maximum discomfort and humiliation to everyone else. Impotent in the face of Sophie’s official documents , they retaliate by checking every item in our bags, the only dubious ones they find being Jamie’s magazines, which a jowly guard holds up with as great a display of distaste as if they were hard-core porn. Released at last, we move up to passport control where we are transfixed by a series of piercing screams.
The cause soon becomes clear. Not content with requiring people who can barely bend to remove their shoes and others who can scarcely walk to give up their sticks and totter through the scanner, the guards have forced Fiona to put her tape measure through the X-ray machine. Her mother tries to assure her that it has done no damage, grabbing the tape measure off the conveyor belt and pulling it open to show that it functions exactly as before, but Fiona is inconsolable . It is as though the magic powers with which she has invested it have been wiped out by the rays.
Lamenting that this is the one place that we are forbidden to film, we inch our way through passport control to the departure lounge. Dodging the passengers weighed down with duty-frees, we head for Wetherspoons, where Jewel is surprised by the number of limegreen luggage tags at the bar.
‘Catholics drink,’ I explain, buying a round.
We grab a table and are sitting down when Louisa catches sight of us and walks over. ‘All present and correct,’ she says, which may or may not be a question. ‘Mind if I…?’
‘Please do,’ I say, half-standing as she draws up a chair.
‘Ten years and it doesn’t get any easier! Still, one last stretch and then it’s Marjorie Plumley’s turn. Squadron Officer Brennan reduced to the ranks. I can’t wait!’
‘But you must enjoy it to have gone on for so long.’
‘I’m not sure enjoy is the word I’d choose, but I like to see it as my contribution – almost my vocation.’ She gives another embarrassed laugh. ‘Please don’t think that I’m putting myself on a par with the nurses or sisters, let alone the priests. Not at all. But give me some letters to write or forms to fill or doors to knock on and I’m in my element. The Jubilate is a working pilgrimage. Which suits yours truly down to the ground. Everyone, from Father Humphrey to the youngest brancardier, is here to ensure that our hospital pilgrims get the most out of Lourdes.’
‘What’s a brancardier?’ Jewel asks.
‘What indeed? You must feel like you’re back at school: it was weeks before I figured out that going to the Congo meant choir practice…! Brancardier was – is – the French for stretcher-bearer and it stretches – whoops! – back to the early days of Lourdes. We use it for all our male helpers, young and old. The women are called handmaidens.’
‘Young and old too?’ Jewel asks.
‘Yes, although I fear there are more of the latter.’
‘You’re telling me,’ Jamie says.
‘Don’t worry,’ Louisa replies, in a voice that sends him fumbling for his beer. ‘It’s not as
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