Jubilate by Michael Arditti Page A

one-sided as it looks. There are two minivans full of young people currently making their way through France.’
    ‘How long does that take?’ Sophie asks.
    ‘A couple of days. Believe it or not, they enjoy it. For one thing it’s a lot cheaper. And they have the chance to make friends en route, as well as sorting out the music for the services.’ She turns to me. ‘I do hope you’ll feature as many of them as you can. They’re a real tonic. Some come back year after year, even though the work is quite menial. You should see the boys – I doubt if they so much as pick up a dirty plate at home – happily making beds and mopping floors. It’s a chance to show viewers that teenage life isn’t all about knife crime and hoodies. But the numbers have been steadily falling. We needmore to sign up if we’re to carry on taking as many of our hospital pilgrims.’ It hits me that she is hoping to use the programme as a recruitment tool. To my surprise, I find myself less averse to the idea than I would have been half an hour ago. ‘Between you and me, that was what swayed the committee in your favour. And when we sent out the release forms, not a single person said “no”. I tell a lie. There’s one couple we haven’t heard from.’
    My chest tightens at the thought of the constant struggle to avoid the two dissidents. ‘Might they be open to persuasion?’
    ‘Oh I’m sure it’s just an oversight. They’re first-timers so I don’t know them, but the husband’s – I think it’s the husband’s – mother is an old-hand. I’ll introduce them to you this evening.’ She seems to sense my dismay. ‘Or would you prefer it now?’
    ‘If you wouldn’t mind. We may catch them in shot when we arrive in Lourdes.’
    Louisa leads me through the lounge, which feels sterile despite the clutter. We stop beside an elegant woman of about seventy, with her ash blonde hair swept up, neatly plucked eyebrows and a lightly powdered face. She sits flicking through a copy of the magazine that I filmed last year. Her baby blue jacket, opal brooch, cream silk blouse and black-and-white pleated skirt mark her out from the average pilgrim. She stands to greet Louisa, extending a perfectly manicured, slightly arthritic hand.
    ‘Patricia, how lovely to see you again,’ Louisa says, ‘looking as chic as ever.’
    ‘We try not to let the side down. Can’t all be lilies of the field, can we?’ She breaks off as if in doubt about the appropriateness of the reference.
    ‘This is Vincent O’Shaughnessy, who’s making a documentary on the pilgrimage.’
    ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I say, taking a hand that feels strangely weightless.
    ‘We’re all very excited about your film,’ Patricia says.
    ‘Me too.’
    ‘Not that I watch much television,’ she adds. My eyes drift to the copy of Hello , open at the story of a daytime presenter and her long-awaited bundle of joy . ‘My husband – my late husband, that is – usedto say that scientists had shown how our brain waves when we watch TV are the same as when we’re asleep.’
    ‘Is that so?’ I say, taken aback. ‘Perhaps they meant when we’re dreaming? At our most responsive.’
    ‘Perhaps. You must be sure to let us know when it’s on, so we don’t miss it.’
    ‘Patricia’s one of our most treasured handmaidens. Ten visits now, is it?’
    ‘Nine.’
    ‘She’s the queen of the dining room. Not silver service, gold. This year she’s brought her son and daughter-in-law.’
    ‘Yes,’ Patricia says with a sigh. ‘I finally persuaded Gillian. She’s just popped to Boots for some aspirin. And this is my Richard.’ She points across the aisle to a handsome man in his mid-forties with fine sandy hair, a strong chin, a strikingly clear complexion, and a frame that looks constrained by his jacket. He sits, shifting his gaze between the departure board and his wristwatch as if daring the times to differ. ‘Richard, darling, this is Mr O’Shaughnessy. He’s going