Jubilate by Michael Arditti Read Free Book Online

are so intense.
    ‘Shall we play I-spy?’ Jamie asks, as the conversational lull slumps into boredom. He takes no offence when no one replies.
    ‘It’s not fuel prices or carbon footprints that will ultimately do for mass travel,’ I say, ‘it’s airports.’
    ‘The Japanese have the best idea,’ Jewel says. ‘They don’t bother to actually go anywhere anymore – except to the photographer’s, where they have themselves filmed against massive blow-ups of the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty or whatever. Then they put out the photos for all their friends to admire.’
    ‘But don’t their friends piss themselves?’ Jamie asks.
    ‘Not at all. They’re doing the same thing. It’s the accepted practice : the new way to travel in the virtual world.’
    The word virtual has its usual effect on me and I switch off until I hear Sophie say that it’s half past eight and the coaches should be arriving soon.
    ‘All you want are some establishing shots of the guys gathering at the check-in, is that right, chief?’ Jamie asks.
    ‘Yes, as colourful as you can. I should be able to pick out our lynchpins. If not, I’ll ask one of the organisers for help.’
    Louisa, the Pilgrimage Director, with whom I’ve been in such frequent contact over the past three months that I’ve bumped her up to Friends and Family on my phone, has given me a list of the pilgrims, along with brief descriptions which at times stretch to a paragraph and at others stop at a word (‘teacher’, ‘goitre’, ‘Scottish’). Prompted by dim memories of O level English, I envy Chaucer the more compact and flamboyant cast in his Prologue and yearn for someone even half as salty as the Wife of Bath. With nothing but instinct to guide me, I have chosen a representative selection of hospital pilgrims: Brenda, a sixty-year-old with MS; Martin, a teenager with cerebral palsy; Frank, a former chartered surveyor with chronic Lyme Disease; Fiona, a six-year-old with Down’s Syndrome; and Lester, a middle manager with terminal cancer, a fact which, grossly overestimating our audience, he declared himself willing to share with ten million strangers but none of his fellow pilgrims. I spoke at length on the phone to Lester and his wife, Tess, as well as to Martin’s and Fiona’s mothers, the latter assuring me that her daughter is ‘quite personable’, as though I were the scout for a disabled talent show. Brenda’s snarled and Frank’s slurred speech made sustained conversation impossible but, after a few strained words, I secured the cooperation of both Brenda’s girlfriend and the warden of Frank’s sheltered housing.
    My able-bodied selection is to a large extent dictated by the sick: Lester’s wife, Tess; Fiona’s parents, Steve and Mary; Martin’s mother, Claire; Brenda’s girlfriend, Linda (the cynic in me wondered whether Louisa’s ease with their relationship had been assumed for my benefit). For human drama I have chosen Lucja and Tadeusz,a young Polish couple with a brain-damaged baby: she a staunch Catholic with an absolute belief in miracles; he a sceptic who only agreed to the trip when his wife’s church presented him with a ticket. From the volunteers I have chosen Maggie, a retired midwife, with sixteen pilgrimages under her belt (and three long-service medals above it), and Kevin, who is currently suspended from school and will only be allowed back on proof of good behaviour. Finally, I have chosen two priests: Father Humphrey, the spiritual director, who wants it known that, despite the committee’s approval, he has strong reservations about the filming; and Father Dave, a former estate agent who, in his own phrase, ‘once sold time-shares and now sells eternity’.
    Having run through all the names in my head, I am seized by a momentary panic, convinced that I have forgotten some vital piece of documentation which will prevent my boarding the plane.
    ‘Hey chief,’ Jamie asks, ‘are you making the sign of the