Jubilate by Michael Arditti Read Free Book Online Page A

cross or playing with yourself?’ Looking down, I realise that I have involuntarily checked for my passport, ticket and wallet in my jacket pockets and coins in my trousers.
    ‘Who should be on the comedy circuit now?’ I reply, flustered in spite of myself. Travelling always brings out the child in me: more precisely, the child who was left behind on a school camping trip because his mother had sent him on the coach with a duffel bag, refusing to ‘waste good money’ on a rucksack. I choke down the bile that has risen in my throat. It can be no accident that a visit to Lourdes should put me in mind of my mother.
    Jamie goes to Smith’s in search of magazines and Sophie and Jewel to the Body Shop to ‘check out the three for twos’, leaving me to guard the bags. I struggle to memorise the schedule, but thoughts of my mother distract me. The diocesan pilgrimage to Lourdes was her first ever trip abroad and, despite my offer to pay for the flight, she insisted on taking the coach as if to keep faith with the charabancs of her past. Every August we would spend a week in either Blackpool or Skegness. When my father suggested that one year he might quite fancy Scarborough, she was outraged, less by the break with tradition than by the presumption. ‘Dr Supple goes to Scarborough ,’ she said reverentially, ‘with his widowed sister.’ In retrospect Isuspect that, along with the desire to maintain strict class divisions, which also ensured that even when seated two rows in front she would defer to the doctor at mass, she was anxious to avoid a reciprocal glimpse of his unclad flesh.
    My memories of icy seas and heavy downpours, of humiliating changes behind skimpy towels and luncheon-meat suppers served by supercilious landladies have no doubt been embellished, but I realised even at an early age that my mother regarded such ordeals as the price of pleasure. The only holidays she embraced were authentic holy days: the Marian feast days when, along with our fellow parishioners , we would process through the streets of Barnsley behind a statue of the Virgin, while I prayed that none of my school friends caught sight of me in my surplice.
    For once, however, I have reason to be glad of my background. ‘I presume you’re a Catholic, Mr O’Shaughnessy,’ Louisa asked, on hearing my name.
    ‘In one respect,’ I replied lightly, ‘the guilt.’
    Jamie returns, munching an Aero and brandishing copies of Maxim and Club .
    ‘For God’s sake, Jamie! This isn’t sex tourism in Eastern Europe; it’s a pilgrimage to Lourdes.’
    Looking hurt, he rolls up the magazines into the pocket of his shoulder bag. We sit in awkward silence until Sophie and Jewel appear, the latter carrying a packet, which she pulls open. ‘Smell this, Jamie. It’s bliss.’ He squeezes some oil on to his palm and presses it to his nose. ‘Hey, I said smell ,’ she says, grabbing back the bottle, ‘not scratch and sniff.’
    She passes the bottle to me, but we are interrupted by the ring of Sophie’s mobile. I listen eagerly as she takes a call from Louisa announcing that the London coach has arrived.
    ‘Let battle commence,’ I say, leading my troops to the check-in. Jamie sets up his camera, arousing the suspicion of two security guards, whom Sophie deftly placates with the requisite permit. My heart sinks as the first pilgrims appear, immediately identifiable by the lime-green luggage tags which, unlike us, they have obediently tied to hand-baggage and even wheelchair handles. While not expecting the beautiful people of the Hello film or the exoticlandscape of Zambia, I was hoping for something a little less drab. I wonder whether there is a tenet in canon law that restricts the wearing of primary colours to priests.
    Louisa stands to one side, with a quartermaster’s clipboard. Giving me a hearty wave, which draws attention to the filming, she heads our way. She greets Sophie and myself and I introduce her to Jewel and Jamie.
    ‘That’s