Open Writing

*

When he was eighteen my son had a major motor-bike accident. There were multiple injuries, and the surgeon advised him to have his right arm amputated.

“It’s not going to be of any use to you any more,” he said.

History recordeth not my son’s reply, but rest assured the arm is still where it is supposed to be: still paralysed but twenty-three years on it is fatter, pinker and healthier, and no longer hanging like a rag doll from the shoulder socket.

An unexpected turn of events has taken him to a small valley in Portugal; an idyllic place, a time warp where cork oak and chestnut, pine trees and mimosa surround his little house, and ripples of gold suffuse his days. The dark shadows of the passing years have been replaced by peace and security.

“If I hadn’t had the accident,” said my son, “I would have been dead by now. From riding my motor-bike.''

*

Maria is off to Lourdes tomorrow. I have rarely seen a happier woman. Natalina is going - and Conchetta, a whole coach load, in fact, of good Catholic people, mostly wives and widows but with a few husbands too.

Maria is not ill, she is not hoping for a cure for something, although friends and relatives left behind have all begged her to say a prayer for them and their troubles.

“Pray for me, Maria,” they say.

“Pray for my brother, for your grandchildren, and young Laura. Pray for Valentina most of all.”

Valentina has lost her only son: murdered without reason a few weeks ago - her grief has no boundaries, she is too numb and stricken to pray for herself.

Maria is her cousin.

“I will, I will,” says Maria. “I will pray for everyone.

The pilgrimage only lasts a week, from start to finish. That’s not very long, Maria, for all those prayers. Will you have enough time to pray for yourself?

Tomorrow morning, as the sun rises, the coach will slide away to board the ferry, then travel south to the foot of the Pyrenees where St Bernadette claimed to have had eighteen visions of the Virgin Mary. Perhaps the most wonderful part of this venture is the anticipation - the conviction that something marvellous will come to pass. I must wait until Maria returns, to find out if it was so.

The pilgrimage is over, and Maria came to tell me all about it. She brought me a tea towel adorned with “Our Lady” and Bernadette crouching at her feet. It’s amazing what they can put on a tea towel these days, for this is an image machined on, not just a stencil that will fade in the wash.

“Tell me,” I said. “Tell me what was the best part.”

And she did. One early morning she had joined a queue to have total immersion in the Holy Water of the Spring. The hours of waiting had only heightened the anticipation. Old and young, ailing and healthy, they finally reached the place and were helped by the Sisters to prepare: to remove their clothes and to step into the water. Maria was held gently to make sure she didn’t stumble, and after a moment under the water, was enveloped in a towel for her return to the world of reality.

I didn’t need to ask any questions. There was an expression of pure ecstasy on her face.

“Everything felt different,” she said. “Everything had changed when I came out of the water.”

Faith is everything. How could anyone dispute that?

*

It’s a very bouncy walk, with quick, light footsteps. From fifty yards you would think a young girl was coming along, but as she comes nearer you can see she is no girl. She used to live in a grand house on the other side of the cricket field: a lovely, elegant place, big enough for a family but for years I have only seen her walking her two little dogs round the field. I’m not sure when we first smiled at each other, but I do remember, years ago, the headline in the local paper that spoke of a disaster up at the railway bridge, when a businessman from the City had jumped to his death as the express hurtled through. I couldn’t imagine how she could go on walking like that - young and springy, so painfully bereaved.

Then one day, as the rain came down in stair-rods, I came up the hill in my small car and saw her, soaked to the skin in her brown Mac and weighed down with two bags of shopping. I stopped, hazard lights flashing, and insisted she accept a lift home.

After that, our paths would sometimes cross and we always stopped for an exchange. She always wanted to pour something out, to have a listener, and I realised there was no-one left in the house except the two dogs and a rescued cat. She never, ever, mentioned her husband, but I heard about the children and the grandchildren, and later on, as we shared coffee one day, she told me of the younger son who had died of a brain tumour. How much can one person take, I thought. Now, within a few days, both of the dogs have died, and she has decided to sell the family home.

“Where will you go?” I asked, and she told me she had found an apartment in a converted mansion in the next village.

“It will be much better for shopping and for my son to visit,” she said. Pets are not welcome, apparently, so the old cat is going to stay where he is, and the new family will take him on.

The weeks passed, and one day when I was out walking I was surprised o see the bouncy little walk coming towards me across the cricket field.

“What are you doing here?” I said, making light of it, and keeping a tone of banter in my voice.

She looked at me with a sad, sheepish expression. She wished I hadn’t come along just then, I could see that.

“I miss the dogs so much,” she said. “I just wanted to come back for a while. What a silly thing to do, I shan’t do it again. Do come and have a cup of coffee one day. You can see my new flat.” She smiled, but her eyes were full of tears.

“Of course I will, thank you,” I said, and I watched her hurry away to catch the bus: the same quick walk, the same old brown Mac, now tightly belted over her invisible suit of armour. She turned when she reached the gate onto the road, and I waved. A proper wave, not just a salute. A little brown arm came up and she waved back.

I will go and visit one day. I will.