Abbé Pierre: uncommonly great, uncommonly honest

You had your Queen Mother, we had Abbé Pierre.

A remarkable priest and what he meant to France were summed up in those nine words. They came in response to my expression of mild surprise
that France 2 had devoted almost the whole of its lunchtime news to his death, aged 94.


Photograph: Abbé Pierre Foundation


There was a significant difference between the Queen Mother and Abbé Pierre. Whereas she was known universally, his was hardly a household name outside France.

At home, though, this friend to the poor, indefatigable battler for the under-privileged was a true saint in the minds of people who shared his concerns and liked his rebellious spirit, but could not hope to match his commitment.

That is why we were treated to reams of old footage with snapshot glimpses of a great man's life, reverential tributes from a succession of studio guests and clips of today's words of praise from everyone who matters or hopes to matter in France.

Chirac, of course; he is actually very impressive in such circumstances, and spoke of France losing "an immense figure, a conscience, and incarnation of good". Then Ségo, Sarko and the lesser presidential candidates.

As someone from France 2 put it, Abbé Pierre's appeal transcended real and supposed barriers; he was adored and admired by young and old, men and women, rich and poor, Left and Right.

In today's small hours, he knew he was dying, beaten by bronchitis, but had no fear of death, we discovered from one of the speakers. A niece, and an executive of the worldwide Emmaus charity network that he created, sat with him and prayed until he breathed his last at 5.25am.

By midday, they were talking of burying him among the greats at the Panthéon, of giving his name to the law on rights for the homeless about to go before the French parliament.

In fact, he had already expressed a clear desire to be laid to rest among colleagues from his 1954 campaign for the poor and unsheltered, during a ferociously cold winter. That will take his bones to Esteville in Normandy, where he lived for most of the 1990s at an Emmaus retirement home.

As for laws in his name, I doubt if he could have cared less. His foundation was not prepared to go beyond giving the legislation a oui mais, seeing it only as a useful start.

But the thing that struck me most about Abbé Pierre during the last two years of his life was that he remained one of his country's most popular citizens even though - perhaps because - he was big enough to own up to human weakness.

Towards the end of 2005, he admitted in a book that he had more than once broken his vow of chastity as a Roman Catholic priest.

Looking at the old television and newsreel film of a good-looking young man - if priests can be swashbuckling, he was - it was not hard to see that temptation would have crossed his path.

There had, he said, been "passing relations" with women, though he had not felt able to commit himself to anything more lasting: "I was very young when I dedicated my life to God and other people.

"I made my vow of chastity, but that did nothing to remove the strength of desire, to which I have succumbed in passing fashion......I could not allow sexual desire to take root. I therefore have known such desire, and on rare occasions satisfied it, but in reality this satisfaction has been a real source of dissatisfaction because I felt I was not being true.

"To be properly satisfying, sexual desire had to express itself in a loving, tender and trusting relationship. That was not open to me because of my chosen life."

I do not know how this went down in the Vatican.

But to their credit, it seems to have mattered not a jot to the French. Only a few months after making these comments, he was voted the third greatest Frenchman of all time, behind only de Gaulle and Pasteur.

Lines of disservice

Imagine the Paris Métro has closed an important section of line one between La Défense and Château de Vincennes. Other parts of the Métro, including the link to Orly airport, are disrupted, too.

Two things would not be happening. No member of staff would be anywhere near a platform to explain to frustrated would-be travellers what was going on, or advise them what to do next.

And no announcement would be made informing people that a good service was operating on all lines.


 

London does it differently. When I was back there a few days ago, part of the vital Piccadilly Line service to Heathrow was suspended. There were no District Line trains from Acton Town to Ealing Broadway. Another line, from memory the Circle, was experiencing its own problems.

None of which was enough to discourage the cheery London voice from informing passengers, as you have already guessed, that a good service was operating on all lines.

At least London Underground could not be blamed for the grim onward journey to Luton Airport.

The signs said my train was on time, but a verbal announcement warned passengers needing to travel beyond Luton that they would have to take a replacement bus service. Then the phrase "on time" assumed new meaning as the number of minutes to arrival began to rise rather than fall.

When the train eventually turned up, it managed only a short distance before shuddering to the first of three or four stops between stations. Each halt lasted several minutes. Even when the train started to move again, that movement was painfully slow.

Every so often, a muffled voice would appear from a speaker on the roof of the carriage. The word "problem" could be discerned, but little else.

Finally we reached St Albans. There the train stopped, seemingly for good. Loud, clear public address announcements informed people that nothing was moving southbound.

By the time anyone could be persuaded to add some information for those of us stuck on the northbound train - information that turned out to be no more encouraging - passengers were beginning to scuttle off towards the taxi rank.

The usual suspicion in such circumstances is that your train will suddenly depart just as you climb the stairs and spot a queue a mile long for cabs. There seemed little such risk this time, and within a few minutes I was sharing a taxi with a Scot and a German also with flights to catch.

A couple from Waterford (is there anywhere planes don't go to these days?) pooled resources with a Swiss girl. Two builders from County Tyrone were already on their way, having opted much sooner to flee the train.

The German, perhaps dreaming of a return to a more efficient world after five years in England, was pessimistic about our chances. But he knew the area well and gave useful running commentary on our progress towards Luton. The Scot, most at risk of missing departure, thrust two Scottish fivers into the German's hands, promised (correctly) that they were legal tender and talked of making a sprint for his flight the moment we reached the airport.

In the event, I think we all caught our planes, having added £31 between us to the cost of getting from London to Luton. In my case, the RER and Métro then got me back into central Paris in no time.

There is no particular moral to just one more example of transport misery. The French railway worker's fondness for his strike, or mouvement social, has ensured a few hairy races against time from Châtelet to Charles de Gaulle. And if the Métro seems more reliable than the Tube, that may be because it is a smaller, more compact system.

But I was left with little sympathy for the Livingstone/Delanoë approach to getting around and out of capital cities.

Ban cars by all means, chaps, but not before you can assure travellers of a first class public transport network that actually works. 
* Picture courtesy of Paul Cooper