Fergal looked at the clock and he knew he'd be late for school if he went down to St Bridget's and back, so he promised her he'd do it straight after school and bring Our Lady round with her dinner that night. He still had dinner in Walker Street most nights - his final job of the day was to deliver Noreen's supper, which Angela would keep warm in the oven covered with tin foil. At least three dogs usually followed him all the way to Noreen's, just in case he dropped any. It had only happened once.
He'd dropped to the ground when he'd got caught in a sudden crossfire between the army and two masked gunmen, sending the gravy-mashed potatoes and pork chops into the air and the mutts into a frenzy. The guns, accompanied by the sudden rain of bricks and bottles, were deafening. A back door had opened behind Fergal and his saviour, in the shape of an old woman, had whispered that he could take cover in her house. Fergal had managed to crawl, shaking, past the three dogs, who were still killing one another over the pork chops. The whole thing had ended as suddenly as it had begun, and Fergal's biggest worry had been telling his mother that he'd broken one of her good plates.
Sometimes, if his mother was feeling more exhausted than usual, she'd give him money to go to the chip shop for Noreen and himself. He'd go back to Noreen's, make a full pot of tea, butter too much bread and eat slowly and happily, stretched out on the sofa with his shoes off, watching the TV in peace and quiet and complete freedom.
As he was pulling the front door closed behind him, he heard his Granny Noreen yell, 'Don't you let anything happen to Our Lady!'
When Fergal got to school, he discovered that someone disliked the English teacher so much that they'd rigged a homemade bomb to the classroom door. It had blown a hole big enough for a pregnant cow to pass through. Only in Belfast.
During the last class of the day, Fergal was looking for a red pen in his bag and, without thinking, took out the empty statue of Mary and put it on top of his desk. Two seconds later, Petrol Paul McGinley reached over and grabbed her. McGinley was famed for secretly draining teachers' cars of their fuel with a length of garden hose and impressive sucking action. Word would spread, and he'd wait behind the woodwork building for anyone stupid enough to watch him hold a lit match near his bulging mouth and spit the ignited petrol straight up towards the sky. He regularly burned the face off himself as gravity explained, in concrete terms, that what went up had to come down, all over him if the wind changed its mind. Once someone had nudged him, and he'd swallowed the entire mouthful and ended up in the emergency room for the second time in a week.
Fergal hadn't seen him kidnap Noreen's Mother of God, but he noticed she was missing. He searched frantically, until he got a pen shoved into his back and turned to see Petrol Paul grinning and waving the statue. It was, appropriately, a religion class. Mrs Diamond was busy explaining transubstantiation to Declan Feelan, who was a bit slow at the best of times. She put her hand to her head when he asked in all seriousness if it was 'something to do with Dracula, Miss?'
Petrol Paul was an amateur boxer, so Fergal knew he had to tread carefully. Throughout the rest of the class, he pretended he didn't want the Virgin bottle back - and, miraculously, this was enough to deflate the situation. As the last bell rang, Our Lady was flung back at him, with two Biro stab wounds for breasts and a big hairy vagina drawn on the front of her robe. 'The Vagina Mary' was written on her back in permanent marker. Fergal thought about going to the toilets to try and repair some of the damage, but he knew that part of the building was a whole other assault course waiting to happen. So he hid her in his bag. He thought that maybe he could clean her in the font and then Sellotape the holes.
He sprinted to the front gates and headed for St Bridget's Chapel, stopping only to see if anyone was following. It was raining hard and when he finally reached the newly painted gates of the chapel, he was soaked to the skin and trying to catch his breath. As he stood in the entry of the chapel, dripping and searching for his inhaler, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, automatically expecting it to be someone from his class, and jumped back to avoid an imaginary swipe.
'Oh, goodness, I've startled you. I'm sorry,' said the new priest.
Fergal went bright red. 'Oh, sorry, Father...'
'Was someone chasing you?'
Fergal didn't know where to look and he shook his head. The priest continued, 'Look, I never got a chance to introduce myself properly. I'm Father MacManus - call me Father Mac. And I can see that a good cup of tea and a warm towel wouldn't go amiss. You're like a drowned rat, so you are.'
Fergal took a deep breath. 'Hello, Father MacManus. I'm sorry - I'm Fergal Flynn from Walker Street.'
Father Mac smiled the warmest smile Fergal had ever seen and said, 'Don't be sorry. It looks more like Fergal Flynn from Water Street to me. You're drenched. Look, you'd be welcome to come over to the house and dry off before you catch your death of cold. You're not in a hurry, are you?'
Fergal had his hand in his schoolbag, gripping the little empty statue. 'Well, no... I was supposed to fill up my granny's Our Lady bottle with holy water, but I think I lost it and she won't be happy.'
'Ah, I think I might be able to help you there. Look, your chest sounds awful. You need to be careful. I suffer from asthma too, so I know how it is. Do you have your inhaler with you?'
'No, I think I left it at my granny's.'
'Well, my asthma's been playing up ever since I got back from Africa, and I have a few spare ones. Hopefully you don't smoke, do you? You're not as stupid as me.'
'Oh God, no, Father, I don't smoke. Air is difficult enough sometimes. You lived in Africa? That must've been amazing.'
'Oh, it was ... Look, mass doesn't start for a while yet. Why don't you come over to the house and dry off?'
Fergal was astounded. All he could do was say, 'OK', and follow the holy footfalls to the main house. In the sixteen years and nine months that he had been coming to St Bridget's Chapel, he'd never once been in the priest's house. When he was much smaller his mother used to threaten to drag him in to see the priest if he didn't stop getting into trouble at school but now here he was, walking through the front door at the new priest's invitation. Fergal felt very privileged.
The first thing he noticed was how clean everything was. It smelled wonderful, too - like roses and toast or something. The reason the house was so immaculate was hovering in the hallway. Father Mac asked her for a pot of tea for two - 'Oh, and some of whatever is making that gorgeous aroma, please, Mrs Mooney.'
After depositing his damp guest in the warmth of the front parlour, Father Mac ran up the stairs and returned with a snow-white bath towel. Fergal thought it looked too good to use, but Father Mac opened it out, instructed him to take his sopping coat off and helped him dry his hair. Fergal was trembling from the sudden warmth, but Father Mac took this as a sign that he was still cold. He moved him closer to the roaring fire and realised how wet Fergal's back and shoulders were.
'Take off that jumper and that shirt,' he said. 'I'll fetch you something of mine to wear till they're dry.' Before Fergal could argue, Father Mac was off up the two flights of stairs again. He returned with a clean sweatshirt, motioned for Fergal to lift his arms and pulled off the sopping layers that made a sucking sound as they tried to stay stuck to his skin. Fergal was glad of the shelter of the enormous towel - he'd wrapped himself in it shyly, making sure his bare torso was completely covered. His skin was tingling. Father Mac saw his embarrassment and left the room, 'to see if Mrs Mooney needs a hand', and Fergal pulled on the borrowed sweatshirt as fast as he could.
Mrs Mooney came back on Father Mac's heels, carrying an overfilled tray, and Father Mac asked her to tumble dry his guest's shirt and jumper. She timed her tut of disapproval to the exact moment the door closed behind her; she'd had years of practice.
There was a big pot of tea, cups, saucers, milk, sugar, biscuits, toasted Veda bread, butter, slices of cheese and a jar of some kind of chutney that Fergal thought looked disgusting - he thought he'd better not tr
y it, in case he had to spit it out. He waited for Father Mac to start eating and then followed his every move. They devoured two sandwiches each before laying into the biscuits.
Father Mac noticed him glancing over at the piano and the pile of sheet music. 'Do you play?'
'Me? Are you kidding? No - I've just never seen one in somebody's house before, that's all. And there's no carpet.'
Father Mac burst out laughing, then stopped as he realised the sudden sunset in Fergal's face was not coming from his proximity to the fire. 'It's better for the asthma to have no carpets. Luckily these floorboards were stripped and polished years before I got here.'
A fire engine sounded its alarm somewhere. 'Do you harmonise with them too, or is it strictly ambulances?' Father Mac asked. 'Your voice sounds quite high. Have you been training for long?'
'What, Father?'
'You know - when I heard you on the street. Do you always gravitate to the descant - above the melody?'
Fergal didn't know what to say, except that he'd never had any lessons apart from the classes with Baldy Turner.
'So you're a natural, then. Listen, do you fancy a sing sometime? I love playing the piano, but I have no one to accompany.'
'Do you not sing yourself, Father?'
'Fergal, even when I didn't smoke my voice would've stopped traffic - and not in a good way!'
Fergal laughed. He was finding it hard not to stare. Father Mac wanted to know more about this strange young lad but sensed his shyness - he didn't push him to sing, there was no hurry. He kept the conversation light and asked Fergal how he was getting on in school.
They realised that, even though they'd gone to school only a petrol-bomb's throw from each other, their experiences couldn't have been further apart. Father Mac told Fergal about the Christian Brothers' College that he'd attended and how much he'd loved his years there. The Brothers had been strict but he'd excelled at most of the subjects, and when he'd announced his interest in the priesthood it had nourished his popularity. He told him how he had decided to enter the seminary in a place called Maynooth. It had been wonderful. It was so different from Belfast in every way, and he'd been able to put serious effort into his other passion of playing the piano but the vocational commitments were stricter than anything he'd known before. 'We were only allowed to leave the grounds once a week, to go into the village.'
'Once a week? That must've been hard, Father.'
'You should've seen us, Fergal! We were like a pack of wild animals, after spending all that time cooped up studying. We'd scramble to the pub like we'd been trapped underground in a coal mine for years, and order spirits because pints took too long to drink and we only had a few hours. I didn't drink or smoke before I went there, but that changed fast.'
Fergal laughed. With each story about his past, Father Mac seemed younger to him. 'When did you know you were different?'
Father Mac suddenly looked uneasy. 'What do you mean, different?'
'I mean, when did you know you wanted to become a priest?'
'Oh, right - that... It wasn't really a conscious decision. There've been priests in my family for generations, here and there, and my mother always said it would make her so proud to have one in her brood. She used to say it to me when she put me to bed, when I was a wee boy. The priesthood chose me, really, not the other way around. Does that make sense?'
An hour and a half passed unnoticed, as the black blazer steamed on the radiator and the little fragments of their lives were unearthed in between mouthfuls of tea and biscuits. Father Mac hardly realised that he was talking about himself in a more personal way than he had done in years.
Fergal asked him about Africa and Father Mac told him how the local people had humbled him with their unwavering trust and generosity. 'If you ever get the chance, Fergal, you should spend time there. What a beautiful place it is - and the people ... some of the warmest I've ever met in my life.'
Mrs Mooney knocked on the door, carrying Fergal's dry clothes in a neatly ironed pile, and reminded Father Mac that there was confession before the evening mass and Fergal wasn't the only one who needed to change his clothes. They couldn't believe how much time had evaporated. Fergal went to the bathroom to get changed. When he came back, Father Mac was holding out a bottle of holy water - much bigger than Noreen's - in the shape of Jesus' ma.
'Here you are, Fergal. I hope this will do.'
'Father, are you sure? Can I give you some money?' He nervously fingered the illicit fifty pence in his pocket.
'No, Fergal Flynn, you cannot. You can, however, promise me that you'll come back for another chat sometime. I have an idea that I want to run by you. Are you free this Sunday?'
'I think so. What time?'
'Well, what about after lunch - or will your family be upset that you're not at home?'
Fergal's puzzled face said more than any words. He agreed to come at about three o'clock, after he'd had lunch with his granny. Then he went home, humming to himself all the way. Even though they'd eaten so much, Fergal somehow felt lighter than he ever had in his life.
9
Father Mac spent the rest of the week acquainting himself with his regular parishioners. Word had spread quickly about the handsome new addition to St Bridget's. The contrast between his local accent and his exotic tan heightened the curiosity: one set of rumours said he was a well-to-do local boy, another claimed that his father had been an African, and Fergal overheard his mother and their next-door neighbour saying Father Mac had been an orphan brought up by nuns. One by one, the ladies of the parish began calling at the priest's house, with gifts of food and jumpers that were far too big for him. The bemused priest accepted gracefully and listened intently to their woes, while Mrs Mooney gritted her teeth and made pot after pot of tea, grumbling to the tray that she'd never get her cleaning done if this kept up.
~
In the early, shy light of Sunday morning, Fergal dreamt he was in the confessional and Father Mac was preparing to hear his sins. The wire mesh was only a mist-soaked silver cobweb, and before he could stop himself Fergal leaned forward on his knees, pulled the spider's hard work away and kissed the priest full on the mouth.
Fergal woke up suddenly, with a hard-on, in his tangled bedclothes. His grandmother was snoring, and he realised he'd been disturbed by the familiar sound of his mother letting herself in the front door - she usually came round on Sundays, to have a cup of tea with Noreen before she headed to the graveyard to visit her father. The paper-thin ceiling allowed him to hear her fart loudly, giggle like a schoolgirl and then apologise to the dull, grey morning. 'Oh, Jesus Christ, I'm rotten, so I am. God forgive me on his holy day, and forgive them curry chips I had last night, too!'
Three o'clock couldn't come quickly enough.
Sunday lunch was called Sunday dinner in the Flynn household. It consisted of the boys pretending to Angela that they'd gone to mass and settling down to deafening sport on the TV, while their father shouted at the 'fucking cunting useless ref' and Angela served the 'growing men' endless amounts of roast potatoes and pints of milk. Fergal washed every dish in sight. He was in such a good mood that he forgot himself and started humming, but he stopped when he caught sight of his brothers' suspicious expressions. He left quickly, out the back door, mumbling that he was going for a walk. John usually mimicked every word he said in a high, girly voice, but Fergal closed the door just before he had to hear it.
Even the soldiers' pointless interrogation on the way to St Bridget's didn't bother him as it usually did, though they made him take off his shoes and socks to search for God knows what. Fergal wondered what their families were doing as their sons were searching him. He wanted to ask them what they were thinking. Were they dreaming of Sunday dinners somewhere in Leicester or Manchester or Norfolk?
~
Father Mac paced the room like he was expecting the bishop. He caught himself in the mirror fixing his hair for the third time, and got annoyed. What on earth was he doing?
At las
t the doorbell rang. Mrs Mooney ushered Fergal into the front parlour, and Father Mac gave him a delighted smile and a nervous handshake. The merest touch from him was enough to make Fergal's heart go up a gear.
'I'm so glad you could make it. What did your parents say? Oh, forgive me, Fergal - I assume your parents are still with us?'
'What? Oh - yeah, Father. Sunday dinner isn't a big thing in our house, really. It's more of a sports day - well, it is for my three brothers and my da. The house could be burning down around them and they wouldn't notice, as long as the TV stayed on.'
'Three brothers? My goodness, that must be a busy house ... How does your mother cope? Any sisters?'
'No, no sisters.'
Father Mac had struck the match before he remembered. 'Your asthma - do you mind me having a cigarette?
'Ah, no, Father. You go ahead - sure, it's your house.'
Father Mac inhaled. 'And what's it like where you live, Fergal?'
'Well, I stay with my granny most of the time.'
'You do? Which one?'
At first Fergal didn't understand the question as he'd never really known his father's mother that well. 'Oh, I see... My mother's mother - Noreen, she's called. She's not very well and she spends a lot of time in bed. Our house is very small for the six of us, so I sleep there and do stuff around the house and keep her company, I suppose. It's great.'
'And what about your father's mother? Is she still with us?'
'Granny Flynn died years ago, Father.'
The cigarette smoke reminded Fergal of her. Ethel Flynn had rarely come to see them in his early childhood. She hated Angela and Walker Street - she said the broken glass ruined her high heels. Every once in a while, though, her nosiness would get the better of her and she would clack up the street unannounced, in a cloud of perfume and menthol cigarette smoke, claiming that she was just passing on her way into town and would love a cup of tea.
The Arrival of Fergal Flynn Page 6