They were banned from calling her Granny, because she bluntly refused to be that old. Her favourite was Paddy Jr, for reasons known only to herself, and only he was allowed onto her thronelike lap. John, who hated kissing her over-made-up face, was a close second while Ciaran stayed as near to Angela as he could, with one eye on Ethel's bag for possible sweets. Since Fergal was born, Ethel had referred to him as 'that one'. She said his piercing green eyes looked evil and that his curly hair was wasted on a boy - she had to pay a small fortune to her hairdresser to perm any conviction into her lank, straight hair and force it to the desired bossy height.
Gradually her dislike of Angela had defrosted into lofty pity, but never enough for her to offer to mind the kids while her exhausted daughter-in-law went for a walk to clear her head. The other boys were interested in the possible calorific contents of her handbag, but Fergal didn't trust her. He stayed behind the sofa, listening, until they forgot he was there. On one of her visits he thought he heard her call him a 'mystic', in between dramatic drags on her permanent cigarette. It was a few moments before he realised that her voice, clogged with smoke and most of a box of plain chocolates, had actually said that he was some kind of 'mistake'. Angela had said nothing. She was looking at the clock, repeating that she would have to start her husband's dinner soon, praying that the oul' bitch wouldn't misinterpret that as an invitation to stay, and hoping that she'd leave some money for the kids. Fergal had crawled out into the hallway and broken every spoke in his grandmother's expensive umbrella, as the wind and rain tried to clean the little panels of neglected glass above the front door that no one else but the weather could be bothered to reach.
As far as Fergal knew, Ethel Flynn had ended up in some nursing home and had died suddenly. They'd been too young to go to her funeral, according to Angela.
Father Mac knew from the look on Fergal's face that he was somewhere else.
'Are you all right there, Fergal? You're miles away, aren't you?'
'What? Yeah - sorry, Father, I was just thinking about something. It's the smoke. It reminds me of her - my father's mother.'
Father Mac had noticed that, any time the conversation strayed to Fergal's family he would look away and skim over the surface of the answer. He tried, gently, to find out more.
'So tell me about your brothers, Fergal. Are you like them? I only have one brother and one sister, and we're not alike at all.'
He knew he'd hit some kind of nerve when Fergal almost shouted, 'I'm nothing like them, Father - nothing!' He caught himself and lowered his voice. 'I know nothing about sport, I like reading and walking, and... and, well, we're not that close.'
Father Mac knew he'd gone too far. To change the subject, he went over to the piano and opened the lid. 'Come here, Fergal, have a go.'
'Ah, no, Father - sure, I haven't a clue and—'
'Never mind the excuses. Look, just come and sit here and I'll play then.'
So Fergal did as he was bid and sank into an old reading chair, while the young priest played a Mozart selection that made his audience of one want to cry. Fergal felt transported. The sound engulfed him, and a calmness began to creep into his bones. He watched Father Mac's fingers dance on the keys like cartoon mice, and noticed how the soft down of dark hair travelled along the backs of his hands before disappearing out of sight under the shelter of his cuffs. A dim flicker of desire made him stare in the opposite direction, out the window into the cold street, where the rain had started again.
When he had finished the Mozart, Father Mac asked Fergal, as casually as he could, if he knew any songs. Fergal dropped his gaze and said, 'Not really, Father', but Father Mac instinctively started an old hymn called 'Be Thou My Vision' and kept looking at Fergal, nodding encouragement, until he slowly joined in.
When they came to the second verse, Father Mac slyly faded out, pretending not to remember the words, and Fergal closed his eyes as he gradually found the confidence to continue alone. His voice, shy but crystal clear, was made all the warmer by the wooden floor of the room. Father Mac was astonished at how effortlessly high it was, and how moving.
As the last verse came to an end, he turned around on the piano seat and looked at Fergal with his mouth open. 'Fergal Flynn, you have a truly beautiful singing voice.'
Fergal didn't know what to say. There was no sound from either of them for a while, just the better-late-than-never applause of the young wood crackling in the hearth as the flames found it. A distant ambulance, muffled by the closed doors, made them bless themselves automatically before they turned again to the piano and the sheets of old music.
'Do you know a lot of other songs?' Father Mac asked. 'Have you ever been a member of a school choir?'
Fergal couldn't help laughing and telling him that Baldy Turner liked talking better than teaching. 'But I picked up a few in mass. I think there used to be a choir years ago, in the chapel, but they were all old then, so I think they're dead now.'
Finally Father Mac asked him to sing again. Fergal was reluctant, but the priest stood up and took him by the shoulders and looked straight into his eyes. 'Please? Just a few more?'
No one had ever said that to him before.
After a quick gulp of tea, they had a go at a few more hymns. Fergal was a bit nervous for the first few bars but, as the priest closed his eyes and arched his back, he began to feel calmer. He sang with such expression that he felt light-headed when he stopped.
'Fergal, where have you been hiding that voice? I mean, it's astonishing. Tell me, what have ambulances got that I don't?'
They laughed, and Father Mac started to play again. He was a natural harmoniser. Fergal, for the first time in his life, forgot where he was and who he was for the best part of half an hour.
The hall clock called time, and Father Mac looked at his watch and sighed. 'Fergal, I'm so sorry to have to stop, but I promised I'd call in on a few of the pensioners. Look, I cannot believe your voice. Do you even know what a voice you have?'
Fergal's eyes widened.
'I think it's the best I've ever heard - I'm serious. Look, we have to meet again soon, as soon as you can. There's so much more to talk about, and so much more music for your voice to sing... Look, basically, I want to put a choir together, and I want you to help me. Say you will - will you?'
Fergal was completely robbed of words. All he could do was nod his dizzy head.
They went out the front door together and then went their separate ways. Fergal was out of breath with excitement before he even reached the top of the road. Father Mac's voice played over and over again in his head: I want to put a choir together, and I want you to help me. As he neared home, Fergal wondered if Father Mac's body was hairy all over, like the little glimpse he'd had of his wrists.
When he got back to Noreen's, he brought her up a cup of tea. She took one look at him and said, 'What has you smiling like a big Cheshire cat? Did you find money or something?'
'Ah, no, Granny. I'm just... happy.'
'Happy? Jesus, it's well for you, love - and you deserve it, too. You're good to your oul' granny.' She pulled him down to her by his jumper and kissed him on the forehead.
Fergal was touched and mortified all at once. I m away downstairs to watch TV, if you don't need me, Granny.' Noreen stared after him, thinking that he must have met a girl.
He jumped down the stairs, three at a time, into the sanctuary of the little living room. He looked into the circular mirror on the wall. A choir - he wants me to be in his choir! I’ll be able to spend loads of time with him and learn loads of songs... Oh, God, it'll be brilliant!
10
Fergal and Father Mac met every other day and drank India dry.
After a few informal rehearsals, Father Mac set about finding suitable music for Fergal to sing. There were loads of songbooks crammed into the cupboards, and he went into the town to buy some new ones with traditional Irish ballads. Fergal had a natural ear and learned quickly.
After a few weeks, Father Mac told
him his idea. He wanted to start a small choir that would gradually build up a repertoire of songs, with a view to performing them at mass and on feast days and celebrations - maybe even at weddings as well.
'We're off to a flying start now I've found St Bridget's soloist in the shape Of you, Fergal Flynn!'
'Me? Oh, Father Mac - thank you. I don't know what to say...'
'Don't say anything. Just sing and look after your voice. We've got a lot of work to do.'
Fergal was buzzing with excitement as they hatched a plan of action. They set about distributing little posters around the chapel and school noticeboards announcing auditions for St Bridget's Choir. Father Mac called on Baldy Turner for help, but Baldy informed him that, although no one could be keener than himself to encourage music in the school, he didn't think anyone would take it remotely seriously. He had tried to set up a similar choir once, but they'd turned out to be a bunch of 'no-good remedials who couldn't be relied upon to attend school, never mind rehearsals!' - he practically shouted it, in remembered frustration at many a wasted evening. But Father Mac's enthusiasm remained intact.
The auditions attracted a fair amount of interest initially. It was something different. Most of the boys were secretly still a bit afraid of the priests and, sure, it might be a way to skip a few classes. The voice tests were held in Baldy Turner's classroom during a lunch break, with Father Mac and Fergal in attendance. Two of the choir hopefuls - the big, ginger-haired, freckled Stephenson brothers - weren't bad at repeating a note struck on the piano, and Baldy Turner was in danger of looking enthusiastic. Once it was clear that the successful applicants would have to sing a song on their own, though, most of the others fled. Father Mac was still undeterred. He said they would make up the numbers themselves until replacements could be found.
So, twice a week, the fledgling choir of Father Mac, Mr Turner, Fergal and the ginger Stephensons would gather around the piano in Father Mac's house. Sometimes Baldy Turner couldn't come, so Fergal had to sing his part. He had to really concentrate on the more difficult lower harmonies, as he naturally gravitated to the higher register. Even though it was ridiculous, Fergal felt a bit jealous if Father Mac complimented the Stephensons when they got a harmony right. Very slowly, their sound started to take shape. Sometimes, if the chapel was free, they would rehearse up in the balcony with the pipe organ.
Unfortunately, that was the final nail in the coffin for the freckled twosome, who had only joined the choir under threat - their mother had a conviction, not altogether unrealistic, that they'd get to jump the queue on the never-ending waiting list for a bigger council house if her sons were in the choir. Fergal was on his way to rehearsal one evening after school when the Stephensons shouted to him from the roof of the bakery, 'Tell Father Mac to stick his fucking choir up his hairy jam roll - we're not singing in no chapel in front of nobody!' Then they flashed their bare red arses.
The feeling Fergal got when his solo voice carried into the rafters of the old church was scary and exciting all at the same time. It was his only relief from the endless routine of looking after Noreen and the mounting stress of trying to study for the upcoming exams. Only he and a few other 'geeks' were taking their O-levels seriously — even some of the teachers made it clear that they didn't care if the students all threw away their futures - they got paid either way. A few of his classmates had already dropped out of school to work with their fathers.
Fergal constantly wondered what he was going to do with himself. All of a sudden he had to think about a life outside school that was fast approaching, and it made him shiver. He hadn't a clue what kind of job he wanted, or even what he would be good at. He brought it up at the end of a rehearsal one day, after Baldy Turner had left, and Father Mac encouraged him to work as hard as he could for the exams, and maybe think about university in England or Dublin or somewhere. This possibility hadn't even occurred to Fergal - it would make him the first one in his family even to think about university - but, he thought, he'd happily go anywhere as long as it wasn't Belfast.
By the end of spring, they had ten songs learned properly: 'Be Thou My Vision'; 'Our Father'; 'Lamb of God'; 'He Is Lord'; 'Go Tell It on the Mountain'; 'For That He Gave His Only Son'; 'Blessed Be the Lord'; 'Praise Him on High'; 'O Holy Night' and 'Follow Me'.
Then, out of the bluey-grey, Father Mac had some good news that would change everything.
~
Brother Vincent McFarland was a monk in Sligo Abbey, near the coast in the west of Ireland. Every morning and every evening, he and the rest of the ancient order chanted together in spectacular harmony, in Latin and Irish, for an hour. A few recordings had been made over the years, in an effort to preserve the tradition and to acknowledge the twentieth-century way of chronicling these otherworldly compositions. In their ceaseless quest for perfection, the monks needed a young, clear, high tenor voice to act as a shaft of brilliant melodic light complementing their deep, resonant bass in the chants that had been written so many centuries before electricity almost put candles and imagination out of a job.
Father Mac had known Brother Vincent since they were in their late teens. They had met at classical-music evenings in Belfast, had hit it off immediately and managed to stay in touch even during the years Father Mac had spent in Africa. Since the choir had started, Brother Vincent had been kept up to speed on Fergal's progress, and had grown more and more curious to hear the young man's voice. When Sligo Abbey needed a guest tenor, it was the perfect opportunity. Brother Vincent phoned St Bridget's, offering Fergal the chance to attend auditions, which could only take place at the Abbey. The monks were forbidden to leave unless it was in a brown box, and even then they were buried in the ancient graveyard that was still part of the grounds.
The day Father Mac got the call, Fergal was late for rehearsal. He often was. Usually it was because Granny Noreen had taken another turn for the worse and begged him not to leave her alone, until the latest concoction of pills and alcohol knocked her out or made her forget who he was. This time, though, he was late because an army foot patrol had insisted that he waited until they got radio confirmation of how old he was - they thought he was older than he said. Then they searched him at a snail's pace, asking him relentless questions. One of the soldiers was an enormous black man with hands the size of shovels, making his rifle look like a toy. He ran them right over Fergal's backside and then around to his groin, where the back of his hand rested against Fergal's balls. Try as he might, Fergal couldn't stop himself beginning to get hard. Thankfully, they let him go before it was noticeable. Out of nowhere, he suddenly thought he shouldn't be fancying anyone else - it felt almost as if he was betraying Father Mac somehow. He knew it was ridiculous, but he couldn't stop thinking it.
When Father Mac announced Brother Vincent's invitation, Fergal looked like someone who'd been robbed. His mind was suddenly crawling with every negative thought imaginable. Surely there was no way he'd be able to go? His parents would see to that. And what about Noreen? She depended on him so much... How much money would it cost? Where would he stay? Would he need better clothes? Would he be good enough? He didn't want to let anybody down...
'What is it, Fergal? This is good news. Why do you look so upset about it?'
Fergal's floodgates opened, and he nearly choked on years of tears. He told Father Mac about how awful school was, about the way his brothers treated him and about his father. He told him how being beaten was sometimes better than being ignored - at least it meant his father was singling him out, paying some attention to him. He told him how his mother sometimes left bite marks on his hands, how he wanted her to stop hurting herself. He told him about the time he'd been drying himself after a bath and turned around to discover her holding a kitchen knife, threatening to stab him to death if she ever found out he was a dirty queer and how ten minutes later she'd been a different person, saying that he was the only one she could depend on. He told him about Noreen - how she needed him, how sad he was for her, how he couldn't help her.<
br />
Father Mac tentatively put his arm around him, slowly squeezing him closer as he heaved with tears. Fergal, resting his head against the priest's shoulder with sheer exhaustion, was suddenly intoxicated by the experience of being so close to this man. He had only ever seen men touch each other in fights, at funerals or when a match was going well. At that moment Fergal felt something that he couldn't articulate at first - a kind of peace. He began to realise that Father Mac was the only person who, albeit briefly, made him feel safe.
Father Mac hadn't expected the well of feeling that was gathering in his own gut. As Fergal's head pressed against him, he felt his heart hurry, and he closed his eyes to try and keep the moment under control. They sat motionless, as if on a deserted island with no other sign of life. Fergal didn't want to let go, ever.
Father Mac was the first to come to his senses and initiate their careful, reluctant parting. They found it hard to meet each other's eyes.
'I'll do everything in my power to make this trip happen,' Father Mac said gently. 'You won't be paid for the audition or the recording, but I'll make sure you're looked after, and it won't cost you or your parents a penny - the monastery will be putting us up. At most, all it'll mean is a few nights in Sligo.'
Fergal left feeling much calmer, but remained unconvinced that he would be able to go.
~
That night, as Father Mac lay in bed, he couldn't get to sleep. He tried reading, but couldn't concentrate. The vision of Fergal's face kept appearing in his mind's eye. Frustrated with himself, he took out his rosary beads and looked at the tiny crucifix. Then he began to pray. 'Dear Almighty Father, grant me the strength to remain pure in word and in deed. I know you have sent Fergal to me for a reason. He needs my help, and I must not... I must not abuse his trust... I must protect him. I must protect his gift, given by you.'
The Arrival of Fergal Flynn Page 7