As he finally began to fall asleep he thought of Africa, and the last time his heart had been hijacked without his permission.
He'd been at the mission for about a year when, early one evening, he'd decided to explore a nearby beach. Even at night, the heat was relentless. He took off his collar and opened his shirt, letting what little breeze there was from the water cool his chest. Sitting on the beach was a fisherman. He looked like he had been expertly carved from ebony - his skin was so smooth it could have been liquid, and it was all Father Mac could do to not reach out and touch him. The fisherman's smile spread right across his face as he introduced himself as 'Basile, like the man from Fawlty Towers'. Then he reached into a bucket and offered Father Mac a fish from his evening catch.
Their friendship developed quickly. They both loved to talk, and Basile's command of English was almost better than Father Mac's. They met on the same beach once a week. Father Mac would bring along Irish newspapers sent from Belfast, and they would sit in the shade, smoking, reading, swapping questions and telling stories. Basile had his own boat and sometimes they went up the river, where kingfishers built their nests in the roasting sun and barracudas patrolled the deeper, darker water. When Basile caught one and wrestled it into their boat, Father Mac thought it was a shark and nearly ended up in the water in his panicked attempt to get away from it. Basile never asked what he did, and Father Mac never told him.
He knew it wasn't just the unforgiving heat that made him sweat when Basile stripped off, completely naturally, and invited him into the water to wash off the day. Father Mac protested that he wasn't really a swimmer, but Basile insisted on giving him lessons, so he shyly undressed to his underwear and waded into the sea. Basile supported him around the waist and made him kick his legs.
The tide pulled them out further, and they stood shoulder-deep in the sea. Father Mac couldn't help staring at Basile's full lips. The last thing he expected Basile to do was suddenly lean in and kiss him. There, in the orange light of the African sky, under a blanket of dark-green sea water, they explored every inch of each other, and Father Mac did what he had wanted to do all his life.
When they waded back to the shore, they parted as if they had never met. Father Mac watched as Basile moved off quickly to be swallowed by the dark. Thoughts crowded his walk back to his hut. It troubled him greatly that he'd broken his solemn vow of celibacy and that he'd sinned before God - but he couldn't see how something that had felt so good and so tender could be wrong. What harm had they done? Surely, he thought, surely God could see that?
He returned to the beach many times, but their paths never crossed there again. Not long before he got the call to come home to Ireland, he was on a bus travelling to a remote village, and he could have sworn he saw Basile driving by in a beaten-up car full of children, with a woman by his side.
~
The corrugated curtains of St Bridget's parlour offered a refuge that Fergal had never known before. When he had a rehearsal to look forward to he could think of little else. The usual barbed comments from his brothers, which normally would have torn at the core of him, didn't seem to penetrate as deeply any more. His heart was insulated in the knowledge that Father Mac was his friend.
Gradually, as they rehearsed the pieces of chant that Brother Vincent had sent, he began to stay later and later. Looking at the music written on the manuscript paper, Fergal was both impressed and intimidated by the way Father Mac translated it so easily onto the waiting keys of the piano. He loved watching him wrinkle his brow in concentration as he tried to work out the best way to play the harmonies of the ancient pieces so Fergal could imagine how it would ultimately sound.
Sometimes Father Mac could see that, although Fergal was beside him in the room, his mind was somewhere else. As much as Fergal loved being in the company of the kindest man he knew, he also felt guilty about his Granny Noreen. At the end of the evening, during their well-earned cups of tea and biscuits, he would start imagining all the bad things that could happen to her while he was away enjoying himself. He'd swallow the food far too quickly, say his goodbyes to the startled priest and run out the door, burping the whole way back to her house. Father Mac knew it was going to be tricky getting Fergal's parents to agree to let him attend the auditions in Sligo, but trickiest of all would be getting him time away from Granny Noreen.
There were other times, though, when Fergal felt free. Sometimes when their rehearsals ran over, Father Mac would share with Fergal the cold supper that Mrs Mooney left out before stacking the fire for the evening. Mr Mooney picked his wife up every evening at seven o'clock on the button. This became Fergal's favourite time of all. He allowed himself the fantasy that he and Father Mac were a secret couple. They would put away the scattered sheets of music together, as neatly as possible, and then Father Mac would go off into the kitchen and bring back a feast of food. Fergal would sit at the coffee table and Father Mac would settle into one of the big soft chairs, and they would eat their supper off their laps, talking about music and the summer holidays that weren't far away.
'Fergal, do you have any ideas about what you might want to do with your life - you know, when you get older? You're going to be seventeen this summer, right?'
'Yeah... I really don't know, Father.'
'Well, what if you could do anything? You must have dreams. What do you dream about?'
Fergal suddenly remembered that he'd dreamt about Father Mac that very morning - he'd forgotten until that second. He'd dreamt that they were at Noreen's, rehearsing as quietly as they could because she was asleep upstairs. The tiny living room was empty except for an enormous grand piano. When they got tired, Fergal said there was nowhere for them to sleep, but Father Mac had said, 'Don't be silly, we can sleep in the piano.' Then he undressed and climbed in on top of the golden strings, and Fergal followed. The lid was like a soft brown duvet that they pulled up around themselves for warmth. Just as they put their arms around each other and began kissing, his mother put her key in the front door, calling his name. Then he'd woken to Noreen asking him to get a drink of water.
He said, 'I want to sing, Father Mac. I want to see the world, I want to learn to play the piano, and I want Noreen to get better and see me sing. I think that's it.'
'That's a good start. I think you were put on the earth to sing. Forgive me - I've not met Noreen yet - but one thing is for certain and that is that old people eventually die. That's the natural law. I never knew my grandparents, because they died before I was born. Sometimes that's the way it's meant to be. She sounds very, very fragile to me, but she's not your responsibility.'
'But she's my granny, Father.'
'Fergal, I know that - I don't mean to sound unkind. But you have a fairly big family. You also have your own life to live, and you've been living far too many other people's lives, as far as I can tell.'
Fergal sat still and let Father Mac's words encircle his head. One by one, they landed, as he began to understand what he meant.
Father Mac was tackling a huge lump of coal that proved far too big to break up. In the end, he sat it gingerly on top of the hungry flames in the hearth, and stared as they competed to devour the dark mass. The heat of the fire proved too much for the constraint of his white collar and he loosened it, just enough to afford a glimpse of his thick black forest of chest hair. Before he could stop himself, Fergal realised that he had the beginnings of an erection.
He pulled his jumper down to hide it and tried to think about disgusting things, but it was no good. Try as he might, he could still feel the familiar slippery wetness in the front of his trousers. There was only one thing to do. He said goodnight to Father Mac, being careful not to brush against him when they hugged each other, and practically ran out the door.
He didn't want to go back to Granny Noreen's cold house just yet. Without thinking, he went around the back of the house and stood in the shadows, looking up. He knew which room was Father Mac's, and he watched the night sky reflected on the glass. Suddenl
y a light snapped on and Father Mac appeared, framed for a split second in the window as if it were the grille of a giant confessional, before he closed the curtains.
Fergal's thickness struggled in his trousers for freedom. He looked around. It was so dark that no one would be able to see him. Nervously he undid his zipper and let his hardness stand out in the cold air. He kept looking around, ready to do himself up again at the first sign of life, but even the buildings held their breath.
He had pissed in the yard of Walker Street before, when someone was having a bath and, if anyone caught him, Fergal decided he could always say that was what he was doing. His heart felt like it was beating in the middle of his cock as he took hold of it.
He looked back up at Father Mac's window. The light went off again. Fergal reckoned he must have undressed and gotten into bed. This thought made him even harder, and he undid his trousers so that they fell and gathered around his knees. He'd forgotten that his underpants had a bit of neatly folded toilet roll stuck to the gusset, to keep them cleaner for longer - one of his bastard brothers always stole the last clean pair.
He imagined Father Mac taking off his shirt slowly, undoing one button at a time to show his strong, hairy chest. Then walking towards him with a tender smile, kissing him lightly on his chapped lips whilst undoing his own black leather belt. The dark trousers would fall to the ground and through his gleaming white underwear Fergal would be able to see his growing erection. They would embrace and kiss, slowly at first, before becoming more confident and passionate. He would push Father Mac's underwear halfway down his thighs and take his hardness in his grip, still kissing him... Fergal was breathing harder. Without making a sound, he emptied himself in silent, mini explosions against the wall.
The guilt wasted no time in arriving, of course. As he fixed himself up in a panic, he wondered if God really did see everything, especially in the dark.
~
Father Mac had gone to bed early as a rare treat, even though he knew a ring of the phone or a knock at the front door could change his plans at any moment. Try as he might to distract himself by reading letters, he couldn't get Fergal Flynn out of his head. He knew, in his heart of hearts, that it wasn't just the crystal-clear singing voice that moved him so much. There was something else about Fergal - he was like no one Father Mac had ever met. It felt as though they'd known each other for much longer than a mere handful of months.
He placed his hand on his Bible and knelt below the wooden crucifix on the wall.
'Holy Father, I beseech you again for guidance. I've just spent some of the happiest hours of my life with Fergal Flynn. He's an extraordinary person - so raw and so trusting... How can a young man like him have such a profound effect on me? I'm a priest, I have made solemn vows that I intend to honour, but... but there are moments when he looks at me in a way that fills me with thoughts I haven't had since Africa. I need your guidance. He's not yet seventeen, I'm ten years older. He's so very vulnerable and the last thing I want is to take advantage of that in any way, but I also want to stay close to him. I want to be honest. Lord, protect and guide me. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.'
He was completely drained when he finally managed to climb under the crisp, white, forgiving bedcovers.
11
'Is that you, son?' Noreen yelled when Fergal opened the front door. He went up and explained that the rehearsal with Father Mac had gone on longer than expected.
'Do you think that priest would come over and give me Communion, now that you seem to be such good friends?'
'I don't know,' Fergal said, not looking at her. 'He's always really busy.'
Fergal knew Noreen and Father Mac would have to meet eventually, but he dreaded letting Father Mac see where he lived. The priest continually offered him lifts home in his new black Rover, but Fergal always refused, 'Sure, there'd be no point, I'm not going straight there...'
Ever since he'd first visited St Bridget's House, he'd started to notice the cracks in Noreen's ceiling, the cobwebs in the corners, the decay that had set in everywhere. Every bit of carpet was as thin as paper. In some of the rooms there were big patches missing and he could see the old floorboards on which his mother had learned to walk. No matter how much he tidied it up, Fergal realised his granny's place was a tip compared to the priest's house. Everything was long worn out, like her, and there was still the unmistakable smell of the cats she used to have after his granda had died. When her drinking got out of control, she'd let them soil everywhere.
Inevitably, Noreen's faith had been eroded by the constant dull pain that she felt every day when she looked around at her crumbling life. Any time she saw the news, it confirmed her hopelessness. She told Fergal that she was convinced she'd never see peace again in her lifetime. Every once in a while, though, she'd give him little threads of stories about the old Belfast that she'd known.
One night she pointed out the filthy window and said, 'Do you see that telegraph pole, our Fergal? Well, that used to be an oul' gas street light.' Fergal thought it was a funny idea that lights could have been gas. Than she told him how young men used to gather on corners under the lamps, singing, on late summer evenings. She told him how his own grandfather used to stand there with a bunch of his friends, singing till the lamplighter came round and snuffed out the lights.
Fergal suddenly realised he'd never asked her how she and his granda had met. When he did, she threw her eyes up to the flaking ceiling as if to ask her dead husband in the heavens whether she should tell him. Then she reached for her glasses, cleaned them on her nightdress and sat up in bed, looking more alert than she had for a long time. 'There's an oul' hatbox under the bed. Get it out for me will you, son?'
He crouched down and fought his way past empty gin bottles, old fur-lined boots and two suitcases to the dirty, dusty hatbox right at the back. He handed it to Noreen and she untied the pale pink ribbon with her tiny fingers. She brought out a prayer book and a stained brown envelope, 'Oh good, these are the things that were in your granda's pockets when he died in the hospital.' Fergal saw tears in her eyes.
'Oh, Granny, I'm sorry - I didn't mean to upset you.'
She pulled herself together and unearthed a little bundle of photos. 'I haven't seen these in years, never mind shown them to anyone.'
There, in black and white, were Fergal's granda and granny as he'd never seen them before. Her hair was shiny and blonde, and she was tiny beside her husband's strong, athletic frame. There was even a wedding photo - Fergal recognised the big wooden doors of St Bridget's Chapel - they looked so young and healthy and unhurried, and Noreen was laughing confidently into the lens. They looked like a Hollywood movie couple stepping into the waiting car that would take them to their bright, new, technicolored future together.
Noreen brought the picture close to her glasses and looked at her husband's face, then stroked her grandson's cheek. 'Oh, Fergal, the only thing your parents ever did right by you was name you after your granda. Look, sure, you have his eyes and his hairline and his smile too. Oh, but he had a beautiful smile - and all his own teeth, you know!'
'When was this one taken?' Fergal said, picking out a worn snapshot of a boy and a girl out for a walk in the city centre.
'That was the week before we got married, son.' She stroked the soft black-and-white memory with her wrinkled hands. 'Do you really want to know how I met your granda?'
'Of course I do, Granny! Please, tell me.'
'Well, son, get your granny a wee glass from the kitchen cabinet and I'll tell you.'
Fergal ran down the stairs, washed out her favourite tumbler under the tap and dried it as best he could. When they were settled on her bed and she had poured herself a large helping of gin, she began, 'When I was your age, Fergal - how old are you again?'
'I'm nearly seventeen.'
'Jesus, son, is that right? You're a big lad, like your granda. Well, when I turned eighteen, I tortured my own mother Betty -God rest her soul, even though she
was a wicked oul' bitch, God forgive me - to let me go to the big dance. It was a few miles out in the country and a group of us girls were going, with the priest and a couple of nuns to chaperone us. When I think of what young people have now... Jesus, sure, it was only a wee parochial hall with a band and a few bottles of lemonade, but we thought it was the dance to end all dances. You have to remember, son, there were no housing estates then. Oh, no, there was nothing but fields and country lanes for miles and miles, and the fellas arrived on their bikes from farms and all. Anyway, I spent weeks saving up for the material to make my dress and in the end my mother said I could go.
'Well, we couldn't get there quick enough. We got on the wee bus - the girls sat at the front with the nuns, and the men sat at the back, with the priest in the middle. The roads were awful, full of potholes, and we bumped along for what felt like hours. Poor wee Mary Harper from Hawthorn Street had to get the man to stop so she could get off and boke into a hedge, with all and sundry watching. Jesus, I'll never forget it - there was no way any of the men were going to try and kiss her after that!'
Fergal giggled and Noreen refilled her glass right up to the top.
'Anyway, I had a few dances all right, even though the nuns and the priest kept patrolling with their oul' rulers.' Fergal looked confused. 'Ah, Fergal, youse young ones wouldn't know what it was like. If you were seen dancing too close to a fella, you could be sent home, and the priest would give out about it at mass - and if you ended up with a bad reputation, it was the end of you. And my ma would've killed me. So they brought rulers, like the ones youse use in school, to the dance. As long as you kept the length of a ruler between you and your dancing partner, then things were OK.'
The Arrival of Fergal Flynn Page 8