Fergal couldn't believe what he was hearing.
'Well, the band was great, and someone had hung coloured lights all around the hall... ah, Fergal, it was like something out of a film. I had a few dances with some of the girls, and a big farmer fella called... oh, now, what was he called? Give me a second... Johnny - that's it. Johnny Quinn, I think. He asked me to dance twice, which meant he really liked me and I quite liked him, even though he stood on my feet that many times they looked like they were punctured flat. He was a big brute of a man with lovely big eyes, and a bigger farm by all accounts, but I wasn't that interested. His oul' breath would've put years on you. Well, I'd seen your granda on the Falls Road there a few times, but I'd never talked to him. I thought he'd smiled at me when he saw me getting on the bus that night, but even then my eyesight was shocking, so I couldn't be sure. Even when I was dancing with Johnny, though, I had an eye on your granda. He was dancing with this one and that one, but he kept looking over at me. And at the last dance, just when I was about to give up, he appeared and took me right out into the middle of the floor, bold as you like. We danced a perfect ruler apart to "When You Were Sweet Sixteen", and he looked at me and sang the whole song, word for word. He was so tall and handsome, Fergal... sure, I was smitten from the word go. He never said much, though, except to thank me and say he hoped I'd be at the next dance.'
'And were you, Granny?' Fergal was glued to the side of her bed.
'Well, son, that's when Fate - or whatever you want to call it -stepped in.'
'What do you mean?'
'On the way home, our bus broke down. Like I was telling you, son, it was in the middle of the country - there were no phones, no street lamps anywhere, and it was too far to walk. They tried and tried to get the thing to start - a few of the men were mechanics if I remember rightly - but the engine had had it. So do you know what the oul' priest decided?'
'No, Granny. What?'
'There was no way we were going to be allowed to spend the night on the same bus together, so they found a cowshed not far away, and the men were all herded off to that. Us girls had to sleep in our seats. It was freezing, Fergal - I'm shivering even thinking about it. I was never so cold. All we had were our frocks and our wee shawls.' Noreen gulped another mouthful of gin.
'And then? What then?'
'As soon as it was light, we left the bus behind and walked the five miles home in our dancing shoes. Our feet were bleeding. Now, we thought the worst of it was over when we got home. I thought your great-granny would be glad to see me alive, but oh, no! She was waiting behind the door with one of her boots, and she beat the head off me before I could get a word in about the useless bus!'
Fergal had twisted one of her blankets around his wrist, so tightly it had stopped the blood flow. 'And then what happened, Granny?'
'All hell broke loose, that's what happened. The priest called meetings with us, all the girls that had gone to the dance from our area, and our parents. The priests and the nuns and the parents had hatched a holy plan that was going to save us all from hell. You see, it was a scandal and a sin before God for us to have been out all night - even though the poor young men had been in a cowshed, without so much as an innocent handshake from us. And it made the church look bad, because they'd organised the bus. So my mother sat me down in the front room with the priest. They had a big piece of paper with loads of names on it. First of all they asked me which man I'd had the last dance with. I said Fergal Clooney from Bombay Street, of course. Then they asked which man I'd sat nearest to on the way home, before the bus broke down, and I said Fergal Clooney again - which was a white lie, but I'd been staring at him the whole time. So they ticked his name and my mother started crying.
'When the priest left the house, my mother dried her eyes and with her back to me told me I was to marry Fergal Clooney -your grandfather, God rest him - before the month was out. It had all been arranged. And, sure enough, exactly a month after that dance, we were all married. Everybody who'd been on the bus.'
Fergal sat on the edge of her bed with his mouth open, and saw a tear leak out of Noreen's eye. He was about to lean over and hug her, but she held up a tiny arm to stop him and said, 'Fergal, your granda was a decent man. I was a lucky girl, really. I grew to love him, and he loved me. Sure, Jesus, we had nine children.'
She dried her eyes on the sleeve of her cardigan and blew her nose hard. 'He could sing, you know. He was shy about it with his mates out at the lamppost, but when we were newly married and I was feeling low, he would sing, "I'll Take You Home Again, Noreen" - instead of "Kathleen", you know. He'd learned the whole bloody song, and it would cheer me up. But then we had all the children - and, give him his due, he worked all the hours God sent. But there was no time for singing, except maybe on birthdays. And time went so fast, and he got so tired and sick... oh, Sacred Heart of Jesus, he got so sick.'
She stared at the wedding picture. Fergal thought she was going to cry again, so he moved in to put his arm around her, but suddenly she said, 'Oh, do you remember I was telling you about Mary Harper?'
'The one that boked into the hedge?'
'Exactly. I'm glad you were paying attention, son. Well, she had to marry a man called Seamus Duggan, who was so ugly it had to be seen to be believed. Wild dogs were afraid of that man. He had the worst skin you'd ever see, with terrible boils and carbuncles from head to toe - any time he opened his mouth to speak, something would burst on his face! Oh, Jesus, how she could ever kiss that fella... Anyway, he ended up winning a fortune on the pools, and they bought a farm somewhere in America and we never saw them again. Jesus, I'd say she did the best out of all of us. Look at me - stuck here till the end of my days, with no man, no money, most of my children fucked off as quick as they could, no decent company—'
'Granny, you have me, and Mammy still comes round!'
'Jesus help us, but your mother would put years on a dead cat. I don't know how you stick her. The temper on her would fry an egg - and that wasn't the way she was reared. Your da's to blame for that. And you're nearly seventeen. You'll be gone too, before you know it. Sure, there's nothing here but heartache - nothing but heartache and more to come. If I had my time again, Fergal, do you know what I'd do?'
'What, Granny?'
'I'd travel to every corner of the world, so I would. And that's what you should do, Fergal. Get out of this hole - sure, what is there to keep you hanging around waiting to get shot or blown up? Don't end up like me, son, too old and too sick to even get out of your fucking bed. Don't waste your time, love.'
Fergal tried to find the right words, but he couldn't argue with that.
When he brought her up a cup of tea, Noreen had fallen asleep again. He fixed the blankets around her chin and moved the silver fringe of hair out of her eyes to kiss her lightly on the forehead. Then he re wrapped the old photos, closed the lid on her past and put it back under her bed.
12
Angela knew about the choir and approved of it. It kept Fergal out of harm's way, and she even allowed herself the fantasy that maybe he would become a priest - that way they would all definitely get into heaven. It always paid to be associated with Church activities.
She wasn't as pleased when Fergal told her Father Mac wanted to meet her and Paddy.
'Are you in trouble again, Fergal Flynn?' she said angrily, raising a ring-clad fist.
He dodged. 'No, Mammy! I think it's something to do with the choir,' he lied. 'He wants you and Da to come round for a cup of tea after mass this Sunday - that's all, for God's sake!'
'That's all, for God's sake!' mimicked John as effeminately as his impressionistic skills would allow, bending his wrist.
Angela spun on her heel. 'Shut your smart fucking mouth, you.' Then she turned back to Fergal, smoothed the creases in her skirt and said, 'Right, then. I'll talk to your da, but you know what he's like.'
~
That Sunday morning Fergal woke far too early, but he got up anyway. The one advantage was that Noreen
had yet to use her commode, so it was safe to breathe normally on the way downstairs to start the fire. The coal was dumped in the corner of the tiny, limed yard on top of an upside-down dog kennel that had been hammered together from bits of wooden bread crates. It had once housed a wee mongrel pup that one of Noreen's vanished children had bought her on a surprise visit home, but one day the wee thing had run out the front door, chasing the postman, and ended up under the wheels of an army Saracen speeding up the street in hot pursuit of a joyrider. The bin man had had to scrape the wee thing off the road with her coal shovel. She hadn't bothered getting another one.
After making toast and milky tea for Noreen, Fergal boiled several pots of water, filled an aluminium basin and washed himself with a worn pebble of carbolic soap and a flannel made from the corner of an old towel. As he splashed water on his face, he could feel that he really needed to start shaving more regularly. He didn't own a razor and he knew he couldn't ask his da for one. Not long before, Paddy had discovered that someone had been using his razor. No one would own up, so he'd exploded at all four of them - 'I'm your da! You'll shave when I decide you can, and not before!' Fergal had ended up stealing a disposable one from a shop - he didn't have enough money to buy a packet - but it had quickly become so blunt you could have let a child play with it. After repeatedly ripping the face off himself, he'd eventually had to throw it out.
As always, everybody had made an effort for Sunday mass. Local women were virtually unrecognisable without their usual flat shoes and hair hidden under scarves, pinned around tight rollers. Some of the younger mothers wore bright lipstick and mascara, their squads of children had been scrubbed within an inch of their lives. Even the sky, after a night of rioting, had gone to the bother of laying out freshly laundered clouds. They floated high above the city, perfectly scattered, as a single airplane left a cotton vapour trail against the pale-blue yonder. Fergal remembered Noreen's advice - Get out of this hole, sure, what is there to keep you hanging around? - and wondered what kind of people were on the plane and where in the world they were going. As he watched it getting smaller and smaller, he suddenly felt a rush of excitement. Maybe, one day, he might be one of those very people.
The mass seemed longer than usual. Fergal had to sing a hymn. He had only ever sung in the chapel when it was empty and now, as he stood looking at the little sea of people, his nerves started to get the better of him and his heart turned up its volume. He was glad of the relative safety of being up in the balcony with Baldy Turner and the organ. He couldn't help scanning the congregation for his family. There they were, all together. His father and brothers had ties and damped-down hair, and his mother was wearing some class of a hat that looked a like a duck was asleep on her head. At least they were far away, up near the front, but he wished they weren't there at all.
Communion was Fergal's cue. 'Lamb of God...' he sang, as the pipe organ swelled and his shy voice rose to keep its appointment with the chords in the cloisters. He kept his eyes closed until the last verse, because he was so nervous, but he held the music right in front of his face anyway - he couldn't risk getting the words wrong. He needn't have worried. Once the first three holy words were past his lips, his nerves vanished as quickly as they had arrived. The congregation looked around to see where the beautiful voice was coming from and Father Mac smiled contentedly.
Afterwards, Fergal thanked Baldy and ran down the narrow stairs to wait outside the church as his parents made their way through the departing throng. An old neighbour of Noreen's saw him descending the stone staircase and came up to him, saying, 'Was that you singing up there, love? Aren't you Angela Flynn's son? God, but it was beautiful.'
Over her shoulder, Fergal noticed with discomfort that his brothers showed no signs of fucking off home, and that they didn't share Noreen's neighbour's opinion of his singing. John, predictably, was mimicking him, pushing his tongue out to one side and flapping his arms like an angel who'd suffered some kind of stroke. As Father Mac escaped the monotone moaning of one of his oldest and deafest parishioners and made his way over to the Flynns, Paddy Sr stamped his foot on the holy ground and shooed the twins and Ciaran away. He also muttered something under his breath about hoping this wasn't going to take too long as he'd a match to get to.
Father Mac complimented Mrs Flynn on her choice of hat and ushered them towards his house, in the full glare of the Flynns' neighbours, ravenous for details. Mrs Mooney (at Father Mac's request) received them with all the ceremony reserved for extra-special visitors and enquired how they liked their tea. For the first time, Fergal noticed how vulnerable and small his parents looked inside someone else's world. It made him wonder if he looked the same way. Father Mac picked up on their discomfort and started talking to Paddy about hurling, describing how he'd formed a team with some of the local fellas in Africa. But Paddy looked incredulous, and not in a good way, so Father Mac dropped the subject.
When the tea, biscuits and cake arrived, Father Mac said, 'I'll get straight to the point. I have a friend who's a member of a strict order of monks in an abbey in Sligo.'
Angela gulped. 'Does our Fergal want to be a m onk, Father? Is that why we're here? I think he'd make a much better priest.'
Father Mac laughed a little, but went on, without looking at the mortified Fergal, 'No, no, Mrs Flynn. Let me explain.'
He told them that, as well as manufacturing honey and running an exclusive boarding school, the monks were highly regarded for their dedication to chanting Latin and ancient Irish hymns from as far back as the tenth century. 'And from time to time they make a recording,' he said. 'These are sold all over the world, even in the Vatican itself.'
'Really, Father?' Angela piped up, in a much posher voice than Fergal had ever heard from her before.
'So, Mr and Mrs Flynn, I've asked you both here today because my good friend Brother Vincent is holding selective auditions to find the right voice to complete their ensemble. They plan to record a small selection of rare pieces for a new album, and I would very much like your wonderful son Fergal here to represent St Bridget's parish. I believe he can do it.'
There was a moment when Fergal thought he would pass out if his heart beat any faster. Paddy Flynn looked into his tea for what seemed like an eternity. Finally he asked the rim of the cup, 'How much is it going to cost?'
Father Mac looked confused for a second. 'Oh, I see - St Bridget's will cover any travel and accommodation costs. It won't be much. I'll drive him to Sligo myself and the abbey will put us up. You don't need to pay anything.'
Angela looked up at Fergal. 'How long would he have to stay?'
'If he's successful - and I believe he will be - it will only mean a few days at most. They'll be recording the day after the auditions. If he isn't successful, then we'll be back first thing the following morning -I have my parish to think of.'
The Flynns looked at each other blankly. Angela said, 'Fergal's granny - my mother - depends on him. I can't see how he could be away for any length of time at all.'
Fergal's heart sank, but Father Mac played his trump card. 'Mr and Mrs Flynn, I realise Noreen is very attached to Fergal and it would be no good asking one of his brothers to step into his shoes. I thought perhaps this problem might be solved by enlisting my housekeeper, Mrs Mooney, as a replacement?'
Fergal hadn't seen that coming and neither had his unnerved parents.
Father Mac continued, 'I took the liberty of sounding her out about it. She says that, seeing as I won't be here anyway, she would be only too glad to help out a needy member of her own community - with your permission, of course. I understand she and your mother attended the same school as children, so I'm sure they'd have lots to catch up on.'
There was another uncomfortable silence. This time Paddy broke it. 'Father MacManus, there'll be no need to trouble Mrs... your housekeeper. Our family will make sure Noreen's looked after. Sure, it's only a couple of days, for fuck's sake - oh, excuse me, Father, but you know what I mean.'
Fergal
managed a smile. The phone bleated from the hall and Father Mac excused himself, leaving them in the spotless room together.
Angela stood up, fixing her skirt. 'I won't have some nosy oul' bitch poking round my ma's house and upsetting her,' she whispered. 'Come on, Paddy, we'll go after he gets off that bloody phone. I'm fucking roasted in here.'
She swept the remaining chocolate biscuits and slices of cake into a hanky and shoved them into her bag. 'I'll bring them round to Mammy's later, to soften her up.'
Father Mac re-entered the parlour offering his apologies, and looked at the empty plates in surprise. Fergal looked away, embarrassed.
Father Mac thanked the Flynns repeatedly, assured them that they were assisting in God's plan for St Bridget's, offered them a lift home - which they refused - and walked them to the front door. Then he came back to the parlour.
'Thank you. Oh, Father Mac, thank you!' Fergal gasped. 'I can't believe you got them to agree!'
Father Mac gave him a satisfied smile. 'Fergal, there are ways and means to do things. You shouldn't miss this chance and I was always going to do everything in my power to make sure it would happen for you. You want Noreen to hear your voice on a record, don't you?'
'Of course I do, Father. You know I do.'
'Well, funnily enough, that was Brother Vincent on the phone. He wanted to know if we could come in a month's time when most of the pupils will have gone home for their summer break. I'll have to get Father Morgan to cover for me, but I don't think it'll be a problem, seeing as this is going to be great for St Bridget's community. Also, I'm due a little bit of leave, so I thought I'd combine this trip with a visit to my parents' house, it's on our way. I hope you won't mind coming along?'
'Father, after you convincing my parents to let me go, I'd do anything!' Fergal hadn't meant it to come out that way, but it was too late.
The Arrival of Fergal Flynn Page 9