The Arrival of Fergal Flynn

by Brian Kennedy

  Their eldest child, Dympna, had moved with them and commuted to and from Enniskillen, where she worked too hard and too long for the council. Her parents reminded her at every opportunity that she was lucky to have such a secure position. She'd started at seventeen and now, at almost forty, she was helping to pay the mortgage on her parents' large farmhouse where she had her own private floor.

  Father Mac wasn't close to his brother, and that helped him understand Fergal's plight. Seamus had been cruel to him when they were growing up, and the thought of having to deal with more than one Seamus was enough to make him shudder. He had thought of trying to see his sister on her own, secretly, but the guilt had proved too much for him, and he had grudgingly dialled his parents' number to tell them he'd be passing through. He had also told them not to go to any trouble - his mother practically had to be prevented from ordering a marquee for the afternoon.

  Mr and Mrs MacManus were quietly suspicious of Fergal, but Dympna went out of her way to be friendly, asking him about his recent exams and his family. Mrs MacManus, who had been studying his profile, asked him what his mother's maiden name was. When he said, 'Clooney. Angela Clooney from Mount Street', her mouth snapped shut and began grinding, as if she was chewing his answer to check whether it was a trustworthy flavour. She said that she'd known his mother, they had even worked together briefly. Their own mothers had brought them into the linen factory for part-time shifts, swearing to the blind supervisor that they were old enough, when in fact they were only thirteen and skipping school.

  Mr MacManus grilled Fergal about sport and asked him what teams he supported. When he mentioned that he didn't support any and that he thought the offside rule seemed like the work of a powerful bad loser, the old man couldn't hide his disgust. His expression said he understood why Fergal and his son were such good friends.

  Seamus, even fatter than his heavily pregnant wife, arrived with their kids in tow. The two little boys turned out to be a glorious distraction from the undercurrent of disapproval and disappointment that no one seemed brave enough to voice. They stared at their uncle, who they'd never met before. Then Brendan, the older one, asked him, 'Do you know my daddy?' - which said more than all of the adult conversation put together.

  Fergal and Father Mac dutifully ate a few sandwiches before employing the legitimate excuse that they were going to be late to the abbey. Their goodbyes were rushed and uncomfortable -frantic handshakes from Mr MacManus and Seamus, and a power cut of an embrace from Mrs MacManus. Only Dympna was brave enough to kiss them both.

  As they drove on, unfamiliar radio stations announced local deaths and played traditional music that had them tapping the dashboard. When they got to the heavily guarded border, Fergal was stunned at how friendly the soldiers were to Father Mac -they weren't even searched. He wondered aloud whether it was his imagination, or whether the grass was suddenly greener, the sky bluer, the trees taller. Father Mac chuckled and blew smoke out the slit of his open window.

  They pulled over at a garage to get tins of fizzy lemon and a family-size bag of sweets. As Fergal chewed, Father Mac said, 'Fergal, I'm sorry. I don't think it was such a good idea to visit my family. Apart from my sister, they weren't very friendly, were they? That's the last thing you need.'

  'Ah, Father, I thought they were OK. Your da's just as sports-mad as mine and you're not like your brother at all, are you? His kids were funny, though, and your sister was lovely.'

  Father Mac sighed. 'It took me right back to the time when I was entering the seminary at Maynooth. My parents spent weeks arguing about whether they should drive me there. My father thought it was a complete waste of time and petrol, but my mother sulked and prayed aloud till he agreed.'

  'Father, how did you know you definitely wanted to be a priest? I mean, you hear all kinds of stories about visions and all... Was it like that?'

  Father Mac's brow furrowed deeply. 'No. I struggled with my faith for a long time, and I made the mistake of sharing my doubts with my father... You know, Fergal, Brother Vincent was a tower of strength during those times. I hope you'll like him. He's a real larger-than-life character, with a wicked sense of humour, but he's very serious about his music. I know he's going to love your voice.'

  ~

  As the afternoon sun played hide-and-seek, they saw the first weather-beaten signs for Sligo Abbey. They wound their way between hedges, along seemingly endless potholed roads - Fergal thought of Noreen's story about the broken-down bus - and then round a final corner that revealed the huge stone abbey set back from the road behind two colossal iron gates. Above them was a Latin inscription, which Father Mac translated: 'Brave are the men who answer God's call.' Fergal wondered about the women who had done the same.

  The gates opened reluctantly and they drove around to the back of the abbey where there was a small collection of cars that belonged to the few employees who lived outside in the town. Inside, they were greeted by Mrs O'Carroll, the long-suffering secretary, who informed them that Brother Vincent was supervising an exam because old Brother Luke had been taken ill. She lowered her eyelashes every time she said the word 'Brother'.

  Mrs O'Carroll found one of the sixth-form boarders - they were the only ones who were still at the school, taking their exams - to show Father Mac and Fergal to their rooms. His name was Eamonn, he was a barrister's son from Dublin and he was very friendly. The second he heard their accents, he started telling them about the time he had gone shopping in Belfast with his mother and they had ended up trapped in the chemist's for six hours because of a bomb scare.

  As he talked, Eamonn led them towards their rooms. The abbey was a curious mix of old stone and relatively modern building work. They passed down a stone hallway, where four students nervously waited outside a panelled door for their turns to take their Irish oral exam; one boy was just coming out, greeted by a silent movie of panicked last-chance faces. Eamonn led them through deserted dormitories with stripped bunk beds, up a flight of stairs and through a room whose door held a plaque announcing 'Sixth Year Common Room - Smoking Permitted'. It housed a pool table and a couple of pinball machines and under a TV was a rack of videos with 'Property of Sligo Abbey' printed on their spines. Fergal was instantly jealous of anyone who had ever attended this extraordinary place.

  Eamonn showed them their private rooms at the end of a corridor. To Fergal's quiet delight, his room was right next to Father Mac's. It held a single bed with a lamp, a sink with a small mirror, a writing desk and a wardrobe. A few posters of footballers he'd never heard of still adorned the walls, competing for space with invitations to parties and ripped pictures of nearly naked women.

  Fergal lay down on the bed and thought about what kind of life the previous occupant might have led. It certainly hadn't been anybody from the Falls Road. He wondered if he was the first person from the Falls ever to visit the abbey. The room was a lot bigger than the one he'd shared with Ciaran, and the view was incredible. It was a shock to see trees and hills, instead of a too-close-for-comfort mirror image of his parents' two-up-two-down, with Mrs Black obsessively scouring her front step in every weather. Some young fella had been shot to pieces outside her house. He had staggered into her hall, pleading in a clotted voice, 'I want my mammy - please get my ma, will you?' before the last of the life ran out of him. Mrs Black didn't know who he was, and as her kids screamed the place down she had tried to shut her hall door, but he was too awkwardly slumped against it. An ambulance had finally relieved her of his riddled body, before the soldiers moved in and the missiles - bricks, six-inch nails, hatchets and broken hammers - started to fly in every direction. Hours later, when Mrs Black had finally reopened her door, her front step looked as though a tin of red paint had been knocked over it. She had bleached it and scrubbed it every morning since.

  As the memory faded, a cloud moved away from the Sligo sun and Fergal's new room was momentarily filled with brilliant light. It was as if the sky had smiled approvingly at him. Two birds chased each other in circles
that seemed perfectly choreographed, and Fergal was so relaxed and so glad to be somewhere else that he could have closed his eyes and slept for hours.

  15

  Fergal unpacked his tiny suitcase. His grandfather's name and address were written in green ink on a clean bit of the lid in under-confident, old-fashioned handwriting. It was strange, he thought, they'd never known each other, and yet here he was, all these years later, using his grandfather's name and his case. He thought about the blue velvet jacket he'd left in the car and laughed, remembering his mother pushing it through the back window.

  'Are you going to let me in on whatever is making you so happy, Mr Fergal Flynn? Or am I just going to have to rely on divine inspiration?'

  The unfamiliar voice startled Fergal. He hated being surprised.

  He eyed the bulky frame in the doorway suspiciously, before realising this must be the Brother Vincent who Father Mac talked about so much.

  When the monk saw Fergal's face, he said, 'Now, there's no need to look so worried, young man. I'm Brother Vincent McFarland, and we're all looking forward to hearing you sing later on. I've never heard Father MacManus so enthusiastic about anyone, ever, and he's a tough one to impress.'

  'Oh, sorry, Brother - I didn't mean to stare. I was miles away. I'll do my best, of course.'

  Father Mac had obviously heard his friend's voice from his room; he appeared silently behind him and put his hands over the monk's eyes. Brother Vincent knew instantly who it was. 'Well, by the smell of your hands I'd say you're still as addicted to cigarettes as you ever were, Father!'

  They embraced warmly, laughing, and Father Mac stood back to look at his friend. 'I see they're feeding you well, Vincent. The size of you!'

  Brother Vincent pretended to look hurt. He dropped his eyes and replied in a sad little boy's voice, 'Sure, I was only a wee slip of a thing in my youth, but all good things came to an end.' Then, in his normal voice, he boomed, 'Now there's more of me to love! Whoa!'

  They all laughed this time. Brother Vincent regained his official composure and asked, 'Would you be ready to audition in about twenty minutes, before dinner?'

  Fergal nodded and gulped all at once, trying not to look too panic-stricken, leaving Father Mac to answer, 'We're as ready as we can be.'

  Brother Vincent looked pleased. 'I'll give you a little tour on the way,' he said, and led them downstairs and out into the vast grounds.

  Fergal started to see a different side of Father Mac. He couldn't believe how the two grown men - although they addressed each other formally as 'Father' and 'Brother' - slagged each other playfully but mercilessly about their appearances and pretended to trip each other up, like excited schoolboys. Fergal knew only too well that there wasn't much to laugh about on the Falls Road, and that Father Mac had to maintain a certain level of professional distance around his parishioners, but he felt a little envious of Brother Vincent's ability to effortlessly transform Father Mac. He even seemed to look younger.

  Fergal had fallen slightly behind the two men and Father Mac dropped his voice and asked Brother Vincent, 'How have the other auditions gone? Have you found anyone you really like the sound of?'

  'We've had five hopefuls,' Brother Vincent said, equally quietly, 'and there were two - both from the choir in the abbey - who came close to the quality we're hoping for. So, if Fergal doesn't work out, all isn't lost.' Father Mac nodded, relieved in one sense and more nervous in another.

  Fergal, watching them whispering, became a little paranoid. He badly wanted to be picked for the recording, especially after all the trouble Father Mac had gone to. He only hoped he was good enough... He took slow, deep breaths to try and calm the rising tide of nerves.

  Outside the residence hall, they climbed a mound that looked out over the surrounding grounds. From this ancient vantage point, the abbey looked like a castle. Neat orchards and perfectly kept gardens ran all the way around it; beyond them was a cemetery and then thick, dark woods that seemed to stretch for miles. Brother Vincent gave a little running commentary about the history of the order, and how they pressed their own apple juice from the orchards and brewed their own beer, which always sold out at the local market. He said the graveyard was full of generations of Brothers, going as far back as the first monks known to have settled there around the twelfth century. He pointed out the beehives - most of them at the edge of the woods, but a few scattered around the greenhouses - where the famous honey was faithfully collected.

  The abbey's main chapel was easily as big as St Bridget's Church, though it had no balcony. Row after row of enormous stained-glass windows depicted, in beautiful colours and intricate designs, a world that was long gone to outsiders but stubbornly maintained by the holy brothers. Fergal and the two men entered the vestry through a side door. About twenty purple satin robes hung neatly in a row on numbered pegs with their corresponding shoes and velvet-embossed prayer books on a bench below. Thick piles of music books were stacked against the walls and on some of the wooden seats. In a corner, a crowd of tall brass candlesticks were gathered, as if watching the visitors. Brother Vincent asked Father Mac and Fergal to remove their footwear and then opened another heavy door, placing a stubby finger solemnly against his lips as he motioned for them to follow.

  Inside, the chapel was lit solely by winking candles and these, as Fergal and Father Mac soon discovered, were also the only source of heat. The floor was made of highly glazed mosaic tiles chronicling in minute detail the last days of Jesus' life. The fractured pattern reflected the candlelight in a million different directions, and it was breathtaking enough to make them forget about the drop in temperature.

  They stood uncertainly at one side of the altar, not knowing where to go. Then, suddenly, the chapel came to life. In the darkened choir stalls on the far side of the altar, the waiting monks' bowed heads lifted one by one and they began their evening chant. It grew and grew in volume, to a continuous deep resonance that was hypnotic. Most of the Brothers were quite old, with a variety of long beards and glasses, and not one of them opened his eyes while they constructed the human wall of sound. Their mouths made the shape of perfect full moons as the notes undulated back and forth along the empty aisles.

  When they came to the end of the piece, the monks stopped in the same mysterious way they had started: voice after voice dropped out, leaving just a single one to cradle the air into silence again. Fergal didn't know whether to cheer or cry.

  Brother Vincent took him by the arm and placed him in front of the altar by a music stand, facing out towards the congregation-less space. Father Mac took his seat at the organ beside the choir, its vast pipes running all the way up to the ceiling. As Fergal's eyes made their final adjustments, he almost stumbled in shock - the biggest crucifix he had ever seen was suspended right above the altar, the dying figure of Christ glowing marble-white with piercing, sorrowful, emerald eyes.

  Fergal swallowed hard. Without warning, a chord rang out -the first chord of one of the hymns he had been rehearsing. He turned towards the organ to ask if he should sing. Father Mac shook his head to silence him until Brother Vincent counted him in with exaggerated swings of his arm.

  Fergal had no time left to be nervous. He found the Latin words on the manuscript in front of him and they rose from the pit of his stomach - a bit shakily at first, but once he felt the acoustics of the chapel supporting him, he relaxed enough to breathe properly. Then his high tenor voice was free to join the clouds of incense in the darkened reaches of the cloisters. The Brothers joined in, and Fergal kept his eyes glued to the music stand for fear that he'd lose his concentration. He had never sung with this kind of harmony before and it was hard not to let the strange beauty of it distract him. He focused on the organ and imagined he was back in Father Mac's sitting room.

  The hymn came to an end. No one spoke.

  When Fergal looked up, he saw that Brother Vincent's eyes were closed and he had a broad grin renting his face. The other monks kept their heads bowed. On cue from Brother
Vincent, Father Mac played a single note on the lower register of the organ. With Vincent conducting, the monks launched into a light-hearted piece that Fergal definitely hadn't heard before. He threw a worried look at Father Mac - were they expecting him to join in? - but Father Mac shook his head, smiling, and placed a finger to his lips. As the monks reached the end of the piece, they rose to their feet and filed out one by one until there was no proof that they had ever been there.

  Brother Vincent came towards the confused Fergal and said, 'Well, young man, please tell me you haven't made any plans for the weekend because we have a busy couple of days ahead. Your voice is perfect - just like you said it would be, Father MacManus.'

  Father Mac put an arm around Fergal's shaking shoulders. Fergal's heart was flying with the rush of excitement, not only from singing but from the relief of success. Until now, he'd never been singled out for anything in his life - not anything good, at least.

  Father Mac led him back to the vestry where they'd left their shoes, then he hugged him and said in his ear, 'I knew you could do it!'

  Fergal, overcome with the nearness of him, rested his head on his shoulder for a moment. Then he remembered. 'Could I use the phone?'

  They were shown to Brother Vincent's little office. Fergal nervously dialled his Aunt Concepta's number - the Flynns didn't have a phone - and asked her to tell his ma that he had passed the audition and wouldn't be home till... He suddenly realised he didn't know when they'd be finished recording.

  'Sunday.' mouthed Father Mac.

  'Sunday.' Fergal told her.

  Neither of them realised how hungry they were until a gong sounded and Brother Vincent explained it was the call for dinner. Fergal thought he wouldn't be able to eat he was so excited, but the food was delicious - much better than the endless tinned stuff he was used to. It was all grown in the gardens of the abbey and harvested by the monks with occasional help from a few willing pupils. For afters, they had fresh raspberries with thick cream and honey.