A memory started up like a little film in the cinema of Fergal's head. Tins of raspberries in the fridge and a turkey hanging upside down behind the kitchen door, which meant it was nearly time for Santa. Every Christmas Eve, the Flynns had a visit from one of their da's old hurling mates who'd married a woman from up the country. They had no kids of their own, so every year they drove up to the Flynns' house with a car full of giant cabbages, parsnips and the biggest, scariest, baldiest turkey ever seen. Angela hated the fact that it still had its head and the boys were all terrified of it in case it came back to life during the night and ran around the house trying to bite them. Once it had been wedged into their tiny oven and cooked till it was unrecognisable, though, nobody had any complaints about eating it.
Fergal and Father Mac insisted on helping out with the washing up - there were so many hands that it took about ten seconds. No one spoke unless they absolutely had to, and Fergal smiled at the thought that he was still being surrounded by Brothers who wouldn't speak to him.
It was coming up to half past nine, when the monks retired to the seclusion of their private quarters in the oldest part of the monastery - an area that was out of bounds even to some of the younger members of the order, not to mention the pupils. Brother Vincent accompanied his two guests through a maze of corridors and up another steep stairwell back to their rooms. He was very complimentary about Fergal's performance. 'Out of all the voices we've tried over the past month, you have the most appropriate tone - very pure, very natural. The fact that the other Brothers joined in with you tells me they feel the same way.' Fergal stared at the worn wooden floorboards, burning with embarrassment.
Brother Vincent said, 'Good night, my dears. If we didn't have such a busy day tomorrow, I would crack open the brandy I've been saving... but, sure, maybe tomorrow night - when the work is completed?'
'Of course, Vincent! You know how much I love a decent brandy. I hope it's none of that cooking muck, now?'
Brother Vincent giggled like a schoolgirl and padded off into the darkness. Fergal thought it was weird that such a big man should have such a little laugh.
He yawned before he could stop himself, and Father Mac laughed and ruffled his hair. 'Pleasant dreams.' The touch was like an electric current going straight through Fergal's body. He closed his bedroom door behind him, undressed as fast as he could and jumped under the cold bedcovers.
His thoughts turned to Father Mac in the next room. He pressed his ear to the wall that separated them, hoping he might at least hear Father Mac breathing, but he couldn't hear a thing. He whispered, to the wall, 'Well, at least we're getting closer.'
He wanted to masturbate, but he had nothing to finish into. He laughed into his pillow, remembering something that had happened in Walker Street about two years previously.
Angela, sick and tired of finding odd socks when she was hanging up the washing, had decided to go where no mother had gone before - while the boys were- at school, she went into the twins' room to look for the missing socks. She searched high and low and in the end she tried under the bunk beds. John, who slept On the bottom one, had found that his socks were perfect for his most private obsession. Almost every night, while Paddy Jr snored above him, he would impregnate whichever sock was to hand and throw it under the bed, amidst the dusty jungle of sports comics, shoes and the odd half-eaten plate of chips, then heave a satisfied sigh and fall asleep.
When the twins bounced in from school, Angela pounced. 'Right, you two! Which one of youse dirty bastards has been blowing his nose in his socks and then throwing them under the beds, eh? Jesus, didn't I have to snap them apart to get the washing powder in this morning - and the smell would've made you forget your own name!'
John went white in the face. Paddy said virtuously, 'It wasn't me, Mammy. I don't do that! I sleep on the top bunk. I'm a good shot, but not good enough to get a sock under the bottom bunk from the top one.'
Angela screwed her face up at John. 'John Flynn, what kind of dirty animal am I rearing that you would use your bloody good socks for something so disgusting? Sure, haven't we any amount of toilet roll that my mate Maureen risks life and limb to get past the hospital security? If I ever catch you again...'
She went for him but he sprinted out the back door into the yard shouting, 'It's not me who's the dirty animal - it's Fergal! It was him!'
Angela roared after him, 'Well, fuck me if our Fergal isn't the best shot in Ireland then - managing to get a slimy sock through the wall from his own fucking room all the way under your bed! Do you think I'm daft or something, you big lazy cunt? Stay out of my sight till dinner time - and if I find one more of them good socks stuck together, I'll kill you stone dead! Do you hear me, John? Stone dead!'
It was the only time Fergal could remember when he and his brother Paddy had laughed together. Ciaran had joined in uncertainly, not really knowing why he was laughing, but not wanting to be left out.
As Fergal drifted off to sleep, he wondered how many people, in all the decades of pupils who had passed through on their way to the adult world, had wanked in his new bed.
~
Father Mac was considering asking Brother Vincent for a sleeping tablet, or at least some of his private stash of brandy. He was convinced he was becoming an insomniac. He couldn't get comfortable no matter how hard he tried. He wondered if Vincent thought Fergal was attractive. Out of nowhere, he began to feel jealous. He got up wearily and opened the window to smoke, but after only a few annoyed puffs he stubbed out the cigarette and threw it into the darkness.
He tried to sleep with his back to the wall but, inevitably, he could only get comfortable if he was facing Fergal's room. Slowly he began to wonder what Fergal looked like as he lay sleeping. He reprimanded himself and closed his eyes but it was no use: Fergal's face floated in front of his mind's eye. I just want to be with you, Father Mac. Why do we have to be lonely?
Father Mac got out of bed and prayed silently. 'Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for the gift of my friendship with Fergal. To see him really beginning to shine is nothing short of a miracle. He's blossoming so profoundly, all he ever needed was to be exposed to the right kind of light. Did you hear him sing today? Wasn't he better than ever? Wasn't he... beautiful? Oh, Father, he's sleeping in the next room - so near, but so far - and it's all I can do not to go and tell him that I... that I...'
Even though no one could hear his thoughts, Father Mac could not finish the sentence.
16
Just before waking, Fergal had a disturbing dream.
He was a little girl on the back seat of a car travelling slowly along a dusty, winding road. There were two grown-up people in the front. The passenger was his mother, but she wasn't Angela. The driver was a man he didn't know. As the little girl, he noticed rice fields on one side of the car and a thick dark forest on the other. In the paddy field there was a man bent over picking rice plants; he looked exactly like the man driving the car. Then a voice rose up from the forest laughing hysterically. The little girl's parents acted as if they hadn't heard a thing, but she was terrified because she knew it meant the driver was about to be killed and the identical man in the rice field was going to take his place...
Fergal woke. For a second he didn't know where he was. He lay still wondering what the dream had meant. He had no idea what time it was, and through the window he could see that the sky didn't know either. He got out of the warm bed and pulled on his trousers and T-shirt. The dream had shaken him. He put his ear to the wall - if he could hear Father Mac breathing, he thought, it might make him feel better - but there wasn't a sound. He was beginning to feel a little scared. He crept out into the corridor but when he plucked up the courage to rap on Father Mac's door, there was no answer. He turned the handle slowly. If he opened it a crack and saw Father Mac sleeping, he decided, he'd go back to his own room.
He was surprised to find the room empty. There was a Bible by the lamp with a set of rosary beads coiled on top of it, and the bed showed signs of h
aving been slept in. Fergal whispered to himself, 'Where could he be?' Maybe Father Mac had gone to the toilet somewhere, or downstairs for some water and had got lost? Or maybe he'd taken Brother Vincent up on his offer of a brandy, after all, and they were still drinking somewhere deep in the monastery. Fergal went back out, along the dark corridor and down the narrow stairs, listening all the while for hushed talking or muted laughing. He decided that, if he bumped into someone, he'd say he was looking for a toilet.
He came to the annex that led outside. A few stars had overstayed their welcome in the slow morning sky. Fergal wandered towards the apple orchard. As he turned a corner, the sight of a fox stopped him in his tracks. It had something large in its mouth and carried on running, glancing sideways at him with the moon in its eyes. Fergal had never seen one before and was amazed at how small it was.
A cold breath of air brushed Fergal's neck. He was considering abandoning his walk for his warm bed when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a red-orange glow floating amongst the branches of a flowering apple tree. He jumped in fear, thinking it was some strange one-eyed creature but his curiosity got the better of him and he moved closer - close enough to make out the silhouette of Father Mac inhaling a cigarette. Fergal didn't want to disturb him. He leaned against a wall, watching the priest smoke, as the birds started their first song of the day and the sun convinced the stars that it could be trusted to adopt the sky.
Father Mac got down a little stiffly from the branches, and was turning back towards the abbey when he saw Fergal.
'Fergal, is that you?' he whispered.
'Yes, Father Mac.'
'Is everything all right? What are you doing out of bed?'
'I had a bad dream and I went to your room to talk to you but you weren't there, so I came out here for a bit of air. I didn't want to call out in case I startled you and you fell into the muck.'
Father Mac put a hand on Fergal's hunched shoulder and they walked through the orchard towards the little cemetery. 'Tell me your dream,' Father Mac said.
It had already begun to evaporate from Fergal's memory. 'I can't remember.'
They walked the length of the graves and Father Mac lit another cigarette. 'Look, Fergal, it's natural to be nervous about new things. Sure, we all are. It's only human. Whatever your dream was, don't fret too much, my friend. I believe in your capabilities, and I'll be right beside you every step of the way - I promise.'
They embraced, awkwardly at first, then tightly. Father Mac wrapped the edges of his coat around Fergal's bare arms. Fergal realised he had grown in the past few months - they were almost the same height. He let his head rest against Father Mac's neck, and became aware of the secret tobacco sweetness that clung to his skin. Normally he couldn't stand the smell of smoke but this was intoxicating, mixing with the new perfume of the apple blossom that the waking breeze was carrying to tempt the sleepy bees.
They stayed in that position for a long while, neither wanting to be the first to unfurl from the moment. Father Mac hummed hoarsely, a soft familiar tune that soothed Fergal completely.
Then, instinctively, they slowly untangled themselves and moved back towards the abbey.
Brother Vincent had been watching the little scene from the arc of his window with great interest. The rest of the monks were beginning to surface from their unconscious state, for the chant that praised God for bringing light back into the world for another day. Father Mac and Fergal reached the door that would take them both upstairs, but the priest paused and let Fergal go on first, while he went in search of a toilet that he didn't really need to use.
When Fergal got to his room, he closed the door and sat on the edge of the bed, his head spinning. He lay flat in an effort to calm down but ended up planting tiny kisses on the pillow, pretending it was Father Mac's face.
His reverie was broken by Brother Vincent, who opened the door holding a tray with two cups of steaming tea. He said reproachfully, 'Now, Mr Flynn, you didn't sleep in those clothes, did you? Was it too cold in here? Don't tell me you've been up and out already!'
Fergal had no idea how to respond but Father Mac came to the rescue, whether he meant to or not. He appeared at the door behind his friend, saying, 'I don't suppose this would be a good time to tickle you, Vincent - what with your full tray and all?'
Brother Vincent giggled as Father Mac said, 'We set our alarms early, we didn't want to risk missing the first chant and we went for a walk in the orchards to wake ourselves up.'
Brother Vincent said coyly, with his tongue firmly in his cheek, 'Oh, there's no danger of sleeping in round here, my dears. We're all very early risers... Whoa!' He winked at them, put down the tray and floated off out the door. Fergal threw some cold water on his face and put on his jumper. He couldn't stop thinking about how easily Father Mac seemed to flirt with Brother Vincent.
Father Mac saw the serious look on his face. 'Are you OK?'
'Well, I suppose so.'
He closed the door. 'What is it, fella? Tell me.'
'It's just that... Brother Vincent - does he ever stop, you know, flirting with you?'
'Ah, Fergal, Vincent and I are old friends. He's theatrical, to say the least, but he's harmless. And he knows there's no way I—'
'What?'
'Well, I could never be interested in him, in that way. But he's a laugh - you have to admit he's funny - and underneath all the jokes is someone quite vulnerable.'
'Yeah, but... early risers? What's he like? Any excuse to get a double meaning going.'
'Pay no mind to him, Fergal - he's just starved of stimulating company like ours! Come on, now, we'd better get down there.'
As much as Fergal didn't want to admit it to himself, he knew in his heart of hearts that he was jealous of Brother Vincent's ability to make Father Mac so giddy. He wasn't sure he liked the way the two men morphed so easily into goofy, teasing boys before his eyes. Fergal didn't know how to do that - he'd never learned -and it made him feel left out again.
They caught up with Brother Vincent at the chapel door. Fergal didn't want to take off his shoes again - his socks were old with holes right at the heels, right where he needed protection from the arctic floor. This time, though, Brother Vincent offered them little sandals from a cupboard - 'I'm so sorry, I forgot to give you these yesterday!' - and Fergal was relieved. As they took their places at the altar and his eyes adjusted, he noticed that the Brothers were wearing an array of open-toed sandals and soft moccasins without any socks at all.
Brother Vincent started, issuing a low growl that grew thicker and darker with each added voice until it became a pulse. As the chanting pushed and pulled its ancient Latin cargo, it sounded like a swarm of bees, getting closer and closer, drawing them towards the centre of a giant hive. Then Vincent nodded for Fergal to begin and he sang, a full two octaves higher than the monks, like a sudden burst of sunlight beaming through the shimmering stained-glass windows.
The unfamiliar words were like a warning, calling over and over again to the world when it was a very different place. Fergal wondered what had inspired the monk all those centuries ago to compose such an unbelievable soundscape.
'Nunc et domine et spiritus sanctus...'
The words gathered more and more momentum and finally burst like a firework, up towards the roof of the chapel where the audience of painted angels waited, frozen, spellbound messengers of God, like mermaids of the deep sea foolishly venturing too close to the earth to hear the music that would trap them between worlds, free neither to walk nor to fly.
Brother Vincent looked Fergal straight in the eyes as the last chord spread its wings and flew homeward.
~
Over breakfast of surprisingly delicious porridge, honey and bread, Brother Vincent discussed the plan for the day. There would be more rehearsals after breakfast. The technical people were due to arrive, set up their recording equipment and have it all working before lunch. There would be a few obligatory run-throughs for sound balance, and then the programme o
f recording would start.
Fergal was nervous already. Brother Vincent smiled at him and said, 'Whenever I get anxious about anything, I go below to our little chapel and ask for strength from the icons. I always leave feeling much better.'
Fergal looked confused and the monk said, 'You mean to tell me you haven't heard about our Chapel of Icons?'
Fergal shook his head.
'Right, I'll take you there myself as soon as rehearsals are over. It's directly below the altar and is the most sacred place in all of the abbey.'
Father Mac seemed a bit distant and kept going out for cigarette after cigarette in the garden. One of the oldest Brothers was tending the beehives with no protection except for his robe, which was exactly the same colour as the newly turned soil. His hairless head ignored the strong rays of the sun. Father Mac was too far away to tell if he was praying or deep in conversation with the winged workers who mistook the old man's slow brown bulk for an unthreatening, walking tree. Whenever Father Mac watched Fergal sing, he witnessed a transformation that he found incredibly moving. Fergal's body seemed taller, less weighted down, his eyes shone so trustfully and that voice! All of the sadness was channelled into that voice... Father Mac was worried about the profound effect Fergal could have on him.
~
The rehearsals were long and intense. Fergal was relieved when he realised that he could have the Latin text in front of him. Brother Vincent enthused quietly and helped him with the odd bit of pronunciation but still none of the other Brothers spoke. Some of them stayed so still, you could have been forgiven for thinking they'd had some kind of stroke and died. Fergal wanted to ask Brother Vincent if it had ever happened but decided against it.
The Arrival of Fergal Flynn Page 13