The Arrival of Fergal Flynn

by Brian Kennedy

  It was agreed that for two of Fergal's four pieces, Father Mac would accompany them on the organ. Fergal was greatly reassured by this news. All it took was one gentle smile from the priest and his shoulders dropped from their tense position and he could find calm again.

  Just as the last song came to a close, they heard the trucks arriving from the outside world with the equipment. The Brothers vanished out the side door, towards their quarters.

  Fergal just managed to hear Father Mac say discreetly, 'Look, Vincent, I'm dying for a cigarette, but I'm trying not to smoke too much around our asthmatic soloist. Try and cheer him up and keep him from thinking about the recording too much, will you? Don't let his nerves get the better of him! I'm relying on you.'

  Brother Vincent nodded and winked - seriously, this time. Then he took Fergal by the arm and said, 'Now then, Mr Flynn, I don't make promises I can't keep. Come this way and I'll show you our Chapel of Icons.' Relieved, Father Mac headed for the woods beyond the cemetery and disappeared from view, leaving behind a tiny trail of grey tobacco smoke.

  Brother Vincent led Fergal around the main chapel until they came to an enormous holly bush, which framed a stairwell leading down into blackness. The steps that were visible had been worn down in the middle by centuries of careful, visiting feet. Their surfaces looked as smooth as skimming stones. Brother Vincent took them carefully explaining that he had once encountered a none-too-happy inquisitive badger at the bottom, so it was always wise to go slowly and make enough noise to announce your presence. By the bottom, Fergal could hardly see a thing.

  Brother Vincent freed a large key ring from under the folds of his robe and selected the right key with myopic tenderness before beckoning his companion further into the nothingness. The mechanism turned reluctantly in the door and Fergal felt his way along the cold, moss-covered stonework. He touched the wooden frame of the door, and was just about to call out when a noise like a finger-snap triggered a tiny halogen light bulb.

  It illuminated a gold-leafed Russian icon of Mary, Mother of Christ. The surrounding darkness gave the illusion that it was floating in mid-air. Fergal had never seen anything like it in his life. As he moved towards it, to take in its full glittering splendour, Vincent's voice told him that this was only one of many sacred icons brought as gifts from around the planet by visiting monks through the centuries.

  'This one,' Brother Vincent said, 'was rescued centuries ago from the front of a tabernacle that had been very badly damaged in a fire. It's believed to be the work of a Brother Augustine. He was a famed womaniser and drunkard well into his adulthood -but then one morning he woke up not knowing where he was and he had a vision. An angel told him that he was wasting his God-given talent. He was so afraid that he gave up his wild ways that very day and entered a monastery. There he concentrated on carving icons that would survive long after him.'

  Fergal's eyes had adjusted enough to make out the details of the room. The little wire trails connected to the lamps, the little alcove with a small kneeler to pray on, the dome-shaped ceiling. 'Yes, the ceiling is wonderful,' Brother Vincent said, following his eyes. 'It almost feels like you're in an Arabian tent, doesn't it? Come and feel the curve.'

  As Fergal put his hand up to the ceiling, he said, 'It must be amazing to live here.'

  Brother Vincent giggled. 'I love your accent - the way you say "amazing".' :

  Fergal smiled in surprise - no one had ever complimented his speaking voice before. He thought of John, who mimicked him all the time in an exaggerated 'girly' voice. 'Thank you, Brother. Where's your accent from?'

  'Well, I'm from a wee town called Cootehill - do you know where that is?'

  'No... It's a funny name.' They both giggled and the sound echoed in the darkness.

  'It's not far from Monaghan. And it is indeed a privilege to live here at the monastery.'

  'How did you end up being a Brother?'

  Brother Vincent cocked an eyebrow. 'Do you really want to know?'

  'I do, I do - if you don't mind me asking.'

  'No, I'd be delighted to tell you - but first things first. I want you to take a seat over there in the middle of the little bench. Do you see it?'

  'OK - yeah, I think so.'

  Except for the single bulb illuminating the icon, there was no other source of light and Fergal had to squint to see the bench. He walked slowly towards the other end of the dim space and sat down. He was about to say something when, all of a sudden, another switch was thrown. Fergal gasped at the revealed gallery of bejewelled icons, each with its own individual birthmark, depicting the various stages of Jesus' life and those of the saints who had devoted their lives to him.

  Brother Vincent came over to him and threw a final switch, above Fergal's stunned head. It illuminated the most ornamented and fragile golden icon of all. It was secluded from the rest of the collection - and, more importantly, from curious hands - by a protective grille. Fergal had never seen anything like it. 'Oh my God' was as much as he could manage.

  Brother Vincent remained standing, as if he were about to recite a poem. He closed his eyes gathering his concentration, while Fergal and the audience of icons waited in anticipation. Then he spread his arms wide.

  'Now, my children, say hello to our new friend, Mr Fergal Flynn from Belfast.'

  For a second Fergal half-expected real children to crawl out from the darkest corners of the underground chapel, as if in some fairytale, but he soon realised what the monk meant.

  The icons glistened a welcome. 'Fergal, on behalf of my glittering children, welcome to our secret place.'

  'Thank you, Brother Vincent. It's... it's like a dream or something. Ah, they're beautiful - I could look at them all day. No wonder you love living in this place so much.'

  'I'm lucky to be alive at all, never mind living here.'

  'What do you mean, Brother?'

  'Now, I don't want to bore you to death - and I don't know how much time we'll have before they're ready for us upstairs -so I'll try and give you the edited highlights. You may have guessed that I love to talk as much as you love to sing.' He clapped his hands and they both laughed.

  Brother Vincent looked around the room, making sure he had the full attention of his carved congregation. 'Now my children and our distinguished guest, are we all comfortable? Then I shall begin.'

  He cleared his throat. 'Let me start at the beginning. My father was an only child and had inherited the family farm. He was wealthy, a bit of a catch, but he was also a very shy man and by his late forties he was a confirmed bachelor - the locals had written him off as "not the marrying kind". But the loneliness eventually got the better of him. So do you know what he did?'

  'No, Brother - what?'

  Brother Vincent giggled again and put his chubby hand to his mouth. In the soft light of the underground chapel, Fergal thought he looked about thirteen.

  'Well, my boy, he secretly enlisted the services of a matchmaker! Can you imagine? Oh, the scandal of it all.' He inhaled dramatically again and put his hand to his head, his animation made Fergal laugh.

  'It must have taken him years to come around to the idea. He was extremely religious and the Church frowned heavily on such activities. But there was a lot of land at stake, and he didn't want to risk meeting just anybody. He was very specific about the kind of wife he had in mind.'

  Fergal nodded, fascinated.

  'Now, my mother had only just turned thirty. She was a schoolteacher from Dundalk and as smart as a whip, but in those days she was considered an old maid. Her family found her single status so embarrassing that they tried to encourage her to become a nun. She ended up taking a temporary headmistress post in - you'll never guess - Cootehill, and the scene was set. Well, after a bit of fancy footwork by the matchmaker, the hot gossip hit the streets - the old farmer and the young teacher were seen out and about together. As God or luck or Fate would have it, they got on famously. They were both mad about music, he played the fiddle and the accordion and she accompanie
d on the piano. They were married six months later. My father used to say that the moment he met her he knew she was a gift from God.'

  Brother Vincent looked around at the icons. 'Well, my children, can you bear it if I go on? One wink for no, two winks for yes!'

  Fergal laughed, then winked twice as Vincent rested his wide-eyed gaze on him for an answer.

  'I'll continue, so. They'd all but given up on having children. My mother made trips to Lourdes and even put holy water in the bath - whoa! Can you imagine? But nothing seemed to work. The neighbours said it was because God disapproved of their union. Then, on her forty-third birthday, my mother found she was pregnant. It was regarded as nothing short of a miracle in the town. Suddenly the same neighbours were bringing her old family recipes and baptismal outfits - and I wasn't even born yet!

  And a few months later, enter stage left, to rapturous applause, one Vincent McFarland. Hooray!'

  Brother Vincent gave himself a round of applause. Fergal joined in, a little embarrassed but still fascinated. He thought Vincent seemed more childlike than ever.

  'I was hardly what one would call a delicate child,' Brother Vincent said ruefully. 'God bless my poor wee mammy - sure, I was over ten pounds! Can you imagine it?' He pressed his hands to his own stomach, swollen for an entirely different reason, and a mischievous look came over his face as he groaned in mock labour.

  Fergal roared laughing. Before he could stop himself, he said, 'I hope you weren't wearing that big robe when they delivered you! Sure, it must weigh a ton on its own!'

  Brother Vincent gasped in pretend horror and for a split second Fergal thought he'd gone too far. There was something contagious about Vincent's humour that made him forget himself and feel at ease. A bell rang in the distance. Vincent bent over, hunching his back, and cried in an exaggerated lisp, "The bellth, the bellth, Mathta!' He ran at Fergal with outstretched arms, swiping playfully at him. Realising that Vincent was messing with him in the same way that he did with Father Mac, Fergal laughed and pretended to swat him back. He was a bit unsure of himself, but he liked it.

  Suddenly Brother Vincent straightened up again, as if his hunch had miraculously been cured by the audience of icons. 'Actually,' he said, grinning and a little out of breath, 'I'm sure I looked more like an overblown balloon with a full head of hair and a face painted on.' He puffed out his cheeks and widened his eyes to demonstrate.

  Fergal dissolved into laughter again. Then he distorted his own features, sticking out his tongue at an angle and crossing his eyes. He was delighted when Brother Vincent's familiar giggle rippled around the tiny chapel. 'Now, Fergal, you should be careful - your face might stay like that!'

  'Look who's talking, Brother!'

  'I was an only child,' Brother Vincent resumed, 'and I was a bit of a loner at school - all of the other kids had loads of brothers and sisters. But I was lucky, you know. My parents had waited so long to have me that, when I came, they didn't want to let me out of their sight. We did everything we could together. I used to climb into their bed every morning. My mother taught me to play and sing and as soon as my legs would carry me I never left my father's side on the farm. You see, Fergal, they looked upon me as a kind of chosen child, sent to them by God to do his holy work someday. We went to mass every morning and I became an altar boy as soon as I was old enough. Just before my lovely daddy died - I was twelve years old - he made me promise that I would stay close to the Holy Father who would guide me now that he was about to leave for heaven, where we would be reunited someday.'

  Brother Vincent's eyes filled up, so Fergal stood up and stretched out a hand to his shoulder.

  'Oh, look at me, would you? Still a few tears for Daddy, after all these years.'

  'And what about your mother?'

  'Oh, she's up there with him. She passed away when I was in my twenties. I nursed her till the very last breath was out of her, and I'll tell you, it was one of the greatest privileges of my life. My goodness, that was more years ago than I care to admit... But they're together now and I love them today as I did then. Tell me, are you close to your parents?'

  Fergal had known the question would come eventually and he brushed it off, 'Oh, they're like any family, really. Go on.' He wondered how much Father Mac had told Vincent.

  'Well, I'd considered the priesthood a number of times, but I wasn't sure. Then I saw an ad in the paper, so I sold the farm and moved to your hometown of Belfast to train as a nurse at the Royal Victoria. I'd loved looking after my mother and I knew it was something I would be good at. Sure, that's how Father MacManus and I met, you know - did he tell you? When I think of it, he was probably the age that you are now. It was at a classical concert in Queen's University - he was as cracked about music as I was... Fergal, you'll tell me if I'm boring you, won't you?'

  'Far from it, Brother Vincent. Go on, keep talking.'

  'After about a year, I got very restless. One day there was a notice up on the board advertising for nurses to go to London. I signed up one week and the next I was gone.

  'Oh, Fergal, I can't tell you how exciting it was to be in London in the early 1970s! Walking down the King's Road, for me, was like walking on the moon, except the clothes were more ridiculous - whoa! The secret after-hours clubs on Frith Street put the wee lock-ins in Cootehill to shame. I kept hearing about free love and there was music everywhere. I saw some amazing people play in the West End when I was supposed to be studying for my nursing exams - Janis Joplin, Eric Clapton... Do you know, I once saw John Lennon get out of a paisley-painted limousine and dive into a shop followed by hundreds of girls? The screaming was deafening.'

  Fergal and the icons hung on every word.

  'But then, as I was coming up to my final exams - well, I don't have to tell you what happened in Belfast and Derry around that time, do I? Every night there was something awful on the news, and having an Irish accent in England became extremely dangerous. The moment there was a bomb scare or a soldier killed, anybody Irish was a suspect and a terrorist until proven otherwise. Everyone stopped talking to me, I even got beaten up a few times - I reported it to the police but they did nothing, of course.'

  'So what did you do?'

  'Well, I kept my head down and finished my exams. I was going to go back home and work as a nurse. But when I was on my way home, I was stopped for questioning at the airport. I'd forgotten my identification, so I was arrested and held for two days. It was the last straw.'

  'Brother, that's terrible.'

  'I went through a bout of depression - I think it was a delayed reaction to my mother's death really... Afterwards I noticed an advertisement for a religious house in America that needed qualified nursing staff. A few months later I was living in Boston.'

  Brother Vincent paced up and down, gesturing to illustrate his story as it unfolded further. He told Fergal that over the next year, during which he'd become desperately homesick, he and Father Mac had corresponded and one of Father Mac's letters had mentioned a book called Let Your Heart Answer the Call. Vincent had tried to find a copy but it was out of print - there wasn't even a second-hand one to be had anywhere. In the meantime, Vincent had become very close to a Boston minister and his family. They shared a passion for music, especially old hymns, and when the ageing reverend fell ill, Vincent offered to help nurse him. When the old man died, his grieving family gave Vincent an old suitcase full of some of the minister's favourite music and a few other books to remember him by. Vincent untied the string and pulled back the lid only to find a copy of Let Your Heart Answer the Call looking back at him from amongst the sheet music and prayer books. He was sure this was a sign from God that he should go home and join a religious order. He had heard about the chanting in Sligo Abbey for years and he had arrived there one overcast day more than ten years previously, and had never left. 'And that; my boy, is more or less how I ended up here.'

  'Wow - that's a story and a half, Brother.'

  'Truth is always stranger than fiction. Everybody's got a story.
What about you?'

  'Well - ah... there's not much to tell really, compared to you. I mean, this is the first time I've even been away from my family.'

  Brother Vincent looked at him with kind eyes. Behind him the icons shimmered. 'Fergal, I know I've only just met you, but you seem much older than your years. What are you - nineteen?

  'No - I'm seventeen now.'

  'My goodness, as young as that? That's even more extraordinary. You see, the first thing I noticed about you was the sadness in your voice - a sadness that I can only guess you've been carrying for a very long time. It's in your eyes, too - something that tells me you had to grow up very quickly, so you didn't have much time to be a child. Would I be right?'

  It was as if he had looked right into the centre of Fergal's being. Fergal suddenly shivered and his eyes leaked tears before he could catch them.

  Brother Vincent put a gentle hand on Fergal's shoulder. 'I'm sorry - I didn't mean to pry... But, Fergal Flynn, whatever has happened on your journey so far has brought you to where you are now. It has contributed to the sound you make when you sing - and I have no doubt that that sound will take you to the far corners of the world and back. It's a God-given talent and you mustn't ever waste it or take it for granted. There is a beauty in your sadness, too.'

  A thousand questions took flight in Fergal's head, like birds startled by gunshot.

  Brother Vincent looked at him knowingly. 'But don't forget to be a child too sometimes. Make as many mistakes as you need to. Father MacManus is an incredibly kind and loyal person and he cares about you very deeply.'

  That made Fergal a little panicky; he wondered how much Brother Vincent knew about them. He also wondered if Father Mac had been telling the truth about him and Brother Vincent being nothing but friends. But, as he looked into the monk's calm face, he could see no trace of anything other than kindness.

  'Fergal, I want you to know you can come and visit me and my glittering children any time.'

  Some of the recording crew passed by the top of the steps, laughing and Father Mac's voice called, 'Brother Vincent!' The spell was broken. They hurried back up the steps into the bright sunshine - Brother Vincent still talking a mile a minute, praising Fergal's singing and telling him there was no need to be nervous about the recording.