Father Mac called, 'Brother Vincent! How much longer do you think the sound crew will be?'
'I'll go and find out,' the monk shouted. He patted Fergal on the shoulder and hurried away. Fergal quickly wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket, pretending the sun was too bright after the underground chapel.
'What did you think of the icons?' Father Mac asked. He surprised himself when he realised that he was a bit jealous of the fact that Vincent had been alone with Fergal.
Fergal walked slightly ahead of him to hide his face. Finally he said, 'Well, it was a bit spooky at first. The icons looked like a collection of souls or something, just floating there in the dark - like purgatory or something out of a dream... Brother Vincent's a bit weird, too, isn't he?'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, I only met him for the first time last night, and today he was telling me all these private things about himself. One minute he's all serious and the next he's like a wee girl. And he calls the icons his "glittering children". He's funny, though.'
'Look, I'm sorry I left youse. I should've come back sooner, but I got distracted in the woods - there are so many wild flowers in there. Is everything OK?'
It suddenly dawned on Fergal that Brother Vincent had done exactly what Father Mac had wanted. He had kept Fergal's mind off the recording. He had been so distracted by Vincent's stories and the messing and the icons, he hadn't had time to remember to be nervous.
At that moment they heard Brother Vincent calling to all concerned that their presence was required on the altar immediately. Fergal grinned at Father Mac and said, 'Everything's fine. We're here, and I'm dying to sing.'
17
Fergal, Father Mac and the monks took their places around the grand altar. The Brothers were wearing their purple robes, hand-embroidered with golden symbols. Microphones had been discreetly placed on boom stands and on the sides of some of the tree-sized candles so as not to inhibit any of the performances. Thick ropes of cable connected these to the mobile recording unit parked just outside the chapel.
After an initial run-through where levels and positions were adjusted, they were ready to record. The first few familiar chords marked their territory and Fergal gave it everything he had. He thought of Noreen and how much he wanted her to hear him sing. He pictured her sitting in the empty pews wearing her best coat, which was now too big for her shrinking frame and had to stay hanging on the back of her bedroom door. Even Father Mac turned around on his bench to acknowledge the startling combination of sureness and melancholy in Fergal's voice, supported by wave after glorious wave of harmony from the Brothers.
They recorded two versions of the first piece and three of the second, which was much harder to pace. They couldn't decide whether it should be fast or slow, so they recorded it at different paces to choose from at a later date. Then there was a short break. Brother Vincent made a point of being especially friendly to Fergal, as if they were meeting for the very first time. Fergal found it incredible that he could seem like a little child one minute and then in the next breath conduct and direct an important recording session. Then he remembered his own mother's vast collection of personalities that she'd obviously been accumulating since childhood.
The recording was off to a good start, although there was still a lot of work to be done. The next few pieces were simpler chants that did not include Fergal or Father Mac, so they sat mutely at the back of the chapel in complete darkness and let the music wash over them. Their eyes were closed as they inhaled the chant, but Fergal opened his when he felt Father Mac's kind hand take hold of his and attempt to rub some warmth back into his cold fingers. His touch excavated such a deep well of feeling that he couldn't stop his eyes from filling with unexpected tears. They sat there, hand in hand, staring at the altar, unable to speak for reasons beyond the restrictions of recording.
Brother Vincent searched the unlit back of the chapel with his hand up shielding his eyes from the light and signalled to Father Mac and Fergal to come back to the altar.
The next few songs went so smoothly that, while the master tapes were being changed, they were treated to a playback of the first two songs, which Fergal had almost forgotten he'd sung. He listened to the sound of his recorded voice for the first time, and he couldn't look at anybody properly while it flowed from the speakers and hovered in the room.
Brother Vincent exhaled with satisfaction and moved everyone back to the altar to resume recording. Even though Fergal didn't understand any of the ancient words, the chants were mesmerising in their ability to conjure up images - one made him feel like he was trapped in the eye of a tornado, the next as though he was floating in space.
When the recording was finished and Brother Vincent had had a listen, everyone helped to pack up the recording equipment. The lorry pulled out of the gates and, as soon as it was out of sight, there was no trace of the twentieth century left. 'How do you feel now you've made your first recording for the Pope?' Father Mac asked and they had to stifle their laughter in case the Brothers were offended.
~
Dinner was in the main hall and was accompanied by glass jugs full to the brim with the beer that the Brothers lovingly brewed and kept in the cellars for special occasions. Proceedings livened up considerably with each refill, and a few strange-looking monks approached Fergal to say that they had people in Belfast and they thought it was a friendly enough place. Fergal, who was unused to the sly potency of alcohol, just giggled that he wouldn't mind swapping his house for theirs. After the meal, a huge honey cake was pushed in on a trolley to celebrate the end of a very hard day. Brother Vincent asked the monks to show their appreciation and raise a glass of darkness to Fergal Flynn's beautiful contribution, and they presented him with a miniature icon of St Christopher, the patron saint of all travellers. Fergal didn't know where to look, but Father Mac nudged him in the ribs and he managed a few respectful but mortified words of thanks before slumping back into his seat, somewhat light-headed.
As they cleared away the dishes, Father Mac said, 'You coped with the whole recording process wonderfully, even though it was all new to you. You must be tired after all that concentration and hard work.'
'Actually,' Fergal said, 'I thought I would be knackered after such an early start this morning, but I'm not. I feel much better after the food.' The beer had relaxed him and given the evening a bit of extra energy. 'Father, how near are we to the coast?'
'It's strange you should ask me that. We're not too far from a beautiful stretch of sandy coastline called Strandhill. I was there as a child one summer and all day I've been wishing I could go back for a look.'
'Can I come too?'
'Of course, but I'm not sure we'll have time tomorrow - we'll need to get back home.'
'I don't mean tomorrow. Why don't we go now? I'm not tired at all, are you?'
'No, I'm not, no - but... Well, I suppose if we were quick we could get there before it's too dark to enjoy it, if you like.'
Fergal didn't have to be asked twice.
The Brothers filed past them and bowed good night. Brother Vincent lingered for a moment, massaging his palm with the thumb of his other hand as he watched Father Mac and Fergal closely. His intake of beer had increased his giddiness and he wondered just how close his friend and Fergal were. Then a yawn overtook him. He went bright red as it ended in a burp, and said, 'I think I'll retire to bed, if you don't need me.'
'Thanks, Brother Vincent,' Father Mac said, 'but we're fine. We're just going to go for a quick walk before bed.'
The car was waiting to take them to the nearby coastline. As they drove, Father Mac commented on how different the landscape looked now that there were so many new houses and how he hoped he would recognise the turn to the beach. Luckily, one road sign had survived the changes and they turned on a steep bend and found themselves at the entrance to the beach's empty car park. They stepped out of the car just as the evening announced its arrival in broad technicolor.
Fergal noticed that
Father Mac wasn't wearing his collar. He had on a blue sweatshirt and was carrying his coat under his arm, which made Fergal suddenly remember that he'd left his brother's blue velvet jacket on the back seat of the car, but he left it there.
The tide was going out and the strand was deserted. They walked where the sea should have been, listening to the waves lulling the sand to sleep in the privacy of the distant horizon.
'Will we climb one of the sand dunes and have a look at the view?' Father Mac suggested. Fergal's shoes sank into the powdery sand as they scaled the side of the dune, and Father Mac grabbed his wrist and pulled him to the top, both of them laughing and out of breath. Father Mac spread out his coat as neatly as he could and they sat on it together looking out at the sea. The only other time Fergal had been to the coast was on a compulsory school trip to Helen's Bay, when Big Sean Boyle, the coalman's son, had ducked him under the water - he shivered, his skin remembering. Now, though, he thought it would be nice to at least paddle in the ever-distant dark water.
'Father, do you want to go for a—'
'You don't need to keep calling me "Father", you know, Fergal. Call me by my first name.'
'Oh OK - sorry... but I don't think I know what it is. I know your initial is D - I saw a letter in the hall at St Bridget's, addressed to "Father D. MacManus", and I always wondered, Declan? David? Dominic? D'Artagnan?'
'What?' he laughed. 'My goodness, Fergal... It's Dermot, Dermot MacManus. I was named after my mother's father.'
'So was I, Fa— I mean, Dermot!'
'I can't believe I haven't told you before. Sorry, fella.'
Fergal felt closer to Father Mac than he ever had before. He loved being allowed to call him by his first name, it made him feel more like an equal.
The breeze coming in off the water was getting bolder and they leaned against each other instinctively. Two dogs ran like shadows in the shallow water far away, barking, shaking and chasing each other, but their owners, if they had any, were nowhere to be seen.
'Imagine being that free Dermot - nobody to tell you what to do, no soldiers stopping you all the time... Wouldn't it be great?'
Father Mac looked very serious for a second. Then he jumped up, grabbed Fergal by the arm and grinned wildly. 'Come on, then, Mr Flynn! What are we waiting for?'
They charged down the sand dime towards the silver-green water. The tide was much further out than it had looked from the top of the dune, so they were out of breath again when they eventually caught up with it. They took their shoes and socks off, and Fergal copied Father Mac as he tied his shoes together by their laces, pushed the socks into them and hung them around his neck like bunches of onions. Then they rolled up their trouser legs as far as they would go and held their breath as they waded into the freezing water. The waves, curious about their after-hours visitors, came sneaking up to meet them, pretending to be little but then soaking them both waist high before they could jump back. They protested out loud and decided to turn back. The sand clung to their wet clothes as they slowly braved the sand dune again and fell onto the top, laughing about who was the wettest.
Fergal looked straight into Father Mac's eyes. 'Fa— sorry, Dermot... this is the best thing that has ever happened to me.'
'We worked hard to get here, Fergal. But there's only so much I can do. You're the one with the voice - and already you've come on so much. You don't seem to be afraid to work hard.'
'Afraid? But I love it!'
'Ah, you've really earned this little trip, fella. You've been through so much. And... well... I'd do anything for you. You must know that.'
Fergal leaned against Father Mac again, at once weakened and strengthened by his words. Not far above their heads, a bird that looked like an albino raven mourned in slow circles and cried like a car alarm. It was only an ancient, nosy seagull patrolling, too old to sleep and always on the prowl for food.
Fergal was feeling brave. He turned his face to the side of Father Mac's neck and felt him tremble.
'Are you warm enough there, Fergal?'
'I could be warmer.'
'I know - me too. I wish we had a blanket or—'
'Will you put your arms around me, Dermot? Just for a while, till we get warm? Sure there's nobody around.'
They exhaled together, in relief more than anything else, and huddled closer. Fergal inhaled the cigarette smell from Father Mac's close breath as his forehead nested under the priest's chin.
The Sligo sky was quiet now, the last star finding its seat as the cinema torch of the moon shone imperiously. Father Mac stretched his wet legs, one and then the other. 'Should we go back?'
Fergal rolled over on the coat. 'Ah, no. Let's stay. Sure, it can't be that late.'
They lay on their backs side by side looking at the evening sky. 'What are you thinking about?' Father Mac asked.
'Well, I'm thinking about you.'
'Are you familiar with the constellations?' Father Mac asked, a bit too quickly.
'Not really. That programme The Sky at Night could never compete with the late-night football in our house.'
So, one by one, Father Mac picked out the Plough and the Bear and the other groups of stars and gradually Fergal was able to see what he was talking about. 'It's so clear tonight... There - look, right there. That's the North Star.'
Fergal's trousers were still sticking to him and he pulled at the wrinkled material clinging to his legs. 'We might as well have gone for a swim!'
They laughed, but the wind was picking up a little. 'We'll have to be careful or we'll catch cold,' Father Mac said, twisting the bottoms of his own trousers to get as much of the sea out of them as he could. Fergal did the same, and it was surprising how much water came out.
'It's no good,' Father Mac said. 'We'll have to take them off and wring them out or my car seats will be drenched on the way back otherwise.'
'Hey, we could lay them flat on the grass to dry,' Fergal suggested. The sky was well into its slow rejection of light, but they didn't want the evening to end. In their heart of hearts, neither of them wanted to be anywhere else.
As they spread their trousers on the grass, the full moon showed them a little hollow in the side of one of the dunes.
'Dermot, do you think it might be warmer in there? Come on - we'll have a look, eh?' Fergal didn't wait for a reply.
Father Mac gathered up their things and looked around at the empty beach, then followed him. The wind suddenly stopped as they sat facing each other in the shelter of the hollow.
Fergal's whole body suddenly shook violently for a second. 'Someone must have walked over my grave - isn't that what they say?'
'Ah, now, don't say such things.'
They could just see the moon from where they sat. Fergal was still shivering and he rubbed his arms to get warm. The sea sounded like someone shushing a child to sleep. Father Mac closed his eyes for a moment.
'Dermot, will you rub my shoulders?'
'Are you sure?'
'Yeah.'
He began to rub Fergal's cold shoulder blades with his big hands, and Fergal rested his hand on Father Mac's stomach.
'Fergal, you're freezing.'
'I know. Will you... come closer?'
Father Mac shifted in the sand until they were right beside each other. Fergal had never felt anything like it in his life. It was like someone had plugged him into a mains socket. Father Mac's touch was so loving and strong. Gradually it got deeper, becoming more of a massage, making Fergal call softly in appreciation. Father Mac stroked his hair and began to massage his neck and shoulders. For some reason Fergal thought of his Granny Noreen for a brief second. He raised his head. Father Mac was lost in concentration, but he sensed a change in the atmosphere and opened his eyes - just in time to receive a tender, nervous kiss on the cheek.
It was as if the world stopped turning for a few seconds.
Father Mac stopped rubbing Fergal's shoulders and his fingers went to the spot where his lips had landed. A smile, a mixture of surprise and p
leasure, rippled the surface of his face. Finally he said, 'Thank you, Fergal... thank you.' Then he took a deep breath and returned the kiss on Fergal's closed eyelids.
There was just enough room for them in the hollow as their lips found the courage they'd been lacking and each other. Fergal thought his heart would burst. He could feel the beginnings of Father Mac's beard and smell his skin. His hand gently began to make circular movements against Father Mac's belly. Father Mac took this as a sign to remove his sweatshirt, and Fergal followed his lead. The feeling of having Father Mac's bare chest pressed against his was beyond all Fergal's imaginings. They continued to kiss, carefully at first and then eagerly, their tongues darting playfully in and out of each other's mouth.
Suddenly Father Mac stopped and tried to pull away. 'Oh, Fergal, what am I doing? I'm sorry - I just ...'
'Please don't be sorry. I'm not.'
Father Mac looked at him incredulously. 'Are you sure?'
'Look, Dermot - I've wanted to kiss you from the minute I saw you.' Fergal's heart knocked deafeningly on his rib cage.
'I hope you don't think—'
Fergal cut him off by kissing him even more passionately, surprising himself, tasting the mixture of sweet beer and tobacco on his nervous breath. He began to take off their final pieces of clothing and they lay side by side in the coolness of the grassy hollow on the driest parts of their clothes. Their arousals pressed against each other, making their kisses deeper and their breathing louder. Fergal had never experienced passion like it and he began to feel tears burn his eyes.
Father Mac felt them and panicked. 'Oh, Fergal, I'm sorry. This is too much for you... forgive me—'
Fergal wiped the fastest tear away. 'I'm crying because I'm so, so happy. Please, Dermot, whatever you do, don't let me go.'
The Arrival of Fergal Flynn Page 15