'I didn't ask John to attack me,' Fergal managed to offer.
His da's lip curled in disgust. 'You needn't use them words that some doctor or the fucking priest put in your mouth. A few hard knocks is what makes a man - something you'll never be if you keep up this big girl's-blouse act!'
The tears tripped Fergal, confirming everything his father accused him of. But then, out of nowhere, he began to boil with rage.
'Da, if this is what you have to do to another person to be able to call yourself a man, then I want no part of it.' Fergal felt the pain in his mouth get worse but he kept talking. 'Why do you think there's only one way to be a man? And what's so manly about coming up behind your own brother, knowing that he hasn't a hope of defending himself and nearly killing him?'
'Jesus, there you go again, exaggerating like an oul' woman. Just like I told Father What's-his-face.'
'Father MacManus! It's MacManus for God's sake!' Fergal was far too angry to stop. 'And when he was over in Walker Street, John couldn't even admit he'd done this. Is that manly, Da?'
'Listen to me. Our John is twice the man you'll ever fucking be. At least he can fucking handle himself.'
'You mean he's like you, Da, quick with the fists. So scary that none of his kids will ever really know him. What is so manly about lying around and letting your wife do about three times as much work as anybody else? You know what, I'm glad I'll never be what you call a man. I want to be something better than that!'
It was the longest father-and-son conversation they'd ever had in their lives.
Paddy Flynn's piercing blue eyes gave the impression that he was permanently staring into flames. His arguments were never fought with words and Fergal saw him lift his hand only to drop it again. 'I wouldn't waste my fucking energy. You can stay wherever they'll have you, for you'll not darken my door again. You're no son of mine. You're a fucking nancy-boy disgrace.'
He slammed the polished door in its frame and nearly knocked over Mrs Mooney and her tea tray on his way out.
~
Father Mac could hardly concentrate on the service. As he hurried out of the church afterwards, he was stopped by a group of disappointed pensioners who wanted to know where 'that fella with the lovely voice' was. Father Mac had a sudden mental picture of exactly where he was - recovering under his own sheets, only a few feet away - but he decided not to share that information. He said he'd missed Fergal's singing during the service too but they needn't worry, Fergal would be back as soon as he was over his cold.
When the last parishioner finally released his hand from a bony grip, surprisingly strong for someone so old and frail, he raced back to the house. 'Your fan club was asking for you!' he called as he took the stairs two at a time. When he came through the bedroom door and saw Fergal's face, he knew something else had happened.
The details of Fergal's ex-da's visit trickled out a bit at a time. Father Mac was furious with himself for leaving Fergal when he was at his most vulnerable. 'I won't do that again. I promise.'
'Sure, you've better things to do than sit around looking after...' Fergal suddenly had a coughing fit and spat into a wad of tissue paper that Mrs Mooney had wisely thought to leave.
'For goodness' sake, Fergal. Why do you say things like that?'
'Because you'll be so busy. I know I won't be able to stay here forever. Sure, the phone's always ringing with people who need you more.' Fergal put his head in his hands. 'And what am I going to do about Granny Noreen?'
Father Mac came closer. 'Fergal, it's time to concentrate on yourself for once and on getting better. You have to stop worrying about Noreen all the time. Look at you - you were so happy in - in Sligo... Look, for now, you just rest. I'll be here - and when
I'm not, Mrs Mooney won't even open the front door. Wait and see. We'll get through this. We will.'
Fergal liked the sound of 'we'.
'After all,' Father Mac said, 'you have a fan club to satisfy next door - and they don't all have bus passes.'
Fergal tried to laugh for the first time that day, but it hurt too much.
Mrs Mooney was hovering in the doorway. For a second Father Mac thought someone had called to the door, but she only wanted to remind him it was nine o'clock, two hours later than her normal leaving time. 'But I really don't mind staying longer if you want me to, Father.'
Father Mac walked her back down the stairs and helped her into her coat. He thanked her again and again and assured her they'd be fine. As she was closing the front door behind her, she mentioned, 'I've made up the spare room for you, so you won't need to worry about moving that poor young man.'
Father Mac went back upstairs to see if Fergal wanted to try to eat something - he admitted he was hungry, which was a good sign. Father Mac left him propped up on about six pillows and went back down to the kitchen. After a quick look in the overstocked fridge, he decided the safest thing would be soft-boiled eggs, toast and a bit of cooked ham, along with a pot of tea. He carried the whole thing upstairs on the famous wooden tray and Fergal sat up when he saw the feast.
Although it hurt like hell, he managed to open his mouth wide enough when Father Mac gave him his medicine and then started to feed him. It made him think of Granny Noreen becoming more and more like a needy child every week, so he took the fork and fed himself.
'Do you want to watch the TV?' Father Mac asked. 'Sometimes I bring it up from the living room at night, if I can't sleep.'
'No thanks, Dermot, my head's too sore.' He automatically called him Dermot, now that they were alone.
'Of course - how stupid of me. I'm sorry, fella. Is there anything I can do?'
Fergal looked at him longer than he meant to.
'Will you stay beside me? Look, I know you said we had to be careful and all that other stuff, but look at me. It's not like I'll be able to... well, you know.'
'Fergal, I don't know...'
'Please, Dermot - I'd feel safer if you did. Please?'
Father Mac took the tray downstairs. He looked at the Sacred Heart picture that eyed him from the hallway and thought, What can I do? He washed the dishes slowly and put them away. Then he switched off the lights as he climbed the stairs.
Fergal had turned onto his side to make room for him. Father Mac climbed onto the bed, fully clothed, and lay beside him on top of the blankets. He kicked off his shoes and exhaled loudly. 'It's been quite a day.'
Fergal moved closer. 'I'm glad you're here.'
'I won't leave you. Just rest your jaw - try not to talk.'
They lay there, together but apart, as the soundtrack of the city played outside the window. Cars screeched by and a group of girls sang in unison, too many streets away to be understood. Father Mac was exhausted and the room was warm and dark. His eyelids finally gave in, and he slept.
Fergal shifted onto his other side to try and ease the pain, and Father Mac woke up with a start.
'Are you OK?'
'What? Ah, yeah... It's just that my back hurts and I'm too warm.'
'Do you want me to do anything? More pillows, maybe? Or should I go?'
'No - no, don't go. Will you... will you blow against my skin? I'm hot... it might cool me down. Please?'
It was the way Fergal said the last word that made Father Mac forget himself. He took a deep breath, leaned over and blew softly against Fergal's hair.
Fergal was transported back to the breeze and the blissful hollow on the Sligo strand. 'Oh, that's lovely - keep doing that. God, my back is so sore.'
'Where, fella? Show me where.'
Fergal turned on his side and very gently pulled the blanket down. Father Mac wanted to burst into tears when he saw up close just how badly bruised he was, but he continued blowing air against his skin. With one finger he tentatively traced patterns along Fergal's back, being careful only to touch the skin between the bruises and the cuts.
'Oh, Fergal, I'm so sorry this happened to you. How can a human being even think of doing that to another human being? I don't understand. Act
ually, now I think of it, I did feel like punching your da in Walker Street. You deserve so much better...'
Father Mac remembered a passage in the Bible about the washing of the wounds, and before he could stop himself he planted a single kiss on Fergal's aching shoulders. It was better than any medicine.
It hurt Fergal to breathe and his asthma made it worse, but after a burst of his inhaler he settled down to rest. 'Thank you, Dermot. I don't know what I'd do without you.'
Father Mac stood up. 'Mrs Mooney has the spare room all ready and, seeing that you're so settled, I should sleep there. You need as much rest as you can get. My God, it's almost four o'clock in the morning.'
Fergal's bruised face stared at him from the mass of pillows and the enormous duvet. Father Mac had never seen him look so helpless.
'Look, I'm only along the landing if you need me. Please don't even think twice about calling out if the pain gets worse - and, sure, we're seconds from the hospital.'
Fergal was too exhausted to argue. He tried to say something, but another agonising coughing fit took hold of him.
Father Mac didn't have the heart to go. He went back to the vacant side of the bed and lay down on top of the covers. 'Look, I'll stay for another while. Let's just get this day behind us. I promise you, things will only get better from here on in.'
'I hope so...'
'Forget about your family for now and concentrate on getting mended. Then we can just take each day as it comes. You know you can stay here for as long as you need to.'
He sensed that Fergal was too far gone to answer, so he gave him one last tender reminder on his swollen face that at least one person in the world loved him.
20
The next morning Father Mac woke with a jump when he heard Mrs Mooney's key in the door. He was glad that he'd kept his clothes on. He stood up, straightened them and forced his feet into his shoes, even though the laces were still tied. He looked over at Fergal, who was still asleep. As quietly as he could, he slipped out of his room and along the landing to the spare room, where he ruffled the sheets to make it seem as if he'd slept there. Knowing no one else had a key, he felt a bit ridiculous as he called out, 'Is that you, Mrs Mooney?'
'It is, Father MacManus. I didn't wake you, did I? I thought I'd come a wee bit earlier this morning on account of poor Fergal.'
Father Mac came downstairs. 'I've just been in to check on him and he seems fine, all things considered.'
Mrs Mooney whispered, 'Oh, he's a strong one, all right, to have survived that crowd at all.'
'A truer word was never spoken, Mrs Mooney.'
Mrs Mooney was delighted with that. She rubbed her bony hands and set about waking the house up, bit by bit, as if each room were a different child needing a particular approach to get the best out of it. She talked away to the fireplace in the parlour, 'Did you have a good sleep? Sure, it won't be long before I'll get you going - the summer hasn't kept its promise this morning...' Father Mac wondered if they really needed the fire lit, but when he stepped outside to go and buy a newspaper he could see what she meant. The sky was blue enough over towards the mountain, but there was a protest of grey clouds directly overhead, brewing about something.
~
After a few days, when Fergal was able to walk without wobbling too much, Mrs Mooney helped him move into the spare room. The more time went by, the less he thought about his family - but, even though he was on the mend, he didn't want to see any of them. Gradually he grew strong enough to face the fact that the arrangement at St Bridget's House could never be permanent. He'd have to think about either moving back to Noreen's or finding somewhere else to live.
As Fergal had predicted, there were more and more demands on Father Mac's time. When he had a house call on Noreen's street, he called in to get some of Fergal's belongings. He wanted to tell her what had happened without giving her too much of a shock but, for all her failings, she certainly wasn't stupid. She already knew the bones of the story - Angela had been round to take over again and she'd had to explain why Fergal wasn't there - and she had guessed the rest.
When she saw Father Mac, Noreen burst into tears. 'If I had the energy I'd kill that fella John with my bare hands, Father, so I would!'
She made Father Mac promise to bring Fergal to visit her, she needed to see for herself that he was all right. He kept his promise and drove Fergal over in the hope that it would make him worry a little less about her too, but it had the opposite effect. Noreen was drinking even more than usual and eating nothing, so she had failed considerably since the last time he'd seen her. It was as if she had sunk even further inside herself. She barely said a word, and her nightdress hung on her little body like a tarpaulin badly attached to a scaffold, collapsing slowly but surely.
Paddy Flynn came to Sunday mass as stubbornly as ever but always left just as Communion started. Along with many of the men of his generation, he'd slip out the back door in the confusion as parishioners jostled for position in the queue to receive the host. Then he'd walk the length of the Falls Road all the way to Casement Park, refusing to take a taxi even in the heaviest of rain. In his mind this meant that going to the hurling wasn't a sin at all - pain before pleasure, always.
Angela came by St Bridget's House one afternoon bringing an already opened letter from the school. It said that Fergal would have to present himself in person if he wanted to know the result of his O-levels - countless post-office deliveries had been destroyed by rioting that month and a number of the vans had been burnt to shells.
Mrs Mooney answered the door and nervously looked over Angela's shoulder for any sign of Paddy Flynn before she allowed her into the front room. Fergal only agreed to see her as long as she was on her own, which he knew she would be. It was an uncomfortable meeting.
Angela searched in her bag for the letter, avoiding Fergal's eyes. 'Did you know that John and Paddy started work last week?' He didn't respond. 'Aye, their dole was going to be stopped if they didn't go for interviews and now the two of them are out working. Paddy's in a glazing firm up the Glen Road -and, sure, Jesus only knows with the amount of broken windows round here he'll never be idle. Our John's got a start in the brewery, delivering all over the place. Sure, I don't know what to do with myself.'
She located the crumpled letter and handed it to him, asking in a lowered voice - she was convinced that Mrs Mooney was listening on the other side of the door - 'When are you going to stop all this, Fergal? You've made your point now and you're needed back at your Granny Noreen's.'
He closed his eyes. 'My point, Mammy? You know I feel awful about Granny Noreen, and I try and see her when I can, but I don't want to stay there now. I'm sorry - I wouldn't feel safe. I just... can't.'
Angela loaded up her bag much faster than she had unloaded it. 'You mean you won't!'
'Ma, you saw what he did to me, for nothing. You pushed that jacket into the car. I didn't ask for it, I never even had it on my back - and look what I got!'
Still she didn't look at him. Her hand found its way down the back of her jumper and clawed at her skin.
'He's a lunatic, Mammy. And Da told me never to come near Walker Street again anyway.'
The silence was unbearable. Father Mac arrived back from a home visit to frantic sign language from Mrs Mooney. He entered the front room and tried to lighten the atmosphere.
'Mrs Flynn - what a surprise! The summer looks to be staying around this time. Isn't Dunville Park looking well, if only they could get the fountain working again?'
'My husband thinks I'm only at the shops,' Angela said uneasily. 'He'd go mad if he knew I was here.' Then she blessed herself and backed out the door.
Father Mac took the cup of untouched tea out of Fergal's hand and rubbed his shoulder until they heard Mrs Mooney coming to collect the tray. When she was gone again, Father Mac asked, 'What happened?'
'Ah, she brought me a letter from the school. I have to pick up my O-level results because the last lot of school post was burned in a hijacked
van. Our Paddy and John were forced off the dole and now they've got jobs. And she wants me to go back to Noreen's - but I can't... What am I going to do? I can't stay here forever.'
'Fergal, you don't have to go anywhere for the time being.'
'For the time being? What does that mean? You've been so good to me already, and I feel like - like I'm bringing all this trouble to your door. You must be sick of me.'
Father Mac closed the door with his foot. Fergal had never heard such anger spoken so quietly. 'Fergal Flynn, I am most certainly not sick of you. What I am sick of is the way that, any time either of your parents comes here, you end up feeling like you're useless. I know you're feeling very vulnerable at the moment, but you mustn't let them get to you like this. I will keep saying it until it sinks in. I love having you here. I love that you're... that you're in my life.' He stared at Fergal intensely, searching his face.
'Why are you looking at me like that?'
'Fergal, please don't tell me that you've been thinking of running away again?'
'What? No! No, I haven't. Where would I go? My mother's sisters might be worse than her!'
They both laughed a little, but Father Mac was more worried them ever.
~
Father Mac drove Fergal back to his old school to pick up his O-level results from the secretary's office. He had passed almost every exam. The tiny strip of paper told him he had earned Ds in maths and physics, Cs in geography and English language, and Bs in religion, art, and craft design technology, which was basically metalwork with too much theory. There were even two As, in English literature and Irish. Fergal was more than surprised - the exams seemed like a faraway blur but the results made the volume of the approaching future a bit louder.
The Arrival of Fergal Flynn Page 18