Later that same distant day, one of his da's mates had come round. They had poured hot tar all along the top of the yard walls and shovelled the shards of his precious bottles into the thick black liquid as though they were planting seeds. 'They made sure the sharpest bits stuck up like sharks' teeth, ready to rip anybody to shreds if they were stupid enough to try and climb over.'
Father Mac, placing the last of the gin bottles in the bin, thought how incredible it was that children's imaginations managed to manufacture such beauty even in the ugliest of circumstances.
They turned off the lights in the house, and Fergal shut the door and turned the key on a part of his life that was closed forever.
22
When they got back to St Bridget's House, Mrs Mooney was on the phone, which she handed over to Father Mac. It was a call from Sligo Abbey. Brother Vincent was phoning to say that they'd just had a very interesting visitor, a globally renowned vocal tutor from Italy, who was exploring the possibility of including the monks' chants in his teaching. When Brother Vincent had played him their recent recording, he'd become very excited about Fergal's voice. He'd expressed an interest in meeting Fergal as soon as possible, as he wasn't staying in the country for much longer.
Fergal, distracted by thoughts of the coming funeral, didn't really take in the details as Father Mac recounted them aloud when he'd hung up.
'Apparently this man, Alfredo Moretti, is very influential, and he's prepared to extend his visit by a day if he can meet with you. He's prepared to travel to Belfast too. Brother Vincent says that we should definitely meet him. He also says that the other monks were asking after you, and they all hope we like the way the record turned out. Well, what do you think? You haven't got anything to lose, have you? I wonder what this Alfredo Moretti is like... Fergal?'
He realised that Fergal's mind was, understandably, elsewhere, so he said they could talk about it later.
~
The cortege was due to leave Walker Street at midday, and Fergal and Father Mac arrived just as the coffin was carried out of the house. Paddy Flynn, Concepta's husband and the twins, guided by two of the funeral men, carried Noreen the length of the road. At the gates of St Bridget's, she was transferred to a trolley piled with flowers and wheeled to the front of the altar.
Father Mac gave a beautiful mass in her honour. Fergal sang 'I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen' from the balcony as the procession made its way back down the aisle. Various shoulders took it in turn to carry her coffin along the Falls Road. Fergal waited until his brothers' efforts were relieved by distant relatives before he moved in to take a corner. He was surprised at how heavy it was, seeing that she'd weighed so little towards the end. At the gates of Milltown Cemetery, his family came to the front of the funeral procession, and he moved towards Father Mac for safety.
At the deep, freshly dug hole in the ground, Father Mac said a few words, and Angela and Concepta threw handfuls of earth onto their mother's coffin as it was lowered down. Fergal moved to his mother and kissed her cheek, but she was too far gone to notice, courtesy of another instalment of Concepta's wee pills.
He could feel his brothers and his da nearby, but they didn't come near him and he didn't go near them. All eyes were closed for the final prayer, but Fergal was distracted by a flock of starlings high up against the greyest sky ever, like lost strokes of ink in search of a blank page to begin recording the story of someone else's brand new life. He wondered if at that very moment a little girl was being born somewhere in the city, and if her parents might call her Noreen.
Once they trudged out of the cemetery, most people went across the road to the Gravedigger's Arms for too much whiskey with a watertight excuse. Grief was thirsty work.
Fergal and Father Mac went for a drive up to the lookout point on the Black Mountain. They parked and sat in silence for a while, watching the whole city of Belfast through the windscreen. Then they got out and walked along a nearby path. Fergal wondered what it would be like to hold Father Mac's hand in broad daylight - they had only ever held hands under the cover of night-time blankets - but he knew not to ask.
They could make out Samson and Delilah, the giant cranes that stood over the city, and Fergal thought he could see the Divis Flats, but he wasn't sure. It was the first time he had been so high above his hometown and yet it had only taken them about fifteen minutes in the car to get here.
'Belfast is tiny from here, isn't it?' he said.
'Sure, all of Ireland is a wee drop in the ocean when you look at the map of the world.'
Fergal felt very small at that moment, and all he wanted was to be held. They went back to the car and drove home. Mrs Mooney had left a note on the hall table saying that lunch was in the oven and she'd gone into the town for the afternoon. Fergal wasn't hungry and went up to his room to lie down. Just as he'd started unbuttoning his shirt, Father Mac appeared and helped him pull it off. Together, they reminded themselves that they were very much alive.
Inevitably the phone rang and Father Mac had to leave to visit a needy parishioner. Fergal stayed in bed. He couldn't stop replaying the funeral in his head. It was real. Noreen was dead and buried. He felt cold all of a sudden, as question after unanswered question filled his mind. Where was he going to live? What was going to happen to Noreen's house? It didn't seem fair that she hadn't owned it, after all the decades of rent she'd paid to the council - she must have paid for it three times over. It wasn't right that some stranger would end up getting it.
Fergal got up and ran a bath to wash the sex off his body. As he lay stretched out in the warm water with only his face above the surface, he had a vision of Noreen lying in the same position under the damp soil, in the freezing dark, all alone. He ducked his head underwater and wondered what it would feel like to be dead. He knew he could open his mouth, suck the bath water into his lungs and find out. Maybe it would be a way to see Granny Noreen again. But he knew that, more than anything, he wanted to stay alive and do something with his life that would have made her proud.
~
Father Mac came back just before six o'clock and announced that they were going to have a special dinner that night - and he himself was going to cook it. Mrs Mooney, phoning her husband to come and take her home early for the first time she could remember, didn't like the idea at all. Even though she complained often enough about having too much to do, she was fiercely protective of her kitchen. The previous priests in her care had been completely dependent on her - left to themselves, they would have burnt water - and that was the way she liked things. At least that way she knew where she was. She reckoned it was her job to help keep the priests' lives clean, and they helped her keep her soul clean. As her husband drove her away, she looked at herself in the passenger mirror and wondered if she looked old. Although she felt sorry for Fergal, she was beginning to resent him being there so much.
Father Mac was cooking pasta. As he laid out his ingredients, he said with a smile, 'You'll have to get used to pasta if this tutor takes a shine to you and invites you to go to Rome!'
Fergal looked puzzled. 'What? What are you talking about?'
'Don't you remember the phone call from Brother Vincent this morning? Sure, I told you all about it.'
'No.'
'Well, I suppose it's only natural - your mind was on other things. Look, sit down here and I'll tell you.'
Fergal uncorked the wine as Father Mac filled him in about Alfredo Moretti.
'So? What do you think of that?' Father Mac asked as he finished stirring the pasta sauce. 'I mean, it sounds promising, don't you think? You should definitely meet him.'
'I suppose.'
'You suppose? Are you...? Ah, look, you've had a very hard day. Let's take it as it comes, eh, Fergal? There's no need to look so worried.'
Fergal managed a half-smile. 'It's just that it sounds a bit too good to be true.' It was the kind of thing that only happened to other people, he thought, not to him.
'Imagine it - Italy! Wouldn't that b
e something?'
'It would... God, I'm nervous even thinking about it. You're going to be with me, aren't you - when we meet him?'
'Of course, of course.'
They agreed that they would meet him in Belfast. Going back to Sligo wasn't feasible for Father Mac as he couldn't take any more time away from his parish. He phoned Brother Vincent with the news.
After they had talked for a while, the excitable monk put Alfredo Moretti on. His English was perfect, but he found it hard to understand Father Mac's Northern Irish accent, and Father Mac's Italian went no further than the correct pronunciation of 'lasagna'. But they managed to establish that Alfredo would come to Belfast the very next day and they would meet him at the bus station.
Fergal was more nervous about the sudden visit than he had been about the recording that had prompted Alfredo's interest, because now he had something to live up to. He convinced himself that he had a sore throat, but Father Mac massaged his shoulders till they relaxed and reminded him that he'd survived an awful lot worse.
~
Alfredo Moretti, vocal master and former opera singer, certainly knew how to make an entrance. He was the first passenger to step off the Sligo bus in Belfast's central station, leaning on a walking stick. He was a corpulent man with a well-fed smile and enough raven-black hair for at least three people. He was dressed immaculately in a linen three-piece suit the colour of uncooked oats, with a broad-brimmed hat to match, and the contrast made his olive skin glow. Half the station stared, and someone said under his breath, 'Jesus wept, I hope we get the weather he's expecting.'
Alfredo kissed Father Mac and Fergal on each cheek - they both blushed, but they were delighted. As they drove the short distance to St Bridget's House, he talked constantly and pointed out every wall mural, asking excitedly about the 'street artists'.
Mrs Mooney had cut a cake and boiled the tea just as they arrived. When Alfredo asked politely for coffee, she nearly impaled herself on the railings outside for not having thought of it. She blessed herself before lying from the kitchen, 'Found it, Father! I'll just be two ticks boiling that kettle.' Then she shuffled out the back door towards Magill's shop as fast as her short legs would allow. She almost got killed crossing the road on her way back, clutching two jars of coffee as though her life depended on it.
Alfredo Moretti had been a celebrated opera singer in Italy for many years, but his leg had been injured in a car accident and it had never healed properly because he refused to rest. He had been left reliant on his walking stick and when the constant treadmill of touring and recording had become too exhausting for him, he had decided to detour into teaching. Now in his late forties, he had taught some of the leading voices in the world of classical music.
After their tea and coffee, Alfredo asked to see the chapel, so they went up to the balcony, where the organ was waiting. Alfredo could tell Fergal was nervous. He sat down at the keyboard and played a little of the 'Ave Maria'. He hummed a bit of the melody and then said, 'Fergal, come here - help me with this, will you?'
Father Mac nodded and Fergal moved to the organ and began singing, his voice gradually gaining strength as he relaxed into the music. They were about halfway through when two drunks burst into the church arguing about whose turn it was to go and rob drink, screaming obscenities at each other. Father Mac hurried downstairs to break it up. He returned mortified and full of apologies, but Alfredo reminded him he was Italian and not unused to passionate exchanges of opinion. 'Father MacManus, that was like a little scene from an opera.' They all laughed.
'Shall we go back to the parlour?' Alfredo suggested. He found the acoustics of the church a little distracting and wanted to hear Fergal in a smaller space with a cleaner sound. Fergal was convinced that he hated his voice and felt miserable.
Back in St Bridget's House, Alfredo asked, 'May I use the piano?'
As he looked through the pile of music on the shelf, he came across a collection of arias. 'Ah, Father McManus, I see you are not only an opera fan but a Puccini fan too!'
Father Mac nodded. 'I love the sound of the Italian language - it's so melodic.'
'Well, then, open the book at any page you like and I will teach Fergal a little something!'
Fergal nodded nervously.
Without looking, Father Mac opened the book. When he put his selection on the piano, Alfredo's eyebrows leapt.
"'Recondita Armonia" from Tosca? Ah, I have not looked at this for a while. There is nothing like being thrown into deep water, is there, Mr Flynn? But we don't have to do it all now. It is for two voices, so I will join in.'
He began teaching Fergal the first passage of Italian, going through the notes and writing out the words phonetically for him. Over the next twenty minutes, Father Mac flushed with pride as Fergal rose to the challenge. The new language suited his voice - even though his accent still came through on every other word - and he sang beautifully.
They finished the piece and Alfredo sat quietly looking at the piano keys. Fergal shot a worried glance at Father Mac, who said nothing.
Then Alfredo carefully turned around on the stool, leaning on his cane. 'Fergal, your tone reminds me of one of my favourite singers in all the world. His name is Tito Schipa and he possessed one of the finest voices ever to be recorded. Have you ever heard him?'
'No, Mr Moretti.'
'You will, my boy - you must. There are notes that you don't yet know exist, but they are only sleeping because you haven't woken them - and I feel I could. You are using only about half of your range, but your tone, even at this stage, is naturally beautiful - and it will be much more beautiful in ten years, if you work hard enough. Are you prepared to work harder than you ever thought possible? It means singing and studying for hours every day - oh, yes, and you must learn Italian. You are young, so we have time. How young are you, by the way?'
Fergal was staring at him in disbelief, but he managed to say, 'I'm seventeen.'
'Ah, I thought you were a little older. Perfect.'
Father Mac couldn't help interrupting. 'Mr Moretti, what exactly are you saying?'
Alfredo cleared his throat and said, 'I want Fergal to come study with me in Rome, as soon as possible. This kind of voice is not found every day, and it would be a sin not to offer him the chance to explore its full potential.'
Fergal thought he was hearing things and wondered if he was going mad with delayed grief. He needed to be alone. He excused himself and went and sat on the toilet lid for a few minutes. He felt Noreen's St Christopher medal on his chest and pulled it out of his shirt. The patron saint of travellers was wading through water, carrying a child on his shoulders. Fergal kissed the medal then flushed the toilet and went back to the parlour.
Father Mac and Alfredo were deep in discussion about organising a fundraising concert to pay for Fergal's travel expenses. Alfredo said he was prepared to waive his usual fee. 'And my family owns several restaurants, so Fergal can have a job at one of these. This will also be an excellent way for him to learn Italian - he will be surrounded by it every day - but most of my family speak English, so it will not be too difficult for him to talk with them!'
Fergal watched them discussing his future. Finally he broke in, 'What if my parents won't let me go? I'm not eighteen yet.'
Father Mac looked at him and said, very seriously, 'Fergal, there are always ways of doing things. I promised your granny that I'd make sure you didn't waste your life - or let anyone waste it for you. Don't you worry about anything, my friend.'
Alfredo laughed. 'Bravo, Father MacManus! So, Fergal Flynn, do you want to come to Rome?'
Every question that had been weighing Fergal down, particularly since Noreen's death, suddenly flooded his mind. What was he going to do with his life? Would he ever escape Belfast? Where - and, indeed, how - was he going to live? As he looked at Alfredo Moretti's huge smile, the questions evaporated one by one.
'Yes - yes, of course I'd love to come to Rome. I want to be a singer more than anything in the world,
Mr Moretti. Thank you - oh, thank you!'
Fergal's eyes filled up, and Alfredo hugged him. 'We singers are very emotional people. This is a good sign, my boy!'
That made them all laugh, but a sore patch of sadness was growing in the quietest corner of Father Mac's heart. Fergal didn't even dare think about the one remaining question in his mind
- the most troubling one of all - how would he be able to leave Father Mac?
They talked for another hour or so and listened to some of the Sligo Abbey recording again, then Father Mac played a few of the songs he and Fergal had been working on. Alfredo asked if he could see a little of Belfast before he caught his train to Dublin Airport, so Father Mac drove them into town and they found a parking space not far from City Hall. The security presence was high as they walked around the town, and Alfredo asked, 'Why are there so many soldiers with guns? And half of the vehicles seem to belong to the army... Why is this?'
Father Mac said, 'I'll explain another time,' and Alfredo realised he should drop the subject. They stumbled on an Italian café and Alfredo, discovering the owner was from Northern Italy, chatted to him in Italian. Fergal thought the language sounded beautiful. Someday, he thought, someday I might be able to speak it...
Their espressos arrived and as Fergal drank down the dark warmth, Alfredo asked him about his family.
'Are there any other singers in your family, Fergal? What about your father - or, indeed, your mother?'
'God, I don't think so, Mr Moretti. My grandfather used to sing a wee bit, I think, but he died just before I was born, so I never heard him.'
'Ah, I see. And your brothers - you say you have three of them?'
Fergal didn't want to think about his brothers. At the funeral, the mere sight of John had made him shiver as his body remembered the beating. He couldn't stop his shoulders tightening. 'I... well, I don't think they care too much about singing. We're -we're not close... Well, they're mad about sport and I'm not.'
The Arrival of Fergal Flynn Page 21