Alfredo laughed throatily, but it wasn't lost on him that Fergal's expression grew a little darker and his voice a little more strained with each question about his family.
When Fergal went to the toilet, Father Mac explained, 'Things with his family are a bit difficult to put it mildly. That's why he's been staying at St Bridget's. Well, if the worst comes to the worst and he can't go until he's eighteen, it'll give us more time to raise money.'
' Fergal returned just as Alfredo pointed to his watch. As they said goodbye at the station, they were a bit more prepared for the two kisses that Alfredo automatically planted on each of them. Then he tapped his way down the platform with his walking stick, waved it in the air and boarded a first-class carriage on the southbound train.
~
That night, Fergal couldn't sleep. His head kept replaying the meeting with Alfredo, and he felt a sudden rush of excitement about leaving Belfast behind - living in a different country from his family, never having to worry about bumping into John again... Noreen's face floated in front of him, and he whispered to the quiet room, 'Granny, I miss you - I do. I wish I could tell you about Mr Moretti. He wants me to go to Rome - Rome! You always said you wanted to go there and visit the Pope, didn't you? I'll tell him you said hello... if Ma and Da let me get a passport.'
In his thoughts, his father's angry voice said again, You're no son of mine! Fergal wanted to shout back, If I'd had the choice, I wouldn't have picked you for my father, either, so you can go and fuck yourself! He was happy to be estranged from his family, but there was a part of him that still wanted to punish them - and another, more deeply buried part that wanted them to say they were sorry. He just wanted one of them to say that they'd made a mistake.
He rolled over, but sleep wouldn't come. The window had been fixed, but the frame was old, and there was a gap in one corner just big enough for a draught to slip into his room. He wondered if Father Mac was asleep. He got out from under the blankets, shivering, and tiptoed out onto the cold floorboards of the landing. When he saw that Father Mac's light was still on, he tapped the door gently.
'Dermot? Dermot, are you still up?'
Father Mac had been reading. He appeared at the door in his pyjama bottoms, with his hair sticking up at the back. The sight of his chest made Fergal's heart quicken.
'Are you all right?'
'I am, but I can't sleep. What time is it?'
'It's... my goodness, it's four o'clock.'
Fergal looked down at his bare feet. 'Dermot, can I... can I get in with you?'
Father Mac's heart raced too, and he paused for a second before opening the door wider. 'Well, just for a while. You can't stay the whole night. Remember what we said.'
They lay under the covers, more awake than ever.
'What a day, eh, Fergal? No wonder we can't sleep.'
'I know. I thought I was hearing things when Mr Moretti started talking about Rome and all.'
'He seems like a very genuine person.'
'Yeah. But he looks like a detective off the TV or something, doesn't he - with his walking stick and all?'
They laughed.
'So why can't you sleep, then? Are you worried about something in particular - like going away?'
There was a long silence. Then Fergal said, 'What's going to happen, Dermot?'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean, what's going to happen with... us?'
Fergal swallowed hard. Father Mac turned away and lay on his back, looking at the ceiling rose as if the answer might be written in its circle.
'Well, I think this is the kind of opportunity that doesn't come along every day. And you deserve everything it may bring. It's just the beginning for you. Me... well, my life here is just beginning too in its own way - the parish is just starting to accept me, and... well, my place is here. And you need to go where your voice takes you.'
Fergal closed his eyes and whispered, 'But maybe you could come with me?'
Father Mac turned around, and Fergal saw that his eyes were wet. 'Ah, Fergal, thank you for wanting me to. It means so much. If things were different, then who knows what would happen? But, at the end of the day, I'm a priest - if I weren't, we would never have met. Anyway, it's not up to me. The bishop decides where I go, and Rome is hardly starved of priests, now is it?'
He'd hoped to make Fergal laugh, but it didn't work.
'But—'
'Fergal, you haven't even left yet. There's so much that's good about what's happening. Let's just try and think about that.'
'You're right, I know you're right. But... I'll miss you.'
'Ah, fella, the thought of not seeing you is... hard to think about - I won't lie to you. But it's not as hard as the thought of seeing you waste your potential. Look, let's just take one day at a time and cross whatever bridges we come to, OK? Right now, there's a lot of work to be done to raise the money to even get you to Italy.'
'I know.'
'How do you feel about doing a solo concert here in Belfast?'
Fergal sat up. 'Really?'
Father Mac was glad that he'd been able to steer him away from the difficult conversation that he knew they would have to have eventually. 'Yes, really. We'll advertise everywhere - maybe we can get the local papers involved... Wait till you see, Fergal, it's going to be brilliant. And one day people will say, "Sure, I saw Fergal Flynn in the local hall before he was famous, you know!"'
This time Fergal did laugh, and they moved closer to each other. Father Mac switched off the bedside lamp and they kissed.
Fergal wanted more than anything to feel what it was like to have Father Mac inside him, wanting them to experience everything they possibly could together. He moved Father Mac's hand down between his legs and took hold of his erection. Fergal made him let go and pushed his hand further south. They kissed hungrily, and Fergal widened his legs and encouraged Father Mac's finger to start the careful journey into him. It was painful at first; he flinched and cried out. 'Jesus!'
'Oh, Fergal, sorry—'
'No, Dermot. Keep going.'
'Are you sure?'
'Definitely. Kiss me, Dermot. Keep kissing me.'
So, very slowly, he relaxed and began to move against Father Mac's finger, and gradually it grew more and more pleasurable. Fergal widened his legs further, pushed a pillow under his back and pulled Father Mac's full weight on top of him. Father Mac kissed his forehead, which was soaking with sweat. Fergal could feel his thick erection pressed against his belly.
'Dermot, I don't want to leave you without knowing what's it like to have... Will you... will you go inside me?'
Father Mac looked at him. 'Are you sure?'
Fergal nodded his head and pushed his erection further down.
'Look, the second you want me to stop, I will, OK?'
'OK.'
Father Mac took hold of his hardness and slowly guided the tip of himself into Fergal. Fergal held his breath, expecting it to be agony for a moment, then he exhaled as their bodies began to join, bit by bit. He knew they could never be closer than they were at that moment.
'I don't want to hurt you—'
'Dermot, aren't you supposed to... you know, spit or something?'
Father Mac remembered hearing about people doing that. He withdrew, spat on his fingers and rubbed them on himself, then on the place where he'd just been. Little by little, he slid inside Fergal again. Fergal loved the smell of him, the feel of his weight. He held on to the backs of Father Mac's thighs and breathed in time with his gentle motion. A deep calm surrounded him. He had never felt so close to another human being in his life.
'How does it feel, Fergal?'
'It... it's great. You can do it a wee bit... harder if you like.'
Father Mac began to move more firmly against him. He too had never felt so deeply connected to another person, and his heart had never felt so full. At that moment they both felt that their very souls had melted into each other.
The last thing Father Mac wanted to do wa
s let Fergal go, but it felt so good that he knew he wouldn't be able to last. 'I have... I have to stop.'
Gradually their movements slowed again, and Father Mac carefully withdrew and lay on top of Fergal. Their kissing was like another language. Fergal wrapped his legs tightly around Father Mac's waist and felt as if he could stay that way forever.
Then Father Mac asked, 'Do you want to... to try?' and Fergal heard himself say, 'Yeah.'
Father Mac rolled over onto his stomach and Fergal climbed on top of him. It took a few giggly attempts before he succeeded in entering him, tentatively, knowing how tender it could be. Then, slowly but surely, they found a steady rhythm. Fergal had never felt pleasure like it.
'Oh, Fergal...that feels fantastic...'
Father Mac arched his back so he could touch himself. When they were near to finishing, their bodies parted and they rolled over, side by side and out of breath. They reached for each other's hardness, kissing slowly and lovingly before, simultaneously, their bodies stiffened in release. Their gasps subsided and they moved closer, their arms entangling in an effort to stay warm and in the moment. As they submitted to the calming waves of a brief, untroubled sleep, Fergal felt as though Father Mac had reached inside him and healed every wound that John had inflicted. He ached in a completely new way.
After about half an hour, Father Mac was the first to come back to the surface. He saw how peaceful Fergal looked as he slept. He didn't want to disturb him, but he knew he had to. Fergal would have to go back to his own room - Mrs Mooney had her own key, and she seemed to be arriving earlier every week.
Father Mac had been almost glad that Mrs Mooney suspected something more than friendship was blossoming between him and Fergal. He had always known their affair couldn't last and she had given him the excuse he needed to begin dismantling it. That night had been the most intimate they had ever spent together but, as soon as the heat was gone, he could feel his heart heading back to shore. Fergal would have to swim the rest of the way alone.
He leaned over and shook Fergal's arm gently.
'Five more minutes, Dermot - come on...'
Father Mac got up. He was craving a cigarette and his pack was in his coat pocket down in the hallway. While he was gone,
Fergal opened his eyes drowsily and looked at the empty space in the bed. The warm sense of love that he had felt was replaced by loss. Somewhere, a part of him started to see that what they had could never last.
He got up and went to his own room, before Father Mac could come back. He didn't want him to see his face.
23
The brightly coloured poster for the upcoming concert took pride of place in the frosted windows of Moore's family shop.
Saturday, 25th August
A very special concert with local singing sensation
FERGAL FLYNN!
Help send our local lad to the home of the Pope to study
with one of the world's greatest teachers!
Come and hear the voice of an angel as he prepares to take flight!
Concert starts at 7.30 p.m. sharp
Venue: St Bridget's Assembly Hall
All are welcome, so come and support your own!
(Tea and biscuits available.)
Underneath was a photo of Fergal, with his hair combed to attention and a half-smile, trying not to look mortified.
Moore's shop was the kind of place that sold anything and everything. You could buy a light bulb, a school blazer, three slices of bacon and a packet of custard, all from the same shelf, and pay them off in weekly instalments. Loaves of fresh bread dusted with flour sat in warm racks along the counter, but not for long. As soon as old Mr Moore opened the front door, the first flock of mothers snapped them up and buried them deep in their shopping bags, with maybe a slice of ham wrapped in greaseproof paper for the husband's lunch. Vinyl records, mostly by overdressed singers nobody had heard of, were hung on a line with clothes-pegs, like frozen washing. Underneath were glass jars of out-of-reach sweets and tins of stewed steak, which were bought for Sunday pies at the end of the month if mothers and fathers were feeling flush enough.
Fergal's poster campaign found its way onto every notice-board and telegraph pole in the tiny area and, in spite of the addition of the odd Hitler moustache or glasses, the signs were mostly greeted with interest. Inevitably, people stopped Angela in the street to remark on how proud she must feel, and for once she was lost for words. A few men made the mistake of bringing it up with Paddy - a poster had found its way onto a wall in the betting shop - but they quickly changed the subject when they saw his taut expression and felt the swift change of temperature in the smoky room. The Flynn brothers were struck dumb, especially John. On the bus to the brewery, the morning after the posters went up, he had to face the questions of old schoolmates who'd ended up in the same job - it was that or the dole, and they were all in a hurry to be men. He walked home that evening, disgusted and tore down three of the posters on the way.
~
On the afternoon of the concert, Fergal and Father Mac drove to the empty car park of St Bridget's Secondary School, where the caretaker let them into the deserted assembly hall to rehearse their repertoire - traditional songs, hymns that the audience would recognise and 'Annie's Song' by John Denver. Father Mac thought Fergal needed to rehearse at least once in the actual room where the concert was going to be held. They went to the music room and Baldy Turner helped them wheel the upright piano down the corridors, leaving a trail on the plastic tiles. Fergal was shivering from head to toe. He couldn't work out whether it was because the heating hadn't kicked in or because of pure nerves. Father Mac reminded him, 'I'll be right there beside you the whole time. You want to make Noreen proud, don't you?' That did the trick and he stopped shaking.
As Father Mac adjusted the height of the piano stool, Fergal looked out at the bare wooden floor and remembered the terror of lining up there in his ill-fitting blazer six years before, to be called into his class for the first time. How many thousands of times had he stood there, year after year, getting taller, broader, hairier, wishing that he could be somewhere else - only to wake up one morning with nothing but a few exam results to prove he'd been there at all? That frightened eleven-year-old could never have imagined that he'd end up doing what he was about to do that evening.
The concert was sold out. Almost everyone from the area turned up, more out of curiosity than anything else. The tea and biscuits did a roaring trade, there was something about eating them in a school hall that made them tastier somehow.
The nerves had returned, in neat bundles, in the middle of Fergal's stomach. He had been given one of the PE changing rooms as a dressing room - he laughed out loud at the irony. He'd already had a long, roasting bath at Father Mac's house and combed his hair until his head was sore. He could hear voices and footsteps as people were directed down the corridors to their wooden seats borrowed from the classrooms. One past pupil said reminiscently, 'The place hasn't changed much, has it? It's still boggin', so it is!'
Fergal waited backstage as the principal gave a monotonous speech and then introduced Father MacManus. He said some very embarrassing things about Fergal, who thought his heart was going to jump out of his mouth. Then, all of a sudden, he heard the wave of applause that meant it was time to face the music.
He felt like he was floating as he moved across the makeshift stage that was only used for the local slimmers' club and Christmas concerts. He was blinded by a single spotlight and deafened by the silence. He heard Father Mac play the first few chords of the opening hymn, 'Be Thou My Vision'.
His voice wobbled a bit at the start - he'd forgotten to breathe, but Father Mac reminded him with exaggerated swells of his chest. Frustrated with himself, Fergal stamped his foot on the floorboards in defiance, and the strength returned to his voice, to fill every corner of doubt in the hall. He closed his eyes and sent the words into the air like little hopeful balloons, waiting for the wind to carry the trapped breath to a different world.
At the end of the hymn, the applause rippled and then grew as thunderous as the waves on the Sligo strand. Father Mac, at the piano, turned the enormous manuscript pages of sheet music to a County Down song called 'The Flower of Magherally'. Fergal's eyes were getting used to the light, and he couldn't help looking for members of his family or people he knew. The only person he recognised was a friend of his mother's, who was smiling hugely and seemed to be having a great time. Behind her was the oldest man in the area, who had a plastic nose because his real one had been bitten off by a dog. No one usually sat beside him because if you looked closely you could see right into his skull.
As the night went on, Fergal felt more and more confident. Some of the older people in the audience joined in softly with the songs they knew. The whole concert seemed to go incredibly quickly and, in no time, Fergal found himself saying, 'This is the last song of the evening', which was greeted by friendly complaining from the back. When Father Mac played the introduction to 'Annie's Song', there was a murmur of delight, and someone squealed, 'Oh, Jesus, I love this one, so I do!' Fergal found himself laughing as he sang the first few lines:
You filled up my senses, like a night in a forest,
Like a mountain in springtime, like a walk in the rain,
Like a storm in a desert, like a sleepy blue ocean,
You filled up my senses - come fill me again...
Most of the room joined in, singing sweetly, with every chorus (although a few of the men sat with their arms folded, thinking that he sounded too much like a girl). Fergal had relaxed enough to enjoy the participation and swayed and stretched his arms out to encourage them. He shot a glance at Father Mac for approval, but the priest had his eyes shut, lost in the moment, and that made Fergal even happier.
The Arrival of Fergal Flynn Page 22