When he left the stage, the applause was wild. The principal gave Fergal a push, and he inched reluctantly back on stage and pointed towards Father Mac at the piano. The crowd roared their appreciation. A few people were even standing up. The caretaker, who thought the concert was over, had turned the lights up, and Fergal saw his mother clapping nervously at the edge of the audience.
The clapping didn't stop and Fergal looked at Father Mac with widened eyes that said, What now? They suddenly realised they hadn't prepared an encore. Fergal was going to suggest doing 'Annie's Song' again, but Father Mac gestured for silence and asked the audience for requests. Someone at the back shouted, 'Here, Fergal, can you whistle?', and there was a roar of laughter, followed by a few older women waving their good handbags and warning the shouter to behave.
Under cover of the noise, Father Mac whispered, 'You see? They're fighting over you already!'
'What'll we do?'
'What about something unaccompanied?'
Fergal's eyes lit up and he said, 'I'll have a go at "Carrickfergus".' For a moment he had thought of singing 'I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen', but he knew it would make him cry.
His sweet, high tenor delivered the first line, 'I wish I was in Carrickfergus...' and a ripple of recognition washed forward, leaving the rest of the hall silent, hanging on every word. It was one of those songs that nobody remembered learning but everybody knew. It was as if he'd said, 'Once upon a time...' to a room full of children.
When he came to the chorus, the women were the first to join in, but gradually even the manliest men could hold back no longer, though they stalled at the lines, 'I wish I could find a handsome boatman to ferry me over to my love and die.' Fergal tried not to look at Father Mac, but the song took him over, their eyes met for a split second and he was overcome with loss.
He began the last verse, 'And in Belfast, it is reported, there are marble stones as black as ink.' The audience giggled approval, noticing that he had changed the city from Kilkenny to Belfast. Then they grew quieter still. He could hear the blades of an army helicopter patrolling in the distance, and to him it was like the sound of leaving. Then the last chorus ambushed the sadness, and the whole audience sang their hearts out.
Sure, I'm drunk today, and I’m seldom sober,
A handsome rover from town to town.
Ah, but I'm sick now and my days are numbered.
So come, all ye young men, and lay me down...
So come, all ye young men, and lay me down.
The audience instinctively dropped out before the last line, and Fergal finished alone, as he had started. His solo voice owned the air again before finally coming to rest in the darkness.
The audience erupted, stamping their feet and cheering. Fergal bowed awkwardly and vanished off the stage. Father Mac followed him into the wings and hugged him till he thought he would stop breathing. The principal came onto the stage and called them back out to take a final bow together. All the lights were back on, and all the audience were on their feet. Fergal looked for his mother, but she was gone.
They went back to the changing room. Fergal was surprised at how much he'd sweated - his shirt was soaked through. He loosened it around the waist and tried to waft cool air up his back, and Father Mac gave him a towel.
'How do you feel, Fergal? How do you feel? Your first sold-out concert!'
Fergal looked into his eyes. 'I couldn't have done it without you.'
'Ah, now, somehow I don't think that's true. That encore took the roof off.'
They moved towards each other, but then remembered where they were and thought better of it.
There was a knock at the door. It was the principal saying that there were some people waiting to meet their local star. Fergal was still flushed from the spotlight, and he went even redder with embarrassment. He and Father Mac were greeted with smiles of appreciation, and the older women couldn't stop hugging Fergal. One of them had known Noreen, and she started to cry as she told Fergal how proud his granny would have been if she'd lived to see his first performance. It almost set him off, but Father Mac reminded them that Noreen had had the best seat in the house, at God's side, and she wouldn't have wanted anyone to feel sad on such a joyous night.
A reporter from the Andersonstown News was interested in doing a story on Fergal, if he and Father MacManus wouldn't mind answering a few questions. He asked them how the extraordinary opportunity had come about, how long they had known each other, when Fergal had realised he could sing... As he and Father Mac told the story together, it struck Fergal just how amazing the whole thing was. But it was real - he really was going to Rome to study singing.
The reporter's last questions were about his family. Surely they were going to miss him? Were they available for a photograph? Father Mac came to the rescue. 'Naturally they're proud of Fergal and excited about his good fortune, but they're very private people.' Luckily, that seemed to satisfy the reporter.
He took a few photographs of Fergal and Father Mac, standing side by side in front of the 'SOLD OUT' poster on the door of the assembly hall, smiling into the lens, embarrassed but happy. Between the concert and a donation from the school, they had raised the money for Fergal's trip to Rome.
By the time they got back to St Bridget's House, it was much later than they had expected. Father Mac made a pot of tea and they sat on the sofa, drinking it by the kinder light of a few candles. Fergal's head rested on the cushion by Father Mac's shoulder. They said nothing. They just listened to each other's breathing while the fire sang to itself in a high melancholy voice, sending the tune up the chimney to the answering wind.
They leaned closer to each other. Fergal rested his hand gently on Father Mac's face and traced a line around his lips with the tip of his finger, loving the roughness of his new stubble. Father Mac opened his mouth and took Fergal's finger into it. They kissed slowly, like lovers who hadn't tasted each other for a while and needed to remind themselves, silently and lovingly.
Father Mac peeled Fergal's shirt back to kiss his bare shoulders before Fergal pushed Father Mac's jumper over his head and stroked his breastbone. The hallway clock clacked in its case like an old horse moving carefully down a cobbled lane. They sought the floor and lay in each other's arms by the warmth of the fire. Fergal wanted to spend the whole night there, but it would have been quite a sight for Mrs Mooney when she arrived the next morning. He giggled to himself, picturing her face.
Father Mac was lost in thought too. He was remembering the look on Fergal's face as he sang. He had never seen him look as happy. Father Mac knew he was going to lose him, not only to Rome and Alfredo Moretti, but to another way of thinking. It was only natural, when someone as young and as curious and as hungry as Fergal went into the world. Fergal was literally about to learn another language, one that Father Mac wouldn't be able to understand, and was about to experience new places and people from which Father Mac would be excluded. Inevitably, new possibilities of love would present themselves, and a priest living far away in Belfast would never be able to compete. A cocktail of grief and joy made Father Mac's heart full and heavy, but when Fergal's eyes looked for the reason his lover was so distant, he pretended everything was fine.
They moved upstairs and continued their lovemaking under fresh white sheets, laundered to perfection as if for the altar. There was a desperation in the sex that was new and exciting, but as soon as they were spent they separated. Fergal went to his own room and fell asleep quickly.
~
Early the next morning, Father Mac got a phone call from Alfredo Moretti. 'How was the concert received, my friend?'
'It couldn't have gone any better,' Father Mac told him happily. 'We raised even more money than we expected.'
Alfredo was delighted. Then he asked delicately, "The situation with Fergal's family... has it changed at all? Do you think they will give permission for him to get the passport?'
'That's my next priority,' Father Mac assured him. 'I think my best bet is h
is mother, if I can get her on her own. There's no talking to his father.'
'I wish you luck,' Alfredo said. 'I will await your news impatiently. There will be so much to organise, if he can indeed travel soon.'
When Father Mac put the phone down, he sighed heavily. Looking up, he saw a bleary-eyed Fergal sitting at the top of the stairs. Mrs Mooney, bustling in, took one look at Fergal and asked - she had, of course, been to the concert - 'Why are you looking so downhearted? You've every reason in the world to be the happiest fella in Belfast.'
'Sorry,' Fergal said. 'I'm just tired.'
'Ach, I'm not surprised, love. I don't know how you got up in front of all them people and sang like you did. I'd have been dying, so I would.' She turned on her foam-slippered heel and headed for the kitchen.
'That was Alfredo,' Father Mac said. 'He wanted to know about your passport. I told him it's next on my list.'
'There's no chance my parents will let me go,' Fergal said. 'What's the point in getting our hopes up?'
Father Mac tutted and raised his eyebrows in mock despair. 'Fergal Flynn, what are you like? Sitting at the top of the stairs feeling all sorry for yourself... Come down here a minute till I remind you of a few very important facts that you seem to have forgotten.'
Fergal exhaled heavily and descended the stairs one by one, as if his legs weighed a ton.
Father Mac brought him into the parlour and put a hand on his shoulder. 'Now, did you or did you not perform a sold-out show last night and get a standing ovation?'
'Well... yes, but—'
'Fergal, look at how your life has transformed completely in the last while. You did really well in your exams, you made your first recording, Alfredo wants you to move to Rome - and now, after the concert, we've raised enough money to send you there. How can you stand there and say there's no point in getting our hopes up? There's every point. Look, your mother may be a lot of things, but she's not the devil - it's not like she'll deliberately stand in your way. She just has to be very careful. She's married to your father, remember, and she's afraid of what he'll do if he finds out she's helped you. But I'll convince her that it's the right thing to do. If my plan works, he'll never even find out.'
'What plan, Der— I mean, Father?'
'Look, Mr Flynn of little faith, my plan is simple - and I have a promise to keep to your Granny Noreen, God rest her soul.'
They both blessed themselves.
'No one, but no one, is going to stop you doing what you were put on this earth to do. You were given this gift so you could share it with as many people as possible, and it's a huge responsibility. Look at how happy you made all those people last night. You transported them. I'm going to see your mother as soon as I can pick up the passport forms from the post office. The worst-case scenario is that you'll have to wait another few months, until you're eighteen - but I honestly don't think it'll come to that, fella. Look, let's just stop talking about all this for now.'
They ate their fried breakfast while listening to the morning news on the radio. Two young men, Fergal's age, had been shot
dead during the night, in the playing fields not far from where John had attacked him. He recognised their names - they had been at St Bridget's with him and one of them had sometimes called to Walker Street to go to matches with his brothers. Fergal shuddered. They hadn't even been men yet, and now their lives were over.
Fergal and Father Mac went to the post office together, and Fergal was surprised at how many people stopped them to congratulate him on the concert. Even people who normally wouldn't have given him the time of day grabbed his hand and almost shook it off his arm, telling him he'd better remember them when he was famous. He was mortified, of course, but, in some small way, it confirmed everything that Father Mac had ever said to him.
They got the passport forms and went to Devine's chemist on Springfield Road, so Fergal could get passport pictures in the photo booth. He fixed his hair self-consciously in the booth's little mirror, while other customers spotted the priest and changed their minds about what they had come into the chemist's to buy. When the four pictures came out, he looked shy and slightly startled - except in the last one, where he had pulled in an unsuspecting Father Mac from behind the curtain and they had pushed their faces towards the lens, laughing hysterically. The flash had captured the moment beautifully, and the photo made them laugh all over again.
When they got home, Father Mac helped Fergal fill out the form that would change his life for good.
24
It was early in the afternoon by the time Father Mac got a chance to check the hurling championship timetable in the local paper. He drove along the Falls Road and stopped near the top of Walker Street, outside the Flynn house, just as the Flynn men were heading into Casement Park a few miles up the road. As usual, the eagle-eyed neighbours sprang into action, scrubbing their steps and shaking rugs out their front doors, to demonstrate that their homes - and therefore obviously their souls - were spotless. Father Mac nodded to them and blessed himself before knocking at the Flynns' door.
Angela came to the door wiping her flour-powdered hands on her skirt and chewing on an enormous lump of toasted soda bread. When she saw who it was, she panicked, tried to swallow the buttery mush too quickly and choked. Father Mac slapped her between the shoulder blades with his flattened hand, and the half-chewed lump of bread shot into the road and down the drain. A few concerned women ran over to see if they could become more heavily involved, but Father Mac thanked them politely but firmly and made his way behind the hall door.
'Oh, Jesus, Mary and St Joseph I'm disgraced, so I am, Father!' Angela was still gathering her breath. 'I could've choked there and then on the doorstep in front of the whole street, only for you. Will you take a cup of tea? I was just having one myself when I heard you at the door.'
She went out to the kitchen, talking all the while and not waiting for answers. 'Them there sodas is as hard as bricks - Jesus, you'd be better off throwing them at the... Well, just wait till I see that wee twisty-eyed man in the bakery. I'll bust his frigging hole! Oh, sorry, Father, but only for you I'd have been dead. Sure, God is good. It's a miracle, that's what it is.'
She reappeared with two cups of steaming tea and two currant squares - most kids hated them and called them 'flies' graveyards', but they were a national favourite because they were so sweet and cheap. 'My husband and the boys are all away to the hurling final' - Angela was off again, going at full speed from nerves - 'and it's pure luxury to have the place to myself for a change.'
'I'm sorry for calling with no warning,' Father Mac said, 'but it's important. I couldn't leave it any longer, especially after the success of the concert.'
'Oh, God, Father, I'm sorry I didn't stay and see youse after the show. But Fergal reminded me so much of my own father that... well, I started to cry, and I didn't want anyone to see. Daddy used to sing wee bits of "Carrickfergus" to the air in the morning, when I was only a girl. He'd be out in the yard, breaking up the coal to get the fire going - he thought nobody could hear him so early. Then he'd call us down when the room was warm. Oh, he was so kind...' Her voice trailed off for a second and she seemed to shiver, then she was off again at breakneck speed. Fergal's da couldn't come to the concert - he hasn't been feeling too great these past weeks, and he went to bed early that night.'
She looked away and dried her eyes on the corner of her sleeve. She knew rightly that Father Mac knew she was lying. On the night of the concert, she had told her husband that she was going to visit her sister Concepta. Paddy had sent Ciaran for a bottle of whiskey that she found empty on the table beside a cold fish supper when, later that evening, she had slipped back into their life again.
Suddenly she stopped. 'Is Fergal all right? Is something wrong again, Father?'
'No, no, he's never been better.' Father Mac leaned towards her and said softly, 'But he needs your help, Angela - if I may call you Angela?'
She looked puzzled. 'Listen, Father MacManus, if there'
s one boy out of my brood that never needed anybody, it's our Fergal.'
'Ah, Angela, that's not true.' He took the passport form out of his pocket and explained why they needed her to sign it, and the promise that he'd made to poor old Noreen.
She was instantly afraid of anything vaguely official. Father Mac remembered what Fergal had told him - she'd had to leave school when she was only thirteen to work in the linen factory, and her reading and writing had never got a chance to go beyond what she'd picked up from the other girls. Fergal had told him how he was her dictionary and her calculator. When it came to reading anything or writing notes to teachers, she would fly into a rage if he wasn't sure about a certain word and stab him with the broken end of the pen, which she'd crushed with her teeth in pure frustration. Sometimes, if she was in one of her dark, unreachable moods, Fergal wouldn't even bother showing her things, he'd just reply in her handwriting.
Angela took a pair of glasses out of her bag and held them at arm's length, just like Noreen used to do, scanning the passport form. 'When there's anything needing to be signed, I usually leave it to my husband. He went to the best grammar school, you know, Father, right up until his oul' da died.' She put the form down.
Father Mac put his hand over hers. 'Mrs Flynn - Angela -here's your chance to do one of the most important things you could ever do for Fergal's future.' He looked at the Sacred Heart above the TV where Noreen's mass card leaned by the red bulb. 'Angela, he needs you to do this, or he'll have to wait until he's eighteen. There's only so much I can teach him, you know, I'm not a proper vocal coach like Alfredo Moretti. He's offered Fergal the chance of a lifetime - and when you sign this consent form, you'll help send him on his way. There really isn't a second to waste. The sooner Fergal starts to have proper training, the quicker he'll reach his full potential. You want him to do that, don't you? I know your mother did. Look, Angela, all of you were so generous to give that money the other night at the concert - you wouldn't want to see it wasted, would you?'
The Arrival of Fergal Flynn Page 23