The Arrival of Fergal Flynn

by Brian Kennedy

  For the fiftieth time that morning, they checked that he had his passport and his ticket and his emergency money and all the right contact numbers. Father Mac had bought him an address book and had insisted he write out all the numbers he might need in his own handwriting so he would definitely be able to read them. Father Mac stood by the security barrier as Fergal walked through the scanner. It squealed. An enormous uniformed man ran an infrared gun over his body, then asked him to take off his St Christopher medal and put it through separately. Once safely through, Fergal turned and waved a final goodbye, then he was gone.

  Father Mac went back to the car park and sat in the car with his seatbelt on. He watched the planes taking off overhead. As each one became airborne, he wondered if Fergal was on it. Finally, he blew a kiss skywards, started the engine and drove back to the Belfast morning in a daze. He felt as if someone had died.

  Fergal went into the toilet nearest his gate in the departure lounge and sat in one of the cubicles with his head in his hands, weeping in short, concentrated bursts. Then he opened the little package. It held the book of secret love poems that Father Mac's sister had given him when he was ordained. Fergal smiled through his tears as he read the card Father Mac had written: 'FF, these are yours now. Sing with all your heart and know that you have mine. All my love, D x.’

  When he heard his flight being called, he came out of the cubicle, washed his face and headed for the gate.

  As the plane took off, he felt light-headed and a bit sick - he tipped his head back and closed his eyes. The nausea subsided, and he opened his eyes and watched through the circular window as Belfast fell further and further away and the clouds got closer and closer, massive pieces of cotton wool waiting to wipe the slate clean.

  He thought about the year that had turned his life upside down. A thousand memories fought for his attention - his constant fights with his da, the schizophrenic way Angela had treated him, the way his brothers had tried to grind him down, the way he'd worried about Noreen till the bitter, helpless end - and he suddenly understood that these were what had brought him to this moment. The loss of Noreen still pulled at his heart, but he allowed himself to think that she was somewhere just beyond the clouds that enveloped him, having a blissful time. He thought of Father Mac, dear Father Mac, and wondered what would have become of him if he hadn't met the handsome priest that day, coming into the chapel out of the rain. He remembered how powerless he had felt back then, how he'd thought that his life would never get any better. But it had.

  As they gained altitude, Fergal felt the weight of the world slipping away from his shoulders.

  At Heathrow, Fergal was stopped by the security men. When they discovered that his previous address had been on Walker Street just off the Falls Road, they took him to a grey room and made him wait for over an hour while they checked his story and went off with his treasured passport. Fergal began to panic. He told them he had a connecting flight to catch, but the security man just sneered at him. Finally, without explanation, they told him he could go. It was as if Belfast hadn't quite finished punishing him for leaving.

  He was convinced that he'd missed his flight to Rome, but he made it to the check-in desk with ten minutes to spare. He nearly phoned Father Mac just to check that he'd got back to St Bridget's but the queues for the phone boxes were ridiculous.

  On the plane, he was sandwiched in the middle row beside a young family with a screaming, teething, purple-cheeked baby. As the mother tried to quiet her baby, Fergal's thoughts returned to his own family. He wondered what they were doing and whether they knew he was gone yet. He knew Angela wouldn't have been able to tell any of them that she'd had a farewell cup of tea with him. But the Andersonstown News had run a story about the concert, with a glowing review and a photo of Fergal and Father Mac - Mrs Mooney had even pinned it to the cork noticeboard in the kitchen of St Bridget's House. Fergal knew his family must have read it - the Andersonstown News, with its large section on local sports, was the only paper that ever got through the door of Walker Street.

  'Would you like some lunch?' asked an Italian stewardess.

  'No - no, thanks.' Fergal assumed he would have to pay and he knew he should save as much money as possible.

  'Are you sure?'

  He got embarrassed - he didn't want her to think he was tight with money - and started to get his wallet out. She stopped him, smiling. 'No, no, it is included in the ticket.' Fergal, feeling more foolish, pulled down his tray from the seat in front of him.

  The coffee was strong, and all around him he could hear the curious mixture of English and Italian being spoken at once. He thought about Father Mac, getting ready to hear confessions and say evening mass before retiring to the empty house. He tried to read the in-flight magazines, but they were all in Italian. He closed his eyes, thinking that he'd never be able to sleep, but the next thing he heard was the tannoy announcing bilingually that they were about to begin their descent into 'Roma'.

  Fergal's stomach felt like he was smuggling a thousand butterflies. He must have gone a funny colour because the stewardess came over and told him to breathe deeply and lean his head back. He stared out the window as the plane bounced off the tarmac and they were welcomed to Da Vinci Airport.

  The weather outside looked incredible. The colours were so strong and bright. Fergal thought the sky was the same shade of powder blue as the carved robes gathering around the Virgin Mary's feet in the vestry of St Bridget's. The plane finally came to a standstill and they filed off down the aluminium stairs, to the sudden heat rising off the tarmac. Fergal squinted, took off his coat and undid the top two buttons of his shirt.

  The handsomest security guards in the world directed them to the baggage halls. Fergal's bag was one of the last to appear on the overloaded carousel - he couldn't believe how many cases some people had - and then, just when he thought it was all over, he saw the queue for Customs. After forty-five frustrating minutes, he reached the Customs official - only to be told he was missing a form and he would need to fill it in and start again at the back of the queue. He tried to explain that someone very important was waiting for him, but the guard didn't seem to know or care what he was saying, he was more interested in the contents of his own cigarette-stained fingernails.

  Fergal thought about Alfredo waiting for him, and the panic rose in his chest. Between that and the thin air-conditioning, he had to pull out his inhaler. He made sure he joined a different queue this time and the Customs woman at the desk took pity on him and helped him to fill out the form.

  'Why have you come to Rome?' she asked.

  'To study to be a singer.'

  'With whom?'

  'Alfredo Moretti.'

  She widened her eyes and laughed, thinking he was joking, then she stopped. 'You mean the Alfredo Moretti?'

  When he nodded, she whistled and stamped his passport. 'You must be good! Best of luck with your singing!'

  And finally, after two hours in Italy, Fergal reached the Arrivals Hall. Da Vinci Airport was as busy as Heathrow. There were hundreds of people waiting for the hundreds of people still stuck in Customs, and he prayed that Alfredo was among them. He walked up and down the hall. There were drivers holding up boards with names that he couldn't even pronounce, but there was no sign of Alfredo. Fergal was convinced he'd given up and gone home.

  'Oh, Jesus, I can't do anything fucking right!'

  He hadn't meant to say it so loud, and he realised he was standing right beside three nuns who gave him deeply disapproving looks.

  He felt in his pocket for his address book. Just as he was about to find a phone and make a reverse-charge call to Alfredo - like a pathetic idiot, he thought - he saw a sign saying 'Information Desk'.

  Five minutes later, the airport tannoy sounded two notes and a woman announced, first in Italian and then in English, 'Would Mr Moretti, awaiting the arrival of Fergal Flynn from Ireland -that's the arrival of Fergal Flynn - please come to the information desk immediately.'

&nb
sp; Fergal waited by the desk. Slowly, out of the babbling jungle of endless human traffic, came a regular tapping sound, growing louder and louder. It was the slow and sure impact of a silver-tipped walking stick on the highly polished floor.

  It drew closer and closer, until the final, cushioned tap of recognition fell on Fergal's shoulder. He'd been looking in the wrong direction for far too long. All of a sudden, his future was standing right beside him.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank Youse!

  To all at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre, Annaghmakerrig, past (Bernard and Mary Loughlin) and present (Sheila Pratschke) for invaluable space and coal fires.

  This wouldn't be a book without the careful and considered editing skills of Ciara Considine, Eilis French and Claire Rourke. Thank you Breda Purdue and all at Hodder Headline Ireland.

  Eamonn McCann, Anita Gibney, Turlough McShane and all at Wonderland in Belfast. Pat McCabe, John Glennon and all at PKF Ryan Glennon & Co, Dublin.

  Love

  Brian Kennedy

  Permission Acknowledgement

  Annie's Song

  Words and Music by John Denver

  Copyright © 1974 Cherry Lane Music Publishing Company, Inc. (ASCAP)

  International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved