by Paul Kelly
“Well now, what’s troubling you, young man?”
Fern selected a meat-paste sandwich from the plate before he spoke.
“Well, it’s nothing much, not really.”
Peter grinned and poured the coffees.
“Well, tell me about ‘nothing much ... not really,’ then,” he joked and there was a certain tension in the air before Fern spoke again.
“Would I know for certain, if I was in love, Father?” he asked timidly and Peter swallowed his sandwich in one piece. This was a very serious subject ... he thought.
“Are you seeing someone at the moment, Fern?”
“Not exactly, no.”
The priest paused and bent his head to one side.
“Tell me a little more, please?” he requested and Fern stammered through as best as he could, without names and using examples without referring to himself at all. His hair had fallen over his forehead as it frequently did, and he casually replaced it with a nervous hand.
“Have you ever been told by someone that they love you, Peter?” he went on and Peter was surprised and amused at the question.
“Not recently,” he smiled sardonically as he made his comment, and Fern laughed.
“Maybe I’m being stupid, Peter. I’m sorry if I appear to be childish.”
Peter’s face took on a more serious expression and he leaned forward in his chair, knowing that his friend was having difficulty in explaining himself ... It was a common dilemma and he had met it so often.
“Fern, love is a very beautiful thing when it happens to anyone so please go on and tell me why you are concerned,” he said as he looked caringly into Fern’s face and felt again, something of the feeling that he experienced when he first heard the boy sing. He wanted to help this young man. He wanted to be THE person to whom he could come for help and Fern looked at the priest with a maturity that defied his seventeen summers … His dark brown yearning eyes begged for friendship and understanding without having to bear his soul.
“Fern… don’t be embarrassed in anything you may want to say. If it helps, I will get a stole and I will hear your confession which will seal anything that you tell me.”
“Thank you again Father, but I’m okay. I don’t think I would know what to do or to say in the confessional anyway ... I’ve never done it before.”
“Well, we know you are a baptized Catholic from your birth and it wouldn’t be that difficult to take it further, but it all depends on you Fern... and God is there for all of us, as I have already told you, Catholic, Protestant, Jew or whatever ... He is the Creator of us all.
We are all entitled to a claim on His love and understanding.”
At that moment, Fern felt that he and God and been formerly introduced and he looked around the room, meditating on what he had just heard and suddenly his life and his problems took on a very different meaning.
Everything seemed to fall into place; into the right perspective as he stood up in front of Peter.
“I think I have my answer now, Peter, thank you.” he concluded and Peter was somewhat confused, but he accepted Fern’s decision as he put out his hand to touch the boy’s head.
“Come and see me anytime, I’m always pleased to see you.”
Peter went to the front door with his guest and the cold night air rushed in around him as he opened it.
“Thank you again, Father.”
Fern left the Presbytery and commended Shona to God, for in his heart, he knew that whatever else might happen, He would look after her and this was all he wanted as he strolled home peacefully, more peacefully than he had done for some time.
***
Laura was in the kitchen as he came into the Manse.
“Want a cup of tea ... or something?” she called out as she heard the door close behind her new step-son and he stood in the hall.
“No thank you, I’m just going to bed,” he answered quietly, but Laura would not leave the matter there.
“Been out with your girlfriend, have you?” she asked with an impertinent sneer on her face, but Fern did not answer. He went upstairs and into his room, sitting for a few moments on the bed before he went into the bathroom with his towel around his neck, where he washed and returned to his room with his shirt over his arm, but as he closed the door, he was startled by a sound coming from the corner of the room.
“I asked you a question, young man.”
Laura sat on a chair in the corner near the window. Her legs were apart and her dress sagged into an inverted arch between her knees. A glass hung loosely from her right hand and Fern could see she had been drinking as she looked at him drowsily and hiccupped, putting her fingers to her mouth.
“Manners?” she said and her eyes closed as she smiled.
Fern was nervous of the situation.
“Where is Stephen?” he asked and his voice sounded nervous, but Laura opened her eyes and swayed in the chair as she spoke.
“Out doing his dood geeds ...good deeds,” she reiterated in a slurred voice ... “ for all and sundry, as usual and we’ve been married for nearly a month now and he’s still doing good all around, ess, ess,”
She struggled hard to get the word, EXCEPT and made a meal of it when she did ...”EX-BLOODY-CEPT where he should. Don’t you think he should do ME a bit o’ good, eh darlin’? Don’t you think I need a bit o’ lookin’ after, Pet?”
She swished the liquid in her glass and hiccupped again, but this time she shrugged her shoulders and her eyebrows rose above her bleary eyes as Fern watched her carefully and wished Stephen had been in the house as he glanced furtively at his watch.
“S’no use lookin’ at that Sonny. Your daddy won’t be home for a long time yet, so you’d better keep your mummy company ...” she snorted and Fern was furious at her last statement.
“Don’t ever refer to me in that way. You are not my mother and you know it,” he snapped and she laughed mockingly, making a mad, fast dance of horizontal movements with her fat knees.
“I could be ever so kind to you darling, if you’d let me,” she garbled as she lunged forward and Fern pushed her aside where she fell across the bed with a slump and groaned as she lay there. He left the room quickly and ran downstairs but he could hear her sickening laughter as he went. The night was freezing as he left the Manse, but he walked on in oblivion.
***
Peter was awakened by the banging on his door and sleepily he crawled downstairs and opened it to the caller he found on his doorstep, who stood there, dressed only in his shirt and trousers.
“Fern, what are you doing here in such a state? Where are your clothes? You have no shoes on.” Peter could not believe his eyes as he took the boy’s arm and led him into the house. “Come inside quickly and get warm”
The priest could see that his visitor was deeply distressed and he knew that questions were in vain, and that answers could wait, but Fern shivered as he uttered his request.
“Can I please stay here for the night? …Please Peter, please don’t refuse me. I can sleep on the floor, I won’t be any trouble.”
Peter looked closely into Fern’s eyes, before he spoke “There is a spare room ready always. There is no need for you to go.”
***
Miss Harrison returned from her night off duty, the following morning about nine, and Fern had breakfast and left to return to the Manse.
Peter had refrained from asking any explanation of the boy but he knew that something serious was troubling him.
“The guest room was used last night, Miss Harrison,” he said as he yawned heavily and she took her coat off and hung it on the stand by the door.
“Will it be required again this evening, or will I change the sheets?” she asked, priding herself on her ability to know when to mind her own business, but her mind wondered who the vi
sitor might have been.
“I don’t know, Miss Harrison, just leave it for the time being.”
“Very good, Father, would you like me to prepare your breakfast now?”
“No, thank you. I’ve had coffee and that’s all I require.”
Chapter Fifteen
STEPHEN was unaware of the incident that happened the night before and Laura continued her day as though nothing had affected her normal routine and apart from a slight hangover, she was her usual self. Fern washed, dressed, and made his way towards Tom Mahon’s house where preparations were in progress for the concert in Edinburgh and everyone talked of nothing else. The whole village was a stir with excitement and Fern stopped on the hill and sat down in the meadow overlooking the valley, drawing his knees up under his chin as he clasped his ankles knowing that he should have been full of excitement since he had wanted this opportunity for such a long time. This was the opportunity that Mahon had assured him would be the beginning of his career as a singer, but he stared ahead blankly as his hair blew gently in the rising wind and the sky become overcast. He rose and walked slowly down to Tom and Rose, kicking the earth as he went; his hands thrust deeply into his pockets.
“Fern ... Fern, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” Tom Mahon called out as he approached the house, “Come on in, I’ve so much to discuss with you,” he shouted as he guided Fern by his shoulders and Rose made a fresh pot of tea. “The songs I have chosen are our best ones, you know that, but we’ll have to put everything into it. We’ll be nervous ... of course we ... er you will, but try to put that aside until you are up there ... and once you’re on, you’ll be fine; just fine, I know you will... We always are ...”
Mahon rattled off his injunctions with his customary authority as Fern looked at him without having heard a word, “Are you all right, lad?” Mahon asked and Fern blinked into the conscious world of his teacher.
“Yes, thank you, I’m just ... as you say, nervous, but I’ll be all right.”
“You will, when you’ve drunk this,” Rose intercepted with her freshly made tea, as she lovingly admonished her spouse, “And you, Mr.Mahon Sir can leave him alone until he has. Enough of this music talk is what I say …”
Fern drunk slowly and thoughtfully whilst Tom Mahon fidgeted by the window … waiting anxiously until Rose had left the room before he continued. “All the finest artists get nervous, Fern, and we will be the same,” he said trying to comfort his prodigy as he went into the ‘plural’ once again. It was to be ‘their’ day ... but Fern’s mind was confused.
“Let me take the music with me Tom and I’ll be all right,” he said as he left the house with thoughts that were neither of music nor of Shona…
***
Fern stood at the door as Peter opened it. Nothing was said and the priest walked back into the lounge where Fern followed, closing the Presbytery door quietly behind him. Both men looked at each other painfully, each with a pain of his own ...and for a long time, silence prevailed.
“Please don’t ask me any questions Peter, at least, not for the time being. I will explain, but please let me do it in my own time.”
Peter looked steadily at the boy.
“Are you all right?” he asked and his voice was unsteady as Fern lowered his head. “Did you sleep alright last night? The visitor’s room hasn’t been slept in for some time and the sheets may have been …”
“Everything was fine and I am grateful that you let me stay. I have come from Tom Mahon’s and they are preparing there for the Edinburgh concert.”
Fern thought the lighter conversation might assist and Peter reacted to the mood with his usual calm. He wanted to dismiss the matter from his mind, whatever Fern had to tell him, as he would have done, had he actually heard the boy’s confession... but Fern had nothing to confess.
Chapter Sixteen
PETER played with the telephone wire as he dialled the number, but there was a long wait before a voice came through to him.
“Good afternoon, Sir. May I enquire if I am speaking to Mr. Curtis-Rutledge?”
The priest listened carefully as he spoke into the crackling distorted telephone line and tapped the receiver with the palm of his hand where the result was effective and he was able to hear clearer. The conversation was short and to the point and Peter had arranged to meet Mr. Curtis- Rutledge later on that evening. He had so much to do; so much, he had to say, and so little time in which to do it.
***
The day of the concert arrived and a coach load of chattering villagers left Bolarne to descend mercilessly upon the Edinburgh public and Tom Mahon decided he would take his car where Fern would accompany Rose and himself. His wife was particularly excited and she blushed with pride as she fussed over Fern’s concert attire. His blue tartan ‘Thompson’ Kilt, the clan of his mother, sat neatly on his slim hips and the blanched hair sporran blended gracefully and artistically with the silver glitter of his chain and belt buckle. His sgian dubh and kilt pin bore the crown of the deep purple amethyst and he stood alert with his head high, with his flaxen hair and dark brown eyes to complete the vision of beauty and strength that Rose Mahon would never forget. All was immaculate; everything was ready for the young tenor to enter the fray and Rose adjusted the shoulders of his fine velvet jacket and straightened his jabot. He bent to pull his right hose to his knee and the amethyst glistened against his shin as Rosie spoke again.
“My, you’re a handsome laddie, Fern. All the lassies are going to see you and nobody else this evening. I wish Shona could have been here,” she said as Fern’s eyes filled with sadness. If Shona had been there, it could well have been disaster as he was sure he would not be able to sing his ballads if she had been in the audience. It was all right before he knew her feelings for him, but now the song seemed too hypercritical. He could sing all night as long as the subject of his music was mythical, but when you are presented with a love that is real, if only to the giver, it makes everything so very different. He turned around slowly and took his seat in the car, with a face that was paler than usual and his thoughts were sad and befuddled as Mahon drove with meaningful and systematic gear changes. Tom Mahon was methodical in everything he did, no less his driving. Each moment told a story of how driving should be done and Rose should have been nervous, but she wasn’t. She knew her husband’s driving techniques of old, and whatever Mahon did was the proper way ALWAYS. She had complete trust and confidence in her husband’s ability to do whatever he set out to do, but she was more concerned for Fern, as she could see that he was troubled about something and she decided to say nothing for fear of upsetting him. Everyone had gathered on the steps of Manning Hall as Mahon arrived. He got out of the car and clapped his hands once ...
This sign, everyone knew, was a signal of control and that the evening was about to begin with Mahon, of course, as the Master of Ceremonies. The band of the pipes and drums was audible in the distance and was fast approaching… The Hall was filled to capacity and the air of excitement was heavy, but Fern felt cold. He clutched his music and took a deep breath and as he did so, he was conscious of another person who was praying for him that evening.
“How can I live without breath? How can I breathe without thinking. . . ?” he muttered and felt sick in his stomach as he waited in the wings. The choir sang loud and clear and the pipe band stirred everyone into enthusiasm. This would be his first public solo; his first entrance into a world, he had so long and so happily anticipated to be his and yet ... now his enthusiasm was marred by a feeling of quiet shame. He felt everyone was looking at him and there was a sense of derision in the air ... as a strange and foreboding phantom voice invaded his mind.
“Your daddy won’t be home for a long time yet, so you’d better keep your mummy company…”
The shame seared his scalp and the voice screamed louder.
“Where is mummy? Haven’t you brought her along
?”
Suddenly in the turmoil of the moment, as he clasped his head in his hands, a calm voice spoke his name.
“Hello, Fern.”
He turned to see Peter standing there beside him and the cool, calm, black clad dignity of his presence gave Fern the assurance that he sought.
“Peter, I didn’t think that you would be able to make the concert, being Saturday, you know,” he said in a low tone, with a flushed face, but he was happy.
“I nearly didn’t, but I managed to get a supply priest for the evening, and ... look who’s here with me.”
Miss Harrison smiled but her lips shook with emotion.
“I wish you all the luck in the world.” she said ... and as she blinked back a tear, Fern knew he was happy; this was too much. He looked towards the stage with renewed confidence and then back again to Peter as the young priest grasped his hand by the wrist.
“God bless you, Fern. Go out there now, and show them,” he said in a firm voice as tears began to creep into Fern’s eyes, but they would not fall.
“My cup runneth over,” he whispered and made his entrance onto the stage, standing in the dim shade of the shadowy spotlight, but the music followed him and the light became brighter around him sending sparkles from the jewels that adorned him. Fern was without complacency, as he knew that he could do what he wanted with the audience that evening and they were attentive to his every movement as he went into his first song. His voice was a praise of all he had striven to achieve and the spot light blazed brighter and brighter as he sang. The colours of the tartan became alive and the young singer better represented his Scotland from Bolarne. He sang the Scottish ballads that he loved, with confidence and with a grave sincerity that captivated all who listened and the pipes and drums grew louder as the audience clapped enthusiastically as the young Scot took his bow. He could feel the tears in his eyes. It was the first time in his young life that he was afraid as the applause was deafening. The pipe band receded and an orchestra filled the pit at his feet. He had never known fear or anxiety when he was singing before, but this evening was different for his fear was his strength and his modesty was his power; a power that commanded his very soul and whether it was God or the Devil up there singing in him, none was sure, but it WAS a Divinity.