Roman Song

by Brian Kennedy

  Alfredo caught his breath and put his hand to his mouth in shock. ‘Yes, call back later...Yes, I’ll take good care of him. I promise.’ He hung up.

  ‘Oh my God, you poor, poor boy. Come here.’ Alfredo hugged Fergal as tightly as he could. They moved into the living room and sat together on the sofa. ‘What do you want to do?’ Alfredo asked, but Fergal couldn’t even think straight.

  Alfredo called Giovanni and told him the terrible news so he could inform the theatre manager that Fergal would need at least a week off. Then he made some coffee and put brandy in it, but Fergal could only manage a few sips. He was lost in a vacuum of shock.

  ‘I’ll come to Ireland with you,’ Alfredo said. ‘Tonight, if we can get a flight.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ Fergal told him, but Alfredo was insistent and Fergal was calmed by the fact that he wouldn’t have to go alone.

  Father Mac rang again. He had been to see Angela, and she was resting at her sister’s. With each digit that Fergal pressed on Alfredo’s phone, his dread grew. When his Aunt Jeannie answered, she didn’t recognise his voice at first. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘It’s me, Jeannie. It’s Fergal.’

  ‘Fergal? Jesus, you sound so...different.’ Then she burst into tears. ‘Your mother’s taken a wee tablet,’ she told him through her sobs, ‘and she’s asleep up on her bed, away from all the neighbours. They mean well, sure, but they’re that nosy.’

  ‘Make sure and let her know I’ll be home as soon as I can,’ Fergal said, ‘probably in the next few days - as soon as I can get a flight.’ As soon as he hung up, the phone rang again. It was Father Mac, saying that he’d got them the last two seats on a flight later that night.

  The flight went by in a blur. Fergal sat in the window seat and didn’t even blink when the plane touched down in the lashing rain of his hometown. They’d only packed carry-on luggage, so they were able to walk right past the queue at the carousel. Fergal was instantly struck by the accents all around him - the security guard making a joke to two of the cleaners, one old man telling a story to another, a little boy asking his mother for money to buy sweets...Everyone had the same familiar accent, and he hadn’t heard it for so long.

  And then he saw Father Mac, standing by the payphones, transferring his weight from foot to foot and craning his neck to spot them. Fergal did a double take. He’d gained a serious amount of weight on Mrs Mooney’s cooking and it made him look a lot older. When Fergal stopped in front of him, Father Mac thought he was a tourist trying to use the payphone. He was moving out of the way when Fergal said, ‘Dermot, do you not know me?’

  17

  Father Mac’s mouth fell open and he shook his head in utter disbelief at the tall, broad-shouldered, sallow-skinned man in front of him.

  ‘Fergal?’ he gasped. ‘Fergal Flynn, is that you? It can’t be!’ Their eyes filled up and they flung their arms around each other. Fergal buried his face in Father Mac’s neck, but it was clear that he’d grown a good few inches taller. Even when they regained their composure and Father Mac was greeting Alfredo, he still couldn’t take his eyes off Fergal. Fergal had no idea how much he had changed physically in the past year. He had gained weight too - mainly because of the quality, and indeed the quantity, of Italian food - but in all the right ways. ‘Oh my goodness, Fergal Flynn!’ Father Mac said softly. ‘Look at you!’

  ‘Look at me? Look at you, Der— Father.’

  ‘Well, as you can see, I’m fading away to the size of a mountain. Nobody can accuse Mrs Mooney of not looking after me.’ He patted his impressive stomach self-consciously and put his arm around Fergal’s shoulders. ‘It’s good to see you again, fella. I’m only sorry it had to be like this. How are you holding up?’

  ‘It’s just so weird - you know, that he’s...dead. I don’t know how I feel, to be honest.’

  ‘That’s to be expected.’

  They headed out to the car park. Father Mac ran off into the heavy shower and returned moments later in the car, pulling up beside them with his damp hair stuck to his head. The boot held their bags easily, and Alfredo sat in the back while Fergal automatically sat up front. The windshield wipers struggled as they headed down the motorway. Father Mac kept looking over at Fergal every few seconds, saying, ‘I just can’t believe how much you’ve changed. You’re a big man now.’ He noticed, too, that Fergal’s accent had been eroded around the edges into a softer, slower and more confident rhythm.

  They were stopped at a checkpoint, and although Father Mac did his best to explain the sad situation, they were kept waiting for quite a while: passports had to be checked and the boot had to be searched before they were allowed to go on. ‘Welcome back to Belfast, eh?’ Fergal said to Alfredo when they were far enough away.

  The car went quiet again. ‘How did he...?’ Fergal asked. ‘How exactly did he die?’ Father Mac told him. ‘Where’s he now?’

  ‘He’s in the morgue, at the Royal Vic.’

  It was well after eleven o’clock at night. St Bridget’s House was only partially lit, but once they were settled in the front parlour, the fire didn’t take long to wake up again from its premature sleep. Fergal couldn’t help wandering over to the piano and touching the keys. He felt as if he had been away for a lifetime. Father Mac had gotten bigger, but St Bridget’s House seemed to have gotten smaller, and this made Fergal feel all the more disconnected. He could still hardly believe that he was home to bury his father - and unearth only God knew what.

  Mrs Mooney had prepared loaded plates of food before she left, but understandably, no one had much of an appetite. As they tried to eat, they had to move their chairs further and further away from the hearth. The heat filled the room and steam began to rise off their damp jackets,' which were stretched ambitiously on the radiators. Father Mac vanished into the kitchen again, this time returning with a jug filled with a strong concoction of whiskey, hot water, lemons, cloves and sugar. Fergal thought of Brendan Fiscetti, and he missed his routine. So much had changed in only twenty-four hours.

  The drink had the desired effect - Fergal’s mood defrosted enough to loosen his tongue. ‘You know, it’s so strange to be in Rome one minute and then back here, the next - and for my da’s wake. The last time I ever saw him was here, you know, upstairs -do you remember, Father? It was after John attacked me. I was recovering, and you were saying mass in the chapel, and Da barged in and told me to stop disgracing the family...some fucking family!’

  The two men looked at each other and then at him, not knowing what they should say.

  ‘You know how badly I wished he was dead then?’ Fergal’s voice shook a little. ‘And now he is...but...oh God, I don’t know. It’s just too weird.’

  Father Mac took another sip. ‘Fergal, you have every right to have mixed feelings. I can’t say I was a fan of the man, especially after the way he treated you, but he’s in God’s house now, and there are different rules there.’ Alfredo nodded in agreement, at a loss for words.

  They, drank the jug dry, but when Father Mac offered to make another, they refused; they were all exhausted. Fergal was given his old room and Alfredo had the tiny box room, which looked onto the entrance to the hospital. Father Mac thought it might be too upsetting for Fergal to sleep there. He hugged Fergal more tightly than ever as they said goodnight.

  For the two older men, the hot whiskey did the trick - they fell asleep not long after their heads hit their respective pillows. Fergal, however, lay awake for hours. Now that it was dark and he could be truthful with himself, he felt lonely and a bit scared. Pictures of his father’s face floated in his mind’s eye, and their last hitter, angry exchange replayed itself in his memory, growing more distorted each time. It struck him that he would never hear his father speak badly of him again, and he felt relieved - and, at the same time, desperately sad. He knew his poor mother had spent her hardest years being married to that man, but he also knew she had loved him, in her own way. Fergal wondered why it was easier, to work things out at night, in the p
itch black of his room. He decided it was because of confession. He’d grown up learning to tell the truth and shame the devil in little dark boxes, so it made sense that truth would come to him more easily when he was in the dark, surrounded by four walls.

  There was a loud creaking sound on the landing, and for a second Fergal thought it was Dermot, unable to stay away from his kisses and his heat. More than anything, he wanted to be in someone’s arms, but he wanted Dermot to make the first move. He lay still, not breathing, but it was only the house finding a more comfortable position for the night. He stayed where he was, under the blankets, making do with the embrace of the past, until sleep finally won.

  As Fergal was on his way to the bathroom the next morning, Mrs Mooney popped her head out of the sitting room door. When she saw him on the landing, she crumpled her dishcloth against her chest. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God - Fergal? I would never have recognised you in a month of Sundays! What have they done to you? I’m so sorry to hear about your daddy, son.’

  Fergal ran down the stairs and she tried to put her arms around him, but her head only reached his chest. ‘Thanks, Mrs Mooney,’ he said. ‘That’s very kind. At least you recognised me - not like Father Mac.’

  ‘I’m not surprised he didn’t, son. What do they feed you on over there? Fergal Flynn, it’s a pure miracle, that’s what it is. You put me in mind of the time Father MacManus arrived here from the missions in Africa - do you remember how dark his skin was? And you’ve got so tall, too.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Mooney. The Italians certainly know how to eat.’

  ‘Ah, I’m sorry it’s not for a better reason that you’re back, son. You must’ve got an awful shock. You speak so lovely, too. Your own mother wouldn’t know you, I’d say.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her yet,’ Fergal said, with a flutter of nerves in his stomach. ‘I’d better get dressed.’

  As he finished getting ready, Alfredo appeared at his door. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.

  The question was getting on Fergal’s nerves already. ‘I’m okay. Did you sleep all right? That bed is very small.’

  ‘Oh, it was fine. Don’t worry about me. I could sleep standing up!’ Alfredo had been all but crippled by the sponge of a mattress. He looked at Fergal intently and cleared his throat. ‘Fergal, forgive me for prying at a time like this - and tell me to be quiet if you choose - but what did you mean when you said last night that the last time you saw your father you were recovering from your brother John’s attack?’

  Fergal looked at his teacher and realised he had to tell him. He sat down on the edge of the bed and took a deep breath, as if he were about to dive under water for as long as he could bear it. That was what the past felt like - a place where he couldn’t breathe.

  By the time he’d finished telling the story, Alfredo couldn’t find a single word. He gently reached across, steered Fergal’s head to the hollow of his neck and hugged him. Finally he said softly, stroking the back of his head, ‘It is a miracle, Fergal - you are a miracle. No wonder you’ve been so impenetrable. You know that I’m here for you, don’t you? We will keep you safe. Don’t worry.’ Fergal wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. He and Alfredo sat there, not moving, until they heard Father Mac calling them for breakfast.

  Mrs Mooney had fried spectacular amounts of bacon and eggs, and they made decent inroads on them. She had even remembered to buy coffee, for which Alfredo went out of his way to thank her. He hated the instant granules, but he was too well-mannered to say so, and he drank two revolting cups in a row.

  ‘Your father’s body will arrive at Walker Street this afternoon for the wake,’ Father Mac said gently. ‘Then he’ll be transferred here, to St Bridget’s Church, for the service tomorrow morning. He’ll be buried at Milltown tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘My God,’ Fergal said, dazed. ‘It’s all so quick.’

  ‘That can be a good thing. Do you want to go to the wake or not?’ Fergal took a deep breath. ‘I have to see them sometime.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you do. What about your mother? How about trying to see her first, at her sister’s?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Angela’s sister Jeannie answered the door, and Alfredo and Father Mac waited downstairs as she brought her nephew upstairs to see his mother. The whole house looked as if a bomb had hit it. They had to step carefully over the toys and clothes strewn across every surface.

  Jeannie opened the bedroom door and there was Angela, curled up like a stray kitten under the blankets, half drowned in medication and brandy and the shock of her sudden widowhood. The room was half-lit and Fergal was dressed in black. ‘Are you new to the parish, Father? ’ Angela murmured weakly.

  ‘Angela, Jesus,’ Jeannie broke in, ‘do you not know your own son? It’s Fergal, back from Rome!’

  Angela shook her head and fished for her glasses. It was all Fergal could do not to cry - she looked so much like Granny Noreen. ‘Fergal? Is that really you?’

  She began to cry uncontrollably, and when he went to her she clung to him like a wee girl. ‘Fergal, what am I going to do? Your da’s gone, and he was only young. I know he was a handful, but... What am I going to do?’

  Jeannie tutted loudly. ‘A handful? That bastard gave you a right few handfuls over the years, Angela. The number of black eyes you had to cover up because of that cunt!’

  ‘Stop it, Jeannie. Stop it.’

  ‘Yes, Jeannie,’ Fergal said firmly, ‘stop it, will you? Now’s not the time. Mammy, it’s all right. Everything will be all right.’ Jeannie sniffed. ‘Oh, listen to fucking snooty-voice! What would you know, Fergal? You fucked off as quick as you could! Mind you, I wish more of us had your bloody sense. Look at you - you look fucking loaded. I hope you brought money home for your poor ma.’

  Fergal got angry. ‘I’m only in the door! And what do I know? I know plenty, Jeannie! I used to live there, remember?’

  Jeannie went quiet. ‘Would you ever make me a cup of tea?’ Angela asked her.

  Jeannie shrugged. ‘Okay, but there’s two priests downstairs and I’ve nothing to give them but toast. I’ve to go and get my family allowance. Are you coming down?’

  Fergal was beginning to calm down again. ‘Actually, there’s only one priest - you know Father Mac, Mammy? The other fella is my vocal coach from Italy.’

  ‘Vocal coach!’Jeannie mouthed behind his back, making a face as she left the room.

  Fergal hadn’t a clue what to say to his mother. He was shocked at how much smaller she seemed to have become.

  ‘Jesus, Fergal, we got an awful shock yesterday. The police came to the door, and I thought it was one of your brothers in trouble. I never dreamed your da would be dead.’

  ‘I know. It’s hard to believe.’

  ‘Let me look at you properly.’

  He got off the side of the bed and stood up, his head almost touching the ceiling of the small room.

  Angela blessed herself. ‘You’re not the same fella that went away.’

  ‘I know, Mammy. I know.’ It was the first time she had ever said anything that made him feel good about himself.

  Father MacManus appeared at the door - he had heard the raised voices from downstairs - and they both were glad to see him. ‘The funeral’s all arranged, Mrs Flynn.’

  ‘Father, I don’t know how we’re going to even start to pay for it all. I’ve a bit put by in the credit union, but I’m not sure—’

  ‘It’ll be grand, Mrs Flynn. Don’t worry.’ Father Mac was well used to these conversations. Fergal was mortified. He wished he were as loaded as Jeannie thought, just so he could pay for the funeral. He hated the fact that, even in death, his father had managed to make his mother worry.

  ‘I had to go to the morgue and identify his body,’ Angela murmured. ‘I thought I was going to fall down dead beside him. It was horrible. His poor oul’ face was all twisted from the heart attack, all big and purple...I hardly recognised him. Oh, Jesus and his holy mother, him stuck in an oul’ fridge like
bloody Frankenstein - he always hated being cold. They might have to keep the coffin closed at the wake; that’s what the wee doctor said.’ Her voice trailed off and she lay back on the pillows, exhausted.

  Jeannie reappeared with the tea. ‘The twins are after ringing,’ she told Angela. ‘They’ll be over at Walker Street in an hour, to meet the hearse.’

  ‘John and Paddy live up the road now, with a few of their mates,’ Angela told Fergal and Father Mac carefully. ‘They were over last night to get the house ready, with Jeannie.’

  Jeannie held her tongue because the priest was in the room. What she wanted to say was that she had done all the cleaning, while Paddy and John and Ciaran drank a bottle of whiskey they had found at the back of a cupboard.

  ‘Will you sing at the service, our Fergal?’ Angela asked.

  It was the very last thing he felt like doing, but all he could say was, ‘Yes...yes, of course.’

  As he was leaving, she said feebly, ‘I’m glad you’re home, son.’

  ‘Thanks, Mammy.’

  Fergal almost lost it at that point.

  They drove over to Walker Street after the early evening mass. Alfredo was mute for most of the journey, trying to take it all in, but he was genuinely scared when he saw the policemen with their rifles on the corner. As they parked outside the house where he had grown up, Fergal suddenly felt ashamed and embarrassed. Alfredo was about to see just where he came from and how different it was from the mansion in Rome. Experience told him that Alfredo wouldn’t care - he had a bigger heart than that -but still, Fergal blushed scarlet through his tan as they got out of the car.

  There was a large black ribbon tied in a bow on the front door. Fergal realised he hadn’t seen his brothers in almost two years, since he’d moved into St Bridget’s House. The old dread suddenly reappeared, and he looked at Father Mac for reassurance. ‘I’ll be beside you the whole time,’ Father Mac murmured.