Roman Song

by Brian Kennedy

  When Fergal walked through the front door, he was again struck by how small everything was. He hadn’t had time to get used to the fact that he had outgrown his past. The tiny room where he’d spent so much of his childhood was packed full of people, most of whom he didn’t recognise, but they parted a little when they saw that the Church had arrived. There, in front of the unlit gas fire, was the body of Patrick Flynn, stretched out in his coffin. To their surprise, the lid was open after all, and Fergal looked into his dead father’s face.

  Somehow the morticians had managed to smooth away the expression that Angela had described, and Paddy Flynn looked like he was sleeping. The make-up made Fergal catch his breath; it was almost exactly the same shade that Brendan Fiscetti wore at theTeatro. Fergal could hardly take it in. This man had repeatedly beaten him and finally disowned him for being too ‘girly’, and yet here he was, lying in his coffin with his Sunday suit on and his face covered in foundation. There was even a slight touch of blusher, to give his cheeks a bit of healthy colour. It was so perverse that Fergal wanted to laugh out loud.

  At that moment, he heard the unmistakable voice of his brother John. ‘Hello, Father MacManus. Would you like a drink, or a cup of tea? Will the other priests take something?’

  Fergal turned around and looked John in the eye. He couldn’t believe it - he’d outgrown him by a good few inches. John’s eyes widened, but all he said was ‘Fuck’ before two old women scolded him for using that language in the presence of the dead.

  His twin, Paddy, came in behind him with a tray of sandwiches, followed by their youngest brother, Ciaran, who had obviously been crying, with another pot of tea. John backed towards them instinctively. ‘Look at the state of our Fergal,’ he said. ‘He’s turned into a nigger.’ A few of the older women gasped and blessed themselves.

  ‘That’s enough of that talk, John Flynn. God rest your poor father,’ Father Mac said calmly but firmly, with an arm around Fergal’s shoulders.

  Now that Alfredo knew Fergal’s history, he had been expecting to see two great hulks of men, but the twins were more like their father’s people, wiry and small. Alfredo introduced himself, to get a better look at them. The twins’ girlfriends, who also happened to be sisters, nudged each other and stood up, smoothing their black mini-skirts, to say hello, but John shot his girlfriend a withering furnace of a look and she sat down again, telling Fergal she was sorry for his trouble. Fergal already felt sorry for hers.

  Paddy uncomfortably nodded recognition to Fergal. ‘When did you get here?’

  ‘Late last night.’

  Paddy had already assumed the position of man of the house, and when he felt that John was about to say something sarcastic again, he shot him a glare that made him keep his mouth shut. ‘Have you seen Mammy?’

  ‘I have.’

  Paddy didn’t know what else to say. He went back to handing out sandwiches, but he glanced over at Fergal when he was sure he wasn’t looking back. He couldn’t get over Fergal’s tan and how fit he seemed. It was ironic, Paddy thought - Fergal had turned out to be the tallest of them all.

  Ciaran nodded to Alfredo, looking confused, and smiled tentatively at Fergal. ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ he asked. Fergal wanted to cry then and there. How the tables had turned.

  ‘What’s Rome like?’ Ciaran asked.

  ‘It’s brilliant,’ Fergal told him. ‘You look well, Ciaran.’

  ‘So do you. What happened to your accent?’

  ‘Ach, I dunno. It just happens when you live in another country, I suppose.’

  John, who was keeping well away from Fergal, called over, ‘Ciaran, we need more tea. Come on into the kitchen with me.’ Fergal was glad that Ciaran had tried to be friendly, but it was clear that John had no such intentions.

  Father Mac announced to the room that the memorial service would be at ten o’clock the following morning at St Bridget’s Church, and then the remains would be taken to the cemetery before lunch. Someone started a round of prayers. When that ended, Father Mac took Fergal by the arm and guided him back out the door and into the street.

  When they were safely in the car on the way back to St Bridget’s, Alfredo asked, ‘Are you all right?

  Fergal nodded.

  ‘Are you sure you’re related to the twins, Fergal? You look nothing like them, nor even like the youngest one.’

  ‘I know. I’m more like my grandfather, apparently.’

  ‘Well, forgive me for saying this, but thank heavens for that.’

  Father Mac stopped at the chip shop and bought three fish suppers, and when they got back to the parish house Mrs Mooney buttered an entire white pan loaf and made pots of tea before she left them to it. Fergal could see why Father Mac had expanded to the size he was - he and Alfredo swallowed four chip-packed sandwiches each in addition to the enormous battered fish without even breaking a sweat. The chip sandwiches did taste gorgeous, but after a couple Fergal felt as if he had eaten a brick.

  On and on the rain fell. They tried watching a bit of TV, but the news was as depressing as ever, so they switched it off. Fergal’s emotions were all over the place. One minute he was trying to make jokes, and the next he wanted to cry like a baby and be held tightly. He wanted to go back and talk to his mother, but he knew that his brothers would be around, so he thought better of it.

  ‘Have you thought about what you’re going to sing at the service?’ Father Mac asked.

  Fergal hadn’t forgotten his promise to his mother, but he still felt resentful. His father had never come to hear him sing.

  ‘If you don’t feel up to it,’ Father Mac reminded him, ‘nobody could fail to understand.’

  All of a sudden, Fergal was angry. ‘I promised my mother,’ he said forcefully, ‘so that’s that.’ Angela had snuck into his fundraiser concert to stand at the back and listen, all those months ago. He would sing for her.

  ‘An Irish song, perhaps?’ Alfredo suggested calmly. ‘Instead of something religious?’

  Father Mac and Fergal looked at each other and said, in unison, “‘Danny Boy.’” Once they agreed on a key, it was settled.

  Alfredo yawned and asked if anyone minded him having an early night. Although he had no idea just how well Fergal and Father Mac knew each other, he realised that it was important for Fergal to have some time alone with his old friend. Fergal was secretly delighted. Alfredo drained his glass and climbed the stairs, and they were finally alone. The temperature in the room seemed to rise.

  Suddenly Fergal felt overwhelmed. He needed a moment by himself, to clear his head. ‘Dermot, can I go and have a quick shower?’

  ‘Yes, of course. You must be exhausted too. Do you want to have an early night as well?’

  ‘No, I don’t think I’d sleep at all if I went to bed now. Will you open that bottle of wine? I’ll be down in ten minutes.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure.’

  Under the water of the shower, Fergal reran the mental footage of his fleeting visit to his father’s wake. There were two things that stood out - his father had been stretched out wearing make-up for the whole street to see, and John had backed away from him, where Fergal had always been the one to shrink away from his older brother’s fury. As he dried himself, he thought about his mother and how she would cope without a husband. He wondered whether some part of her was glad, or whether it was too early - or even too late - for that. Then he thought about Father Mac, waiting downstairs.

  Fergal pulled on his shorts and Father Mac’s old bathrobe. When he re-entered the parlour, he saw that Father Mac had taken his collar off and was sipping the red wine. Fergal sat on the sofa and stretched, rubbing his hair with the towel in front of the roaring fire. He took a few sips of wine, then boldly undid his robe and stood up, letting it drop to the floor, leaving him in only his underwear.

  Father Mac was doing his best not to stare, but as Fergal dried himself more thoroughly, Father Mac couldn’t help noticing that his body had lost i
ts Belfast pastiness and that his chest and shoulders were muscular where once they had been softer and less defined. His chest hair had grown and darkened. A thick trail of it led down across his stomach and into his shorts...Father Mac dry-swallowed in quiet panic.

  Fergal smiled in the way that Father Mac had never been able to resist, but when he moved towards him, the priest felt rooted to the spot. It was as if he was seeing Fergal for the first time, and in a way, he was - he was seeing this new, more confident Fergal, who was more beautiful than ever. Out of nowhere, tears began to fill his eyes. He turned quickly away, lifting his hand to try and stop them, but it was too late.

  Fergal’s eyes widened. ‘Dermot, what’s wrong? What’s the matter?’

  Father Mac kept his back to him, trying to gather his thoughts. ‘Oh Fergal, I don’t know. I’m not sure if I can even find the right words. I’m a bit overwhelmed, I think.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can’t tell you how many times I...well, how many times I pictured this moment, when we would see each other again.’

  ‘I know. Me too...me too.’

  ‘I never imagined that it would take your father’s death to bring you back. Do you know how many nights I wished you were here, at St Bridget’s, even though I knew it was the last place you should be? I missed you more than I thought I could miss anyone, but...I coped, you know? I learned to cope. What we had was...well, it was rare enough, and I knew it couldn’t last. That’s why it was so incredible. Neither of us was the same person after we met. Do you understand?’

  ‘I think so.’

  At last Father Mac turned back to him. ‘Fergal, look at you! Do you see yourself the way I see you now? I don’t suppose that’s possible. I see a transformation that takes my breath away. Your accent, even - I still hear Belfast, of course, but it’s a Belfast after a storm has washed every inch of the city and it gleams like it was always meant to. You know what I’m saying, don’t you?’

  ‘But Dermot, why are you crying?’

  ‘I’m crying because...because we got you out in time. I see so many young people from my window, and indeed from the altar, and it’s too late for them. I can’t help them. Sometimes it just gets to me. I’m so glad that Brother Vincent, Alfredo and I - and your hard work, and your voice - managed to propel you to this point in your life. Fergal, just looking at you makes my heart want to burst. I can’t wait to hear you sing again.’

  They hugged each other as closely as they could. Smelling Father Mac again at such close range was enough to make Fergal braver, and he bent his head to kiss his neck gently, remembering the bedroom upstairs where Father Mac had taught him what love really was. He could feel himself hardening as they pressed against each other, and slowly he began to kiss his way down Father Mac’s neck. Father Mac gasped and moaned in momentary defeat. Fergal opened the buttons of his shirt and kissed his way down to his chest.

  ‘No, Fergal - stop. Don’t...please don’t.’

  They both froze. Fergal tried to kiss him again, but Father Mac grabbed him by the arm and started doing up his shirt buttons with a shaking hand.

  ‘But Dermot, I thought—’

  ‘Fergal, please. It’s taking all my willpower to do the right thing here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I meant what I said in that letter. I really did. I thought you would understand.’

  Fergal was suddenly embarrassed. Father Mac was still fully clothed, and his own erection was poking out of his shorts. He reached for the dressing gown and pulled it on again, in a huff. ‘I don’t understand. I thought you...oh, forget it.’

  ‘What, Fergal? You thought I what?’

  Fergal lowered his voice. ‘I thought you loved me. You said it enough times.’

  ‘Fergal, it’s precisely because I love you so much that we need this...this barricade. No, that’s a bad choice of word, Lord knows we’ve seen enough barricades around here. I mean a boundary, I suppose. A line we mustn’t cross again.’

  ‘But Dermot—’

  “‘But Dermot” nothing, Fergal. We’re not going back - only forward. Look at how you’ve changed.’

  ‘I haven’t changed how I feel about you, Dermot. I haven’t.’

  ‘Fergal, I don’t want to argue with you. You’re tired and upset. Your father is lying dead over in Walker Street. He’ll be delivered to the chapel in the morning, just a few feet from here.’

  It was enough to kill the moment stone-dead, but Fergal was angry. ‘My fucking father...’ His eyes filled up and he turned away from Father Mac, embarrassed.

  ‘Fergal, it’s okay. It’s good to cry.’

  Suddenly Fergal thought of Riccardo in the bathroom at Moretti’s, of Sofia in front of the fire.. .He shook his head to get rid of the images. ‘Dermot, what am I supposed to do with how I feel?’

  ‘I’m not asking you to do anything. You know how much I treasure our past, but that’s just what it is - the past. I told you that on that phone, too.’

  The tears in Fergal’s eyes spilled over. Father Mac’s voice wobbled badly as he tried to comfort him. ‘Ah, now, come on, Fergal, please. You’ll break my heart.’

  Fergal felt completely stupid. He instantly regretted trying to make a move on Father Mac so soon, but being back at Walker Street had made him feel lonelier than ever, and it had been so long since they had seen each other, he hadn’t been able to help himself. He cursed himself for not waiting a bit longer. Nice one, you idiot, he thought. What are you, some kind of bloody nympho? ‘I’m all right,’ he said at last. ‘I understand. I’m fine.’

  Father Mac cleared his throat. ‘Fergal, we should both really go to bed.’

  ‘Okay,’ Fergal said. ‘See you in the morning.’

  18

  The next morning, the Belfast sky pretended it was going to be a better day, like a child promising to be good for the babysitter, but as the funeral service drew nearer, uninvited clouds gathered and the rain poured down relentlessly. Mrs Mooney had arrived early and cooked yet another gigantic breakfast. The house was so busy that there was no time for Fergal and Father Mac to be awkward with each other. From the seclusion of the upstairs window, Fergal was able to watch people arriving through the chapel gates. He hoped that his mother would arrive with no one but Jeannie so he could invite her into the parlour, but his stomach knotted when he saw his three brothers and their girlfriends flanking Angela on her way into the chapel.

  At five minutes to ten, Alfredo accompanied Fergal into the chapel. The coffin was decorated with a wreath from the local GAA and someone was playing the organ, very badly, from the gallery. Fergal thought it was ironic - his da had always occupied one of the furthest stalls at the back of the chapel, leaving at Holy Communion most of the time, and now he was centre stage, right at the front, facing the altar. He and Alfredo sat opposite the row reserved for the immediate family. He managed to catch his mother’s eye and gave her a little wave, but she barely reacted. He could see that Jeannie had made sure she was on another planet. Suddenly Fergal wanted to be back in Rome, practising his Italian or working at Moretti’s. He felt as if he had accidentally stumbled into somebody else’s life.

  It was time for the readings. His brother Paddy squeezed past the row of mourners and read the gospel in a nervous monotone. Fergal noticed, now that he got a better look, that Paddy too had a swollen belly and a few double chins. John stared straight ahead, though Ciaran managed a weak smile when Fergal glanced over again.

  Father Mac suspended his disapproval where Patrick Flynn Sr was concerned. He talked about how Paddy had been a sporting man, much revered by his old teammates, but when he looked down at Fergal he couldn’t say much more. He finished by saying, ‘Patrick Flynn is survived by his loving wife Angela and their four sons, Paddy Jr, John, Ciaran and Fergal, who has flown all the way from Rome to be with us today.’ Fergal felt light-headed. He looked over at his family again and met his mother’s vacant eyes, partially framed by her black widow’s mantilla.r />
  When Father Mac announced Communion, it was Fergal’s cue to sing. As he walked past his father’s coffin, he let his hand rest on it for a brief second. Then he took his position on the altar while a few people formed an orderly queue in the aisle.

  Fergal’s heart was pounding in his chest. When he looked at what was left of his family, he saw that the twins were' leaning against their girlfriends and staring into space. Even Ciaran’s girlfriend was holding his hand and rubbing his arm gently. Jeannie had her arm around Angela, but she seemed lost to the world.

  All of the people who had ever hurt him were right in front of him, like some kind of judge and jury, and for a second he was afraid that he wasn’t going to be able to get through the song. The first few words left his mouth like birds that had been trapped in a cage for a long time, suspicious of their sudden freedom. Then Fergal closed his eyes and sang from the deepest place he could find.

  When he got to the second verse, he couldn’t help opening his eyes and looking directly at the coffin.

  And if you come, and all the flowers are dying,

  And I am dead, as dead I well may be,

  You’ll come and find the place where I am lying

  And kneel and say an Ave there for me.

  And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me,

  And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be,

  For you will bend and tell me that you love me,

  And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

  When he finished holding the last, longest note, a few people in the congregation forgot where they were and started clapping. Father Mac was wiping his eyes with an overstarched cloth, and Alfredo was even worse - he had his head in his hands when Fergal went to take his seat, and he spent the last bit of the service rubbing Fergal’s shoulders in appreciation and drying his own eyes on his sleeve.

  Something powerful had happened to Fergal in that moment, perhaps the most difficult moment of his life. For the first time, he was no longer afraid of his family. He thought of his poor father and realised that he had spent his whole life in a kind of box. All Fergal could do was feel sorry for him; he suddenly seemed like a lost child. Fergal let a single tear fall down his cheek.