The mass came to an end, and Fergal waited in his seat as the congregation filed out. It was customary for the women to stay behind until the men were ready to carry the coffin along the main road on their shoulders, so Angela was still in her seat with Jeannie. But when Fergal went to hug her, she was so doped up with Valium that she could hardly respond. ‘Father...’ she said, looking into his eyes.
Jeannie blessed herself repeatedly. ‘That’s Fergal, Angela!’
His mother looked around, getting more and more distressed. ‘Fergal - our Fergal? Where?’
‘Mammy, it’s me. Right in front of you.’
She looked at him, doing her best to focus without her glasses, and eventually she saw traces of her child. She started to weep. ‘His mother ruined him and his father beat him because he hated him so much. How could he help himself? Sure, it was all he knew...’
Fergal thought for a second that she was talking about him, but then he realised she meant her husband. He got a glimpse of a part of his father he had never known, but then it was gone and Angela was incoherent again, thanks to Jeannie’s well-meaning intervention.
Fergal and Alfredo accompanied his mother and aunt as they walked the length of the Falls Road. The coffin-bearers were relieved every few hundred yards by four fresh shoulders, and soon enough he and Alfredo ended up taking a corner each, with the milkman and one of Paddy Flynn’s old friends. Fergal wanted to avoid any drama at all costs, so he made sure that he kept one eye on John. The rain seemed to fall harder and harder as they got closer to the graveyard gates, and the hearse took over the rest of Patrick Flynn’s final, muck-logged journey to the deeply dug grave.
Father Mac prayed loudly as the gravediggers, struggling to keep their balance, lowered the coffin on ropes into the watery darkness. Angela slumped against Jeannie, heaving soundlessly with sobs under her umbrella. Fergal’s brothers held onto their girlfriends, and it was difficult to tell rain from tears on their drenched faces. Alfredo tried to shield Fergal with an umbrella, but a gust of wind that had been playing hide-and-seek amongst the graves turned it inside out and sent it flying, carrying it like an empty crisp bag towards the motorway in the distance.
Father Mac invited Mrs Flynn forward to throw the first fistful of dirt onto her husband’s coffin. At the edge of the grave, she lost her balance and nearly fell in. Fergal gave Jeannie a filthy look for doping her so much, and she dropped her guilty gaze. One by one, the Flynn boys dropped handfuls of earth onto their father’s coffin. Then the gravediggers filled in the hole as Father Mac finished the prayers, and the mourners practically ran back to the few cars that were parked nearby.
Fergal wasn’t sure what to do next. His mother was whisked away to Walker Street, where there would be tea and sandwiches and no doubt far too much whiskey, but Father Mac advised him not to attend, knowing what his brother John was capable of even when he wasn’t under the influence. ‘Instead, I think you should invite your mother over to St Bridget’s before you decide when you want to go back to Rome.’
There was a part of Fergal that would have gladly gone to the airport that very second, but he knew he wanted to see his mother first. And, before anything else, he wanted to visit his Granny Noreen’s grave.
When they found it, Fergal knelt down on the ground and blessed himself, rain saturating his back. Father Mac and Alfredo huddled a respectful distance away under the priest’s umbrella, hoping he wouldn’t be too long.
Fergal looked at the gravestone and whispered, ‘Granny, it’s me, Fergal. I told you I’d come back. Mammy’s in an awful state now Da is dead. I thought about you when I sang “Danny Boy” - I know you love that one. I’m going back to Rome. I’m doing okay, but I could do better. I didn’t do that well in my first exam, but that’s going to change. I’ll make you proud. I promise, Granny, I will. I miss you. See you.’
He blew her a kiss and joined the two men, and they found Father Mac’s car and headed back to the warmth of St Bridget’s.
The three of them were soaked to the skin. They had to peel their clothes off in their rooms, wrap themselves in sheets and towels and take turns in the shower. Mrs Mooney had made loads of coffee and toast, and they practically sat on top of the fire to get warm.
Fergal still couldn’t cry properly. He felt under pressure, as if Father Mac and Alfredo were waiting for him to break down properly. Although he had come close when he sang on the altar, he realised it was because he was relieved that his father was dead. It was an awful thing to admit, but it was true. Fergal wondered if he and his father would ever have been able to be friendly, when a few more years had taken a few layers off each of them. Slowly, the sadness of the question began to dog him, because he would never find out the answer. One thing was sure, though - he wasn’t going to give up on his mother.
‘I only wish Signore Arnelli had been in the chapel to hear you sing today,’ Alfredo said. ‘Fergal, I know your father was buried today, but I must tell you - your performance on the altar was the bravest I’ve ever seen. It had exactly the kind of feeling I’ve been talking about. It was exceptional, truly. Your heart was so open.’
‘I agree,’ Father Mac said, drying his thinning hair with a towel. ‘Do you need anything, Fergal?’
All Fergal wanted at that moment was to be under the blankets with him, like the old times, but instead he said, ‘Ah, no. I feel a bit numb from it all. I just have to work out the best way to see my mother. It would be good to see her, at least once, when she wasn’t out of her head on Valium.’
‘At least the worst part is over,’ Alfredo said. ‘In years to come, you’ll be glad that you were present when they buried your father.’ He looked at Fergal for an intense second and said, ‘Fergal, forgive me for interfering, but it seems almost impossible for you to see your mother safely here. So why don’t you invite her to visit us in Rome, at my house - maybe for a long weekend or something like that? I’m sure she could do with a change of pace and scenery. I have a friend at a travel agent’s, and it would cost very little, I can assure you.’
Fergal’s eyes filled up at his thoughtfulness, ‘Oh Alfredo, thanks for even thinking of it! But I’m not sure she’d come - and you’ve been so good already..,’
‘Nonsense. This is the time when your friends come together. You should at least ask her.’
Father Mac chipped in, ‘Yes, Fergal, ask her. At the very least, I’m sure she’d appreciate the thought.’
‘I will. But I’m not sure where she is. She might be at Jeannie’s, but I don’t want to go there in case, you. know, John and everyone are there. They’ll have been drinking for the past couple of days, and it’ll be a nightmare.’
The chapel bells sounded the half-hour, and Father Mac had to leave for an hour or so to meet some parishioners before that evening’s service. When Fergal climbed the stairs to the toilet, Father Mac asked Alfredo to keep a close eye on Fergal and to dissuade him from going out if he could.
They needn’t have worried. Ever since Fergal had hurried back to Belfast, he’d been afraid that his hometown had some kind of paralysing power over him, that he would never be able to leave again. But as he sat in the bathroom on the closed toilet seat, he felt as if he was beginning to shed a layer of skin, like a snake, leaving a perfect, hollow shape of his previous self behind.
It was his mother he was most anxious about. After everything they’d been through, he felt responsible for her, and he wondered how she would cope. It had come as a shock to see how small she was. He wondered why he’d been so afraid of her for years. It made him want to laugh - and cry. He breathed in and out deeply, and he vowed to help his mother as much as he could.
He thought about his father’s lifeless body, buried under the earth, and all he could feel was pity. His father would never see him sing, would never come and visit him at Alfredo’s amazing house in Rome and hear Brendan Fiscetti sing in theTeatro...At that moment, Fergal wanted to see Brendan Fiscetti more than anything, just to sit and drink tea and ha
ve someone talk to him like he was a human being, not the piece of dirt his father had always treated him as.
The dammed-up tears came crashing down, flooding his face. He wept so loudly that Alfredo heard him and came to the bathroom door, calling for him to open it. At first Fergal wouldn’t let him in.
‘Fergal, don’t be so unwilling to accept help. This is exactly what I’m talking about in my lessons with you. I know you had to learn to rely on no one, but you must stop pushing people away. You’re allowed to fall apart. In fact, it’s vitally important for your soul. How else do we learn to put ourselves back together? Let me in, please.’
When the door was unlatched, Alfredo held him without saying another word. Fergal’s whole body shook as if he were being electrocuted. He cried and cried, and Alfredo unconsciously rocked him from side to side like a baby as wave after wave of grief soaked his face.
At last the tide of tears began to subside. Fergal felt lightheaded, out of breath and suddenly embarrassed again, but Alfredo rubbed the side of his head, as if to remind him there was no need to feel anything other than relief, and said that he’d go and make some tea.
He turned at the top of the stairs as Fergal began to wash his face. ‘Fergal Flynn, I am proud to know you. Come down when you’re ready.’
19
After the evening mass, Father Mac was in a hurry to get back to his visitors. The last person he expected to see was Angela Flynn, waiting by the sacristy door, smoking. When she saw him she stubbed out the cigarette against the wall like a teenager caught by her daddy.
‘Father, I’m sorry to bother you. My sister thinks I’m asleep up her stairs, but I snuck out when she went to the shop for more drink. They’ve all had a skinful, they won’t even notice I’m gone for ages.’ ‘Mrs Flynn, my goodness! Come over to the house. Fergal wanted to see you - he was only talking to me about it earlier -but he wasn’t sure where you were.’
‘Oh...right. Well, I took a few wee tablets to help me sleep, you see, so I wasn’t myself. This whole thing’s been like one long nightmare. Where is he now?’
‘He’s at my house, with Alfredo. Please come in.’
Father Mac left her in the front room and found her son lying down upstairs. He could see that Fergal looked exhausted.
‘Fergal, your mother’s downstairs. She just showed up at the church on her own. I hope I’ve done the right thing?’
‘Of course - of course...’
‘Have you been crying?’
‘I have, but I feel much better for it.’
Fergal pushed his feet into his shoes and followed Father Mac down the stairs. Angela was sitting by the fire, smoking a fresh cigarette and rubbing her hands. She turned around in her seat when the door clicked open.
‘Fergal! Jesus, I keep thinking you’re going to look like you did before you left, but you don’t.’
‘Mammy, what has you out? I thought you’d be resting, that’s why I didn’t come to Jeannie’s. Are you all right?’
He wanted to kick himself, because he knew she wasn’t all right. He sat beside her, and her eyes filled up.
‘Jesus, Fergal, you’re the image of my daddy, so you are.’
‘Am I?’
‘The photos from the day he married your granny. You even have the short haircut he always liked. Mind you, your skin is darker.’
Alfredo, coming slowly downstairs from the box room - the cold and the rain made his bad leg even stiffer - was taken aback to see Angela in the front room, but he was as warm as ever. Then he and Father Mac retreated to the kitchen, where they took longer than usual to make tea.
Silence fell between Angela and Fergal, and he felt a little helpless. She looked so tiny next to him, and she rarely took her eyes off the fire.
He took a deep breath and said, ‘Mammy, I was talking to Alfredo, and we want you to think about coming to Rome soon -you know, for a wee break. Sure, it would do you good.’
Fergal’s old accent resurfaced just enough for her to hear the kindness in his voice. ‘Ah, Fergal, I don’t know. Sure, the boys need me. I know they’ll be married and all soon enough, if them girlfriends have anything to do with it, but they’re still my boys. Your brothers have taken your daddy’s death very badly - sure, we all have.’
All of a sudden, Fergal felt furious with her. ‘For God’s sake, Mammy, would you think about yourself for once? Just once? I want you to come to Rome and stay at Alfredo’s gorgeous house for a weekend or something, that’s all. The plane journey is quicker than you think. Surely my brothers can cope for a few days without you? Look, I know Da has just been buried and all, but you need a holiday or something! You look exhausted.’
It was true - Angela didn’t know how to think about herself first. Women of her generation seldom had the chance to learn.
Father Mac and Alfredo braved the front room again with a tray of tea and biscuits, and it seemed to revive Angela. She took little sugary sips and began to warm to the idea of a wee trip away. Alfredo chose his moment and invited her officially. She looked at him and then at Father Mac, saying, ‘Sure, I don’t even have a passport or nothing.’
Father Mac leaned towards her. ‘I seem to remember you helping Fergal with his first passport, so the least we can do is help you get yours. It won’t be a problem, I promise - just a few forms, and I’ll help you with those.’
All Angela could do was try her best to smile. It was the first time that Fergal had ever felt he’d been able to do something really good for her.
‘You are welcome to visit as soon as you like,’ Alfredo said, ‘once we have got back home and settled into our routine of work.’
‘When are you going back, Fergal?’ Angela asked.
Fergal looked at Alfredo and said, ‘Well, nothing’s been booked, but now you’ve agreed to come over, I think we might fly back as soon as we can get a flight. Then you should try and visit as soon as you feel up to it.’
Father Mac added that he’d be calling over to see her soon, to start the ball rolling with her passport forms. She looked genuinely relieved.
Angela wanted to ask Fergal if he was going to see any of his brothers, but she remembered waking up at Jeannie’s, out of her Valium stupor, and hearing John and his girlfriend arguing downstairs. His girlfriend was saying that he should have at least talked to Fergal, seeing as he’d travelled all the way from Rome and given the day that was in it, but John had flared up drunkenly: ‘Fuck him and his fucking gay tan. He’s lucky I didn’t stick one on him.’ So Angela wisely decided to leave things as tightly wound as they were. As John had got older, he had got more and more like her late husband, and she had grown afraid of him too.
She looked at the clock. ‘I’ve to go back to Jeannie’s before they send out a search party.’ She stood up, and Fergal towered above her when they hugged awkwardly. She felt like a little girl to him. He repeated that she was to come to Rome as soon as she could.
Father Mac insisted on driving Angela back over to Jeannie’s; he wouldn’t take no for an answer. When they were gone, Alfredo looked at Fergal and saw some of the old bad weather resurfacing in his eyes.
‘Don’t worry, Fergal, everything will get better. I’m sure it will. Your mother really appreciated the invitation.’
‘I hope so. I just want to do the best I can, you know? I don’t want to fail again.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know...the exam.’
‘Fergal, for goodness’ sake! Put it out of your head. We’ll get you back to Rome and then make a plan.’
‘What do you mean? I always get nervous when you say that.’
‘I think it’s time you gave a little recital, somewhere special in Rome, with a specially invited audience. Nothing too grand.’
‘Really?’ Fergal was excited for the first time since the exam. ‘It’s just that something happens to you when you’re in front of an audience - or, indeed, a congregation. It really struck me. You’re more - how can I put it? - alive. I’m sorry
to put it this way, with your father...’
‘No, no, it’s okay. But I thought I wasn’t nearly ready for that, Alfredo. I don’t want to mess it up.’
‘Fergal, let’s change the subject. I’m sorry. There should be no more pressure on you today. Shall I get us on an early flight back to Rome in the morning, or do you need to stay longer?’
‘Ah, no. I want to get back to Rome and my job and my lessons. Please, Alfredo, that would be great, just great.’
Alfredo went straight to the hallway phone, and when he returned ten minutes later their escape was booked.
When Father Mac returned, he told them that Angela was safely back at Jeannie’s and that she seemed a little happier, even though it was still early days after such a shock. ‘Fergal, that was a great thing you did, inviting her to Rome. She said she’s always wanted to go.’
‘Has she? God, I never knew.’
‘I’d say there’s lots of things you might not know about that wee woman.’
It was hard for Fergal to think about Angela as anyone but his mother, and he wished he could have known what she was like when she was younger. He wondered how she truly felt about the prospect of being on her own again.
When Alfredo announced that they were leaving the next morning, Father Mac looked surprised, but he agreed it was probably best. They set about cooking pork chops, baked potatoes and beans for dinner, and the mood seemed to lighten for the first time since Fergal’s arrival. Father Mac apologised for the lack of good wine, saying that their local off-licence really only sold spirits and beer. Alfredo excused himself and went to fetch the two bottles of red wine he had packed as a present for Father Mac at the last moment before they’d left for the airport. Father Mac insisted that they drink them immediately. They even managed a dessert of chocolate cake, and then Father Mac suggested they get comfortable in the front room.
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