The Arrival of Fergal Flynn Page 4

  Now, safe behind the locked door, he rinsed his face and looked at his own eyes, bright green and sparkling from the cold water, in the foggy mirror of the wee bathroom. He thought back to the showers at school, picturing Stevie's thick, hairy legs. He was instantly hard again. He knew he had to be quick. He ran the cold water to drown out the sound, and pulled at himself as fast as he could. He replayed the dream he'd had: him and Stevie in the locked changing rooms after the school was closed for the day, rolling around naked on a pile of fresh football kits, kissing and touching each other ... He ejaculated quickly, into the scum of the sink. Then he bleached the white porcelain twice. The sink had never looked so clean.

  As he left the bathroom and passed the closed parlour door, he heard his brother Paddy Jr explaining defiantly to his hurling mates - including Stevie - that Fergal was in fact adopted. 'Sure, who else in our family has big cow eyes and curly fucking hair?' The fact that Fergal was so shite at sport, he added, was the final proof. 'We reckon he's a cross between a girl and a boy, anyway,' John put in. There was a chorus of what sounded like vomiting.

  Fergal went into the yard and sat on top of the newly delivered coal, crying soundlessly, not caring how dirty his school trousers got.

  ~

  Early the next morning, not far from the Flynns' house in Walker Street, Mrs Mooney, the priest's housekeeper, brought old Father Bradley his usual cup of tea to help him wake up. She found him frozen to the spot, kneeling in a prayerful position by his undisturbed bed, wearing only pyjama bottoms. Father Bradley's asthma had plagued him since childhood, like the ghost of a drunken accordion. Recently he only ever ventured out of the house in emergencies and to take the early mass. He had tried in vain to give up smoking his treasured untipped Sweet Afton cigarettes but they were the only thing that gave him any genuine pleasure, so he'd ignored the doctor's advice and continued rasping his paper lungs until they could take no more. The old man of the cloth had been lifeless a full eight hours before Mrs Mooney reluctantly attempted to disturb his arctic, freckled shoulders with her warm, worn hand. Then she screamed the alarm.

  For the first time in Fergal's life, a borrowed primary-school blackboard at the top of the steps of St Bridget's announced the cancellation of that morning's early mass. It wasn't long before the news of Father Bradley's demise reached every house, and everyone started asking the same question: who was going to replace him?

  6

  The same bishop who, five years earlier, had sent Father Dermot MacManus to West Africa dispatched a decree and, one week later, Father Mac found himself careering through an unfamiliar one-way system in his old hometown on the back seat of his sister's Toyota Starlet, sandwiched between their parents. He had changed so much that, if it hadn't been for his collar, they wouldn't have given him a second glance as he came through the Arrivals gate. His da had rewarded his broadened shoulders with endless slaps on the back, while his sister and mother kissed him and commented on how healthy he looked.

  Father Mac was amazed to think that so much time had passed since he'd been posted to the missions. He had been ordained only a few weeks before receiving the bishop's message that God's work was needed more urgently on the other side of the earth. He had been glad to escape the claustrophobia of the seminary. Out of the thirty young men with whom he'd shared his initial vocational studies, only eight had completed the full course. At his ordination his mother had wept uncontrollably with pride and menopause, while his father mumbled something about 'answering the call' and 'sure didn't your brother make me a grandfather'. Only his sister Dympna had come close to understanding his reasons for joining the priesthood, even though they never spoke about it properly. He had pictured a message written in the sky in smoke by one of those advertising planes: 'Think You Might Be Different? Join The Priesthood Today. You Know It Makes Sense!'

  They reached the back entrance of St Bridget's just as the heavens opened, and they had to sit in the car while someone found an umbrella. The first thing Father Mac noticed was that the huge white marble sculpture of Christ on the cross had taken the full impact of a blue paint-bomb right in the middle of its loincloth.

  The housekeeper, Mrs Mooney, widened her eyes when she saw the new priest for the first time. He was at least six feet tall and the African sun had deepened his complexion to the extent that she thought the statue of St Martin de Porres himself had come to life, after all the rubbing by the cleaners. She blessed herself nervously at this blasphemous thought and silently asked for forgiveness before guiding them in through the side door, out of the wet.

  She settled the family in the front parlour, with enough tea and sandwiches to feed the entire village that Father Mac had just left. He had forgotten just how much food people ate in Ireland. His mother clucked approvingly at the obvious effort that went into maintaining the house while his da had gone predictably quiet. Dympna asked about the friends he'd mentioned in some of his letters home, and Father Mac rummaged in his bag for photos of a hurling team that he had started with some of the local fishermen. He described his new congregation's amazement when the hurling sticks had arrived from Ireland. 'They just couldn't believe what they were for. One day loads of the sticks went missing and I eventually found them in the boats, doubling as oars.' His parents looked shocked, but Dympna thought it was funny.

  Finally Mr MacManus said, 'So did you manage to convert many of them niggers?'

  A cold silence dropped into the room and closed around the word that Father Mac hadn't heard for years. 'What did you say, Da?'

  Mrs MacManus saw the look on her son's face and started to say something to cover for her husband, but the past five years had had quite an effect on their son's confidence. 'Da, I know you don't mean it, but that word is... You know, it's beyond offensive.'

  His father looked blankly at him for a second, then at his wife, who usually explained things he didn't understand.

  'Look, Da, you might think I'm making a mountain out of a molehill, and I know we grew up with that word, but I met some of the most beautiful human beings I've ever known over there in Africa. I mean, we think we know about poverty here... let me tell you, we don't know the half of it. I never saw such bad conditions in my life - and yet I've never been more welcomed and made to feel at home.'

  'Ah, Jesus, son. Don't be getting into a state over nothing. I don't mean it like that. Sure, you know—'

  'I know, Da, I know, but you're talking about my friends. I don't ever want to hear it again.'

  After an uncomfortable lunch, they said their goodbyes. Dympna gave him a very long hug and rubbed the side of his shiny brown face. Mrs MacManus said she hoped it wouldn't be another five years before she saw him again, and that next time he would have to come to their house. Mr MacManus mumbled something and pretended to look for the car keys, even though he knew they were in his pocket. Father Mac went back inside and waved from the parlour window, guiltily relieved they were gone and wondering how Dympna put up with them.

  As their car drove off into the Belfast morning, he thought about how one word had brought the last five years of his life into such sharp focus. He knew he could never make his father, who had never experienced life outside Ireland, understand his point of view. He also knew his father hadn't really meant anything by it, and he regretted that their first meeting in five years had turned sour. It had also made him think about the reality of living in his hometown again - would his parishioners be better or worse?

  As he picked up his travelling bag, he stopped at the upright piano and ran his hand along the locked lid, saying aloud, 'I'll introduce myself to you properly later.' Mrs Mooney appeared in the doorway and nearly fainted, thinking that he'd been checking for dust. She stuttered something about how, since the demise of dear Father Bradley, no one played it any more, but she kept it as clean as she could.

  Father Mac put her at ease immediately. 'Mrs Mooney for the last five years or so I've lived in a wooden hut with insects the size of my fist. And I can tell you I've
never seen a house as clean and well cared for as this one. I'm looking forward to getting used to it, and I hope I don't upset you by playing the piano. I know you looked after Father Bradley for a lot of his life, and I want to take on this position as respectfully as I can - with your help, of course.'

  Mrs Mooney's face relaxed for the first time since the new priest had arrived. 'I'll show you to your room now, Father. Sure, you must be worn out,' she replied in a hushed murmur. She pointed him to the stairs that generations of beeswax polish and female elbow grease had left looking like dark, sculpted molasses.

  Father Mac's room was right at the top of the house and when he opened the newly painted door he gasped at how pristine it was, with a welcome scent of lavender in the careful air. He put down his luggage. Mrs Mooney had tried to insist on carrying it for him, but he had been too quick for her protestations and was gone, up two flights, with her relieved voice trailing after him -she had stooped enough under the weight of the tea tray. He closed the door behind him, wondering if it might be a good idea to have a wee lie down. He touched the perfect white cotton on the high bed. When he sat into its softness he smiled, and unexpectedly his eyes filled up. His room looked out over the Falls Road and he could just see the Royal Victoria Hospital where he'd been born, nearly twenty-eight years before.

  When he opened the sash window he was reminded of the first time he'd seen the view from his African room. For a split second he was transported back: red dirt roads, cloudless blue skies, the permanent soundtrack of fat crickets singing in rhythm with the distant drummers who seemed to play all night, whether there was anybody with enough energy left to dance or not. He laughed to himself, remembering. At first he had thought the constant drumming would drive him mad, but within a week he had found it actually helped him to sleep. When he'd first arrived, he hadn't been prepared for the culture shock, the flies, the heat or the open sewers. It was a completely different kind of poverty from any he'd ever known, and he'd been humbled by how quickly the local people had offered to share what little they had with him. All of a sudden he had experienced what it was like to be a minority - he was one of only a few white people living and working at the mission. He hadn't been able to help staring at some of the darkest skin he'd ever seen, it was so beautiful. Late at night, when he lay thinking in bed, it had astounded him that, after all that Westerners had done to devastate their country, the people had only the biggest smiles for him, no matter how far he wandered off the beaten track.

  The daydream faded as the handmade djembe drums, honed from single trunks of wood, were echoed in the unmistakable city clacking of black taxis' diesel engines. They always moved off from the side of the road a little shakily at first, sounding almost unsure, but then the accelerator would push confidence into the engine and they would roll off along the Falls Road.

  Father Mac slowly unpacked for his new life. It felt good but strange to be back in the place where he'd been baptised, confirmed and then ordained by the dead man whose job and house he'd just inherited. He knew only too well that there would be pressure not to make too many changes - at least, not immediately - but his mind was racing with ideas to create positive energy and hope. Sitting on the side on the bed, he pulled off his shoes, and a sudden wave of tiredness took him by surprise. Just as he was about to stretch out on top of the duvet, an ambulance panicked its way out of the side gates of the hospital, bullied its way along the main road and turned down the side street that ran under Father Mac's window. He got up to see where it was going, but it continued at breakneck speed away around another corner.

  The siren was beginning to fade and he was turning back to the bed when he heard another note join it, in perfect harmony. He wondered if the jet lag was making him hear things. But, in fact, the harmony was getting louder than the original siren. He put his weary head out the window and looked back towards the hospital. The last thing he had expected to see was a young lad, weighed down with shopping bags, singing a perfect third above the original siren. He watched as the young fella scrunched up his face, trying to match the tone of the ambulance as closely as he could. Father Mac burst out laughing in disbelief, he'd never heard anything like it. Just as he was wondering whether he should shout out to the boy or not, the phone rang.

  He went downstairs and took the call. His first official duty was a request to administer the last rites to the reason the ambulance had been in such a hurry. As he wrote the address in his new notepad, he told Mrs Mooney what he had heard from his bedroom window but she just tutted, 'It was probably some drunk, Father.'

  'No - no, he couldn't have been. He only looked about seventeen or eighteen, I think.' She looked at him and realised he really had been away for a long time.

  Father Mac pulled on his coat, double-checked the directions and hurried out into the street. He wondered if he could catch up to the young fella, but it was too late. Fergal Flynn was already out of sight and halfway home.

  7

  The Flynns had outgrown their tiny house before they'd even moved in, and it was even more cramped now that all of the boys were bigger than their father. This, of course, only made the fighting worse. Everything came to a head one night when Fergal decided to challenge the man of the house.

  Yet again, there wasn't a single clean dish to eat off, and Angela refused to cook the tea. Fergal couldn't understand why, after spending all day cleaning and cooking for other people, his mother came home to no help from anyone but him. He brought it up with his brothers, but they looked so confused that he might as well have asked them to recite the Our Father in German.

  Finally John told him, 'She's a woman. Women clear up after men.'

  Fergal looked at his exhausted mother, propped up against the sink, and then at his father, who was sitting on the sofa with his feet up on a stool, completely oblivious and reading a paper. He took a deep breath and went and stood in front of him. 'I'm sick of doing the dishes, Da. It's always either me or Mammy, and it's not fair.'

  The whole house was silent. Paddy slowly turned over a page.

  Fergal continued, 'We all eat off the same plates. Why don't you ever do them? Can you not tell Paddy or John or Ciaran to do them? Mammy's not a slave and she's exhausted.' He sounded exhausted too when he got the last nervous word out.

  Paddy folded his sports paper perfectly in half and threw his hot cup of tea in his third son's face. 'I won't have your whiny fucking voice telling me how my house should be run!' Then he turned to Angela. 'Did you put the nancy boy up to this? Did you? Right - I'll do the fucking dishes for youse. I'll give them a right fucking doing.'

  For one second, Fergal thought he'd made a breakthrough. His brothers looked even more confused. The next thing they knew, though, Paddy had got his hammer from the yard and begun smashing the dishes in the sink. Angela screamed at him to stop, whilst the twins and Ciaran fled.

  'It's all your fault, Fergal Flynn,' Angela said bitterly. Paddy had hit the stainless-steel sink so hard that he'd dented it, then he'd thrown the hammer into the carnaged crockery before storming out the back door to the pub. 'Why did you have to open your big fucking mouth?'

  'What? Mammy, I was only trying to help! I—'

  'Ah, shut up, for fuck's sake. My head is bursting.' She took a little plastic bottle out of her apron pocket and dry-swallowed two pills, then pushed past him and went up the stairs.

  Fergal ran out of the house and around to Granny Noreen's. He stood by her back door and wondered what he was going to do. The rain fell, and he looked up at the sky and whispered, 'It's not fair. Why can I never do anything right?'

  ~

  As Noreen's health began to fail, Angela became her official carer. The government had introduced a scheme where an appointed member of the family could get an allowance to look after an ailing parent. Fergal often accompanied his mother and watched her start the fire without firelighters - Angela was an expert in rolling newspapers so tightly that they burned like twigs - before she delivered Noreen's tea and toa
st, and he left for school.

  The unspoken deal was that he got to sleep at Noreen's every weekend, thus avoiding his father and brothers as much as possible. He did all sorts of wee jobs for his granny. She gave him his taxi fare to town and back because he had to go to the other side of Belfast to pay certain debts. Various monthly instalments could only be paid in person at the corresponding head offices dotted about the city centre - and sure, Angela said, he might as well do some of the Flynns' bills as well, while he was in town. It never occurred to her to ask any of her other sons - she knew they'd only lose the envelopes containing the little amounts of money that never really seemed to reduce the debts before another loan was needed. Noreen had been paying off rent arrears for years, but the amount she could afford to repay each week was so small that she would never catch up in her lifetime. On his way home, Fergal would do the most important job of all. He would pick up her pension - the people at the local post office knew him by this time - then he would to to the off-licence for her weekly supply of the cheapest gin available. His final stop was an old tobacconist near Broadway to buy her half an ounce of Gallagher's special snuff, which she adored. It was kept in an enormous glass jar and Fergal thought it looked like the contents of an emptied vacuum-cleaner bag. The shopkeeper would carefully measure it onto old tin scales with a bent spoon, then wrap it expertly in a little brown paper bag. When he got home, Noreen's eyes gained extra wattage as she transferred the contents into her special tin and hoovered up a good knuckleful into her flared nostrils.