The Arrival of Fergal Flynn Page 5

  In his O-level year, at the guilt-ridden but convenient request of his mother, Fergal moved in permanently with his Granny Noreen. She'd become prone to falling out of bed at night, trapping herself in twisted layers of her nylon nightdress and bedclothes where she would lie until Angela found her, freezing and disorientated, the next morning. Fergal was secretly delighted with the decision, but he played it down in case his mother changed her mind.

  Even though Noreen's house had two tiny spare bedrooms -admittedly crammed full of dust and broken things - Fergal had to sleep in her room, in case he didn't hear her tumble onto the threadbare rug. His bed was opposite hers, separated by a single window that was permanently shut from decades of lazy painting. There was a commode, so she wouldn't have to brave the outdoor toilet, which was often frozen solid in winter. It took her forever to use the commode every morning. Sometimes Fergal would wake up to the sound of her old bowels straining to empty. When she was finished, he'd count to three, leap out of his bed, grab the portable toilet and run - holding his breath until he got down the stairs - to empty it down the proper toilet in the yard. Then he would light the fire and make Noreen's toast, which she rarely finished - she said the wholemeal bread that the doctor insisted upon was 'pure shite' compared to the gorgeous white loaves of her day.

  On top of her gin, Noreen had a huge brown handbag stocked with tablets and pills of every description, prescription and sell-by date. Her reasons to come down the stairs disintegrated with every useless visit from her pissed doctor, who just pumped her full of more pills and told her to stop drinking so much. He might as well have asked her to stop breathing. After one particularly lethal cocktail she sat bolt upright in her bed in the middle of the night and started rapping the air as though it were the window of a taxi, shouting, 'Let me out here, love, will you? I can't miss my stop!' Fergal woke up thinking he was still dreaming and just managed to get to her before she tried to struggle out from under the three million blankets she insisted on having. Her tears came as she gradually realised where she was not, and he stroked what was left of her perm-ravaged silver hair until she was unconscious again.

  It seemed that not a week went by without Noreen - propped up in the bed, with umpteen layers of cardigans on and the paper spread out in front of her - finding an old school friend in the obituary column of the paper, holding her national health glasses at arm's length like a private detective, magnifying the details. Then the news came that one of her distant sons in England had died of the same cancer that had taken her husband. By the time they heard, he was already buried, somewhere in the north of England. Noreen was too fragile to travel anyway, even if she'd known.

  A few days later Fergal decided to clean the house from top to bottom, just to do something. When he prised open one of the living-room cupboards, which had been painted shut by the housing executive, he found a handwritten list of names and numbers on the inside of the door.

  Our Margaret, 15 Packington Road, Tottenham, 1948

  Our Frances, 22 Warpendale Crescent, Stamford Hill, 1946

  Our Peter, 66 Kensal High Road, Flat 2, 1950

  Our Joseph, 135 Brick Lane, East London...

  They were the addresses - long deserted by the time her grandson read them - to which most of her nine children had fled. Fergal knew he had aunts and uncles in England, but knew nothing about them. He tried to ask Noreen, but she either ignored his questions, wept uncontrollably or shouted 'Cunts!' depending on which of the names he asked about. When he asked Angela, she said she'd never known them. They'd left home when she was young. 'Sure, your granny and my eldest sister Briege were in the same maternity unit having kids at the one time. It wasn't that unusual then, and it still happens now.'

  The new living arrangements suited almost everybody. Paddy, the elder of the twins by a crucial few minutes, now had his own room. John was grudgingly sharing with Ciaran. As John didn't want anything to do with anything Fergal had even touched, never mind slept in, he'd insisted on unscrewing his bunk bed from Paddy's and dragging it into his new room. With Fergal gone, the downstairs parlour began to look more and more like a locker room, with hurling sticks in various states of disrepair stacked against the walls, and muddy waterlogged boots and kit drying everywhere. Sometimes Angela felt she'd spent her entire life surrounded by her children's clothes.

  For all the moments of madness, Fergal loved living with Noreen. It was just the two of them, and he didn't have to keep dodging his brothers. Each night he would bring her a final cup of tea, and if she had the energy she'd get him to sit on the edge of her bed while she gave him her opinions on just about everything. He laughed when she pointed out that, even though they were all supposed to hate the Brits so much, there wasn't one person she knew who hadn't made damn sure they watched every single bit of footage of Prince Charles and Lady Diana's wedding. The dress was all the neighbours and the papers had talked about for weeks. Fergal thought he'd die laughing when he heard Noreen say to a visiting neighbour one afternoon, 'Imagine that fella bearing down on you! Jesus and his holy mother, I hope it's as big as them bloody ears!'

  She loved to hear him talk, too. There was a lilt in his voice that reminded her of her departed husband. In Walker Street Fergal had learned to keep his mouth shut as much as possible but Noreen was bored with being housebound and lapped up details about the outside world. She devoured any scrap of conversation that went beyond the weather or the price of potatoes, or any stories of what had happened to Fergal in school that day - the more detailed the better. Her old eyes stood out on stalks when he told her that a massive rat had made the fatal decision to appear in the schoolyard one break time. It was instantly squashed with a schoolbag and became a football for several hundred bloodthirsty boys, but the game came to an abrupt end when the mashed rodent was booted into the air just as someone yelled, 'Mr O'Connell!' The maths teacher was deep in conversation, holding a mug of weak tea and a much-envied cigarette. As he turned around to see who'd dared interrupt him, the rat's pulpy remains slapped him full in the mouth. After the yelling, the vomiting and a fruitless investigation that lasted a full week, Mr O'Connell took a holiday, in the vain hope that the incident would be forgotten by the time he returned. Unfortunately for him, Midnight Cowboy was on TV while he was away and so, for ever after, St Bridget's Secondary School had its very own Ratso.

  Fergal left none of the story to Noreen's imagination, and she was shocked and gripped at the same time. When he finished the story, she told him that it summed up the difference between boys and girls, 'Only a boy could do something so disgusting! Jesus in heaven, young people don't know how to behave any more ...' But then, being shocked and lecturing were - apart from drinking - her two favourite things.

  She looked forward to hearing Fergal's key in the door every day - she hadn't realised how lonely she'd become over the years. Talking to him, she allowed herself to think that she was back in the old days, with the other Fergal, her husband. The fact that she could say his name again as he listened intently to her stories brought her more comfort than Fergal could know. And it was a two-way street. She told him he was growing up into a big, handsome, smart fella, destined for good things - and Fergal didn't know where to look as he reddened and backed out of the room.

  Once she was settled for the night, Fergal had the added luxury of the living room and the black-and-white TV all to himself. He looked forward to these moments, when the front door was locked against the world and he felt truly safe and relaxed.

  ~

  Fergal was walking home from the city centre - he'd spent his taxi money on a sandwich and two cups of tea in a little café -after paying all the various debt instalments. The queues in each place had been slow, smoke-filled and tense, and when he was finished he'd sat down outside City Hall for a rest. He loved watching the punk rockers gather, with their leather jackets, eyeliner and blue or pink or bleached hair and wondered what he'd look like if he dyed his hair blonde.

  Just as he got near the corn
er of the Falls Road and St Bridget's Chapel, the heavens opened. He made a break for the chapel, but was drenched in seconds. His chest immediately sounded like it needed oiling. People wedged themselves into doorways, cursing the black-and-white sky and the weatherman who'd sworn it would be a dry day and made them leave their umbrellas at home.

  It was Saturday, and St Bridget's Chapel was busy with a wedding. Fergal sneaked in at the back and watched the pregnant teenager kiss her terrified new husband while their respective families fumed silently in their seats. Fergal imagined how awful the reception would be, when the drink kicked in and the truth leaked out. As soon as the registry book was signed, the congregation practically ran out the doors, to a soundtrack provided by Baldy Turner at the organ up in the balcony. He was grinning away to himself: he had a bird's-eye view of the parade of ample cleavages on offer in the rear-view mirror he'd attached to the organ so he could watch the priest for cues. At least that was the official explanation.

  Fergal considered going to confession. He didn't really believe in the whole performance, but there was something about the experience of being enclosed in the dark box that he found hard to resist. It was almost like being invisible for a few minutes. He got the same feeling when he went to Noreen's lightless outside toilet during the night, or when he'd been really young and used to hide under the bed for hours, until he was dying to have a shite. He could stop being the Fergal Flynn who was spat at and hit and hated. He thought he could also forget for a while that he was the Fergal Flynn who couldn't get the vision of Stevie Barry out of his wet dreams, though he wasn't sure he wanted to.

  At previous confessions he had found himself repeating the same sins over and over again: how he swore inwardly at his mother, and out loud at Ciaran if no one was in earshot; how all the suffering in the world made him doubt God's existence; how he sometimes wished his immediate family would all die from food poisoning or something.

  What he couldn't bring himself to reveal was how he regularly fantasised about phoning the confidential telephone number stencilled on the side of the army jeeps and informing them, in a disguised voice, that Patrick Flynn of Walker Street and his twin sons (not his third, innocent son Fergal) were active members of an offshoot of the IRA and were planning to blow up the nearby barracks. He also wanted to confess about 'pleasuring himself', of course, but he couldn't think of any way to say it that sounded less mortifying than 'wanking'. And, anyway, it was his own fucking business.

  The new priest came back in the vestry, went to the centre of the glittering altar and bowed to the marble floor, kissing the enormous crucifix that hung around his neck. When he turned round, Fergal was shocked. After the usual clutch of chainsmoking, bog-breathed old badgers, he had not expected to see such a handsome young man wearing the vestments of a priest.

  On his way down the recently abandoned aisles towards the confession boxes, the priest stopped to ask Fergal if he was waiting for confession. Fergal, startled again by the contrast between the soft Belfast accent and the dark skin that he'd assumed was foreign, heard himself reply, 'Yes, Father.'

  They entered their respective mahogany wardrobes and, as soon as the dark was ready, the priest slid open the cover of the wire mesh that framed him in the half-light. Fergal stared at his soft features and started to panic slightly. His asthma sounded all the more awful in such a confined, hollow space, and he began talking far too fast.

  'Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,' he wheezed. 'It has been at least six months - no, seven months' - wheeze - 'or maybe it is six months - since my last confession.'

  'That's all right, young man. Take your time. There's no need to be nervous. Your chest sounds bad. Are you all right? Do you need anything?'

  'I need to take my inhaler, Father - it's here somewhere.'

  'Well, do that. There's no hurry.'

  Fergal fumbled in his coat pocket. After two puffs, the storm in his lungs began to subside.

  'That sounds better,' the priest said. 'Now, listen - take your time and tell me what's bothering you.'

  Fergal was surprised at how friendly he sounded. He thought of Father Bradley, who was in denial about going deaf and would shout, 'You did what? You dirty pup! There aren't enough Hail Marys or Our Fathers for that disease of humankind! Were you reared by wolves? Get out and beg forgiveness on your knees from Our Lord!' Of course there'd always be an enormous queue right outside the box, listening to every mortifying word.

  'Well, Father... I've taken the Lord's name in vain a lot. I've had bad thoughts about my family, especially my father, and my mother - well, and my brothers Paddy and John... well, all of them, really. And... and I've had thoughts about...' His voice slowed down.

  'Yes?'

  Stevie Barry floated uninvited into Fergal's mind, waving his erect penis in the air with one hand and blowing kisses with the other. Fergal shut his eyes as tight as they would go and said, 'I've had impure thoughts, Father, about - about...'

  The sentence hung in the air longer than Fergal would have liked, and his breathing picked up a little. At last the priest said, 'Impure thoughts about...?'

  'Ah, ones about - you know... below the waist, Father.'

  'Impure thoughts about girls?'

  Fergal hadn't been expecting that, and the words were out of his mouth before he could catch them. 'God, no! I mean, no -sorry, Father—'

  'It's all right, don't panic, you're only human. Take your time.'

  'Well, not about girls as such.'

  There was a long silence. Then the priest's hushed voice said, astounding Fergal, 'Have you been having impure thoughts about other fellas, then?'

  Fergal held his breath as though he were about to dive underwater in search of the pearl of wisdom that would explain everything, make everything all right. Finally he exhaled, empty-handed. 'Yes, Father, I have. How did you know? I mean - you won't tell anybody, will you?'

  The priest laughed a little, in a friendly way. 'What's said in confession is between you, me and the Lord above. I admire your honesty, young man.'

  Fergal had never said it out loud to himself before, never mind to anybody else. His head was spinning.

  At that moment they heard the box's other door opening -someone else was waiting for confession on the other side of the priest.

  The priest said quietly, 'Look, young man, you've probably got enough to be thinking about for one day. Say three Hail Marys, and remember you can come and talk to me any time, in the strictest confidence. Don't be worrying yourself too much. I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.'

  Fergal abandoned the darkness to sit in front of the altar, where he lit a tremulous single candle and said his three Hail Marys in slow motion. Then he stayed kneeling for a long time, looking at the crucifixion scene carved in marble and trying to calm down. He asked God to help him make sense of everything. He couldn't believe what had happened.

  Just as he was leaving, Father Mac opened the door of the confession box to see if there was anyone else waiting but there were only a few pensioners at the other side of the chapel, lost in prayer. He caught sight of Fergal exiting the front doors and went after him.

  When the priest caught up with him outside, Fergal dropped his eyes to the ground. The priest put his hand on his arm and said, 'I know this might sound a bit strange, but have you ever harmonised with an ambulance?'

  Fergal looked up at Father Mac, shielding his eyes from the sudden sunlight, and laughed. In the broad daylight, he could see just how handsome the priest really was. His eyes shone and his teeth were the whitest Fergal had ever seen.

  'Well, I suppose I do sometimes, Father. Why? How did you know that?'

  The priest began to say something, but at that moment his housekeeper appeared and took him by the arm, telling him he had an urgent phone call. The rain started up again, so Fergal shouted goodbye and ran off before the priest could even ask him his name.

  8

  A whole week went by be
fore Fergal got a chance to go back to St Bridget's. Granny Noreen had become more needy - she rarely left the house - and his mock exams weren't too far away. He stayed up late most nights, studying and watching TV, and found it harder and harder to get out of bed in the morning. Noreen was wide awake long before the sparrows that had built their nest in one of her broken gutters. When she looked over at the unconscious pile of blankets and legs on the other side of the tiny room she wondered aloud, 'Why is it that, when you're young, people are always telling you to get up when you need to sleep, and when you're old they tell you should sleep when you want to get up but can't?'

  When Fergal did finally shake himself, after she'd blown her nose till it bled, he realised that he'd slept in his school uniform again. Noreen shouted at him for it, threatening to tell Angela. But the house was freezing, even with the fire on, and Fergal knew he shouldn't use too much coal, so he'd stay up watching the TV with his duffel coat on, drinking black tea and watching his breath match the steam from his teacup. He'd crawled out of a strange dream about the new priest, but the moment Noreen started yelling he forgot the details, which he thought was probably just as well.

  When he brought Noreen her breakfast, she'd calmed down, and she asked him to do her a favour. Fergal grinned. She always changed her tune if she wanted something and it usually meant a bit of spending money for him. She fished in her suitcase-sized handbag for a little hollow plastic statue of Our Lady that she'd bought in Knock a few years previously. She screwed off its head, which doubled as the lid, and said, 'Son, will you go over to St Bridget's and dip Our Lady into the font and fill her up for me? I've run out of holy water for my prayers. I'd do it myself, only the legs would buckle under me. Your oul' granny's not able any more.' She handed him fifty pence 'to put in the collection box', but he had already decided what he was going to buy with it when he got the chance to go to the shop.