Love is my Destiny

by Paul Kelly

Fern guided some crumbs from his lips into his mouth with his finger, mumbling as he grinned widely.

  “I didn’t think Spinelli was a Scottish name,” he chuckled “and no, I’ve never been out of Scotland. Edinburgh a few times and, oh yes ...

  Inverness once,” he gabbled and the priest was about to speak again when Fern interrupted.

  “I’d love to go ... sorry, I shouldn’t have interrupted you, Father ... er, Peter.”

  “No you haven’t interrupted me at all. Carry on, where would you like to go?” Peter asked and Fern sipped the remainder of his tea as he replaced his cup in its saucer.

  “I have always wanted to go to Spain, and to Italy. To Spain because of my father of course…”

  “And Italy?” asked Peter, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

  “I have heard that it is the best country for voice training,” replied Fern and Peter slurped his tea as he listened to his new young friend with interest.

  “Whatever do you want to have your voice trained to do?” he enquired quizzically and Fern humped his shoulders as he rolled his eyes.

  “I love to sing and I would like to have full voice training, if I could.”

  “Sing?” repeated the priest, “I didn’t know you were a singer.”

  Fern puckered his brow.

  “I’m not really, but I would love to be, one day. I am presently training in the church choir with Mr. Mahon. He is the Choir Master.”

  “This is something I must hear,” Peter patronised again smiling, but Fern felt that he was hogging the conversation and quickly changed the subject.

  “Do you have a hobby, Peter?” he asked and the priest drained his cup.

  “Not quite. This is my first parish since my ordination and I haven’t got myself totally settled in yet, but I do play a few notes on the organ, and I mean, a FEW notes,” he replied and Fern became very self-conscious about his presumption. He wished he had not spoken about singing to his friend, as he observed the priest closely when he thought he was not being seen. He liked him. Peter was young ...about twenty three or four, he thought. His hair was very dark and he had a ‘blue’ chin, the obvious shadow of his morning shave, and the envy of Fern. ‘Blue chins’ were in. He had remarkably white even teeth, and his eyes were blue; very deep blue and very deep set. His faintly Scottish accent gave a particularly attractive tone to his already melodious voice and he laughed a lot whenever he spoke, but for all of those qualities, Fern was apprehensive ... There was a sense of loneliness about this man; of distinct singularity, despite his charm and seemingly extrovert mannerism. He felt there was a sadness surrounding him, although he was one of the happiest people he had ever met. This contradiction puzzled Fern and he knew he could never ask for reason or explanation of his thoughts as he fumbled clumsily for something more to say.

  “I always thought that ... that people with dark hair ... had brown eye….” he stammered, knowing his remark to be feeble; somewhat trite, and he was surprised at his own proclamation of how nature should be, but the priest smiled broadly.

  “Well now ... There we do have something in common, Blondie, don’t we?” he giggled “I have your eyes and you have mine.” said Peter, hoping that Fern would accept his observation as the joke it was meant to be, but Fern looked intently at the priest before he spoke again. He reflected slowly, but he did not reply to Peter’s jest. Yes, his eyes were brown, he concluded.

  “Do you have any other brothers or sisters, Fern?” Peter went on, hoping he had not offended the boy, but Fern simply smiled.

  “No ... Do you?”

  “No ... So there, we have something else in common.

  ***

  The skies clouded over as they drove back to Bolarne and Fern fell asleep as the engine purred methodically, if more noisily than Peter would have wished.

  “We’re here,” the voice interrupted his slumber and Fern yawned.

  “I’m sorry to have fallen asleep, Father.”

  “My name is Peter ... and you needed that sleep, otherwise you would have kept awake, besides I usually send my congregation to sleep when I preach.”

  Peter eyed Fern mischievously and they both laughed.

  “Thank you for a very nice afternoon, Peter, and for the tea also. I’m glad now that I came with you.”

  “Perhaps we can do it again soon. I’m off duty every Thursday,” Peter smiled as he spoke.

  “That would be nice ... Bye Peter.”

  “Bye Fern and thanks again….”

  ***

  But the following Thursday when Fern called at the Presbytery, Peterwas not there, The housekeeper told him that the priest had gone into Edinburgh to collect some vestments that were being repaired and that he was not expected back until late that evening. Fern thanked her and made his way back home. He went via the waterfall.

  “Well old friend, I’m here on my own again,” he murmured as he squatted near the water spray, but keeping a dry distance away. “You seem to be just as wild and noisy as ever,” he moaned and the waterfall roared in agreement.

  “I’ve made a friend of a most unusual person. He’s a priest, a Catholic priest. They don’t marry, do they?” he enquired of the Giant before him, but the roaring just continued, busily.

  “Protestant Ministers are allowed to marry,” he said aloud as a spray of fine mist touched his face and he quickly sprang to his feet.

  “Protestants…Catholics” he asked himself, “Stephen and Peter ...My mother ... Why, why?”

  His eyes were wide and the realisation of his thoughts electrified him.

  What was a Catholic priest doing at his mother’s funeral? It had not occurred to him before that Stephen had not taken part in the service, but Fern had thought it was because he was too upset and had someone else to perform the ceremony, but WHY a Catholic priest?

  He raced through the fields on his way home, slashing his shins against the coarse unyielding gorse; soaking his trousers with the morning dew and when eventually he arrived back at the Manse, he went straight to his room and threw himself on the bed. His mind was puzzled with the thoughts that pursued him and he slept very little that night.

  ***

  Peter looked up from the pew where he was kneeling to say his Daily Office of Prayers and where a slight figure had sat down beside him, but the priest continued to pray for a few moments longer and after some time, he made the Sign of the Cross as he closed his breviary… Not a word had been spoken, as Peter looked at Fern.

  “Nice to see you again …how are you.”

  Fern’s face was unsmiling.

  “I’m all right, and you.”

  “Fine, but I’m sure you didn’t come here just to enquire about my health, did you.”

  Peter felt there was something worrying his young friend, as Fern looked intently at him with troubled eyes.

  “What is the matter, Fern?”

  The boy wet his lips and rubbed his forehead with his fingers.

  “There is something I would like to ask you please?”

  “Yes …and what is that?”

  Fern shook the hair from his forehead with a single flick of his head and stared into Peter’s face.

  “Did you know my mother when she was alive?”

  Peter did not answer immediately. His eyes were apprehensive.

  “Not greatly,” he said at last, “though I’m sure she was a lovely lady, why?”

  “You attended the funeral service ... why did you do that when she was not a Catholic.”

  The priest looked around him. How could he answer Fern’s question when there was so much anxiety and unrest in the boy’s face. He bit his lip and tapped his fingers on his prayer book.

  “I thought you knew Fern ... Your mother was a Catholic.”

  Fern sat rigidly in the pe
w and gazed at the altar in front of him. He was silent and the air was crisp with tension. A statue of the Virgin smiled down at him meekly and he closed his eyes in disgust.

  “I did not know,” he whispered involuntarily, “she never told me that she was.” Peter could feel the anxiety in the boy’s voice and wanted so much to help him. He sighed and his fingers went even more impetuously at the breviary.

  “Fern, religion is not something that people discuss very often. Your father ... your biological father was a Catholic and so was your mother. You were baptised a Catholic and so that makes you one of us,” he said, but Fern could find no words to say. He drew in his breath and closed his eyes more tightly as Peter continued to speak. “There is no problem, Fern. When your mother died …I was asked by Stephen to conduct the service and arrange for the burial. It was your mother’s last request and had I not received those instructions I would not have been there.” He turned to face Fern, but the boy’s face was blank. He appeared distant. “Fern, are you all right? Is there anything at all I can say to make you feel better?”

  Peter put out his hand to touch the boy as he spoke, but Fern moved away hastily.

  “I’m all right Father,” he said softly, but there was a distant air in the tone of his voice. “I would just like to be on my own,” he said as he turned away from the priest but Peter was worried.

  “It’s alright Fern. I promise you, everything is all right,” he spluttered, but Fern turned around angrily and stared at the priest.

  “It is NOT alright,” he barked ... “I don’t want to be a Catholic...

  I don’t choose that way of life. Stephen Lockton is not a Catholic, is he?”

  Peter clutched his breviary with his left hand as he genuflected before the High Altar and crossed himself with his right hand. He understood the need for Fern to be on his own and he made his way towards the Sacristy… But as he walked away and passed the kneeling figure of the boy, he wanted to touch him; to re-assure him that he was his friend and that he had nothing to fear, but he judged it best to leave the matter as it was, at least for the time being.

  The following Thursday, Fern did not call at the Presbytery, nor did he call again for quite some time to come.

  ***

  Fern was sitting on the riverbank with his fishing rod at an angle, but without success of a bite when suddenly he became aware of the shadow of someone beside him.

  “Are we talking this morning?” Peter whispered gently as he approached and Fern looked up. The sun made him squint.

  “Hello Father,” he said with a wry look on his face.

  “Why the formality…? I told you to call me Peter.”

  Fern flicked his line and dug his heels into the earth.

  “I didn’t know then that you were…who you are or rather, that my mother was what you say she was ...or anything,” he stammered.

  “Does it make any difference to our friendship, Fern? We are both still the same people as we were before you asked me any questions about your mother ... Fern, listen to me.”

  Peter moved closer and his foot slid on the mud. He replaced it on firmer ground.

  “Religion is irrelevant. It does not matter what you are. Catholic, Protestant or Jew …you are what you are and you should try to be the best person for it. A man’s religion should help him to be true to himself and to get to know who and what he is. We are all children of the same God.”

  There was a long silence between the two men as Fern stared into the water.

  “I just feel that you are estranged from me in some way,” he mumbled and Peter sighed.

  “That’s probably because you think that all Catholics have horns, and more so Catholic priests. It’s all right to be a friend of a priest as long as you are on the same side of the fence ... is that it.”

  Fern began to bite his lip. He was cold.

  “I can’t get a bite this morning,” he diverted.

  “Neither can I apparently” said Peter and Fern laughed as he looked up again through the sunlight and his eyes narrowed as he raised his arm to shield his sight.

  “You’re very quick and I’m sorry to have seemed so insensitive,” Fern said quietly, with a certain reticence as Peter slowly extended the hand of companionship towards him. There was an awkward pause before the boy accepted the gesture of friendship readily ... almost greedily. But how was he to know that this handshake would change the whole of his young life and that even as he held the priest’s hand in his own, there was a warmth between them; a sanguinary bond; a union that would not be deflected by the flesh that separated them ... or by the different religions that they followed. The moment created a sense of mystery beyond Fern’s comprehension that made him shudder for a moment, before Peter spoke again.

  “Move over, mate ... You’re sitting on some grass and there’s none on my side.”

  Peter grinned as he pulled the fishing rod from the water to examine the bait.

  “Maybe you should make the sign of the cross over it,” mused Fern, but Peter dismissed the suggestion good heartedly.

  “All it needs is a good spit,” he said playfully applying a large saliva foam from between his lips in a most ‘unclerical’ fashion and Fern fell back on the river bank, laughing uproariously as the fishing line began to tug in the water.

  “Where did you learn that trick?” he asked as Peter eyed his friend proudly.

  “They don’t just teach you theology at the Seminary, you know,” he grinned as he spoke and within five minutes the line was tugged again and Fern had his first catch of the day. Some few hours later they parted company as Peter had to go to the hospital to visit a parishioner. Fern went home alone, but as he walked, he thought again of what Peter had said to him and his heart was lighter than it had been for a long time, He began to sing as he skipped his way home …All the world was right again and he had a friend. The grass was green again; the skies were blue again and the air was purer than he had ever known it before. Somewhere a lark was singing and a woodpecker busied himself or herself with his or her craft. Fern swung his catch around his shoulder and he could hear the roaring waterfall in the distance as he jumped with happy excitement and biffed the air with his fist before he raced towards the giant, pressing his hands against his ears to deafen the sound. The spray surrounded him as he gazed with admiring contemplation at the magnificence of the powerful water. Its strength invigorated him and compelled him to thrust out his hand to grasp a share in some small measure of this magical fountain.

  Chapter Three

  STEPHEN LOCKTON was a thin ascetic looking man, much older in appearance than his forty-five years. He wore spectacles, more because they were acceptable to his image, although as time had so often proven, he could see quite clearly without them. Were he to change his hairstyle, remove the glasses and smile, Fern thought he would look quite ‘normal’ and even presentable as he passed his step-father in the hall and Stephen raised his eyebrows to look over the top of his bifocals at the fish proudly dangling from Fern’s hand.

  “Better make the most of your leisure time before you return to school. Two more weeks, isn’t it? Two more weeks, I say and then university, eh…?” Steven called out and Fern was about to race upstairs when he remembered his catch and made his way towards the kitchen.

  “Yes, but Mr. Mahon thinks I may be able to get a Bursary Scholarship to go to Italy for the continuance of the voice training,” he shouted.

  But Stephen Lockton knew nothing of Tom Mahon’s arrangements or that he had sent record tapes of Fern’s singing voice to a music company in London, and was awaiting hopefully, an audition for the boy. Stephen coloured a bright orange as he always did whenever he was excited or annoyed.

  “Better to keep your feet on the ground, young man. Feet on the ground, I say ... The theatrical world is very fickle and without foundation ... without foundation,�
� he repeated before he went on, word for word as Fern had expected and which he knew off by heart. “You’ll want to get married and have a family one day and you won’t be able to keep them on theatrical money,” Stephen prophesised, as he always did.

  “A job one day and none the next,” he went on, “you’ll spend your life ‘resting’ between jobs. They’re all at it, these theatricals. What you want is a good education behind you. Either university or a trade… Yes, that’s the thing for you, mark my words,” he concluded complacently with a sniff, “that’s the thing for you.” ... and Fern went to his room.

  ***

  “Good morning, Mrs. Mahon,” Fern had hardly knocked on the door when the lady appeared. “Can I talk to Tom, please?”

  Tom Mahon’s wife was a petite little lady with neat movements. She acted swiftly in all she did and gave the impression that she was totally and completely at the disposal of her husband. She always referred to him as ‘himself’ or Mr. Mahon ... and sometimes when she was a little angry which wasn’t very often, she would address her husband simply as Mahon and was content with no other title for the man she had married more than twenty years ago. She rarely if ever called him Tom…

  “Oh! it’s nice to see you again, Fern. Come in. I’ll call Mr. Mahon straight away. Shona is home for a few weeks, you know. Get down Jonty,” she commanded the dog. “You know Fern… I don’t know why he makes so much fuss every time he sees you.”

  But Jonty would hear nothing of her command. He always made a fuss of Fern, and this visit would be no exception, besides, he could show off in front of Shona, who was only a rare visitor, even if she was the daughter of the house.

  Fern and Jonty were soon on the floor together. Jonty, a strong, six stone, brindle boxer dog whose playful bite, after he made his customary three circles of joy at seeing his friend, made no impression on Fern’s wrist as he wrestled it happily from the dog’s mouth, where it tugged mercilessly at Fern’s sleeve. They pulled at each other and Fern made silly noises of disapproval, which only encouraged Jonty more enthusiastically about the battle. The dog then lay on his back, feigning exhaustion with his legs in the air.