by Paul Kelly
Tom Mahon’s face was roguish in his enquiry. “Shona had to go to Glasgow yesterday, so you can sit back. You’ll see her when you get home again.”
Tom was presumptuous and felt assured that he had saved the situation from further disappointment as he patted Fern’s knee, but the boy simply looked into space. In his mind, he could see only two blue
Italian eyes that simply stared back at him in silence ... no word was spoken and he was in total confusion.
***
London impressed Tom. He was fascinated by the bustle of the people as they moved about the streets anxiously going everywhere and nowhere.
Everyone eager to get somewhere, and to arrive there as fast as they could... wherever it was they were going and only they seemed to know ... The two lonely figures from over the border walked slowly along through Farringdon Road as Tom wanted to see St. Paul’s Cathedral. They passed Clerkenwell Road; (Tom remembered he had written to someone in that road to have a valuable clock repaired, but he could not remember the name of the firm or the number, and this annoyed him) and they arrived looking lost at Holborn Viaduct, where they could just see the peak of the dome of the Cathedral. Tom wondered where all the people of London lived. There seemed to be millions of them, and thousands of offices, but he could see only a few houses, and these looked very old.
Mahon’s excitement grew, but Fern seemed not to notice as he longed for the roar of the waterfall and to see the long lazy grass in the fields nearby and as they entered the Cathedral. The smell of the earth invaded his nostrils, through the incense of the imposing building and he was in awe at the sight of the majestic church, as the organ played quietly in the background, with ghostly and expert fingers, but Fern’s thoughts went back to the modest Church Organ playing of a simple priest from Bolarne.
After dinner, they both set off for the Music Centre and arrived around 2.Opm, with half an hour to wait. Fern noticed quite a few people sitting around, looking as nervous as he felt as he went through the ballad he had prepared for the audition in his mind, and after much mental reassessment, decided to take Peter’s advice and ‘leave everything to God’ …’Ave Maria ... gratia plena ...’
“Will you come this way please?”
A strange voice interrupted Fern’s dream, as Tom grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into a large office, very expensively designed, to be confronted by a very large man, equally expensively dressed. Fern could feel himself becoming paler by the moment. He felt weak at the knees and every word of song in his mind had gone, but Tom always carried the music and after the first few lines, Fern always found that he could sing from memory… but however, this time he felt things were different.
He had never sung before a person like this man before, and although the man introduced himself benevolently as Jim Marsh, it made little difference to Fern, or to his feelings of the moment. His throat was dry and Jim Marsh noticed how pale and frightened he looked and tried to ease the tension of the situation.
“Don’t be nervous Fernando, just sing as you would at home. I’m sure you’ll be fine, just take your own time and let the team know when you’re ready. I’ll be in the next room with your friend, Mr. Mahon here, so don’t worry ... You’ll be fine.”
He beckoned Tom to follow him as he left the room and they went into a smaller office and sat down. Marsh wanted some data from Tom and papers were soon spread about and notes recorded, but as they spoke, Tom could see a large screen on the wall, like a window of black glass. He was unaware that Fern had been left in the studio recording room for the audition, until the dark glass became illuminated, and Fern appeared in the centre of the ‘picture’ standing alone on a small platform with a microphone in front of him.
Tom sat forward in his chair. He could see Fern clearly in the one-way mirrored window and the boy’s eyes moved to a corner of the studio where he was given the alert to commence his singing. Tom waited anxiously. The reality of the moment had come home to him and he was nervous for Fern, as he fidgeted in his chair awaiting the first chord but nothing came. He waited further ... still nothing ... He looked anxiously at Fern’s face wishing the boy could see him, but knowing he couldn’t and he was afraid. Suddenly the voice came through as clear as had been expected. All nerves had disappeared for both of them and Fern looked like his old self again. The humble confidence of his singing welcomed everyone to share the gift that had generated in the hills of Scotland and which was now blooming in the very core of England.
‘All earth content and glory found ... wee birdie, free at last!
She flies unfettered ... free to sing To praise His power, Majestic King, God is the wind beneath her wing, and LOVE has looked her way The voice of which Tom was very well acquainted came through as clear and as familiar as ever. He forgot for the moment, where he was or what he was doing there and sat back to enjoy the pleasure of the fruits of his prodigy. Fern sang a second Scottish ballad but Jim Marsh did not show any enthusiasm, nor did he seem over impressed. When the audition was over, Tom could see Fern being escorted from the recording studio by one of the crew, and then the ‘window’ was blacked out again.
Marsh looked at Tom.
“How long has this young man been singing?”
“Oh for some time now. I think he must have been seven or eight years of age when it became apparent, that he had a singing voice. He has always wanted to sing and has been singing since that time, apart from a few years ago when his voice broke. He had a couple of years off then, when that happened.”
Tom would have gone on talking endlessly but Marsh interrupted him, tapping his biro on his notes.
“He has a very unusual voice. Are you aware of that?” he said, looking intently into Mahon’s eyes, but before Tom could answer, Marsh went on.
“He has a very pleasing appearance and excellent voice control, but I would never have thought he was seventeen years of age.”
Tom looked at Marsh in astonishment.
“Yes, yes, he is so much younger looking ... than many boys of his age,” he stammered, but Jim Marsh threw his arms in the air as he ignored Tom’s comment and continued … “It is not so much his looks, I suppose. I mean his voice ... The maturity of his voice is that of a singer much older than seventeen. He also has a natural gift to face a camera and that is not an easy thing to do. Has he had experience of this before?”
“No, not at all,”
Tom came in quickly and without prompt.
“We have always noticed at home when he sings, that when he gets up, whether it is for family or friends, or even for larger audiences, his reaction is just the same. I don’t think he has what you term ‘nerves’.
Tom raised his eyebrows as he spoke anticipating the understanding of Mr. Marsh. “He is always cool and confident, but then, not OVER-CONFIDENT, you know.”
Mahon wanted to say just the right thing, but he didn’t want anyone to think that Fern was bold or brash in his style. He wanted to say the right thing that Jim Marsh wanted to hear, and he hoped that he had given the correct impression.
“You have a very fine interest in the boy. Is he a relative of yours?”
“No,” said Tom wearily, “But I am as proud of him as I would be of my own son ... if I had a son.
Marsh smiled and scribbled some notes in his pad.
“Would he be opposed to being primarily a Scottish artist, I mean would he wear the kilt, for example?” Jim Marsh pressed his nostrils with his thumb and forefinger as he spoke and gave Tom the enthusiasm he wanted.
“Of course he would wear the kilt. He wears it often when he is singing. He could have worn it today, but we thought it might not be the right thing to do... in London ... you understand.”
Marsh kept making notes and Tom licked his lips in preparation of any forthcoming questions which he was eager beyond every expectation to answer in detail, but at that
moment the door opened and Fern came in and Tom jumped up from his seat to greet him, clasping his hand enthusiastically; his smiling face betraying his emotions. They had tea with the crew before leaving the studio but the rest of the day was uneventful for Fern.
Tom had phoned home and told everyone what had happened but Fern’s eyes showed a lack of enthusiasm and an eagerness to get home to Scotland.
***
“Peter, Peter ... its Peter, look.
Fern shouted at the top of his voice, as the train came slowly to a halt in the platform and Mahon looked puzzled. He knew Fr. Spinelli, of course, and he had met him on several occasions, but it had never occurred to him to address a Catholic priest by his Christian name.
“Ah! Father Spinelli, it is so nice of you to come to greet us. I hope you are well…”
Tom was a little uneasy about how he should speak now that Fern had opened the conversation so informally but Peter put him at his ease.
“Nice to see you again, Tom. I’m fine thanks.”
Peter gave Fern a quick hug and demanded to know how he got on at his audition. He had made enquiries of Rose about the train arrival as he wanted to be sure to bring them home in his faithful old car and he apologised to Fern that he had not been able to see him off to London, but he had received a sudden sick call and was unable to come to the station. The excitement was infectious and all three huddled through the rain to the car.
Rose was waiting with a meal fit for a king and with carefree abandon, hugged the young singer with warmest affection … He could well have been her one and only cherished offspring ... But Shona waited in line for the caresses. She was excited to hear the news, and delighted that there seemed to be greater expectations than they had previously anticipated. Nothing had been settled for the future yet, but everyone had great hopes and the evening passed with excited and volatile conversation.
“I wish you had been there, Father,” exclaimed Fern. “But I remembered what you told me when I began to sing and then I felt all right.” He said, but Tom Mahon overheard the conversation and felt a little pang of annoyance as he lowered his head and wondered before he said goodnight to Fern.
“That’s my boy,” he said with pride and looked at the priest. “You’re a lovely lad. Go home now ... Go straight home. Goodnight and sleep well,” he added and Peter thanked everyone for their hospitality as he was leaving.
“Can I drive you home, Fern?” Peter asked and Mahon looked down at the floor with a frown.
Chapter Eight
STEPHEN WAS NERVOUS OVER BREAKFAST and Fern was sure his step-father had something on his mind that he wanted to discuss and after a few nervous coughs, Stephen turned towards his step-son.
“You know your mother was very ill during the last few months of her life ... and I always loved her ... you do realise that Fern, don’t you? Regardless of anything else I might have said ... when I was worried ... you know, before you went to London,” he stammered, but Fern continued eating and did not answer. Stephen stumbled on somewhat incoherently
“What I am trying to say ... what I am trying to say is ... well, it is not good ... it is not good for a man to be alone,” he jabbered and the biblical quotation had told Fern what he had suspected. “I will soon remarry ... soon remarry,” Stephen spluttered and looked to Fern for his reaction, but the boy threw his serviette across the table and stared at his stepfather with anger in his eyes.
“I don’t want to hear any more ... you live as you please ... you are not my father anyway.”
Stephen blew his nose and twisted his handkerchief nervously through his fingertips.
“Well, I want to marry again and I want you to be happy for me ... and with me, of course,” he grunted through the handkerchief.
“I don’t care what you do. You can do exactly what you please,” Fern shouted as he grabbed his coat and left the room, banging the door behind him and made his way quickly to the waterfall. He sat down heavily and thought of his mother’s last lonely days, wondering if she knew of Stephen’s other relationship ... Oh! God ... he hoped she had not and yet Stephen was so quick to find himself ready for marriage for the second time. He looked around him and the waterfall roared to attract his attention.
“Hello, my friend. I have a problem,” he whispered, but he knew not to expect an answer. The fact of him being so near such a tumult gave him the feeling that he was not alone.
“I didn’t understand . . . Could I have helped her more?” He moaned and the water spray kissed his cheek.
“What a mess grown-ups can make of their lives,” he remarked with anger and as he threw a stone into the bubbling foam beneath his feet, his nose tightened and his eyes began to smart, but he could not, did not know how to cry. His loneliness was acute; he felt afraid and the face of Peter formed in his mind as he tried to pray…
***
Father Spinelli awoke with a start to hear the front door bell of the Presbytery ringing incessantly and without respite and he was up and dressed, ready for the obvious emergency even before his housekeeper knocked at his bedroom door.
“All right Miss Harrison. I’m coming.”
The housekeeper stood before him as he came from the room, her hands clenched and her face drawn with concern.
“It’s Irene French, Father. Her husband has had a relapse.”
“Okay, I’m on my way. Is Irene still on the ‘phone?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Tell her please, I will be at her house in ten minutes.”
He ran downstairs, two at a time, stuffing his collar and stock into his coat pocket. Irene would not care if he appeared like a priest or not, he thought as he moved speedily through the hall and went into the church from the kitchen. The cool dark church struck damp as he entered and he remembered that the heating was off. He shivered for a brief moment and then genuflected before the little red sanctuary lamp, making the sign of the cross and kneeling for a few seconds before making his way to the wall safe to collect the holy oils. He wrapped them with his stole as he took out the key of the tabernacle and parted the curtains showing the little House of God, at the same time, making an ejaculatory prayer.
“Please God, let me be on time.”
With the host tucked into his pyx, he crossed himself again and pressed the tabernacle door to ensure it was shut.
“Let’s hope the old jalopy behaves herself tonight…” he muttered.
He was fortunate. The engine purred over sweetly in the cool night air and he was soon in view of the cottage where the sick man lay dying and Irene French was at the door to meet him. The light from his car illuminated her frame as he approached.
“He’s been very ill, Father. I wanted to wait until morning before I sent for you, but I’m so afraid. I’m sorry to call you out at this late hour.”
“Hush now, Irene. You did the right thing. Can I go through to see Joe now?”
“Please do, Father, but I don’t think he will recognise you.”
Irene cried into her handkerchief as she spoke, and Peter put his hand forward to console her. Joe French lay in his bed with his eyes staring at the ceiling and Joseph French Junior and his sister, Jean, came away from the bed as Peter arrived.
“I’ll only be a few moments and then you can come back again,” he said in a low voice and the youngsters left the room, leaving Peter to commence the prayers for the sick as he laid the oils out on a small table by the bed. Joe made no movement but continued to stare blankly ahead as Peter anointed his eyes and nose before moving to his ears and lips with the oils, but Joe continued to lie still. The priest anointed his hands and feet, but still, there was no response. Hastily, he unwrapped the pyx and laid it on the purificator cloth he had wrapped around it. He opened the silver box and took out the Host, depositing it on Joe’s tongue but he was unable to swallow it whole. Peter broke t
he wafer into fragments and put one tiny piece on the patient’s lips; the remainder he swallowed himself and as the particle disappeared into the dying man’s mouth, a deep sigh emerged from his chest.
“Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi, custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam.”
Peter blessed the sick man and knelt in prayer for a little while by his bedside...
Irene peeped into the sick room, just as Peter was coming out.
“Will you have a cup of tea, Father, or something stronger perhaps?” she whispered her request sadly.
“No thanks Irene. I’ll get back to the Presbytery. He seems settled now. I’ll call again in the morning and see how things are,” he said, but Peter knew that the morning visit would not be necessary. He left the cottage and slumped wearily into his car and as he glanced at his watch he could see it was 3.55 am. As he turned on the ignition he reflected with sadness, the scene that he had just witnessed and drove off into the night. The pale moon cast its pellucid rays across his tired face as he drove slowly back through the winding lanes, but suddenly he stopped the car abruptly and held his brake with a strong hand. Why should I disturb Miss Harrison at this unearthly hour, he thought. She has had enough interruptions in her sleep for one night.
Peter lit the car internal light and took his breviary from his coat pocket. After a few moments of straining to read the small print in the prayer book, he gave up and put the light out again, rubbing his eyes before he opened the car window and the cool, morning air rushed in to refresh him, forcing him to close his eyes tightly. . The earth-smell was pleasing to him and he felt at peace, as the lunar rays welcomed him into the night. He opened the door and stepped out into the lane, thankful to be alone; to think alone, as he needed to pray to, and WITH his God. He walked slowly towards a gate in the nearby field and leaned across it. The meadow before him was a soft dark green carpet, swaying in the gentle breeze under the fading moonlight aura of peace and he climbed over the gate and walked into a little clearing under an oak tree. Peter looked up at the sky… as someone who had discovered something for the very first time. He watched the stars twinkling steadily in the dark eerie abyss… studded diamonds in a blue velvet blanket of stillness … waiting the dawn of day. An owl hooted and then hooted again and the ethereal beauty of his ‘new’ discovery pleased him greatly. He sat down to enjoy and appreciate the good earth that was so gratuitously his, and his alone, (he wanted to think) for as long as he wished it to be; at least until the dawn broke through the darkness into another light of day. He lay back with his hands behind his head; his thoughts fertile; his body in limbo. He thought of the man he had anointed just a short time ago, and he cleared his throat and spoke to God, commending the soul of Joseph French to his Creator.
