by Paul Kelly
“I wondered where you had gone Shona. It will soon be time for you to leave, it’s nearly 5.30 and Andrew should be here any moment,” said Fern with concern in his voice, but she did not answer and continued to walk away. Fern came to her side, and she turned away from him slowly as he approached.
“What is the matter Shona. You are crying ... Has anyone upset you?” The silence that followed seemed endless. She wanted him to touch her; look at her with feeling; take her in his arms ... but Fern stood like a frightened little boy with deep innocent enquiring eyes.
“Fern, it is very humiliating to say this, as I am making myself extremely vulnerable, but I must say what I have to say, and should have said a long time ago,” she muttered and he looked at her anxiously as he could see she was very upset.
“Shona what is wrong? I can’t stand to see you like this. Please let me help.”
He came closer as he spoke and she could feel his breath on her cheek, but there was nothing more. He could have been a million miles away…
“Fern, listen to me.”
She paused and gazed into the air. Fern was silent and waited.
“What is it Shona?” he repeated.
A tear trickled down her face and smudged her mascara.
“I, I’m very much in love,” she continued, “and I know my love is not returned.”
Fern wanted to say something to console her, but words would not come…
This was a situation that was entirely new to him and he could not handle it.
“I’m sorry Shona,” he said at length, “have you spoken to Andrew about this?” he asked and Shona turned around swiftly and glared at him. She laughed almost hysterically until her laughter gave way to tears, as she threw herself down on the grass lawn and continued to cry with deepest emotion; her shoulders heaving heavily until Fern touched her hair with his hand and his touch made her turn quickly to him.
“Because you speak to me with accents sweet,” she said softly, repeating the words of the song he had just sung and Fern gazed at her in confusion.
“The song ...the song … did you like it, Shona? I thought it might be appropriate for the wedding ... don’t you think?” he asked, but Shona was not thinking of the song ... It was the singer who attracted her and any song would have suited the occasion.”... “Were you perhaps thinking of Andrew with those words,” he went on, as he smiled into her eyes, but Shona looked down “It has nothing to do with Andrew,” she sobbed, “It is YOU that I love,” she said in a determined voice and Fern could feel a cold movement surge through his body as he heard her words. He knew he had heard correctly but he could not understand, as Shona looked up from where she was lying and Fern was aware that the next words should be his, but he could find nothing to say as the truth of her statement began to dawn on him. His mind flew from one situation to another trying to recall moments when he had given Shona any idea that he was in love with her, but at that moment Andrew appeared at the patio doors and Fern found the situation even more impossible than he had ever anticipated. Andrew looked pleased and surprised at the same time as he saw Shona lying on the lawn. Fern broke the silence.
“Hello there Andrew … Shona is waiting for you,” he said and she rose to her feet and greeted Andrew cordially as she dried her eyes.
“You’re late Andrew. It is now nearly 6 o’clock.”
“I’m sorry, Shona, I was delayed with the traffic, and I should be at my parents any time now. Can we leave? Are you ready?”
Shona glanced at Fern.
“Good-bye Fern, every good wish for your future with the auditions,” she said in a resigned tone of voice and Fern looked at her sadly.
“Good-bye Shona, take care,” he replied, but as she walked away from him, he knew that something special had gone from his life ... He had never been in love ... He knew that, but Shona was a very beautiful girl…She was everything a young man could wish for in a woman ... and yet . . .
Andrew had a new car and as several of the guests were keen to see it, it was only after some time, with many gasps of admiration from almost everyone at the Reception that he and Shona sped away in the direction of the Kerr residence.
“Come and have a drink, Fern ... Come on.” Stewart called out, mindful that he hadn’t seen Fern since their last meeting in the lounge.
“Jolly fine voice you have too. Thanks for helping out at the ceremony Fern. June and I really do appreciate your kindness.” Stewart looked very ‘clannish’ in his tartan. He suited the kilt and was very proud to wear it, whenever the occasion demanded, and what better occasion than at his own wedding and Fern followed Stewart shyly into the gathering again as drinks were being served all round. Fern could not get Shona from his mind. He had a feeling of guilt, as he reflected on the last few moments they had shared together and the evening grew cooler as time went on and more guests arrived for the late Reception. He wanted to leave but could not do so without embarrassment, so he took a seat away from everyone and nursed again, the thoughts of his recent bruising which had left with it a deeper cut than he had imagined.
“I thought you might like to go for a drive later this evening?”
Fern shook suddenly from his sad memory. It was Peter. He had returned to the Reception after having dealt with his ministerial business, and had some time left before the end of the day. Fern was delighted to see him. If ever he needed anyone to be near him now, it was Peter. They both had a drink and left the party.
The air was cool now and the moon was low and full. Fern loved the evenings when the heather was deep purple and when it seemed almost sacrilegious to walk upon it. The scent of the country lingered in his nostrils as he sat back in the old car and stretched his arms high above his head. He wanted to hug Peter and to tell him how relieved he was that there was no complications in his being with him and that anything like the situation with Shona was unthinkable. He was free to live and enjoy his thoughts without fear of hurting anyone, but Peter didn’t say a word until they had driven a very long way from the wedding reception.
“Are you feeling all right, Fern?” he asked lazily, “I thought you might enjoy a ride home, instead of having to take the coach with the rest of the guests, and besides,” he hesitated and stared at his hands on the wheel, “I was quite looking forward to your company.”
Fern was delighted and they talked at intervals as the priest drove on. Nothing in particular was said and there were long peaceful bouts of silence. The atmosphere was conductive to two people who had discovered something which they did not fully understand, but who needed time and space together in which to find out what was happening to them and the impact upon each man was incomprehensible, yet stronger than life itself. For a young man had recently been told of the love a young girl had for him and a priest prayed to his God that he would love Him and Him alone…God had strange ways of working, thought Peter as he drove slowly to study the sky more clearly. It was red ... a red sky at night ... the shepherd’s delight, he thought as he considered his sermon for the following day.
‘Where two or more are gathered in My name, There I am with them. My delight is to be with the children of men... It is not good for man to be alone.’
Both men looked at each other as Peter stopped the car.
“Will you pray for me Fern?” he asked and the young boy was astonished at the request.
He looked long and solemnly at the priest before he answered.
“I don’t know many prayers, Peter, but I will think of you whenever I think of God,” he said, but the experience of guilt that overcame him when he used those words was overwhelming ... he knew that he thought a lot about Peter, but not so often about God.
“Don’t have a thought about the words you need to say, just breathe.”
Peter quoted as he glanced shyly at Fern.
“Breathe?” repeated Fern.
“Yes, to breathe is the greatest prayer anyone can offer to God. It is the living proof of His creation. It is the most humble way we can acknowledge His power, and it is something that we are all able to do, regardless of our status, or lack of it.”
Peter found himself repeating involuntarily his thought when he had previously prayed sadly and in despair in the chapel and Fern thought in silence for a long time. He loved to hear Peter talk in this way and reflected how he used to hate Stephen’s sermons when he preached of the same God that he was hearing about from this man who sat beside him in the car. What was the difference? They were both men of God.
Peter raised his head and looked at the moon for some time before he started the car again and set off home ...It was orange from the reddened sky surround. Just like another world and the night was full of peace and he was happy as Fern followed his gaze to the sky. The clouds were thin and only just apparent where a few stars were fighting to gain a place in this lolling landscape as Fern began to sing.
‘By wind, I travel through the maze,
Unknowing what direction or by how,
My carriage closed about me, none can see,
What is this LOVE that holds my gaze . . .
Peter joined in the chorus as they journeyed on.
‘My carriage closed about me, none can see,
What is this LOVE that holds my gaze . . .
Fern turned to his companion with a light and happy heart. He wanted to tell Peter how happy he was but he could not find the words and he stumbled in his speech as he spoke.
“Ma heart hurts for ye, Peter, but I’m so happy,” he said softly and the Scottish dialect of his phrase told Peter all he wanted to know, as he glanced at the moon and drove on...but words from the past irritated him as he prayed again…
“Oh! God ... Let me always love You . Never let me be parted from you …In my folly, do not let me be misled, or confused by my LOGIC, do not let me lose my identity. I am a priest ... a priest of God ... and my heart was made to honour Him ... To love Him and no other ... for Love is my destiny …”
***
For the next few days, the thoughts of Shona returned to Fern, and he was distressed. Even the thought of Mahon’s arranged concert in Edinburgh would give him no peace. She would soon be going back to university and he would be happier had she gone with a different frame of mind, but he felt a deep grief and guilt over her words to him and returned to them time and time again. He wondered how he could have provoked the situation in some way, but he could find no answer.
Chapter Twelve
FERN RANG THE PRESBYTERY DOOR BELL several times before he got an answer. It was Peter who opened the door with his shirtsleeves rolled up…He held his hands in the air.
“Oh Fern, I’m glad to see you. Come in and close the door. My hands are covered in oil and dirt. I’ll be with you in a jiffy.”
Fern closed the door behind him and followed Peter into the lounge.
“Miss Harrison has been given an old gramophone and as it’s her afternoon off, I’m trying to repair it for her. Have you any ideas on this sort of thing?”
Fern gazed at the highly lacquered box cabinet with profound curiosity as Peter went on gabbling excitedly.
“It might be a good thing for her, as I am not at home very often and she has a lot of time on her own. We could get some records, too don’t you think?”
“Yeah, that’s a great idea,” Fern lifted the gramophone lid as he spoke. “It even has a little place for needles, look Peter!”
Peter had by this time, washed his hands and came back to the room.
“There were some needles in a little box somewhere. I think I may have fixed it now. We’ll try it out and see. Stand back for blasting, and hold your ears,” he joked. “Oh dear, there’s only four needles in this box. Never mind, it will be enough to test it,” he said as he took the handle and inserted it into the hole in the side of the cabinet.
“Don’t want to wind it too tightly or I’ll muck it up, won’t I?”
He began to wind carefully and put a new needle in the microphone arm, tightening it with the attached screw and he talked to himself as he worked when his tongue wasn’t licking his lower lip.
“Clever things …aren’t they?” Peter chuckled and placed the arm on the record.
“What music is it?” enquired Fern.
“I don’t know. It’s very old, but we’ll soon find out, listen.”
An ominous crackling sound came from the machine, rendering a faded male voice where only every third or fourth word could be heard reasonably clearly, but the crackle persisted.
“Well, we’ve fixed the machine, but the records are too old, I think.”
“Can you hear what he’s singing?” Fern enquired with his hand to his ear, “I think it’s ‘The Old Rugged Cross.”
Peter laughed.
“I thought it was more like Nellie Dean”
They tried another record but with the same disastrous results and Fern put on a third.
“I can’t read the names clearly. The label is badly torn, but there’s a wee white dog on it sitting beside what looks like a horn.”
Peter smiled and looked at Fern.
“He sits on all of them guarding his master’s voice. All we need now is for him to bark.”
“Yea, sure ... c’mon let’s try it.”
The record spun around slowly and unevenly on the turntable, as they both waited pensively for what was to come through the persistent crackling and clicking sound.
“That’s a piece by Puccini,” shouted Fern enthusiastically and Peter raised his eyebrows at his friend’s qualified observations. “It’s from the opera, Turandot.” He went on, “My mother used to hum this tune around the house. It was a favourite piece of my father, too. I think that is why she liked it so much. Do you know it, Peter?”
The priest stood back in surprise.
“Your mother had excellent choice of music, Fern. Was she musical?” he asked and Fern grinned mischievously.
“It was one song that she loved. In those days, my mother dreamed of me becoming an opera singer. She saw me at La Scala, in Milan, or at least at the Royal Opera House in London... Dreams that now seem so very far away. Anyway, it was not my choice, even if I had the opportunities.” Fern listened carefully to the music, but the sound came through very poorly and not at all appreciable. “She had a great appreciation of music and she loved all the famous composers, Bach, Chopin, Verdi, but as you know, she was only a poor girl in her youth and there was no opportunity for common folk to indulge in this sort of entertainment. She had some old gramophone records and a tiny wireless set which gave her a lot of happiness.” Fern gazed out of the window and looked at the horizon before he spoke again “I remember learning the words, in Italian, but don’t laugh, Peter. That was when I was waiting for my voice to break. I had a couple of years away from singing at that time. I had wanted to surprise mother, and sing it to her, but she became too ill and her hearing was impaired before I could get the opportunity.” Fern sighed heavily and turned to his friend.
“She never did hear me sing it,” he added sadly, “but I often sing it to her now, in my heart ... silly isn’t it?”
“What was it called, Fern?” Peter enquired as he too, tried to listen more carefully to the singer on the record before it crackled to a halt, stuttering over a crack in the celluloid.
“Luce ... Luce ... Luce .... Luce ...”
Peter removed the arm and silence filled the room again for a few moments.
“It is ‘Nessun Dorma’ … Do you know it Peter.”
Fern lowered his head as though afraid to speak the words of the title.
“I’ve heard it before, but Fern, this is a most beautiful piece of music and I should think very difficult to sing. Only gre
at singers would attempt it.”
He immediately realised that he was patronising again, and held his breath as Fern raised his head and looked again at the sky from the window.
“I can sing it Peter,” he said slowly and defiantly. “I can sing it.” he repeated and Peter admired his confidence. There was no pride in the boy’s statement, but rather humility; a truth that left Peter bewildered at the self-confidence and calmness of spirit that emanated so gracefully from his young companion.
“I’d love to hear it,” Peter remarked, still looking at Fern’s face, and remembering his first doubts before he had heard the ‘Ave Maria’.
He had been so vainly patronising then and felt again, the same shame he had known afterwards, on that first occasion and he was wary not to be so judgmental a second time.
“I don’t think I will ever sing it, Peter. It was just something ‘special’ for my mother, and she had a magic that could compel and strengthen, and make everything possible. I think I loved her more that I will ever realise, since she has such an effect upon me, even now, when she is with me no more.”
“I understand, Fern, but maybe one day...”
Fern’s face remained sad.
“Yes, maybe, Peter, but for such music as that you would need an orchestral backing and ... “ he hesitated, “and a lot of love,” he concluded, as Peter dropped the remaining gramophone needles into the little pot reserved for them.
“You can’t go wrong, Fern. Look, it’s easy. It says, ‘needles here…How quaint”.
