by Paul Kelly
“No, of course not, but he could go there for voice training ...
That’s the place to go for that, you know. All the famous tenors train in Italy. I thought you would have known that Rose,” he replied but Rose hadn’t heard what her husband had said to her as she replaced the tea towel on its hook ... Her thoughts were elsewhere as she remained unusually silent and Tom Mahon mentioned nothing of the letter he received from London. He believed the West End show to be something that Fern would regret for the rest of his life...
***
Fern wanted to tell Peter about his new change of life-style and his new address and set off towards the Presbytery.
Miss Harrison opened the door and her approach to Fern was quite different to him now since she had heard him sing and she too, wanted to claim some part in the life circle of this young man.
“It’s nice to see you again, Fern ... Come in and have something to drink, it’s quite mild for this time of year, is it not?” she said and Fern accepted her invitation warmly.
“Can I see Father Peter, please?” he asked and his voice was excited, but Miss Harrison looked at him strangely.
“Oh! I’m sorry Fern,” she replied in a low voice as if an apology was required. .”He won’t be home for another ten days. You see, he has gone on his annual Retreat at Inverness. I thought you knew ... He left yesterday.”
Fern’s face fell with disappointment and Miss Harrison could see the sadness in his eyes. His joy of the day had completely turned around on him and once again, he felt vulnerable. He could understand why the priest should make his Retreat, but what worried him was the feeling of sudden desolation that he felt when Miss Harrison had told him her news and the awareness that he was going to miss his friend ... so very much. To Fern in that moment, two weeks was a very long time.
“I won’t stay then, if you don’t mind, Miss Harrison, I just wanted to tell Father about my new address, perhaps you could tell him when he returns. I’m staying with Tom Mahon and his wife Rose”.
“But you will stay and have a cup of tea or a cold drink, Fern ... won’t you?” she asked but Fern waved his hand in the air and smiled …
“Another time, Miss Harrison, but thanks all the same. I have something that I should do and it is rather important.”
Miss Harrison was a little confused at Fern’s news and also his sudden wish to leave the presbytery, but as she wondered at the reason for his change of address, she discreetly held her questions. There would be other times to find out the reasons for Fern’s move, and find out, she would ... in her own inimitable way. She went on with her daily chores, but even she, the ‘Stronghold of strength … The Sedes Sapientia,’ as Peter had nick-named her, was worried and perplexed. She hoped everything was all right and with a woman’s intuition, she thought long and hard about the Minister’s new wife.
***
The waterfall spluttered, spattered, and screamed his energy whilst Fern stood in awesome silence and admiration. He knew it was foolish to be there and he knew it was even more foolish to express his thoughts before this giant of a waterfall, but he was lonely and it would be two weeks.
“I am expected to go to Italy, and I don’t want to go. Well not now anyway,”” he said, talking to the giant as though he would be understood. He knew he would get no advice, but the giant would always approve or otherwise and Fern knew how to interpret this change of mood in his magnificent friend.
“I’ve been thinking for a long time about this. I know it is wonderful to have the opportunity to have your voice trained and to be able to sing beautifully, but everyone is different; every voice is different, each with its own style and personality; each unique in its own particular way. I’d love to go to Italy, but I have this odd feeling deep inside me that I should keep my voice as it is now. I tried to tell the priest about my feelings, but I know, like you, he would think I am being very complacent and vain ... I’m making a hash of this explanation, aren’t I,” he stammered and the waterfall continued to roar and the roar echoed through the hills. Fern looked about him realizing the futility of his plea, but he had no other listener, other than the wind.
“I know you’re thinking I’m complacent and head strong; full of vanity and much more besides, and who should be better qualified to tell me of these things than you ...” he went on and the giant roared excessively and with indignation.
“This young man presumes too much,” it seemed to say as Fern glanced up at the skies hoping that somewhere there, he could find an explanation of his thoughts, but the sun streamed lazily through the listless trees, making him screw up his eyes, but with no answer to his dilemma.
“What I am trying to say is if I get the voice trained as an opera singer, it would do little for the folk-songs that I am singing now and I feel that you need to have a particular kind of voice to sing folk-songs, don’t you?” Fern asked aloud and looked about him as if somewhere in the surrounding air, he would get his answer, but the giant simply roared on with complacent approval as blue, silver streaks of torrential ice cascaded down at Fern’s feet and a cloud of white steam rose up to greet him.
“I’ll go even further, old man,” he continued regardless, “I could improve in the quality and in the tone, but I don’t actually want to change the voice. My voice is particular to my needs, don’t you understand” Fern sighed, impatient with himself before he sat down and giggled quietly. “I’d sing for YOU some day, but you won’t let anyone else get a word in edgeways, let alone sing, will you?”
There was a deep hollow sound heard from the depth of the foaming waters below where Fern was standing and the boy stood back in awe as if by some strange miracle, an answer was forthcoming.
“My voice is particular to MY needs also, young man,” ... It seemed to say and roared with even louder indignation
***
Rose washed and cooked for Fern, singing through her chores with a light hearted delight that was her very own. She had always dreamed of having a son and could hardly contain her excitement at having Fern in her house.
“Funny old man is my Mr. Mahon … always gets his own way in the end,” she muttered to herself with a smug grin of endearment, knowing how proud Tom had become when the villagers referred to Fern living at his house. It gave the impression that it was ‘advantageous’ for the boy’s career, where he could study in comfort and sing to his heart’s content, but strangely enough ... he never mentioned the fact that both he and Rose would stop anything they were doing to listen to Fern’s voice as he rehearsed his ballads.
“Fern sings with his heart and his heart is as pure as driven snow,”
Rose would add to all who enquired. Her pride was apparent and her next task was to write to Shona to tell her that she had a ‘brother’, but Rose Mahon had hopes of greater family connections than that.
Dear Shona, Fern began his letter with much pain ...
Thank you for your letter. I am happy that you are doing so well in London and that you are not as home sick as your parents feared you might have been. They keep me informed of all you do and I am happy for you. Please do not worry about your feelings for me, Shona. I completely understand how you feel. The inadequacy is with me and I am full of regret, however, you have said that we must always be truthful and I cannot add more to that.” Fern stopped writing for a moment to look up from the table. Would Shona think his letter was too syrupy, he thought. Would she consider that his words were insincere ... because he was sure they were not, but it was difficult to write a ... well a love letter, if you weren’t really in love with the person to whom your sentiments applied …nevertheless, as he thought of her face that last time he had seen her, he decided to continue. “It would give me great joy and much personal satisfaction if I could share the feelings that are yours, but I know I would only destroy whatever affection we now share if I were to tell you of feelings that were not
mutually shared. I am saying all the wrong things here, and I know it.
I wish you were here and then you would know what I mean and truly how I feel. Of course we will always be friends, Shona, to say otherwise would deflect from the truth, which we hold so valuable. It is the key of all true friendship. The concert went well, I think. I was not plagued by any females and only Miss Harrison, the priest’s housekeeper, wanted to kiss me, so you can see you have no rivals. I was very pleased that I was able to sing something that I had wanted to sing for a very long time. I just felt that the opportunity would never arrive, however, thanks to Father Peter, I did it. Perhaps he will tell you about how he arranged it some time. I think he is quite ingenious and I am favoured with his friendship.
Your father is arranging a further concert which is being held in Glasgow very soon, but I don’t have the actual dates yet and I believe I also have some more recording sessions in London, so we may be able to meet before September when you say, you may next be home.
Please be happy Shona and don’t be too hard on Andrew. He is a very nice chap and I know he feels strongly about you. I return the kiss you sent me and you know you have my deepest and most fervent respects and much love.
Fern
He had hardly posted the letter to Shona when another one came through the letter box as Tom came into the kitchen where Fern was standing with Rose and he looked inquisitively at the post mark.
“Who do we know from Inverness?” he asked, but Fern grabbed the letter enthusiastically and bounded upstairs, two at a time to his room.
Dear Fern,
I am sorry I was unable to tell you that I had to come here to Inverness for the annual Retreat for priests of the Diocese. I hope you are well and happy and still singing those happy songs that give so much pleasure to the hearts of so many. There are two Retreats held, one after the other to accommodate the number of priests.
I was of the impression that I was on the second one, a little later on in the year, but the Bishop informed me by telephone one evening that I was due to attend the first one, owing to the illness of another priest, so I just had to pack and run. I hope by now you are thoroughly dried off from the soaking and that it has had no lasting effects. Did you have a warm bath as I told you to have and are you all right now?
Actually, you truly saved the day in a miraculous way, for I forgot to tell you that the petrol can had a tiny hole in the side and we could have had a further disaster if you hadn’t got back quickly after your run to the garage. I have left a little note with Miss H., should you go to the Presbytery before you read this letter. She will give you all the news. I still don’t know what that ‘something’ could be. You know the something you started to tell me about in the car when it rained.
Can I hear about it on my return?
I must run now, as the bell for the commencement of Retreat means ‘no talking’ until it is over and I know it is going to ring at any moment.
Poor old Peter, I can hear you say, but silence is golden and good for the soul, so I will come back with a halo, a golden one, and then I might begin to look like a certain young singing laddie from Bolarne.
Keep well. See you in two weeks’ time.
Peter.
Fern looked out from the oriole window of his bedroom across the meadow.
“Two weeks ... two weeks,” he muttered to himself and he was lonely, but even if he could get to Inverness, there would be no-one to comfort him. God had booked Peter Spinelli for two weeks for Himself and one learned ...never to argue with God.
Chapter Twenty Two
PETER yawned as the knock came on his door to arouse him from sleep.
“Laudatur Jesus Christus,” “Praised be Jesus Christ.”
He hadn’t heard that intonation since his student days at college and he yawned as he stretched his arms above his head.
“Amen,” he answered dutifully as he had been trained, and threw back the bedclothes, as the sun invaded the sparse room, where soon he would be able to wash in his own primitive floral washbasin and he grinned as he lifted the lower sheet and looked under the bed.
“The complete set ... and all bordered with flowers,” he giggled through his observations, as he shaved and cleaned his teeth and began to look forward to the spiritual fortnight that lay before him. He needed it. Every priest should stand back and take a good look at himself from time to time, he thought. How can you expect to see others, if you can’t see what you are yourself?
As he entered the library, he recognised the faces of some of his former student friends and the chatter and the back-patting went on for what seemed ages, as friend met friend, and the conversation grew more excited by the moment. Peter spotted young O’Donnell as he stood shyly in the corner. He looked older that his twenty eight years with his hair going prematurely grey and a notable absence of that angelic look in his eye. Original clean O’Donnell didn’t look so original anymore mand Peter blushed as he reflected.
“Maybe he’s found out what it’s for...” he thought and hoped that none of his fellow priests went in for mind reading …
“Could I please make an urgent phone call before the Retreat begins, Father?” Peter made his request of the Rector of the College and received his permission.
“Be quick then, Father. We should be ready to start any moment, as soon as the Retreat Father arrives.”
“I shall only be a few moments, Father, thank you.”
Peter dialled the number hastily, but he got the engaged tone. He dialled again.
“Hello, hello, is that Mr. Rutledge, Mr. Curtis Rutledge?” Peter listened to the voice.
“I am ringing to thank you for the courtesy extended to my friend, Fern Zambrano, when we were at the concert at Manning Hall.” Peter nodded and smiled several times into the mouthpiece. “I am rushed for time as I am about to start my annual Retreat at any moment, Sir, but I could not let the time pass before I could get the chance to thank you.
You were out when I called previously and this retreat has come up without my previous knowledge …”
Peter listened intently as the Conductor of the Orchestra spoke and before he spoke himself again. .
“Fern is a remarkable young man, Mr. Curtis-Rutledge, I do agree,” he said enthusiastically and the voice on the other end continued.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Curtis-Rutledge, I couldn’t catch what you said.”
Peter wrinkled his brow as he spoke and the voice came through clear and plain.
“You are a pretty remarkable man yourself, Father Spinelli ...
Good-bye.”
The bell rang ... Everyone stopped talking and the priest who was giving the Retreat smiled at all around and made the Sign of the Cross.
“Veni Creator Spiritus,” he sang, in a not-too-pleasant and rather nasal tone and everyone joined him in the singing, asking the Holy Spirit to guide their lives and to enrich them with the graces of God.
“Mentes tuorum visita.”
The priest raised his hand and closed his eyes and there was silence all around, until he spoke again.
“My name is Father Xavier and as many of you will have guessed from the way in which I am dressed, I am a Franciscan Friar. The Bishop has requested me to give you this Retreat and I would ask you all to pray for its success, that we may all derive the benefits and spiritual revival for which we have come.” He smiled as he looked at the sea of faces before him. “I shall be available at all times, should anyone wish to speak to me and of course, I will be hearing confessions, just as you require.” The little Friar pushed his spectacles higher up the bridge of his nose as he continued …”The curriculum for any young priest who has never been on retreat before, is posted outside in the hall, and as you all know I think... we observe silence as much as possible. Now I wish you all every blessing and ask you please, to pray for me.”
Father Xavier’s plump figure amply filled his dark brown habit and he proudly flicked his white cord which bound his abdomen and which comfortably held his entire frame together. His sandal-clad feet were immaculate, with toes of a carved alabaster appearance and St. Francis of Assisi would have been proud of him. Peter and his colleagues retired to the hall to make notes on the ‘Ordo Diei’
“Nice to see you again Peter…”
Peter looked around in surprise.
“Oh! Hello,-er, Jim.” Peter had almost forgotten O’Donnell’s Christian name.
“This your first Retreat since ordination, Peter?” O’Donnell enquired nervously shifting from one foot to the other as his face broke into a nervous smile …
“Yes, I should have been here last year, but I had a stinking cold which developed into ‘flu’ and I couldn’t make it. Is this your first Jim?”
“No. I’ve been on one before.”
Peter sensed uneasiness about his associate’s demeanour. O’Donnell had always been a man who lived by the rules, to the very extreme. He breathed only for the God who had chosen him to be His priest, and for the God he so happily chose to serve. Everyone admired Jim O’Donnell for his total commitment and detachment from anything or anyone who would interfere with his allegiance to his Maker and Peter shrugged his shoulders as an uneasy silence prevailed and he sensed that O’Donnell had run out of conversation.
“Well ...See you around, Jim. Nice to have met you again,” he said as he shook his friend’s hand and walked back thoughtfully to his room.
“Yes Peter, see you around.” O’Donnell spoke parrot fashion as he rubbed his hands together, “See you around…”
Strict silence had to be observed by everyone throughout the days that followed during the Retreat and. each Retreatant took his turn to read the Scriptures aloud, during meals. They retired each day at eight-thirty in the evening, when the young priests could rest in their rooms and prepare their meditations for the following day when Father Xavier would excel himself in his lectures, particularly on the fires of eternal damnation and life without God ... If by some remote chance ... God should look away …
