The Holy City

by Patrick McCabe

  The week before the performance was due to take place in the cathedral I became aware that he had started visiting Ethel’s on a daily basis. In the end I just decided to leave the tractor behind. And just stand there in the alleyway, withdrawing discreetly into the shadows, imagining that the recital was being conducted solely for my benefit. It was just a harmless illusion, that’s all, with his pristine voice sailing through the opening of the raised sash window, wafting out into the drab surroundings, transforming the world through a heart-stirring alchemy.

  As I clasped A Portrait m my two folded hands, elevating my eyes towards the dome of the sky, where, lit by the sun in unclouded splendour, I might have apprehended the towers and pinnacles of the holy city, distantly gleaming by the side of a tideless sea.

  — O Zion, I prayed, put on thy beautiful garments — and be as a bride adorned for her husband.

  I knew Sidney Poitier was the star of the Hollywood film To Sir With Love but that was pretty much all I knew. I had finished up unexpectedly early that evening, I remember, and had been treating myself to a few pleasant glasses in the Good Times, before heading to ‘the pictures’, as they used to call them in Cullymore.

  So it would have been about seven-thirty or eight when I finally made it up to the Magnet. I know that it might be possible to infer, considering my already established patterns of behaviour at the time, that I had spent all that evening following, effectively shadowing, Marcus Otoyo. That maybe, in fact, I had planned the whole thing, unable to help myself. But that really isn’t true — it was just by chance that he happened to be at the pictures. Black though he might have been himself, I would have been very surprised if he had ever heard of Sidney Poitier. So I am sure he just happened, more or less on a whim, to go to the cinema. Yes, the whole thing had happened completely by accident. Of course it had. But of course. I’m certain of that. Yes. Pointless thinking otherwise.

  But I had got such a shock, I remember, when I saw him. I was sure that he’d be at home, availing himself of what little time remained for the purpose of assiduously consolidating his lines.

  A whole three weeks had now elapsed since the night of the disastrous Beachcomber Affair.

  I had been inside the cinema no more than five minutes when I felt the hairs bristling on the back of my neck. In fact, my skin was beginning to crawl. As I realised, with a kind of delicious horror, that he was seated almost directly below me, in the stalls. Like any ordinary, impishly confrontational youth, as I realise now, defiantly draped across the padded upholstery. With a cigarette — I have to confess to being somewhat shocked, although I possessed no such authority — sullenly suspended from his lips. I recalled a line from a classical anthology I had been perusing recently in the library, and which had read: in whose luxuriant confines the desultory convivialists habitually exhibit themselves.

  He was unaccompanied, lolling there casually, uninterested, alone — flicking his cigarette with a kind of awkward, sullen boredom. He was wearing his braided bottle-green blazer. Now and then, in the projection beam, I would see his high glossy forehead suddenly appear. Then I heard him yawn and my heart began to race. As the curtains parted and, unbidden, once more the hymn began its ascent in my mind:

  — Hosanna! I heard, and trembled as I did do. Hosanna to your King!

  As I fled in anxiety from the incipient crash of the mighty brass cymbals, the soaring crescendo of imagined choral voices. My attention, happily, and with incommunicable relief, being unexpectedly diverted by the basso profundo of the onscreen commentator, as a sprightly advert for Blue Band commanded attention in the crackling, dusty darkness.

  — It’s the margarine the whole country is talking about — soft and spreadable, all the way from the USA!

  The film had told the story of a black American teacher relocated to the East End of London. But of its substance I don’t recall a great deal. All I can remember, in any detail worth talking about, is the presentation finally coming to an end. And standing right beside me, as we exited — Marcus Otoyo.

  — Whuh-whuh-what did you think of it, Marcus? I stammered. Whuh-what did you think of Sidney Poitier? Some negro actors can be very good, can’t they?

  I wasn’t even aware of the fact that I had spoken.

  He smiled thinly, as he regarded me with some curiosity. Before responding:

  — Could be. If you say so.

  Yes, that was what Marcus Otoyo said that night, on an otherwise quite unremarkable summer night in 1969, three weeks after the Beachcomber Affair. Yes, three weeks after the Butlin’s catastrophe. As the credits rolled on To Sir With Love, with Lulu’s voice now belting out, fortissimo, rising to its zenith as the swaying velvet curtains closed.

  The following day, which of course was the actual date of the performance, I had spent the whole morning arguing violently with myself. As to whether I ought to attend The Soul’s Ascent or not. I had been so overwhelmed by our conversation in the cinema the night before that my ears were still burning, out of a not unreasonable sense of shame. How could I have gone and said such a stupid thing, I persistently chastised myself. In the end, I made the only decision I could. Even if, to this very day, I still wish I hadn’t.

  For nothing had prepared me — not even Ethel Baird’s unqualified praise, the laudatory rumours I’d been hearing around the town — for the unmatched power of the boy’s prodigious delivery. Of the world-famous hymn by Stephen Adams and Frederick Weatherly.

  — ‘The Holy City’, intoned Canon Burgess, stepping aside as he introduced Marcus. Our Blessed Martin de Porres.

  The boy’s eyes, mindful of his duties as a performer and out of respect for the work of the authors, were already tightly shut.

  It would have been better if I had vacated the cathedral there and then. With an alacrity similar to that displayed in the Beachcomber Bar the night of ‘the affair’. When I had quit the building and not bothered to return. Yes, I ought to have instantly removed myself from that cathedral. I didn’t, however. I couldn’t find the strength within me to do so. Like everyone else, I was stirringly captivated.

  The interior was flooded by a dull scarlet light that filtered through the lowered blinds and the rustle of pamphlet pages ebbed and swelled like a sweetly hushing wave. Which acted as a counterpoint to the magisterial chords of the pipe organ in the gallery as the first few notes came from his thick, parted lips:

  — Last night I lay a-sleeping there came a dream so fair,

  I stood in old Jerusalem beside the temple there.

  I heard the children singing and ever as they sang

  Methought the voice of angels from heaven in answer rang,

  Methought the voice of angels from heaven in answer rang —

  In a twist of serpentine purple, the incense continued twining upwards as the pendulous silver thurible swung, temporarily obscuring the boy’s darkly shining countenance, so overcome with emotion that his cheeks too were stained silver by his tears. As he gestured expansively before an altar heaped with blossoms. White flowers that were clear and silent as his soul, a soul as radiant as the Eucharist itself.

  — Jerusalem! Jerusalem! Lift up your gates and sing!

  Hosanna in the highest! Hosanna to your King!

  As I bowed my head, my soul irrevocably snared, held for ever in abject bondage. But, paradoxically, also finding its release. For I had never experienced anything quite like this: gone now were the confusions, the cumulative assaults of fallen hope and wounded pride. And in their place, an inexpressible ecstasy.

  Truly glorious.

  For that simple reason — I still remained in a state of excelsis — I decided afterwards to make it my business to locate Dolly. Who did her shopping late, in the Five Star. Taking such a decision in itself was quite remarkable — an indication in itself of just how far weakness and timidity had fallen from me.

  Thus, on the very dot of five o’clock, I found myself striding into the Five Star supermarket, and, as luck would have it, within seconds, h
appening upon the lady in question. And who looked, I have to say, even more beautiful than ever on this occasion.

  I made it my business to engage her immediately in conversation. I couldn’t stop talking, actually, such was the effect the performance had exerted. I don’t think I had even switched off the engine of the Massey. I think, perhaps, that, in retrospect, I may have made her uneasy — displaying such an effusive and quite forthright manner. I mean it’s not what Protestants expect or tend to be comfortable with. But then Dolly had always been different, I persuaded myself. Always had been. A Protestant in a league of her own — that was how I’d always thought of Dolores McCausland. And why I felt certain that, given a moment or two, she would come round.

  Which is the reason I found myself extremely startled, very taken aback indeed, when I heard her announce, very sharply, that she intended leaving town. Was packing her bags the following Thursday, in fact.

  As soon as I heard her say it, almost immediately I found myself beginning to regret the cold detachment and indifference that had become a part of our relations towards the end. And couldn’t stop thinking of all the fun we’d had in the beginning — all those nights in the Mayflower and the Good Times, singing and dancing: and how I was sad that it hadn’t worked out.

  For, at the back of it all, I think that Dolores had genuinely expected — had been confident, in fact — that she and I would eventually become engaged. But it was not to be. I set my teeth and summoned what reserves of self-possession remained, but could sense the commingling forces of confused ardour and regret beginning to converge. Doing my best to simultaneously evade and deny them, tapping my foot as I leaned against the brass checkout rail:

  — Yes, the great Summer of Love, it now draws to a close. Will you ever forget it — the Beatles, the Animals, Eric Burdon! In the dirty old part of the city, where the sun refuse to shine! Yeah!

  — It’s lovely to meet you, she said, but I really now must be going.

  — Is it because of the letter? I asked.

  — That’s not the only thing, she said. The letter was one thing …

  — What else could there be?

  — Maybe you should ask your little black friend, she said bitterly.

  It was only later that I was to learn that some difficulty had developed between Dolores and Marcus’s mother. Who had discovered something she did not quite appreciate about her lodger and former friend. Had not liked at all what she had discovered, regarding certain unwholesome affections between Dolly Mixtures and her son. And, like any mother, did not find herself disposed to laying the blaming on the boy.

  — Please, Dolly! Don’t go yet! I implored her.

  She gathered up her belongings and groceries, refusing to acknowledge me as I accompanied her towards the exit.

  — Did you ever think of seeing someone? she said then, turning abruptly — and these were to be her parting words to me, as she added:

  — It might be a good idea before you start deceiving other people, Christopher.

  — But it was you! You did it with him — that night in Butlin’s!

  — You know what I’m talking about, now if you don’t mind I have to go.

  And as I watched her walking down the road — suddenly somehow seeming much older, with her sheepskin ill-fitting and her headscarf somewhat drab — I shook my head and mused, regretfully: Yes, she had been beautiful, my Dolores.

  And maybe in another universe the two of us could have made it — lived a fulfilled and contented life as Mr and Mrs Christopher Thornton. With the ceremony being performed by both a vicar and a Catholic priest — just to keep all sides happy, as they say. How beautiful that might have been, I considered. But now, for ever — to remain a mystery.

  In any case, as I knew only too well, something even more beautiful had happened. In a Catholic cathedral that very day. How could I have been so fortunate? I struck my breast in gratitude, reproaching myself for former failings and shortcomings of belief.

  Then I drove the Massey out to the Nook, chanting ‘The Holy City’ all the way there. Before searching for and finding the single item that I loved more than anything in the world. I was like a kid on Christmas morning, for heaven’s sake, preparing to wrap it up in brown paper, pausing for a moment to admire its metallic cover, the gold-leaf lettering arched above its many water-coloured wonders — including the clear crystal fountain, the two looping bluebirds and the fantailing sprinkle of silver, nightfalling stars. A Child’s Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson, its tide read. Kissing the cover and tucking it excitedly underneath my arm, before heading, immediately, back into town.

  22 In the Holy of Holies

  The new Novotel in the centre of Cullymore East is one of a number which have been constructed in recent times and I have only just been reading that plans are already afoot to begin work on yet another thousand-room, conference-hosting establishment — a Radisson, this time, I believe. Which, it has been proposed, will be sited in the centre of the Plaza, not far in fact from the place where Green Shield Stamps used to be.

  Vesna and I used to go to the Novotel every weekend. That is to say before what you might call the ‘final betrayal’. To which I’d been alerted by the Perfidia website. Which, as a matter of course, cautioned all spouses, without exception, against complacency. Common manifestations of deceit. Adultery — signs to look out for, the masthead read.

  I used to enjoy it there in the Novotel, though, with Vesna touching my hand as we relaxed there together, sipping a drink or taking afternoon tea perhaps. As the noiseless glass lift elevated and descended, with the pearly disc of the receptionist’s head bobbing so gently.

  The manager liked to see us coming in and generally made it his business to join us. Just for a little while to ensure that we were comfortable. He is a man in his forties, customarily attired in a sharp pinstripe suit, with a high collar and tie and an oval face which seems softer, a little less featureless than many of the others. I used always to listen dutifully to his dithering and fussing and can only hope that my nods were both appropriate and convincing. He still asks about her, obviously, whenever he happens to see me. So I just trot out the usual fluff about Dubrovnik.

  — Ah, she’s gone to see Mama, he smiles, his egghead unmoving like a great massive dot.

  Featureless, however, though his countenance might have been, it was plain to me quite early on that the Eggman hotelier harboured certain affections for Vesna from Dubrovnik, touching her, I noticed, in a manner quite inappropriate at times. Not in a sexually intimate way — just little glancing brushes along her arm or the back of her hand.

  Not that I blame him. Indeed it would be churlish not to say childish of me to do so — especially whenever Vesna was sporting one of her more figure-hugging numbers. She had come a long way now from her old-fashioned image, when she looked like someone thirty years out of date, who ought to have been strumming a stupid guitar, crooning ‘Moon Shadow’ or some comparable drivel. She even had a photo of herself looking like that, with a bunch of her friends sitting with guitars near a beach hut somewhere, waving at the camera in their bikinis and blue jeans as if to announce: Our songs will save the world, iss good?

  * * *

  The Mood Indigo Club, as it happens, is actually making a fortune now, or so I heard from Mike when I met him recently. Thanks to the enduring popularity of the sixties ‘retro’ boom. The Chordettes, as a result, having decided to completely remodel themselves, dropping the Las Vegas image altogether, he tells me. Yes, the wide lapels, frilled shirts and gold chains have all, apparently, gone. With yachting blazers and neat grey slacks now the order of the day, a trend best decribed, perhaps, as ‘grandpa chic’. He asked me in for a Martini and I agreed, as it slipped down finding myself returning to that final day in Cullymore. When I made my way across the fields, along the railway track that led to their little restored greenhouse.

  This was the evening of ‘the great performance’, a mere few hours after Marcus Otoyo had tak
en the town by storm, delivering a rendition of ‘The Holy City’ that would be talked about years hence in the town. Which was the reason, of course, that I’d waited in the main street for an opportunity to present to him the golden treasury, and to congratulate him on a truly wonderful performance. I’d seen it, really, as a token of gratitude. Simply wanted to display my appreciation. Of his bountiful talents and achievements.

  That it didn’t work out is unfortunate, that’s all. It didn’t happen, and there isn’t really a lot more you can say. And, in a way, it was nobody’s fault. Although I did probably come across as excessively enthusiastic, far too eager by half. Such an approach was almost inevitably going to embarrass a boy of his tender age. So, no matter how one views it, I had essentially been the architect of my own misfortune. And, hardly had the words even left my mouth, than I myself became aware that this was indeed the case. But in no way does it excuse my subsequent behaviour. Which was heedless, to say the least — quite callous, in fact. Maybe even unforgivable, in the eyes of some people.

  There was one unfortunate individual in particular, I remember, a regular lady customer of mine, as it happened, who had made a point of calling me over — apparently she wanted to cancel the following week’s egg and milk order. Explaining, quite reasonably, that she had changed her plans and was going away on holiday.

  — Hello, Christopher, she’d called, signalling from across the street. I wonder could I have a wee word?