Love is my Destiny Page 12

  Was this the feeling that he had before? Was this the feeling that God was closer to him than he ever thought possible? The beautiful tenor sound that came from such a small young frame was not the usual sound of a young male singer. It had a quality of purity; even inadequately described as ‘angelic’ and the magic of the moment belonged to all who listened.

  “Encore ... Encore” “More, more” they cried and the applause became a hand clap, changing from a mad sound of frenzy to a single clapping of the hand, followed by the rhythmic stamping of feet; a demonstration of their resolute respect and appreciation. The Conductor raised his baton and the audience came to order as Fern stepped forward and the spotlight followed him to the centre of the stage.

  ‘If she should fall to earth from high; sway in the air, and should she prick her eye on thorn, or bruise her breast on brittle corn. Wee birdie blindly meet the dawn, then LOVE has looked away, but should she fly in happy flight, and kiss the paling moon Goodnight, If God should bring her to His light, THEN LOVE HAS LOOKED HER WAY. . .

  The applause resumed even more loudly than before, Feet were stamping and people came from the auditorium to get up on the stage as Peter stood proudly in the wings. He could not believe what he had heard, and yet, he had been prepared for anything, or so he had thought as Miss Harrison smiled at him through her tears, and Tom kept repeating that he knew ‘they’ could do it. Peter, usually so restrained, wanted to shout to everyone that Fern was HIS friend and he wanted to share Fern’s triumph, as if it was his own as he watched the boy’s modest reaction to the audience. He watched the professionalism as the young man took his applause with total absence of self-esteem which made his innocence and quiet standing so much more admirable. His whole mannerism and poise drove the applauding mass into frenzy and stimulated them beyond belief, when Fern sang another two Scottish ballads before Peter caught the eye of the conductor and nodded to him with a knowing smile.

  Mr. Curtis-Rutledge accepted the signal and struck the music stand gently with his baton to alert the orchestra as Fern stood silently awaiting the encore he had prepared should it be necessary, but the Maestro put his hands together and rested his head on one side. He put his joined hands under his cheek to denote someone asleep and the orchestra knew their instructions but Fern was confused by the musical accompaniment he could hear and he glanced across the stage to where Peter was standing. The priest put his thumb in the air and smiled, as Fern stood rooted under the circle of light that enfolded him completely, but Tom Mahon stood infuriated ... His eyes blazed with rage and he turned to Peter with his fury.

  “You can’t allow this, Father Spinelli. You must NOT allow it. You will ruin any chance of a career that we had thought Fern might have.

  For God’s sake, stop this madness. I forbid it. Do you hear,” he cried, but by this time the leader of the orchestra had taken his cue, gliding his bow with grace across the strings of his violin and the others followed. The cello, deep and sonorous, strung it’s way lazily into the sounds of the haunting refrain and Fern looked up from where he was standing. His ears responded lovingly to the sound he was hearing, but he was afraid as he looked again into the wings and saw that Peter was still standing there. Mahon had marched off in disgust afraid of the ridicule that he was sure was about to befall him, but it was too late to stop the orchestra now. The match had been struck and the bonfire was already ablaze.

  Tom Mahon rung his hands in despair… He wished he had never set eyes on the priest from Bolarne, but Fern knew that the moment was his. He had been trapped into an enigmatic situation which gladdened his heart but destiny was demanding its due and Fern could only capitulate. He raised his head and gazed at the chandeliers as they darkened gradually into oblivion. A sea of silent faces was silhouetted before him in the shadowy arena of hushed expectancy and he could see again a gentle pale face before his eyes haunting him with loving compulsion. She whispered and his heart was stilled and overcome with peace as a tear formed in the corner of his eye. The crowd screamed with encouraging enthusiasm like a cascade of the waterfall that he knew so well.

  “Sing, my darling, sing,” she said and the tear fell in response to his mother’s appeal as the music stopped with a sudden halt and the first pure note of his sweet tenor voice rang out in splendid defiance of his tender youth. Fern knew that the moment was his as the delicate masculine sound of his voice filled the air.

  ‘Nessun dorma ... Nessun dorma ‘

  His pronunciation was impeccable and without flounder as he sang his song of love.

  ‘Ma il mio mostero e chiosu in me,

  Il nome mio nessun sapra!

  No, no, sulla tua bocca lo dira,

  Uando la luce splendra ...’

  Mahon still refused to accept the situation and confronted Peter again with his protestations as he ran back and forth nervously, wringing his hands.

  “It is still not too late ... Please, Father. Get them to draw down the curtains. The boy could be ill. He could faint ... well couldn’t he?”

  “Sssshhh….”

  Peter put his finger to his lips without taking his eyes from the singer as Mahon looked on in defeat; his face red with fury and humiliation, but the auditorium was enraptured in a hushed silence and only one voice could be heard.

  ‘Ed il mio bacio sciogliera

  Il silenzio che to fa mia!’

  Mahon could stand it no longer. He put his hands over his ears for the final disaster that he KNEW was inevitable ... but he need not have troubled. The voice continued with strength and confidence and with supreme calm and mystical assurance throughout.

  ‘Dilegua o notte! Tramontate stelle!

  Tramontate stelle ... All alba vincero.

  Tom Mahon took his hands from his ears and looked at Peter as the finale brought him the realisation of his folly. He took Peter’s hand and the priest smiled as they both turned towards the stage. Fern’s eyes were ablaze with a light they had never seen before. He raised his arms as though in adoration as his clear voice poured out through the auditorium.

  ‘Vincero! ... . .Vincero!.’

  Then he bowed and the hall was filled with silence ... but only for a moment, before the audience went berserk and screamed their applause.

  They solo clapped and broke into shouting one word ... ONE NAME … FERNANDO, FERNANDO, FERNANDO.

  They chanted high above the screams and the excitement, “Will ye no come back again?”

  The song commenced at the front row and was taken up row by row until the entire gathering was singing in praise of their young hero.

  Mahon by this time had joined the throng of admirers and could not stop shouting the praises of his protégé. His eyes popped with excitement and joy and he wanted to shout so that all could hear, “I knew WE could do it.” he screamed, but a lump caught in his throat as he dried his eyes and Peter moved silently away from where he was standing in the wings to contemplate the scene that he had just witnessed and a cold shiver ran down his spine. He wanted to run ... run away somewhere, anywhere. He did not want to accept the feelings that had invaded his soul at that moment. He was captive to an emotion that hurt him and which he did not want to understand.

  “This young man was born to sing,” he said quietly ‘I will reveal it only on your lips,” When daylight shines forth and my kiss shall break the silence that makes you mine!’

  The blood rushed through the young priest’s head and he clasped his hands to his ears. The crowd were shouting for more. ‘Encore ...

  Encore’ but Peter only heard one sound, one voice torturing the innermost part of his soul with delightful pain.

  ‘The silence that makes you mine ...’

  ***

  Fern came from the stage and was met by Tom Mahon who hugged the boy and tousled his hair affectionately.

  “You were a naughty boy ... You know tha
t, don’t you?” he cried, “but I’m so proud of you Fern.”

  Fern smiled and his face was illuminated.

  “Where is Father Spinelli?” he asked and Tom Mahon wet his lips with his tongue.

  “He’s here, somewhere. At least he was a minute ago, but we can talk about him later. There are more important things to consider for the moment ... Much more important things…” he said, but as Fern looked anxiously for his friend, Peter appeared from the shadows of the surrounding props.

  “Can I have your autograph, Mr. Zambrano Sir?” he mused and as Fern stood before his priest friend, there was a tranquillity of understanding more poignant than words, between them as they looked at each other. The eyes said everything that had to be said, but it was Fern who broke the silence.

  “Thank you, Father ... for everything. I was very nervous, you know,” Peter looked at the ground.

  “You were not alone,” he added softly.

  Rose Mahon had appeared from the ‘ladies’ where she had retired to make up her face before the return journey home, even if her make-up consisted of a light dust of talcum powder ... and she was shaking with emotion, as she put her arms around Fern without saying a word. The journey home to Bolarne was alive with excited chatter and the choir talked of nothing else but the voice they had heard and had given them all so much of an unexpected surprise. The coach sped homewards accompanied to the strains of Scottish ballads. Peter and Miss Harrison came home by car and Fern returned home with Tom and Rose, but Tom didn’t stop talking the whole of the journey while Rose fell asleep, and Fern thought about Shona. Her effect on him was greater than he had thought. He could not get her from his mind and yet, his soul longed for a love other than hers. A longing that was incomprehensible and disturbing but which pursued him vehemently and would not let him go.

  ***

  Fern rose the next morning with a fresh outlook after the night before, as he reflected on the ‘glory’ of the hour and he smiled. It was exciting and even more so now, AFTER the event. He washed, dressed and was about to leave the house when Laura stepped into the hall.

  “Good morning, Sir,” she quipped as he passed “How was your evening of song, then?” Fern stopped in his path and looked down but he did not answer. “This yours?” she asked, producing his kilt pin, which she held between her thumb and forefinger. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” she went on… still looking at the boy’s face. “You must have dropped it, Cinderella, as you left for the ball.”

  Fern looked at the pin with its amethyst crown and realized he must have lost it when he came home and had undressed downstairs to avoid waking Stephen or Laura. He leaned towards her to retrieve it but she withdrew from him and put the pin into her pocket.

  “Surely there should be a reward for such a find?” she sneered, but Fern made no answer and walked towards the door. “Not even a little kiss for mummy?” she mocked and her eyes took on a hard look of defiance. Fern stopped and he could feel the anger gripping him as he turned around and stared at her He was livid but no words would come to relieve his provocation and he stared long and steadily at Laura without blinking an eye as she shifted uneasily and took the pin from her pocket, offering it to him. He put out his hand, but she quickly put the clip into her bosom, smiling as she did so.

  “If you want it, you can have it,” she snarled but Fern turned away from her and left the house quickly, slamming the door behind him before he ran down the road. He wanted to get away ... right away as far as he could from the woman who taunted him so cruelly and had a way of getting right under his skin and hurting where it affected him most.

  He wanted to see Peter, but he faltered. It would be helpful to talk to the priest and forget the problem of the moment, but he remembered that Peter was a priest and he had his work to do where he could not be expected to resolve all Fern’s problems on tap. Sadly he realized that and made his way to the waterfall.

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE NOISE WAS DEAFENING as Fern approached the giant and a warm spray touched his face like a welcome kiss, as he sat down to tell his friend of the events of the night before… The conversation that took place was almost mystical where no words were spoken, yet agreements and decisions were reached and fantasies quashed at the meeting of the boy and his giant friend. There were no illusions here; no false gestures of respectability. That was only reserved for the conversation with mere humans ... Here he was, free and able to be himself, and his friend had nowhere to go ... nor none else to see, but him ... This was unity ... this was peace, but his solitude was not to last.

  “I thought I might find you here.” Peter put forward his hand to help Fern to his feet. “I had one of the happiest evenings of my life last night, Fern, and I do want you to know how much pleasure I received from your concert and I’m sure I speak for everyone who was there.”

  Fern started to speak but Peter put his fingers on the boy’s lips.

  “Hush your mouth,” he said and smiled with his eyes. “How long have you been singing, Fern? It must be nearly ten years now, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, since I was about seven.”

  The priest gazed in appreciation of this remarkable young man before him. He was completely astounded by the magnificence of his voice.

  “Even as a boy soprano?” he quizzed amusingly.

  “It must have started then, I suppose.”

  Peter glanced at the waterfall, narrowing his eyes as the spray hit his face.

  “You MUST make this your career, you know that,” he insisted and the boy looked to the ground shyly and blinked as he too accepted the baptism that his giant friend dispensed so liberally.

  “Yes, I would like to do that, but there are difficulties.”

  “What are they?” Peter enquired, “Surely they can be resolved.”

  The priest walked towards his car as he spoke and invited Fern to follow.

  “I wanted to go to Italy for further training,” he mumbled, “But that was when I was younger and apart from the financial problem, I just don’t have the means to travel and live abroad even if I get a full grant, and besides.” Fern stopped talking and rubbed his hand across his brow.

  “Besides what…?

  “It is difficult to explain, Peter.”

  “Try me,” said the priest and Fern fumbled for words to express his feelings.

  “Well, if I go to Italy and even if I was offered the training,” He halted again and Peter opened the car door for him to get in, where he sat down clumsily and Peter started the car.

  “Well, what?” Peter enquired as he strained in the side mirror, trying to avoid a large rock as he reversed. Fern coloured a little.

  “You’ll think I’m very vain and self-opinionated if I tell you,” he said softly and Peter smiled.

  “I think you’re very vain now, tartan laddy, so you might as well tell me.”

  Peter raised his eyebrows in amusement of his perceptions and Fern grinned.

  “Maybe someday, I will be able to explain,” he replied in a low voice and the rain began to fall, becoming heavier as they drove on. Peter took the opportunity to park in a lay-by as the windscreen wipers were working in vain and he turned to Fern as he applied his brakes.

  “I think we had better stay here for a while, until the rain stops,” he suggested and Fern’s eyes grew wide as Peter produced a Mars bar.

  “Yes” Peter smiled as he held the chocolate towards Fern and the boy readily accepted.

  As Fern sat beside the priest, he realised that this was the one man with whom he had already been able to talk and relax in his company even in the short space of time that he had known him. He sighed contentedly as he unwrapped the chocolate bar.

  “Why did you become a priest?” Fern asked suddenly as he bit into the chocolate bar and the question took Peter by surprise.

  “We are talk
ing about your career to be ... not mine that is already here,” he answered but Fern knew that somewhere in their conversation there was a profound reason why this man had become a priest. He was also aware that it was not the time to enquire ... nevertheless ... he persisted.

  “Did you ever ... have you ever loved anyone?” Fern enquired feeling sure that at some time, this handsome man must have had feelings of love for someone but the priest ignored the question philosophically.

  “You have to slam the car doors or they won’t close properly,” he added ... “I need a new car, don’t I?” but Fern ignored the incident of the faulty doors and they drove on as the sun broke through the clouds to warm the air as they made their way home to Bolarne... but the cleric would not talk of any love in his life, either past ... or present and Fern nodded off to sleep as Peter hummed one of the songs from the previous evening’s entertainment. His thoughts were full of the voice that he had heard and enjoyed so much at the concert and still found it unbelievable that such a young man could possess such a beautiful voice. He glanced quickly at Fern whose hair had fallen over his forehead as usual, but Peter would not disturb his dreams and left him to snooze soundly as he continued to drive.

  Fern woke up as Peter was using some very ‘unclerical’ language since he had tried to get the car moving, but without success. The bonnet lid was left high in the air as the young priest returned to the car and sat down heavily.