We present an extract from Night Music, the debut short story collection from Fergus Cronin.
In these tense, by turns troubling and uplifting stories, Cronin reveals the savagery, the tenderness and the humour that is at the heart of human nature.
From A Feint
Margaret Moran was one of those souls of the earth whose time was passed in fastidious solitude. Her life didn't seem to add up to very much. There were her hens and cats. There were plain biscuits. There was a reluctance towards the ordinary rumblings of the world, almost a dowdiness. She kept to herself largely. No excitements. No loves. But she was noted. Grief had boarded with her since she lost her mother. Some part of her mind was torn. If there was one thing that enthralled her, it was the church. She would spend whole days praying and dawdling there. Helping out with the flowers and the cleaning, she was too reserved to be involved as a lay minister or with the collections. Her contribution was her steadfast, silent and reliable presence. And that was noticed. It was noticed by those who weren’t running around chasing their tails. She loved to hear the choir, and loved it even more when MJ played the organ. When they were both much younger, she would sit there and listen to him practice, giggling when he went on one of his solo runs, maybe jazzing it up a bit. MJ noticed her. He thought she was a fine-looking girl and he’d liked to imagine that he was playing specially for her. Time might have seen his soft spot for her grow into something else. He was very busy though, learning his carpentry and his cabinet making; too busy in himself to recognise much about himself, to discover other passions. So apart from his work and the organ, he had no desires. As they grew older, Margaret and himself continued to share a peculiar space, all of their own. They sometimes even shared their thoughts, awkwardly.
She might say, 'Ooh, I never heard... Ooh, it was just wonderful. What you played there. I dunno it took me... I dunno, it was beautiful. No I never... ’
And he might say, ‘That was Bach, Margaret. That’s B. A. C. H. He was a German, you know. Oh, you can’t beat the Germans. I mean of course for the music. The church music any way. I need to get more even with the bass of it. Sure maybe I’ll have to fix up the old machine a bit. Oh sure look, the workman always blames his tools. Now.’
That’s what he called it — the old machine. That would be it. And they would go on their ways. In later years, it crossed his mind that maybe he and Margaret, in his words to himself (and for sure to the bold Fence as well), ‘might be good at something together.’ He never gave a whole lot of thought to what it might be that they’d be good at though. The Fence asked him once (though the Fence had no idea after, that he did in fact ask).
‘What... my friend... do you say, do you say, do you think... you’d be at together? What do you think... do you say? Huh?’
No one ever heard what Margaret would have made of all that. And if Finnerty never asked her, sure, how would anyone know? Sure, who would she say it to anyway?
*
The organ gave a false start, the pipes moaning as Elizabeth West tested a scale. The silence that followed was broken only by her own impatient muttering. Finnerty jerked on his stool. Then a note flew off Diane’s violin. More silence. Then another lower, more plaintive note, and richer in tone. Finnerty held his breath. The organ replied in tune, followed by an audible sigh of relief from the older woman, and a quieter release of air from Finnerty. There was the sound of pages turning, a short choppy intro from the organ, and the choir launched into a shy ‘Nearer my God to Thee’. The priest paraded onto the altar followed by his servers—a middle-aged man and woman in their civ vies. Father Paul commanded his altar in a princely way as he moved briskly through the mass.
Vestiges of his smile swam about him even though he had his serious face on. Like a good actor, he had ‘presence’.
Finnerty had settled himself down in the shadows near the organ. He followed Elizabeth West’s moves intently. She was winning in her struggle with the creaky mechanisms, and the ‘old machine’ was holding up. She was able to anticipate the dud or lazy keys and stops as she pushed the choir. The choir had perked up and worked their way through a passable version of Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria’ before they came to a satisfied rest. All the while, Finnerty watched and listened. His small, focused expression betrayed none of the tension that he was feeling. Then after a short delay, to allow everyone to settle, the priest stepped up to the microphone.
‘So my good people, we remember Margaret. She was a good woman. She was true to Jesus’s instruction "Love thy neighbour as thyself ". Margaret was a comfort to the poor, and she was poor herself. But her spirit was not poor. No, it was rich with love. Love for Jesus. Love for His Church. Simple, simple love. Margaret was a devout woman of love.’
Father Paul went on to recount the simplicity of Margaret’s life. How she was a woman of small needs and few words; how she loved her cats and her garden; how she was loved by everyone who knew her. There was a round of warm applause. He finished with a blessing, and rose on the altar to end the mass. Finnerty hadn’t paid too much attention to the priest’s words due to the tension rising in himself. Now he was on his feet and calling out.
‘Eh. Eh, Father. Father.’ Finnerty held up his bandaged right hand in an alert.
The priest stopped what he was about to do and looked up at the balcony. The congregation slowly turned to see what might be happening. The priest then remembered and went back to the microphone, tapped to check it was still live, and said, ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ The congregation turned back to the altar, and Finnerty sat back down. The priest clasped his hands and continued.
‘And now we have come to a special moment. A... special, yes. A performance for Margaret from... yes.’ He looked to the balcony again, pleadingly. But he needn’t have worried. Finnerty had signalled to the Wests, and the music started.
It was ‘Ave Maria’ again, this time by Bach and Gounod. For violin and organ. Performed by the Wests, mother and daughter.
Diane West started the piece on violin. The first notes opened the door Finnerty had hoped for. The church acoustics resonated to the playing way better than to anything that was ever played there before; as he had imagined it might, but could never really allow himself to believe. His tension eased into a slow rapture as the piece developed. When the organ came in, it sounded wonderfully different to anything he had ever achieved with his darling machine. Elizabeth West had found her way into the confidence of the old thing. She found the strains and the fluency to lay down a marvellous bedrock, allowing her daughter’s violin to state clearly, and rhythmically, the plaintive tone of the piece. The intense excitement of his feelings was something new for Finnerty, but this path to his enjoyment was only truly opening for the first time, so he couldn’t begin to explain it. He hoped that Margaret was enjoying it too.
The congregation below sat in silence. A silence that had set out reluctant had become stubborn, but was now not wanting to end. This music went into the people’s souls, more t ha n the light, more than any words, more than any God could do.
Finnerty was ecstatic in himself. He felt happier than he had ever been before. Every thing he’d done had been justified.
The music ended, the mass ended, the silence ended. Margaret was removed to her grave and everyone carried some joy away with them. The two Protestant ladies brought home two hundred euros. It was supposed to be one hundred, but Finnerty was still transported when he counted it out for them. They thanked him politely and made off. As they walked down the avenue, Elizabeth said, ‘You know Di, I believe we should have the parlour brightened up. It’s beginning to hurt my eyes.’
*
Later, in the evening, a very contented Michael John Finnerty sat up beside Tomasheen ‘The Fence’ Garvey at Comiskey’s counter. The last of the sun washed warmly across their workmen’s hands.
‘You wouldn’t believe it, Fence, what I had to go through to make sure that woman got the send-off she deserved. I wished she could have been there to hear it.’
The Fence, on the misty verges, threw his bit in.
‘But she was, MJ. I k now she was. Sure wasn’t I just talkin’ to her. And she saying to me "ooh it was just wonderful... ooh wasn’t it just beautiful ". And I asked her who was doing the playin’? Was it MJ Finnerty on his old machine? says I. And she says "Oh noo. It was far better than that fella. Ooh, it was out of this world."’
The Fence roared out a laugh. MJ was nimble on his feet too.
‘No denying it, Fence, you must’ve been on guard duty down at the river today, so. Like that fierce dog... what did he go by? Three heads just like you. What did they call him? Like the old salt. Where’s Hayes when you need him?’
Both men laughed.
Then Finnerty flexed his right hand, gave it a shake and reached over with it to put a firm grip on his pint.
‘Jesus lord,’ he said, ‘that feckin’ bandage had me crippled all day. Any way, I think I deserve an Oscar for that performance. Here’s to all our betters!’
‘You never fooled me with your ol’ chisel story, MJ. Either way you didn’t miss a stroke, in fairness. Never would my friend. She had the right coins on her to boot. Sure why wouldn’t she, and you the feck in’ ferryman an’ all? What was that boat lad ’s name? What was that he went by? Where the feck is the feck in’ schoolteacher when you need him?’ The Fence gave another loud laugh, although it was never easy to work out any of the sounds he’d be making.
The night drifted on, both men sticking together while going their separate ways. Keeping each other company. Waiting for the bell.
Night Music is published by Doire Press.
