The Minstrel Boy

  Desmonde was generally liked by the fathers and with Fr Roberts he was an especial favourite, regarded indeed as a gift from Heaven. With his fellow students he was too exceptional to be popular, being regarded by some as a snob and by others as something of a freak. I am obliged to confess that but for me he might have suffered many indignities from the tougher element in our little community.

  But for all his sensitivity, he was not a coward. On one occasion, when cornered by a group of rowdies, scurrilously taunted, and invited to defend himself, he put his hands in his pockets and, with a smile, advanced his face invitingly.

  ‘I can’t fight you. But if you want to give me a bloody nose, just go ahead.’

  For a moment, a petrifying surprise held the group motionless, an open-mouthed still-life, then mutterings broke out in the horrendous Doric of Winton which could be construed as follows:

  ‘He’s no feart … don’t hit him, Wullie … lee him alane …’ remarks suddenly giving way to wild shouts of laughter, less derisory than flattering to Desmonde, who bowed politely, and, his hands still in his pockets, walked quietly away. But I felt, sure that his heart was beating like mad as he seated himself on the low stone boundary wall with his back to the playground. This was his favourite seat during recreation. He never took part in our rough and tumble games since he had never learned to kick or control a football. But on this perch, disdainfully he read the office of the day or something from Livy, his favourite author. His main preoccupation, however, was to watch the ebb and flow of life in the narrow little street, to drop a coin in the hand of any beggar, deemed legitimate, who importuned him, and above all, especially when the wind blew hard, as it frequently did on the steep hill, to keep an alert weather eye open for the straw-hatted, blue-uniformed girls who made their way, up and down, to the adjacent convent school.

  These girls, all from good-class homes, were naturally regarded by the College as chattering intruders to be ignored with lowered or averted eyes. Desmonde, however, had no such inhibitions: he studied them with curious, impartial detachment, as one might regard a strange, aboriginal race, and his comments, derisory, often amusing, were certainly devoid of amorous yearning.

  ‘Here comes little tubby. I say, doesn’t she waddle! And there’s mother’s darling, note the curly curls. Ribbons too, bless her. Oh, la la! Here’s the tall blonde effort. Rather a smasher, but for those enormous feet!’

  This was merely school-boy nonsense, but on days of real turbulence when sudden gusts swirled downhill sending hats skimming and tempestuous petticoats ballooning to expose chaste blue serge knickers, I felt that perhaps he was carrying the game too far and that it evinced, perhaps, an unrealised attraction towards the other sex. Whether or not, it did become apparent, from bright-eyed side glances and suppressed giggles, that this frieze of young girls had become emotionally aware of the neat, nonchalant young Apollo perched upon the wall, who often produced, from a side pocket, the forbidden cornflower and tucked it in his buttonhole.

  Only one person in the school seemed actively to dislike Desmonde: Fr Jaeger, who took the fifth form, sponsored and trained the football team, a short, tough, ruddy, perennially active little man to whom I soon became devoted and who in his turn seemed to have some interest in me. One day, as I came into his study he suddenly remarked:

  ‘You’re rather intimate with Fitzgerald.’

  ‘Yes, we are good friends.’

  ‘I don’t like soft boys. Have you seen how he sits on the wall staring at the Convent girls, on their way up to school?’

  I checked my reply. No one but an idiot argued with Jaeger. I merely said:

  ‘That wall game is all fun. He’s terribly good. Daily communicant …’

  ‘That makes it all the more dangerous. A soft spot in that apple. I foresee great trouble ahead for your pretty, pious, friend.’

  There the matter ended. Using the sleeve of his old soutane he began to polish his little briar pipe – his one indulgence – and, clenching it between his teeth, unlit, since it was Lent, he launched into his favourite topic: the necessity of a man to keep himself clean, hard, and fit.

  A passionate believer in physical fitness, he perennially greeted the dawn with an ice cold bath, followed by a series of Sandow exercises, and so influenced me that I adopted the habit and followed it faithfully. In his youth, rumour had it, Jaeger had played for Preston North End. Certainly he was madly keen on the game, worked hard with the team, came to all our matches, and nourished the wild ambition that St Ignatius might one day win that most coveted trophy, the Scottish Schools’ Shield.

  Chapter Three

  Yet Fr Jaeger must surely have been mollified, surely Desmonde redeemed himself, when, quite out of character, he suddenly became a regular supporter of the school team. On Saturday mornings he would meet me at the corner of Radnor Street for the tram that bore us to Annesland on the outskirts of the city where the playing field was situated. During the game he posted himself behind the goal of our opponents and when that citadel was pierced, particularly by a shot from my ruthless boot, he broke into an excited variation of the Irish jig.

  Fr Jaeger used to have me to his little study upstairs in the presbytery to discuss tactics before, and after, each game. Long before it became standard practice in the Professional Leagues he insisted that the centre half – myself – should not only act as a defender but should go forward with the ball well into enemy territory and have a shot at goal. And it was indeed this advice which enabled me, not only to delight my friend, but to win games that might otherwise have been lost.

  After the game, whether triumphant or despondent, Desmonde took me back to his house for lunch, where quite often I would find my mother. Desmonde, with his tact and sensitive fine feeling, had brought our surviving parents together, not a difficult matter since both attended the Sunday High Mass at St Ignatius, and it was at once evident that the two women liked each other. I had reason to believe, too, without being presumptuous, that Mrs Fitzgerald approved of my friendship with her son.

  What pleasant occasions these were – always a delicious meal, nicely served in that delightful, beautifully furnished sunny room overlooking the park. And what a treat, especially for my dear mother, who had known such things in the past and lacked them for so many years. After coffee the two women went to the window seat to chat, or to take up some sewing which Mrs Fitzgerald, who worked for the church, could always provide, while Desmonde and I took off on our weekly pilgrimage across the park to the municipal Art Gallery, a fine modern building of red sandstone not far from the Winton University. Already we knew it well and, as a concession to me, we went immediately to the room of the French Impressionists, sat down, and gave ourselves once again to the splendour of some twenty examples of this period. Best of all I loved the Gauguin: two native women seated on the beach against a gorgeous complex of tropic jungle.

  ‘Painted during his first visit to Tahiti,’ Desmonde murmured.

  But my gaze was now on the delicious little Sisley, the Seine at Passy, moving slowly to the equally delicious Vuillard, all lemon and deep purple, then to the Utrillo, a simple street of a Paris faubourg, empty of people but full, oh, so full of Utrillo.

  ‘His best period,’ whispered my mentor. ‘Early, when he mixed plaster with his paint.’

  But I wasn’t listening, absorbing the atmosphere of canvases I now knew so well and coveted so avidly.

  Desmonde then stood up, deciding I’d had enough of the Impressionists, and moved into the corridor. I followed him to the end room given over to Italian paintings of the early and high Renaissance. These Florentine and Sienese religious compositions did not greatly interest me. I sat on the central settee while he made his way slowly round the circular room, stopping now at some particular favourite, peering close, breathing ecstatically, casting his eyes up to heaven.

  ‘You’re being dramatic, Desmonde,’ I said.

  ‘No, Alec. These lovely old treasures, with their spiritual force, t
heir simple grandeur of conception, they induce in me a heavenly state of being. Look at this Piero della Francesca, and this heavenly Madonna, obviously the centre of a three part altar piece, Florentine school about 1500, and this Pietà. Ah, this is my most ecstatic: the Annunciation by Bartolommeo della Porta.’

  ‘Why della Porta?’

  ‘He lived near the Porta Romana. In 1475. A friend of Raphael. I love it so much I managed to get a little reproduction.’

  I waited with exemplary patience while he continued to rhapsodize, until I heard the strains of the orchestra tuning up in the concert hall below. I then stood up.

  ‘Music, maestro, please.’

  He smiled, nodded, and took my arm as we went down the wide stone staircase to the splendid theatre which a benignant corporation had provided for the citizens of Winton, and where on many Saturday afternoons the Scottish orchestra might be heard, free of charge, in programmes of good music.

  As we entered, Desmonde took one of the typewritten sheets at the door.

  ‘Dash!’ he exclaimed as we seated ourselves at the back of the poorly filled hall. ‘No Vivaldi. No Scarlatti. No Cherubini.’

  ‘But glorious T chaikovsky and heavenly Rimsky-Korsakov.’

  ‘Your beastly Russians.’

  ‘They induce in me a state of heavenly being!’

  He laughed, then was silent. The conductor had appeared, greeted by mild hand clapping, and the first strains of the ballet. Swan Lake, swept towards us.

  This orchestra, then beginning to be known in Europe and the United States, was of remarkable quality for a provincial city. The Tchaikovsky was beautifully played and, after the interval, Scheherazade was magnificent.

  When the last notes had died we sat for a moment, recovering, silent, until Desmonde said moodily:

  ‘Nothing for us at the Kings this week, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What’s on?’

  ‘One of these idiotic musical comedies: Maid of the Mountains, I believe. What mountains? Everest, Kanchenjungha or Pook’s Hill? However,’ he added, ‘Mother had word from Dublin that the Carl Rosa will be here quite soon.’

  ‘Good!’ This was another of our passions, secret, and never to be divulged at school where undoubtedly we should be mocked. We both loved opera, and when it was in town would go on Saturday nights to the sixpenny gallery seats in the Kings Theatre. I insisted on this sixpenny outlay, all I could afford, but occasionally Desmonde, who detested the gallery, would produce two tickets for the stalls which he tried to persuade me were complimentary, obtained by his mother.

  ‘The Carla Rosa was jolly good last month,’ I said. ‘I did love the Donizetti.’

  ‘Lucia di Lammermoor.’ Desmonde smiled. ‘Being a Scot, you would!’

  ‘That girl was really superb. The bridal aria is jolly difficult.’

  ‘I’m glad you say bridal, Alec. Crude to call it Mad Song. Yes, she’s Geraldine Moore. Quite the toast of the town in Dublin.’

  ‘She’s a darling, so young and beautiful.’

  ‘I shall certainly tell her that, Alec,’ Desmonde said gravely, ‘ when I meet her.’

  We both laughed. How could we foresee that this lovely and talented woman would play a major part in Desmonde’s future, admittedly hectic, career?

  Most of the audience had now filed out – we usually waited, since Desmonde hated to ‘ crush out with the mob’ – so I now glanced at him.

  ‘Tea?’

  He smiled. ‘Delighted, Alec.’

  My mother, from the beginning of our friendship with the Fitzgeralds, had said: ‘We must not sponge. We must return, as best we can, the hospitality we receive.’

  ‘But surely … we’re not quite …’

  ‘Yes, we are poor,’ she interrupted quite fiercely, ‘but we must never, never be ashamed of it.’

  Desmonde now enjoyed his Saturday tea with me, but his first visit to my home had positively startled him. As we came out of the park and crossed into the mean district of Yorkhill, he viewed the cheap shops therein with ill-concealed distaste, his nostrils dilating as we passed the fish and chip establishment of Antonio Moseno who, already aproned and in his doorway, hailed me across the street.

  ‘Howdya, Meester Shannon. Green pea ready. Chip-a-potata ready twenty meenutes.’

  ‘A friend?’ remarked Desmonde, casually.

  ‘And a jolly good one. He almost gives me double when I go in for a pennyworth of chips.’

  As we passed the little butcher’s at the end of the row, the blue-striped, belted figure within gave me a wave of his arm in greeting.

  ‘That’s another friend.’ I remarked, forestalling my companion. ‘He’s a Scot. And when my mother goes in just before he closes on Saturday night, she gets a first rate bargain.’

  Desmonde was silent, and as we were now climbing the steep hill on which the tenement stood, the reason became obvious. Indeed, when we reached our entrance and climbed the four flights of stairs to the top flat, he steadied himself against me, groping for breath, speechless.

  ‘I say, Alec,’ he wheezed at last, ‘don’t you find this rather too much for you?’

  ‘Nonsense, Desmonde!’ I rather laid it on. ‘ When I’ve had my morning cold bath and run round the building three times – that’s a mile – I absolutely spring up these stairs.’

  ‘You do?’ he said flatly.

  I took out my key, opened the door, and led the way into the kitchen where, before tactfully departing, my mother had spread a clean white cover on the little table and laid out the tea things, with a large plate of newly baked shortbread.

  Desmonde collapsed into one of the two chairs, watching me in silence while I lit the gas ring, boiled the kettle, expertly brewed tea, and filled the two big cups.

  He took a long deep swallow and sighed.

  ‘Terribly good, Alec. Most refreshing.’

  I refilled his cup and passed the shortbread. He took a piece, bit into it experimentally, then his face lit up.

  ‘I say, Alec, this is delicious.’

  ‘Home made, Desmonde. Have another.’

  We set to work on the tea together. Indeed, with some slight assistance from me, Desmonde practically demolished the plateful.

  ‘I’m worse than old Beauchamp with the French cakes,’ he apologised, hesitating before taking the ninth and final piece.

  In reply I gave him his third cup of tea.

  Thoroughly revived now. Desmonde looked around, his eye dwelling upon the curtained alcove behind me.

  ‘Is that where you study, Alec?’

  I drew the curtain aside with my foot, revealing a narrow iron bedstead, neatly made up and spread with a grey counter-pane.

  ‘My mother’s bedroom,’ I said. ‘You want to see mine?’

  He nodded, silently. I took him across the miniature hall and threw open, the door of the other room.

  ‘This is my domain.’ I smiled. ‘Where I sleep, work, and take my exercise.’

  He followed me, in a state of total wonder. The room was completely empty, except for a narrow truckle bed at one end and at the window a little dilapidated fold-down deal bureau, deemed not worth putting in the auction when our home was broken up.

  As he remained still and completely silent, I took an india-rubber from the mantelpiece, threw it against the wall, and as it came back at a sharp angle, caught it.

  ‘My wall game. When I catch fifty, without a fault, I’ve won.’

  Still he did not speak, but came towards me, still with that strange, emotional expression and, to my acute embarrassment, took my hand and went down on one knee.

  ‘Alec,’ he exclaimed, raising his eyes to me, ‘ you are noble, truly noble, as also is your dear mother. To live like this, spartan lives, nobly and cheerfully, is truly saintly. You shame me. Dear Alec.’ His voice broke. ‘ Sign me with the cross and give me your blessing.’

  Dreadfully uncomfortable, I was about to say: ‘For Heaven’s sake, don’t be an ass,’ but for some strange unknown reason I c
hecked myself, murmured the names of the Trinity and marked his upturned forehead with the sign of the cross.

  Instantly he relaxed, got to his feet, and vigorously shook my hand.

  ‘Now I feel I have the strength, the courage to emulate you. I must be hard on myself. And I shall begin now.’ He reflected. ‘It’s a couple of miles from here to my house, uphill most of the way if I cross the park.’

  ‘Slightly more than two miles.’

  ‘Good! I’m going to start now, walking fast, and I promise you I’ll be home in twenty minutes.’

  ‘That would be a fine effort. Desmonde.’

  ‘I’m off then.’ He took his cap from the peg in the hall and went to the door. ‘ Thank you for a delicious tea … and for yourself.’

  I waited a moment while he went clattering down the stone steps, then went to the window of my room. True to his word, Desmonde was on his way, arms swinging, head thrust forward. So he continued, until gradually his pace slackened, he seemed suddenly to flag. He had, after all, eaten a considerable quantity of shortbread. And now, indeed, he paused, removed his immaculate handkerchief from his breast pocket and applied it to his brow, resuming thereafter at a slower, a much slower pace. He was now at the end of the hill road, facing the main street. He paused, stood considering the flow of traffic and, as a cab ambled past, looking for a fare, his right arm shot up. The cab stopped, the door opened and Desmonde flung himself inside.