Chapter IV

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,

Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.

William Shakespeare, The Tempest

The following day, Brennan and Terry headed for their sister’s flat after enjoying the afternoon at the RAF Museum in Hendon. Terry, who spent most of his working life in the sky, was floating on air again today, as he reminisced about the Flying Fortresses, Lancasters, Messerschmitts, and other iconic aircraft they had seen. Brennan was caught up in it too; he understood completely why his brother had a passion for planes and flight.

Passing a news agent’s on the way back to Molly’s place, they glanced at the papers on display and saw that the composite sketch put out by the police in Essex had resulted in the identification of the Colchester murder victim. The police now had a name for him but were withholding it until they were able to notify the family.

Conn was at Molly’s when Brennan and Terry arrived. He was seated at the table, writing something on a pad of paper. “Invitation list for the wedding,” he said, waving the paper in their direction. “Tess said we should suss out how many will be on the guest list, so we can plan accordingly. I figured Molly would be the best person to ask about family. I’d ask my da but, if Tess wants the wedding in Belfast, he may not even be allowed to cross the border. So it might be a bit insensitive to get into this with him.”

“Ah,” said Brennan. Conn’s mother had died of a heart attack a few years before, so it would be the mother of the bride who would be charged with most of the planning. But that was the case usually anyway, was it not? Brennan knew the Burkes would pitch in and help however they could. But Conn was right: Finn might have had some history in the North, so who knew whether he would even make the ceremony.

“Hi, Mum!”

Everyone turned to the door. A tall, slim young woman came in. She had short blond hair with bangs, a fringe in English ­parlance, which accentuated her huge blue eyes. She had the look of the British girl singers of the 1960s; Brennan had always admired that look. This would be Shelmalier, Molly’s daughter. She must be twenty by now.

“Shelley, sweetheart, come in and see your uncles. It’s been a few years.”

They all embraced and said how good it was to be together again.

Conn made an elaborate bow and said, “Shelmalier, you have no peer.”

“Conn, my son, are you still on the run?”

“Story of my life, acushla.”

She spoke to her mother. “I’ve brought the prodigal brat home to you, Mum. He’s right behind me. Or at least he was. Stopped to chat up some bird on the pavement.

“Get anywhere with her, you cad?” Shelmalier said to her brother when he entered the room.

“I had to let her go. She told me I’d only ruin her for any other man. Hi, Ma.”

“Finbarr, darling, good to see you, even if I’d rather not hear half of the blather that comes out of your mouth.”

He was around seventeen, Brennan knew. He was dark like his mother, with the same deep blue eyes. Thin, almost skinny, he was a couple of inches shorter than his sister.

The young lad gave his mother a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. “The old man has been getting on my nerves so I scarpered after school. Came here instead.”

“Now, Finbarr, you know your dad does his best.”

“Does his best for himself, you mean. God helps those who help themselves. And our Neville does that. Hey, Conn! How goes the battle?”

Conn gave a noncommittal shrug.

“Conn has news. Tell them, Conn!” Molly urged him.

“Tess and I are getting married! June sometime. All of yez are invited.”

“‘Like Ares comes the bridegroom, taller far than a tall man,’” said Shelmalier. “Congratulations, Conn. I adore Tess; always have done. Bring her round to see me so we can all celebrate.”

“Thanks, Shel, I will.” He turned to Brennan. “Start turning water into wine for us, will you, Father? We’ll be needing vats of it.”

“Fiat voluntas tua, my son.”

“Got her up the pole, have you?” was Finbarr’s contribution.

“Starting a family is the expression, Finbarr. We’re starting a family. And I’m over the moon about it!”

Finbarr actually blushed. “I’m sorry, man, me and my mouth. I didn’t think … Sorry for being an arsewipe. It’s wonderful news. Tess is a brilliant girl.” He got up and shook Conn’s hand.

“I was just heading out with my old friend Jane for a drink and a bite to eat,” Molly told them. “Any and all of you are welcome to join me.”

“I’ve got my course tonight,” her son said.

“Oh, that’s right.”

“What course are you taking?” Brennan asked him.

“Auto mechanics. You know, something in the real world, to balance out all the useless ‘Henry the Eighth did this or that, murdered this wife, that wife’ kinds of courses I have to sit through in school all day. The gifts bestowed by the Empire on those less fortunate round the world. All the victories claimed by the British military machine. Sorry, Shel. I don’t mean to offend anyone we know.”

“Off with you and be hanged, Finbarr.” His sister’s cheery tone belied her words.

“Could happen,” he replied. “Kevin Barry wasn’t much older than me when he was hanged by the British authorities in Ireland for his part in the Tan War. So don’t say it too loud. Oh, wait,” he said then, craning his neck and looking around the room, “I guess there are no members of Her Majesty’s forces here, so maybe I’m safe for a bit longer.”

“Oh, give it a rest, why don’t you.” There was no good cheer in Shelmalier’s tone this time round.

Whatever that was about, Brennan decided to return the conversation to neutral ground.

“How do you like the night course, Finbarr?”

“It’s all right. I’d like it more if my dear old mum and dad would spend a few quid and get me an old banger of a car to work on. But I’ll keep after them.”

“One more year of school, darling,” his mother said, “and then we’ll talk about cars. Though you’ll notice I get around just fine on the tube, the buses, and the trains.”

“I know, I know,” he conceded.

“Where are you going this evening, Mum?” asked Shelmalier.

“My usual spot, the Warrington.”

“You and Jane, going out on the pull! Don’t drag your brothers along. We’ll see them fed someplace else. Heaps of nice-looking gentlemen at the Warrington, I expect. But you’re not going out in that, are you, Mother?” She pointed to the bulky brown wool sweater her mother was wearing.

“I’m nearly perished with the cold today.”

“Well, I can’t let you out of the house with that on. Sorry.”

“Even the tide wouldn’t take you out looking like that, Molly,” Conn slagged her.

“Not even a sniper would take you out,” Finbarr said. “Eh, Conn?”

No rejoinder from Conn, but Brennan thought he lip-read “Fuck off.”

“Shelley, come in and advise me on my wardrobe. Something warm but …”

“But not a brown wool jumper, Mother, for an evening out. Good heavens.”

“Just for the record, my darling, and all of you out there,” Molly called from the entrance to her room, “I am not going out on the pull. Jane and I are going for a nice meal and a chinwag. I am still married to your father.”

“Tell him that, why don’t you?” Finbarr said. “He’s not quite as particular as you are about his marital status. Why don’t you draw up the papers and have done with it?”

“Now isn’t the time for that discussion, love. I know you have only my best interests at heart, even if you’re a bit obnoxious about it.”

“Sorry, Mum. I do have your interests at heart. But you should hear what he says about you. Pretends to be joking in that arch way he has, but he’s not joking at all. It’s not about you, actually, but about, well, your side of the family. I guess that includes you lot.” His eyes took in the men of the Burke family assembled in the room. “Calls you the ‘Irish Problem.’” Affecting a snooty demeanour, Finbarr said, “‘Spending a weekend with the Irish Problem, is she?’ Or, ‘The Irish Problem are coming by to drink themselves silly, are they?’ And that’s before he even gets started on the political side of things. He’s convinced you’re all out to blow up —”

“Not now, dear.”

“Yes, Mother.” He turned to his mother’s cousin. “Conn, can I have a word?”

“You heard your mother. Not now, dear.”

“Piss off. Come in here. I want to ask you something.”

“Precocious brat,” Shelley said equably. “You might as well hear him out, Conn. He won’t let it drop. Whatever it is.”

“All right, all right,” Conn said.

The two younger fellows took themselves off to the kitchen. Brennan could hear them conversing in low voices but could not make out what they were saying. Whatever it was, the meeting concluded with the two of them saying their goodbyes and heading out the door together.

“What about you, Shelmalier?” Brennan asked. “Terry and I will be going out for some nourishment before I head off to St. Paul’s Cathedral for a concert. You’re more than welcome to join us for dinner, and accompany me to the concert as well, if you like.”

“Thank you, Brennan. I appreciate the invitation, but I’m going to do some studying here. I have a paper due in a couple of days up at Oxford.”

“What’s the subject of your paper?” Brennan asked.

“Dante’s De Vulgari Eloquentia.”

“On the Eloquence of the Vernacular,” Brennan translated.

“Do you know it?”

“Nope. Just translated the title. Otherwise it’s a blank.”

“He wrote about the European languages and the dialects of Italy. He was searching for the ‘illustrious vernacular,’ which was found potentially in all the vernaculars in Italy at the time, but which could only be brought out by the great poets, divinely inspired poets.”

“You must be near the end of your academic year, are you?” Terry asked.

“Oh, no, nearly two months left. Seven weeks or so. The university term here goes to late June.”

“That must be why you’re so much more intelligent than I am, Shelmalier,” said Terry. “You don’t want to hear my vernacular!”

“On the contrary. I look forward to it, Terry!”

“He’s no Dante,” said Brennan. “More of a barstool seanchaí. But I’m no poet myself. I’m sure you’re able for it, though, Shelley. So we’ll let you get on with it.”

“Where to, Bren?” Terry asked when they had left the flat. “Our local?”

“How about the city centre, since I’m going to St. Paul’s?”

“Righto.”

They went to the tube station and rode into the centre of London and walked along the city streets until they found themselves in front of what was probably the most famous criminal court in the world, the Old Bailey. The enormous Baroque building was capped by a dome and on top of that was a gold-leaf statue of a “lady of justice.” From a distance you might think you were seeing a crucifix: the lady held her arms straight out from her sides, with the scales of justice in her left hand and a sword in her right.

“Both have been used in the pursuit of justice here,” Brennan remarked.

“If you want some sword-based history, we should take in the Tower of London.”

“No, they might throw us in and cut the heads off us.”

“Got a thirst on you?”

“I could stand a drink and some solid food as well.”

“Let’s head over to Fleet Street. Not only is it home to press barons and muckrakers, but it is also known as a ‘tippling street,’” Terry informed his brother.

They liked the look of the Bell Tavern and went inside, where they were informed that the place had been built by Sir Christopher Wren, the same man who built St. Paul’s Cathedral.

“He sounds like a seventeenth-century version of yourself, Bren: an architect with a passion for great churches and great drinking holes.”

“A man after my own heart,” Brennan agreed.

The tavern had an old stone floor and stained glass and served a fine pint of ale. The brothers discussed its qualities and pronounced themselves pleased. They ordered a pub supper.

The talk then turned to family matters. Terry said, “He wasn’t all that tactful about it, but I have to side with Finbarr on the Neville question. I think our Molly should give him his walking papers, wouldn’t you say? For their first few years, he seemed to be sound. But he’s given her a lot of guff in recent times. They’ve been separated for over a year now. Make it official and get it over with. Of course the Church doesn’t exactly promote divorce, so maybe I shouldn’t be annoying you about it, Father.”

“She’s my sister. I don’t want to see her wasting any more of her time on a man who treats her like household waste. I’ll help her navigate the corridors of the Church.”

“Shelmalier’s a bright little star.”

“Nothing gets by her, was my impression.”

“For sure.”

“And young Finbarr. Quite a character in the making,” Brennan observed.

“Bit of a hot-head but a good lad underneath, I’m thinking. He’s Molly’s son, after all. He usually lives with her but Neville kicked up a fuss, so the kid has been slotted for a couple of months with him. Doesn’t like it much, obviously.”

“Sounds as if nobody’s happy with the arrangement. Par for the course in these situations.”

“True.”

Brennan took a sip of his ale, then said, “I was wondering about something he said. Finbarr.”

“Oh?”

“He made a little jest about Molly’s clothing. ‘Not even a sniper would take you out looking like that,’ and then ‘Eh, Conn.’ And Conn didn’t look overly amused. What are we to make of that? Anything?”

“Who knows? Probably just the two lads blackguarding one another.” Terry said. “So, you’re off to hear a choir of angels.”

“I am.”

When they finished their meal, Brennan took his leave. Terry was more than happy to stay on in the tavern. Brennan made the short walk to St. Paul’s Cathedral. It would be glorious enough to experience the building in silence, to be under its great dome, which dominated the skyline of London. Brennan recalled seeing pictures of the dome and the cross wreathed in smoke amid the fire and destruction of the Blitz. The landmark cathedral had been specifically targeted, if his memory served him, and somebody was awarded the George Cross for dismantling a massive bomb that would have destroyed the building. The English Baroque masterpiece survived the war, no doubt boosting the morale of Londoners during that harrowing time.

Now, as the concert got underway, the great cathedral was filled with the clear, ringing tones of the boys and men of the choir. They sang William Byrd’s Mass for Four Voices, which, in Brennan’s opinion and that of many others, contained some of the most beautiful lines of music ever written. Then they sang a selection of motets by Byrd and Tallis and other renowned English Renaissance composers. There were pieces by Palestrina and Victoria as well. All done to perfection. Brennan was a choir director himself, and this was the sound he tried to produce in his choirs: the straight English sound, the bell-like tone of an English boy choir. So much effort and technique went into creating that sound: perfectly synchronized vowels among the singers, the banishment of any vibrato in the individual voices, the perfect intonation, the crisp diction. England was the summit of choral achievement, always had been. Brennan often wondered what he sounded like back in New York, a Dublin-accented Irishman exhorting his choristers to sound more English, for Jaysus’ sake.

After the last exquisite note faded away, Brennan stayed on until he saw the choristers and choirmaster filing out in their street clothes. He stepped forward and held out his hand, congratulating the director on such a fine performance. The man, who could have been haughty and full of himself and smug about his talent, was none of those things and engaged in a friendly, informative conversation with a fellow musician from across the pond. Brennan emerged into the hectic streets of the city with the sounds of heaven in his head.