A History of Loneliness

by John Boyne

  But, of course, I could not live by austerity and contemplation alone. I needed friends. I needed company. And once in a while I needed someone who would challenge all the ideas that had been entrusted to me over seven years of study. At times like that, I needed Tom Cardle.

  Wherever he might be at the time.

  He had a housekeeper in Wexford, a monster of a woman named Mrs Gilhoole whose husband, she told me within minutes of meeting me, had died during the first year of their marriage, some thirty-six years before.

  ‘The cancer took him,’ she told me, a hand to her throat as if she had difficulty with the words even after all these years. ‘And him only a young man with everything before him. The cancer can be a terrible thing.’

  ‘It can be,’ I agreed. ‘It is.’

  ‘Did you ever lose anyone to the cancer, Father?’ she asked me.

  ‘No, thank God.’

  ‘Are your mammy and daddy still alive, Father?’

  ‘My mother is, yes,’ I told her. ‘My father died when I was just a boy.’

  ‘Was it the cancer, Father?’

  I stared at her; it was difficult not to laugh at her terrible obsession. ‘No,’ I told her. ‘I said already. I’ve lost no one to that disease.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask how he died, Father?’

  ‘He drowned,’ I said, feeling a desperate urge to get away from her.

  ‘There’s a man lives two doors down from here and he drownded last winter,’ she told me. She pronounced the word drown-ded. Two syllables. ‘And my uncle on my mother’s side, he drownded in Lough Neagh on his twenty-first birthday. And my late husband’s sister’s brother-in-law, he drownded out at Salthill.’ She paused and shook her head; something told me that, like Peig Sayers, whom she vaguely resembled, she had an army of the dead marching behind her, wringing out their wet clothes, whose stories she would be only too happy to recount.

  ‘It comes to us all,’ I said, trying to sound cheerful. ‘But sure we might as well enjoy life while we have it.’

  She raised an eyebrow; she seemed unconvinced by my platitude. ‘Have you known Father long?’ she asked, nodding in the direction of the hallway, where Tom was engaged in a phone call; he had waved me through to the kitchen without so much as a hello. His face was redder and older than I remembered it and he had put on a little weight. His manner was one of pure irritation.

  ‘Seventeen years now,’ I told her. ‘We met in the seminary at Clonliffe. We started on the same day.’

  ‘I see,’ she said, looking me up and down as she wiped her hands on her apron. She had rather a pronounced beard and it was difficult not to stare at it. It was also not easy to settle on her age. She could have passed for eighty, but was probably no more than sixty-five. ‘Of course, we had Father Williams here for the last twenty-two years,’ she told me. ‘A lovely man. A saintly man. Did you ever know him, Father?’

  ‘I didn’t, no.’

  ‘We were sorry to lose him.’

  ‘Was it the cancer?’

  ‘No, he was moved. And sure wasn’t he already in his sixties, so what was the point of moving him anyway? He was very upset about it. They put him across to Waterford. Can you imagine living there, Father?’

  ‘No, I’ve never been to Waterford,’ I said.

  ‘I have,’ she said, leaning forward, her deep-brown eyes bursting into life. ‘They’re a very dour people there. A very dour people. And I wouldn’t trust their meat.’

  I opened my mouth to reply, but found that I had nothing whatsoever to say.

  ‘Father Cardle is nothing like Father Williams,’ she said, her eyes looking down at the carpet.

  ‘You’re not getting along?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m saying nothing,’ she said. ‘And sure who’d listen to me if I did speak? They’re not gone on women being heard in the Bishop’s palace.’

  I frowned, uncertain what she was getting at, but the door opened then and Tom came in. ‘Bloody Gardaí,’ he said. ‘They say there’s nothing they can do about it unless they catch the villain in the act. How are you, Odran?’ he added, turning to me and shaking my hand. ‘Are you well? How was the trip down? Did Mrs Gilhoole give you a cup of tea?’

  ‘I offered,’ she said, not looking at him but getting back to baking her cake. ‘He said no. I don’t ask twice.’

  I laughed and turned it into a cough as Tom opened his eyes wide in irritation and shook his head. ‘Come along in here with me,’ he said, leading me into his office.

  ‘That woman will be the death of me,’ he said, once we were alone. ‘If she is a woman. I have no verifiable proof on that score. Did you see the beard on her? It’s like living with the Billy Goats Gruff.’

  I laughed again. ‘What was it with the Gardaí, Tom?’ I asked. ‘Is there trouble?’

  He pointed out of the window towards the street beyond. ‘I have a car parked out there,’ he told me. ‘A grand little thing. I bought it when I was in Longford and drove it here when the move came. Two weeks ago, I went outside first thing, only to find that someone had scratched the paintwork. Ran a key all the way down the side of it, if you can believe such vandalism. It cost me six pounds to have it redone. Six pounds! I had to take it from the collection box on Sunday, because I don’t have that kind of money to spare. And now, only this morning, didn’t I go out to find that someone has put a brick through the windscreen. What kind of person does such a thing, Odran, can you tell me that? I have a fella on his way out here to fit a new one, but that’s going to cost me another three pounds fifty. And the Gardaí say that they can do nothing about it.’

  ‘It’ll be kids,’ I told him. ‘Do you have a lot of young people on the streets here at night? They lose the run of themselves over the summer holidays.’

  ‘We do not,’ he said, as if I’d insulted the honour of Wexford. ‘This isn’t O’Connell Street in Dublin, you know, with your burger restaurants and your tracksuit shops and your penny arcades. The young people here have a little more about them than that.’

  ‘Well, someone must have done it,’ I said.

  ‘Aye. And I tell you what, if I find out who it is I’ll wring his bloody neck.’

  I turned away and looked around his office. It was stale and tired with drab wallpaper and a desk that looked as if it might fall apart at any moment, but the bookshelves were filled with religious books, which surprised me a little.

  ‘They belong to the last fella,’ he said, seeing my expression. ‘And the cheerful décor was his idea too. I’m having all the books sent over to Waterford next week. I want shot of them.’

  ‘Would you not have a read of them yourself?’

  ‘Are you joking me? They’d bore the hind-legs off a donkey.’

  ‘And that one?’ I asked, pointing at a paperback on his desk which, from what little I knew of Father Williams’s taste, seemed out of place here.

  ‘The Commitments?’ asked Tom. ‘No, that one’s mine. Have you read it?’ I shook my head. ‘The language in it,’ he said, laughing. ‘It’d make a gypsy blush. It’s a howl, though.’

  ‘I’ve heard about it,’ I said. ‘Some of the lads in the school said something.’

  ‘The best soul band in Ireland,’ declared Tom loudly, stretching his arms wide as if he was introducing them onstage at the Olympia. ‘And look it,’ he said, going over to a side table and picking up another book. ‘Here’s another one by the same fella. About a dirty little slut up there in Dublin who gets herself pregnant.’

  I felt a little unsettled by the sudden violence of his language and recalled what Hannah had said about the Polish Pope. Could such a thing be true of Tom Cardle, too?

  ‘There are some filthy pieces out there all the same, aren’t there?’ he asked. ‘You must see them all the time up there in Dublin, do you? Walking round with next to nothing on. Their bits on display. Giving everyone an eyeful. I’d say they drive the lads in that school of yours crazy, do they?’

  ‘Sure there’s always been wild ones a
nd tame ones,’ I said, wishing we could talk about something else. For once, I regretted being here and felt the weight of the days ahead on my shoulders. It had been four years since Tom and I had met face to face and here we were, already in a conversation like this. What connected us anyway, I wondered, other than a shared past? Six years as cell-mates, the same profession, a part of our youths intertwined. Did we even have anything in common? I thought of my rooms at the school, of the quiet order of the library. And yet here I was, listening to Tom and his vicious tongue.

  ‘You’re home anyway,’ I said, anxious to change the subject.

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Back in Wexford, I mean.’

  ‘Ah right, yes.’

  ‘Your family must be glad of it anyway. Those nine brothers and sisters of yours.’

  He shrugged. ‘Sure I don’t see them very often. Three are off in America, two in Australia and another in Canada. And the two nuns are locked away. There’s only one still here. He has the farm, of course.’

  ‘Holy God,’ I said.

  ‘Sure it’s the emigration, Odran,’ he said with a shrug. ‘There’s no work here any more. It’s like famine times. And Haughey doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He’s feathering his nest, boy. Have you seen that island of his on the telly? Does nobody wonder how a man can afford to buy a whole island when we know what his salary is?’

  ‘People don’t like to say anything,’ I replied. ‘Even when it’s happening right in front of your eyes.’

  ‘That’s true enough.’

  ‘But your mam and dad,’ I said. ‘They must be pleased to have you nearby.’

  He shook his head. ‘Sure they’re both dead, Odran, did you not know that?’

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked, not sure I’d heard him right.

  ‘My parents,’ he said. ‘They’re gone three years now. Mam went after a stroke and himself took a heart attack a few months later.’

  I stared at him. ‘What are you telling me?’ I asked, baffled.

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘But why didn’t you say something?’ I asked him. ‘Why didn’t you let me know? I could have helped out.’

  ‘Sure what could you have done?’

  ‘Come to the funerals, for one thing.’

  ‘Half of Wexford was at the funerals,’ he told me. ‘You don’t want to get mixed up with that crowd.’

  ‘But for pity’s sake, Tom, I’m your best friend. You should have let me know.’

  He looked down at the desktop and drummed his fingers on the leather. I felt a growing anger inside me – how could both his parents have died and he never have let me know? What did that say about our friendship? But I could think of no way to let my hurt out. I could hardly berate him when, after all, he was the grieving party. But I felt wounded, utterly wounded, as if seventeen years of acquaintance counted for nothing.

  A long silence ensued, an uncomfortable one, and finally he glanced up at the wall clock and simultaneously the doorbell rang. ‘I was just about to tell you,’ he said, ‘that I have a couple of parishioners to talk to. A mother and her wayward son, if you please. One of my altar boys. A grand little lad. He’s proving a bit of a handful at home though, so she brings him here every week for a chat with me. I’m trying to set him straight.’

  ‘Every week?’ I asked, trying to sound interested but still hurt by the revelation about the senior Cardles. ‘Does that not take up a lot of your time?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘The poor boy likes talking to me and I think I’m getting through to him. Will you meet me down at Larkin’s in the village later? We’ll say about six o’clock. Ah, don’t look at me like that, I won’t take you out on the lash. Sure we’ll just have one or two and a catch-up.’

  A tap on the door and Mrs Gilhoole stepped in, looking from one of us to the other, a decidedly apprehensive expression on her face. ‘It’s Mrs Kilduff,’ she said. ‘And her Brian.’

  ‘Come in, come in,’ said Tom, beckoning the pair of them inside, a woman of about forty, nervous and excited to be invited into the priest’s parlour, and a small, thin little lad of about eight or nine, who looked at us both through troubled eyes; I wondered what problems this child had seen in his short life that would require a priest’s help. He looked shattered, poor fellow.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, Tom,’ I said, stepping out into the hallway.

  ‘Six o’clock,’ he repeated. ‘Larkin’s in the village. And you go on now too, Mrs Kilduff, and leave Brian and me to our chat. Give us an hour or so, there’s a good woman.’

  ‘Would you not stay, Father?’ asked Mrs Gilhoole, as Brian’s mother left the house and the door to Tom’s study closed behind us. ‘Maybe two heads would be better than one?’

  ‘Ah no, it wouldn’t be right,’ I said.

  And then, to my astonishment, she rapped on Tom’s door and without waiting for a word from within, flung it open and marched inside.

  ‘Mrs Gilhoole!’ said Tom, who was seated at his desk facing the boy, who was sitting in the chair that I had recently vacated. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Father here was saying that he might like to sit in and see how parish work is conducted,’ she said, nodding back at me. ‘Weren’t you, Father?’

  ‘I was not,’ I protested. ‘I said no such a thing.’

  ‘Perhaps I misunderstood you,’ she said, not an ounce of shame in her voice for her blatant lie. ‘But sure it would be a nice change for you, wouldn’t it, Father? Go on in there now and tell Brian all about yourself.’

  ‘Mrs Gilhoole, this is outrageous,’ began Tom, but I cut him off, reaching forward to close the door with the housekeeper on my side of it.

  ‘Sorry about that, Tom,’ I said as I left. ‘I’ll see you at six, like you said.’ Out in the corridor again I turned to Mrs Gilhoole, wondering whether she’d lost control of her senses altogether.

  ‘Poor wee Brian can get scared easily,’ she said quickly, before I could even utter a word of remonstrance. ‘I thought he would welcome someone else in the room.’

  ‘Why would he be scared?’ I asked. ‘Sure what has he to be scared of?’

  She hesitated, biting her lip. ‘Little boys can take terrible frights,’ she said. ‘And the collar can be an intimidating weapon.’

  ‘Well look, if he’s scared of Tom, then he’d only be twice as scared of the pair of us together.’

  ‘Would he have reason to be, Father?’ she asked, a question that took me aback.

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, you do now,’ she said, her lip curling in distaste as she turned away. ‘Don’t be giving me that old manure. I’ll put your bags in your room anyway,’ she added. ‘You take yourself off to wherever you’re going. Sure aren’t you all the best of pals anyway.’

  With two hours to kill, I found myself walking towards the sea without making any conscious decision to do so. It was a sunny day, sunny enough that I had an idea to take my shoes off and walk barefoot along the sand, and indeed I did so, looking to my right, where I might reach Rosslare Harbour if I walked for twenty miles, but choosing left instead, in the direction of Wexford town, but before that the coastline near Blackwater and the stretch of sand known as Curracloe beach, where twenty-six years before my father had decided to say goodbye to this world.

  I had never felt any desire before to revisit this part of the world, a place branded with bitter memories for me. I blamed the county for having a beach, I blamed the beach for taking my brother, I blamed my brother for taking my place, and I blamed myself for not accompanying my father when first asked. Christ, I might have fought him off when he tried to drown me – I was nine years old, after all, five years older than little Cathal, and a strong swimmer with it – and perhaps I would have even persuaded my father to follow me back to shore when he saw my pugilistic arm movements splitting the waves. What else did I blame this place for? Everything. A certain wound that existed deep inside my s
ister’s soul that could never be healed. Its conversion of my mother from harmless housewife to fervent proselytizing believer, intent on making a priest of her only remaining son. Wexford. Bloody Wexford. What an irony that my best friend came from the place. And so yes, I had avoided it all these years, but I was here now, and with time on my hands I felt the importance of walking the beach once again and reclaiming this place from the sarcophagus in which I had placed it.

  That summer lived forever in my mind; I could never forget it, but I could never think of it either. And yet it was branded into my memory – almost every moment of that holiday was – when whole years between then and now were almost completely forgotten. I could recall how happy Hannah and I had been every morning when we leaped over the dunes with our buckets and spades, little Cathal following after us, shouting to us to wait for him, but sure why would we wait for a little sprat like him when the whole beach lay open before us and every moment that we weren’t there was a moment wasted? We might have won an Olympic medal, the pair of us, we ran that fast. And the look on Mam’s face when the Garda appeared in the driveway. And, oh Lord, the train journey back to Dublin, a widow and two fatherless children, and how despite it all, Hannah and I had still been excited by the train, for it was only our second time.

  What else? What else … what else … what else …?

  A few miles down the road from our chalet was a railway crossing and I might wander down there of a morning, fascinated by the old man who seemed to live in the box by the side of the road, occasionally pressing a button that connected to a series of levers which would lower the railings when a train was due and then repeating the operation in reverse when the train had passed. He was as old as the hills, that man, but seemed impressed by my interest. But when I asked whether I could press that magical button myself he said that it was more than his job was worth, and that if anyone saw me that’d be it, he’d be sent for his chips.