Unravelling Oliver

by Liz Nugent

  ‘Oh, Oliver,’ I said. He kissed me then and led me upstairs, and I thought that maybe everything was going to be all right.

  Our affair picked up where it had left off. In fact, it improved to the extent that I was emboldened after a few months to suggest that we might one day leave our respective spouses and set up home together.

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ he said.

  He made it clear that he would never leave Alice. He said that it wouldn’t be fair to her. In the beginning I tried to make him see that he would be happier with me, that I would be good for him, that I would be a more suitable partner for somebody of his stature, but these pleas were met by silences that could last months and eventually I learned that if I wanted any part of him, I would have to do things his way.

  My career picked up too, after a while. I was selected to be a team leader on a TV game show and I picked up a lot of voice-over work for commercials and radio dramas.

  I know I said earlier that I was supposed to be a friend of Alice’s. The truth is that I couldn’t stand her. Not because of anything she did to me, but because she was in my way. I just wished she would disappear.

  And now, in a sense, she has. I’m not proud of the way I felt towards her.

  I don’t think I have betrayed Alice. I would have in the past if Oliver had agreed to leave her. I would have betrayed her and not given it a thought.

  She was useful though. I don’t mind admitting that she was extremely helpful with my two children. When I was working long days in studio or in theatre rehearsals and Con was stuck in the clinic, Alice would often come over to be there when they got home from school. She said that Oliver needed absolute concentration to write his wonderful books; there was no question of the kids going over there, children were too much of a distraction. Alice was like an unofficial nanny for Gerry and Kate, actually. Sometimes when I got home she’d have a three-course meal prepared. It seems she got very interested in food after she was first married. Oliver told me that she grew up with a retarded brother who could only eat rice pudding and potatoes, and apparently she hardly knew what food was supposed to taste like until Oliver packed her off to a cookery school the week after they married. I confess that this stimulated my own interest in cooking. I can hardly believe that I felt forced to compete with bloody Alice. On the rare occasions when Con was away and I could entertain Oliver at home, I liked to be able to feed him in the manner to which he was accustomed.

  You would think that Alice and I might have had more in common. After all, we were both in love with the same man. We were thrown together in all sorts of ways. I initiated the ‘friendship’, actually; it seemed the easiest way to get close to Oliver. But, my God, she drove me mad with her slow, dreamy ways and her nonsensical conversation. I dreaded the occasional afternoons that I would have to spend in her company. I always tried to come up with an activity that would keep her busy, would negate the need for much conversation: cinema, shopping, theatre.

  Of course, I feel bad about it all now. The last time I saw Alice was in Bordeaux airport last November, just a few days before Oliver lost it with her. She was really upset. At the time, I thought she was upset about Javier and me. No doubt we’ll find out the whole truth during the trial.

  Maybe I should have been nicer to Alice and maybe I shouldn’t have slept with her husband for nearly twenty years, but a small part of me wishes that the fight was about me. I wonder if he ever truly cared about me. Or her.

  14. Oliver

  When I was young, very young, before that summer in France, I tried hard to be a good person. I spent most of my life trying to impress a man who more or less refused to acknowledge my existence. My birth certificate names my mother as ‘Mary Murphy (maiden surname)’, probably one of the most ubiquitous names for a Dublin female at the time. It states that my parents were unmarried. Over the years, private research has yielded absolutely nothing about her, and I could only speculate that this was not her real name. My father is listed as ‘Francis Ryan’. Under ‘Rank or Profession of Father’, it says ‘priest’. I realize that it must have been a scandal in 1953, or would have been, if it hadn’t been hushed up in some way.

  My place of birth on the certificate is ‘Dublin’, although I do not appear in any register of births for maternity hospitals or nursing homes in the city, and because of that I can’t be sure that my date of birth is accurate. Two Mary Murphys gave birth on that date in the city. I have gone to great lengths to find them and their offspring and rule out any possible relationship to me.

  I wonder how there could be no trace of her. I know it was a different time, but how could this document have been approved? The church’s stranglehold on the state was certainly strong in those days, but this was deliberate obfuscation. I once had the courage to ask my father about my mother and the circumstances of my birth. ‘She was a whore,’ he wrote, in reply to my letter, as if that was all the explanation that was needed. It wasn’t too long before I got to hear a most bizarre version of the circumstances of my birth, but my father had to die before that tale could be spun.

  One day, in March 2001, I was casually reading Saturday’s Irish Times and came across my father’s death notice in the paper.

  ‘… deeply regretted by his loving wife, Judith, and son, Philip …’

  I was not sure how to feel about this news. I was not sad, certainly; maybe a little relieved. I had long ago accepted that he did not want me in his life, but the slimmest hope was always there that he might one day find it in his heart to forgive me for whatever he thought I had done, that he might take pride in my success and claim me as his own. Now that the hope was gone, perhaps I could relax.

  The wording of the notice hurt me unexpectedly though. I was also his son, but did not merit a mention.

  The Funeral Mass was the following Monday morning. My curiosity got the better of me. I told Alice that I had a meeting in town and went to Haddington Road church. I lurked at the back, avoiding the glances of parishioners who might recognize me. Now was not the time for autograph hunters. There was a substantial turnout, a flurry of priests, a bench of bishops and a cardinal. Judith was elegant and dignified, but grey, and Philip was ageing badly, unlike his mother, but wore a priest’s collar, to my surprise. Ironically, I remember thinking that the family line would die with him.

  When the time came, I shuffled forward with the herd to convey my condolences to the bereaved. Judith took my proffered hand wetly.

  ‘Oliver!’ she said, reddening and turning to Philip. ‘Don’t you remember Oliver … from school?’

  Philip looked up, and I saw that his eyes were filled with tears and misery, and I wondered how he could feel that way. I could tell that he was confused by my attendance.

  ‘Of course, yes, thank you for coming. I heard you are an author now?’

  ‘A writer, yes,’ I said. ‘Children’s books.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The line of mourners was building behind me and I knew that I must move on.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I managed to say.

  Father Daniel from St Finian’s was smoking a pipe outside the church. He greeted me warmly and thanked me for the annual donation I made to the school.

  ‘I’d say that was hard for you …’ he said.

  ‘Judith and Philip … do they even know that I am his son?’ I tried to keep the tremor from my voice.

  ‘I think Judith knows.’ He shook his head. ‘The death notice … that was your father’s wish. I’m sorry. He didn’t want any reference to you.’

  Father Daniel offered his condolences to me, and it was kind of him, but I did not need them.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be here. I was going to ring you. Come and see me next week. There’s something I need to explain to you. About your father.’

  15. Philip

  I wish I had never discovered that Oliver was my brother. Half-brother. I can’t conceive of how he could attack a woman like that, let alone his own wife. I am appal
led. I have looked into my heart and have prayed about it. I know I should try to make contact with him again, but I am just not ready. Not yet. Fortunately, so far, nobody knows of our relationship and I think it best that it stays that way. Perhaps if we had grown up together, his life could have turned out very differently.

  My home was fairly traditional. Financially, we were comfortably off, but lived sensibly without being austere. The only visible concession to our status was the family car, always a Mercedes. We lived in an average-sized house in a respectable suburb, chosen, I think, for its convenience to my school. I was raised as an only child, doted on by both parents. I didn’t miss siblings since I didn’t know what it was like to have them. When I was old enough to observe other families, I felt glad that I had my parents to myself and didn’t have to share their attention. My mum and dad were happily married and seldom rowed, though they lived quite separate lives. Both of my parents were religious, my father maybe more so than my mother. Mum was soft, letting me get away with all sorts of things, and protected me from Dad when she knew he might disapprove of my actions. Dad was a more complex character. He could be strict, but I think he was fair. Mum was more gregarious than Dad and enjoyed going out to concerts and the theatre, and other social activities. Dad more often stayed at home with a book or a wildlife programme on TV. He didn’t like socializing much. I can remember us hosting only two parties in my childhood, and my father’s awkwardness on each occasion was palpable. He seldom drank, and avoided the company of drunk people. I admired him greatly, and though I love my mother dearly, I am more inclined to his way of living.

  I was a serious boy, quiet and contemplative and generally obedient. My parents liked to boast that I gave them ‘no trouble’. I was better than the average student, not terribly sporty, but a ‘trier’. I made friends easily and was often chosen as class captain. Mum stayed at home and Dad went to work every day as a senior accountant in the Archbishop’s Palace. My father had been a priest before he met my mum. It wasn’t that unusual to have a father who was an ex-priest. A lot of men of that vintage joined the church as a matter of pride to their families before realizing that they didn’t truly belong. My mum was the niece of the bishop under whom he served. I always assumed that my dad’s attraction to my mum was what made him leave the church, but we didn’t really speak about such things at home. He was always so priestly in his ways that I often wondered if he regretted leaving the priesthood. I asked him about it once when I was older, but instantly regretted it when he sighed and changed the subject. Mostly, he was an affectionate dad, but particularly when I was good. My misdemeanours were met by lectures, which were followed by long silences. Early on I learned that if I wanted forgiveness, I must ask for it.

  I was a bit scared of Oliver Ryan at school. He was years ahead of me in the senior school when I was very small and we hardly had any interaction, but I remember him particularly well because of his odd behaviour. The senior and junior school shared a hall and some playing fields, so I came across him from time to time and I didn’t like the way he stared at me. I always felt he was about to speak to me, but no, he never spoke, just stared. It was creepy to a seven- or eight-year-old. He was tall and strong-looking, but stood out as scruffy, I suppose. His uniform didn’t ever fit properly: trousers too short or elbows visible through threadbare sweaters. I tried not to pay much attention to him, and contrived to stay out of his way. We shared a surname but there were a few others with the same name so I didn’t think anything of it. He was a full-time boarder while I was a day-boy.

  One Friday lunchtime, I was sent on an errand to the senior school by a teacher to deliver a message to the science master in the lab on the top-floor corridor. As I passed a window, I realized there was rather a good view of my house and I stopped momentarily to have a look before I continued on my way; but when I returned on the same route a little while later, I passed Oliver, who was standing at the same window, a pair of binoculars raised to his eyes. His jaw was set in concentration and he did not notice as I scurried past him, but a backward glance confirmed what I instinctively suspected. The binoculars were trained on my home. He was spying on my house.

  When I went home after school that day, I tried to forget about it, but I was spooked and disturbed. After we had said grace at the dinner table, as Mum was dishing out the meal, I raised the subject.

  ‘There’s a boy in the senior school who was spying on our house today.’

  ‘I think you’ve been reading too many comics,’ Dad said, barely raising his head from the usual file of ecclesiastical notes.

  ‘No, really,’ I said. ‘He was watching our house through binoculars.’

  Mum was interested at least.

  ‘A senior boy? He was probably just birdwatching or plane spotting.’

  ‘No,’ I insisted, ‘he was definitely looking at this house.’

  My father paused and looked up from his notes.

  ‘Do you know this boy’s name?’

  ‘Oliver. Oliver Ryan.’

  There was a definite frisson at the table. What had I said? Mum looked at Dad, and then down at her lap.

  ‘What? Do you know him?’

  My father bit his bottom lip, and sat back from the table. ‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘Are we related?’

  Without a word, my mother got up from the table and started clearing away the soup bowls, even though we had only just started eating. She noisily clattered spoons and condiments together as she disappeared into the kitchen.

  ‘He is a distant cousin,’ my father said. ‘I want you to have nothing to do with him.’

  A cousin! I had only two cousins on my mother’s side and none on my father’s.

  ‘But why? Is there something wrong with him? What did he do? Is he bad?’

  My father suddenly grew angry. I had never seen him so worked up before.

  ‘Do not question me about this. The boy is from bad stock. You are too young to understand, but his mother was bad news, as, I’m sure, is he. We will not discuss him again. Just keep away from him.’

  Startled by his sudden anger, I burst into tears. At once, my father regretted his loss of temper. He ruffled my hair with his large hand and patted my face. He said then, in a gentler tone, ‘Let’s have no more about it.’

  My tears subsided, and my mother re-entered the room. The subject was swiftly changed to that of the neighbour’s new dog, and I was cheered when Dad suggested that I might have a dog on my next birthday.

  That night, however, I could hear a muffled row between my parents downstairs. A door was slammed. The next morning, everything was as normal.

  My curiosity was piqued, however. My mother stonewalled my queries, insisting that I should not ask any further. I asked around at school. Most people thought that Oliver’s parents were dead. It was known that he didn’t go home during holidays. Some suggested that he was a scholarship student from an orphanage, which might explain his deprived appearance. Sometimes, at home, I would wave out the window in the direction of the school, in case he was watching. He never gave any indication of having seen me, and even though he continued to stare, I felt more kindly towards him. There was something vaguely romantic about having an orphaned cousin. I didn’t get far with my enquiries, and when Oliver left the school just a year or two later, I forgot all about him.

  I think I always knew I was going to be a priest. Of course my home life was very Catholic and that was undoubtedly a big influence, but the sacraments meant something to me. I enjoyed the rituals and, unlike most children, for me Easter was a bigger event than Christmas, the idea of the ultimate sacrifice and resurrection far more appealing than toys or Santa Claus. My father was pleased that I took such an interest in church matters, and encouraged it. Mum was less happy about it. I think she would have liked me to settle down with a girl and produce a brood of grandchildren. She tried to dissuade me from my chosen course. It was the source of a rare argument between my parents.

  I dated some girls and ex
perimented sexually, but it felt somehow like a betrayal of my faith, a rude distraction from what I knew was going to be my path. The word ‘vocation’ is often used as something mystical; you hear of ‘messages from God’ or lightning bolts or a simple ‘feeling’, but my decision to join the seminary was based on something far more prosaic. The fact was that I didn’t really want to do anything else. I wanted to work in a parish, to help and to serve a congregation, celebrate Mass, administer last rites. I had been volunteering in my church since I was a boy, and the priests there were men I looked up to and admired. Contrary to popular belief, I am neither scared of nor insecure around women. I enjoy their company enormously. I just have no need of a wife or children. Nor am I gay, as my mother speculated. I am happy to be celibate. Dad was absolutely delighted when I told him I wanted to join the seminary. Nothing, he said, could have made him prouder.

  A few years later, when I was in the seminary, I found a photograph of Oliver Ryan in the newspaper. He was a publishing ‘sensation’. I recalled that he was a Ryan cousin but he was now going by the name of Vincent Dax. I mentioned it to my father when he next visited and asked him to explain the relationship that he hadn’t been able to explain to a small boy. Dad was still clearly uncomfortable with the subject. He told me that Oliver’s mother had been a woman of ‘ill repute’. I questioned the Ryan connection; it must have been Oliver’s father who was related to us, surely? Dad looked away and said that Oliver’s father had died young of tuberculosis. I knew that he was lying to me. I suspected that if Oliver’s mother had been a prostitute, perhaps his father had died of syphilis or some other sexually transmitted disease, and that my father wanted to hide the details. Seeing his unease, I moved the conversation along and asserted that at least it was good to have a famous author in the family. Dad actually flinched and suggested that if I wanted a successful career in the church hierarchy, it would not do to associate myself with a family scandal. I could see his point.