by Liz Nugent
• • •
When we left school, Oliver went to college and I returned to the farm. We would meet up occasionally in Dublin for a few drinks. I knew from rumors that he had a small apartment in Rathmines and worked evenings and weekends in a fruit-and-vegetable market to pay his rent. I guess once he was educated, his father washed his hands of him, his duty done. Oliver spent summers working abroad to pay his college tuition, and I think he must have flourished and gained confidence during that time. One summer he went with a gang from college to work on a vineyard. Apparently there was some tragedy connected with a fire, but I never heard the full story, as we lost contact around that time.
In December 1982, I was pleased to receive an invitation to Oliver’s wedding to a girl called Alice who was illustrating a book he had written. I was happy that he had found both love and a publisher. My mother was ill in the hospital at the time, and I couldn’t make it to the wedding. It was a shame. I would have liked to have celebrated his happy day with him.
Just a few months later, I got an invite to the launch of Oliver’s first book. I was confused at first, as the author’s name on the invite was Vincent Dax, but when I called to query it, the publisher let me know that it was Oliver.
There were only ten or twelve people there; one was Father Daniel from the school, two or three were his friends from college who I had come across once or twice, and of course his agent, publishing folk, and his new bride, Alice. She was lovely, very warm and gracious. I recall that even though she had illustrated the book, she insisted that it was Oliver’s night and Oliver’s success.
Oliver was a nervous wreck, and immediately I recognized why. He was waiting for his father. The fearful boy so desperate to impress that I recalled from our school days hadn’t completely disappeared yet. All evening, as people congratulated him and he read passages from the book, Oliver’s eyes swiveled backward and forward to the door. I asked him eventually if his father was expected. He gave me a look that said it was none of my business and not up for discussion. Later we had a few drinks in Neary’s and he relaxed a bit. I asked him why he had used a pseudonym. He grew embarrassed, and I guessed that perhaps his father had insisted upon it.
Since then, I have seen Oliver only a handful of times, but I noticed that when I met him, he seemed increasingly casual and breezy in conversation and almost dismissive of our shared childhood. Finally, he stopped returning my calls and didn’t respond to invitations.
He popped up on TV sometimes on the review program or as a pundit on the radio, but it is years since we really knew each other socially.
When I grew up and met Sheila and we had our little boy Charlie, I often thought about what fatherhood should be. My own father had killed himself with work and was barely a presence in our lives; Sheila’s father was the local family doctor in Inistioge and by all accounts cared more for his community than his family. Other fathers may be violent alcoholics or too idle to provide for their own. None of us are perfect. I did my best with Charlie, and he is now a fine young man who makes me proud every day. Some men, though, they shouldn’t be fathers; they are not cut out for it.
10
* * *
OLIVER
My earliest memories are confused. A dark room in a Gothic house. I was alone for most of the day, but sometimes an old lady gave me food and was kind. Her name, I think, was Fleur, or perhaps that is just a name I gave her. I remember being told that I must keep myself tidy because my father was coming up to see me, but I accidentally spilled some red juice on my shirt and I wasn’t allowed to see him as a result. Fleur was French, and I think I may have spoken French before I spoke English. She taught me to read a little in both languages. She hugged me sometimes, and called me her pauvre petit coeur. I recall my father came to my room one time and Fleur was nervous. He stared at me and then roughly pulled at me, examining my hair, my teeth. What was he looking for? I cried then, and he shouted at the woman and left the room slamming the door behind him.
Fleur told me that my father was getting married to a lady called Judith. I saw her once from the top of the stairs. She was beautiful and very fair. I remember wishing that I could be blond like her. She didn’t see me and I never spoke to her. I wasn’t allowed to attend the wedding.
My next memory is of Fleur packing a suitcase for me, and she was pretending to be happy but her eyes were wet. She told me that I was going on a great adventure and that I would have lots of playmates. I was excited, but at the gates of the boarding school I realized that she wasn’t coming with me, and I grabbed her legs and begged her not to leave me there, but a gentle priest lifted me in his arms and distracted me with a toy truck, and when I turned to show it to Fleur, she was gone.
I was one of the youngest boys in the school, but I settled in well. I wasn’t used to much attention and was mesmerized by the constant bustle of activity. I wasn’t as homesick as the other boys, because, as I now know, one isn’t sick for home, but for the people in it. I pined a little for Fleur, but not too much. I wasn’t the most popular boy and I wasn’t at the top of the class, but I tried my hardest. I heard from other boys about living with mothers and fathers and siblings, and I came to understand that fathers were often stern and that the only way to appease them was to get good report cards.
But regardless of how hard I studied and how good my report card was, I failed to win my father’s approval.
I wasn’t permitted to go home during the holidays and rattled around with the priests for the summer months. Every other year, my father would visit and the priests and I would go into a frenzy of preparation. They were as in awe of him as I was, because it was a diocesan school and my father was in control of the finances. The school depended upon his decisions for funding. I would sit on one side of the headmaster’s desk, and my father would stand behind me, refusing to sit or take tea. I would be as still as I could but couldn’t stop my hands from buttoning and unbuttoning my shirt cuffs. Father Daniel would tell him that I was doing well, even when I wasn’t. My father would ask to inspect my report cards and inquire about my general health, and then he would leave, without touching me or looking in my direction. Father Daniel was embarrassed for me and would try to make a joke of my father’s distance.
“Isn’t he a busy fella, your dad? Eh?”
It was Father Daniel who told me that I had a younger brother, Philip, born a year after my father and Judith wed. He is blond like his mother. He joined the primary school as a day pupil when I was in the senior boarding school. I watched him grow up in a way, because I could see my father’s house from a window in the top hallway and I had an almost permanent loan of Stanley’s binoculars, with which I spied on my father’s new family. I watched my brother come and go from my father’s house; watched Judith pottering in the garden; watched them all out in the driveway, admiring my father’s new car together. I envied Judith and Philip.
• • •
School sports days were a particular kind of torture. In the first few years, when I thought my father might actually turn up, I tried my hardest in the weeks leading up to the event, rising early and doing extra training. If my father wouldn’t acknowledge my academic achievement, I thought perhaps he might be impressed by my athletic prowess. In the early days I won medals and trophies every year, but my father never appeared.
The other boys’ families would descend upon the school, the mothers dolled up and reeking of perfume so strong that it would make your eyes water, accompanied by the fathers in their highly polished cars. There would be sulking or boisterous siblings, and small babies swaddled in pastel shades and shrieking and tantrums. Significantly, there would be a great deal of hugging and affectionate ruffling of hair and manly handshakes. And after the sporting events, there would be a grand picnic on the lawns, where the families would sit together in huddled groups. Father Daniel did his best to distract me from my isolation on these days, employing me in tasks of “great importance.” Even when I didn’t win a medal, he
would single me out for special mention.
I never gave up hope that my father might one day remember me. In my fantasy, he suddenly realized that he was wrong about me and that I wasn’t a bad boy. He would come to the school and take me home to live with him and tell me that I was a wonderful son.
And then in my penultimate year at St. Finian’s, I was overjoyed finally to see my father arrive in a black Mercedes with Judith by his side. They could have walked, but I think the car was a status symbol that needed to be displayed. They parked up in the lower parking lot and I ran down the lane toward the car, my heart pounding, barely hoping that my fantasy might become reality. My joy turned to bitter dismay when I saw Philip climb out of the car behind them and I remembered that my father was there for him, for Philip. My pace slowed and I stopped in the middle of the lane and didn’t know whether to turn back or not, but it was too late. My father looked up and saw me. He nodded quickly at me and raised his hand, and I thought for a moment that he was summoning me, but in the same instant he looked over at Judith, who just looked startled, and what could have been a wave of acknowledgment revealed itself to be a gesture of dismissal and I knew I wasn’t welcome in their company. For the rest of the day, I feigned illness and retired to the infirmary until the festivities were over.
The following year, I didn’t enter any event, pleading exam pressure. I stayed in the study hall for the entire day, trying to block out the sound of the loudspeaker, the cheering, and the laughter. Stanley came in later with a cake his mother had baked especially for me. A giddiness overtook me and I indulged in a food fight with him, tearing the cake apart and flinging fistfuls of jam and sponge at him, at the walls, at the light fixtures and the portraits of former masters. We laughed until our sides were sore, but our glee was different. Mine was bordering on hysteria.
• • •
Stanley was a friend, a real friend back then. I knew that I was different from the other children by the time I was in the senior school. They talked of holidays and cousins and fights with their sisters and Christmas presents and politics at the family dinner table. I had nothing to offer in these conversations. I was also set apart by my obvious lack of money. My uniforms came from the school’s lost-and-found office, and I had no money for the snack shop. There was an unspoken agreement that Father Daniel would provide whatever I needed. I don’t know if this was instigated by my father or if it was a simple act of kindness on Father Daniel’s part. I suspect the latter. But a teenage boy often has more wants than needs, and I couldn’t ask Father Daniel for stink bombs or plastic slingshots or jawbreakers or dirty magazines.
Stanley Connolly shared all these things with me and, indeed, Stanley gave me my first glimpse of home life when I went to stay with his family on their farm in Kilkenny one time. I was surrounded by women for the first time. Stanley’s mother was a widow and he had three sisters. They terrified me. I had hit puberty and was barely in control of my hormones. I was tall and strong for my age and well able to do the farmwork, but in the evenings when the family would gather for dinner, the noise and chattering of the girls unnerved me. I felt somewhat as if I had been mistakenly locked into a cage of exotic animals in the zoo.
They were incredibly kind and generous to me, and I know now that the girls were openly flirting with me and I should have been delighted with the attention, but I felt that the devotion was unwarranted, that any minute they would discover that I was a fraud, that they would realize a boy who didn’t deserve a mother couldn’t belong in a family, blessed among women. I imagined that, like some unfamiliar species, they might all turn on me. Kill me. Eat me. I don’t like cats for the same reason.
Stanley’s mother constantly fussed over me. She wanted to know what my favorite food was, and my uncultured palate betrayed me because I really only knew meals by the days of the week. Mondays: bacon and cabbage; Tuesdays: sausages and mashed potato; and so on. Eating real butter, home-baked bread, and fresh meat and vegetables on unscheduled days made me uncomfortable. In school, we had fish on Fridays and that was my preference. “What kind of fish?” she asked, and I couldn’t tell her but said that it was white, triangular shaped, and usually about four inches long. Mrs. Connolly laughed, but I could see that she was sad for me, and from then on she set about awakening my taste buds, which, while sweet and generous, only made me uneasier. I knew my manners and ate everything that was served, but my stomach was so unused to such richness that sometimes, at night, cramps would keep me awake until the small hours. On one of those nights, I resolved that I would learn about food when I was properly grown up and that I wouldn’t be embarrassed again.
I didn’t realize the extent of my institutionalization, but I was self-conscious about being the object of their pity, or admiration, or whatever it was, and when my father ordered me to leave, I was almost relieved to do so. Stanley was a witness to my poverty and my isolation, and I think he knew more about my circumstances than I told him. This embarrassed me, so I didn’t make much of an effort to keep in touch with him when I left that school, not until I got married and had my first success with a book and had the proof that I was not a failure, but by then years had passed and we had little in common beyond the memory of shared slingshots.
Many years ago, I went into town for a meeting with a publicist and I was early. It was a beautiful, warm summer’s day, and I decided to take a walk through St. Stephen’s Green. As I passed the children’s playground, I saw Stanley pushing a little boy on a swing. The likeness was extraordinary, though the little boy was not cursed with the facial discoloration of his father. Stanley was older now and there were flecks of gray in his hair, which he still wore long in the front in a futile attempt to cover the mark.
Stanley couldn’t take his eyes off his son, as if he couldn’t believe his luck. He and the boy were in their own world, oblivious to this strange man watching. The boy threw his head back and laughed a hearty cackle as he swung ever higher, and I wanted to be him more than anybody else in the world. Just for a moment, to exult in a father’s love and attention. Then the boy stopped the swing, scuffing his little sandals into the gravel to apply the brakes. He jumped off and ran to a red-haired lady sitting on a bench nearby. Her lipsticked mouth grinned at the boy and she scooped him up into her arms and he buried his face into the soft slope of her neck. I felt only envy.
I heard a loud cough right behind me, and when I turned to see a park keeper in a soiled uniform glaring at me, I realized how it must appear—an adult solo male mesmerized by the children’s playground. We each thought of each other as a sick bastard, and, incensed, I left immediately, stopping for a swift Jameson in Peter’s Pub to steady my cuff-buttoning hands before my meeting.
Perhaps I should have had children with Alice, but I knew that any child would only remind me of a small French boy so full of charm and mischief, and long dead. I might even have been a father figure to Alice’s brother Eugene, but something told me that if my father had so strongly disapproved of me, a strong and handsome and successful young man, then Eugene, an overweight mental defective, would have appalled him.
11
* * *
EUGENE
St. Catherine’s House
Patient No. 114
Annual Report: 17/12/1987
Name: Eugene O’Reilly
Date of Admission: 22/07/1987
DOB: 17/05/59
Height: 5 foot 8 inches
Weight: 224 lbs
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
Mental Capacity: Eugene is of limited intellect with an estimated mental age of seven or eight years. He can’t read or write, although he likes to have books in his possession, and needs help dressing himself (buttons, laces). He can feed himself, although he must be watched at mealtimes, as he will not stop eating until food is removed from him. Most of the time he can perform his toilet tasks without assistance. He has little interest in television but loves music, although his physical reaction to music can be upset
ting to other residents. Eugene is unaware of his own strength and size.
History: Eugene O’Reilly was admitted in July of this year by his brother-in-law, Oliver Ryan (the author Vincent Dax). Eugene was in good general health, although Nurse Marion reported some bruising to the upper arms and body. These marks were explained by Mr. Ryan, who said that Eugene had often to be restrained after episodes of aggression. Mr. Ryan very much regretted the incidents that led to these bruises but suggested that he had little choice in the matter, as Eugene was not capable of controlling his temper. Mr. Ryan reported that Eugene had become violent and difficult since the death of Eugene’s mother in 1986 and that he could no longer be cared for in the family home, particularly in the light of a recent arson attempt that Mr. Ryan insists was malicious. It was notable that there seemed to be some difference of opinion on this issue between Mr. Ryan and his wife, the patient’s sister, Alice Ryan. Mr. Ryan maintains that his wife is unrealistic about Eugene’s abilities and propensity to violent outbursts.
Assessment: In adults with the type of moderate to severe learning difficulties Eugene presents, violence and aggression are unusual, but clearly Mr. Ryan was correct in his assessment of Eugene, as he has displayed extreme aggression in his objection to being left in our care, and unfortunately two of our porters were required to take Eugene to the lockdown unit after Mr. Ryan left. Eugene has had great difficulty settling in to St. Catherine’s and has caused major disruption among other residents. In particular, he attempts to pick up other residents while they are seated, running the length of hallways, holding them high above his head within their chairs. While this may be a source of amusement to some residents, to others it is terrifying and we cannot allow the health and safety of any of our patients to be jeopardized. Eugene has been reprimanded for this activity on several occasions and has reacted belligerently when physically restrained. Although we are reluctant to medicate Eugene to subdue his boisterous nature, it has become our only option.
