Unravelling Oliver (13 page)

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 appalled. 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 experimented 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.

Still, as Vincent Dax’s notoriety grew, I followed the media coverage of his success. I even bought one of his books. It was very good indeed. So I was quietly proud of my cousin, but kept our relationship to myself.

On the day of my ordination, nobody was happier than my father. I was very glad to bring him such joy. We were always close, Dad and I. Like-minded in many ways,
I suppose. He spent more on my ordination celebrations than he would have on a wedding, and insisted on paying for handmade robes. My mother, red-eyed, put her objections aside and genuinely wished me well.

I still find it impossible to believe that my father lied for so long about something so fundamental. Even on his deathbed, he couldn’t tell me the truth. It’s nearly eleven years ago now since I discovered the facts, and even then … how can I know for sure? The only person who knew with certainty is gone.

My father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer just six weeks before his death. His suffering was thankfully short-lived and he knew it was terminal. I was coincidentally the chaplain appointed to the hospice where he spent his last weeks. It meant that I was able to be with him, sit with him and pray with him. Chemotherapy might have given him more time, but he declined it, choosing quality over quantity of life. His pain was managed well with medication, and he received visitors with grace and dignity. At the very end, when it was clear that it would be just a matter of days or hours, my mother and I kept vigil with him, both of us straining to maintain a tone of optimism though we knew it was hopeless. He was still conscious when I administered the last rites, or the Anointing of the Sick, as the sacrament is known.

For me, it is the most meaningful of all the sacraments. It is about giving the patient the strength, peace and courage to endure pain and suffering, it is to find unity with the passion of Christ, it is spiritual preparation for the passing over to eternal life and it is the forgiveness of sins. My
father accepted my words and bowed his sunken head in prayer, but my mother, on the other side of the bed, took his arm and stroked it.

‘Francis? Is there anything you would like to tell Philip?’

I was confused, and a little annoyed with my mother for disturbing such a peaceful moment. My father grew agitated. He shifted in his bed and I moved some pillows underneath his shoulder in order to make him more comfortable. He closed his eyes and exhaled. I looked at my mother quizzically.

‘Francis,’ she said again gently, smoothing his furrowed brow, ‘it is time to tell.’

My father turned his face into the pillow away from both of us, and I could tell from the shaking form under the bedclothes that he was crying. I was distressed at seeing my father in such misery and berated my mother. Whatever it was, now was certainly
not
the time. I called a nurse, who upped the morphine dose in his drip. He relaxed then and we were able to take his hands again until he slipped into unconsciousness. A few hours later, he passed over. It was almost dawn.