Unravelling Oliver(12)
The reality is that Oliver had money and style. He was becoming an internationally successful writer, and I was a mechanic with a sideline in second-hand cars back living with my mam in the Villas. She needed a bit of looking after, and Susan had gone. I was never in a university in my life. Oliver, the bollix, would treat her right, I thought, even if he was a bit high and mighty. They moved into town after they married and so we didn’t see each other for a few years, but when Mrs O’Reilly died, they moved back into her family home with Eugene and I’d see them around the place. They got friendly with that one off the telly who’d since moved in next door to them, Moya Blake. That seemed to settle it for me. Moya was totally Avenue and they were her new mates. Lah-di-dah, if you know what I mean. It’s not like they ignored me though. Oliver usually nodded and Alice looked guilty, but eventually there was a bit of a thaw. I tried not to bear a grudge. It was fecking hard work, I can tell you.
I had to keep my distance from Eugene then. I explained that Alice was home now to mind him and I wouldn’t be calling in any more. I thought he understood. Oliver and Alice never had children. That was strange. I always thought Alice would be a great mum, but I supposed she wasn’t able to or something. She was no longer any of my business and I never asked.
The one thing I could never figure out was that they sent Eugene away to live in St Catherine’s on the far side of town. I was really, really shocked at that. Alice didn’t give me much of an explanation when I asked, but John-Joe in Nash’s told me on the QT that Oliver had said Eugene had become very difficult after the mother died, and they had no choice but to put him in a home. I would still have the craic with him when I saw him on the road, but he’d put on a fierce amount of weight and looked a bit miserable. Still, I’d never have thought they’d put him in a home. If you ask me, that’s a great shame. I called in a few times and offered to take him out for the day from the home, but Oliver warned me that I should just forget about him and that asking after him just upset Alice. Oliver said it wasn’t a good idea to go and visit him, that he wouldn’t recognize me and might get aggressive with me. The poor fella, I couldn’t believe he’d do that, but Oliver insisted and, I must admit, at the time I thought Oliver knew about things more than I did myself.
I never imagined that I’d be able to hold Alice’s hand again, or that I’d have Eugene back in my life, but it’s a funny old world and no mistake.
6. Michael
By the time we were in France, I was terrified of my homosexuality but had convinced myself that it was a phase I could grow out of. Even though I had never envisioned my future as a happily married father, I had always assumed that I would get married, father some children and do what was expected of me. But that summer, it became impossible to keep my true desires buried. I wanted Oliver. But I couldn’t tell him. Homosexuality in Ireland wasn’t decriminalized until 1993.
My bunk was next to his in the dorm. I knew when he was sneaking out to meet my sister in the night. To my shame, I once followed them and watched as the moonlight glanced off the contours of their graceless humping. Not at all what I had expected. I had read Lady Chatterley’s Lover twice. Well, some of it. I had gleaned that sex was an earthy kind of thing, but somehow in my mind I expected it to be balletic. In reality, it looked base and animalistic. Definitely more Joyce (I had read bits of that too) than Lawrence. I felt like quite the pervert; firstly feeling lust for a man, and secondly watching my sister in the act. Shame on me.
It seems obvious, looking back now, that they must have known I was gay. I wasn’t particularly camp in my behaviour, but my obvious lack of interest in the local damsels might have aroused some suspicion. On a stifling night towards the end of July, after several jugs of the local wine and a few puffs of a sweet-smelling cigarette from one of the locals, I could contain myself no longer. We were playing an old innocent childish game of Truth or Dare, although we had rechristened the game ‘Truth or Drink’. When asked a direct personal question, one had to either answer honestly or drink two fingers of wine from the jug. It was once again my turn, and one of the girls asked which of them I would like to kiss. I think now it might have been a leading question. There was an expectant hush as they awaited my response. Around the brazier, in front of all gathered, I threw my arms around Oliver with abandon (gay) and wildly declared to the assembly, ‘I am in love with Oliver!’
Laura smacked me in the face. Oliver laughed. His laughter hurt me more than the slap. Laura pulled me out of the tent, cursing my drunkenness. She was absolutely furious with me, insisting that I was making an utter fool of myself. I couldn’t be a gay. Dad would kill me. It was immoral. Father Ignatius would be scandalized. What was Oliver going to think? Et cetera, et cetera.
I don’t remember going to bed that night, but the next morning I woke in my bunk early with a sense of horror, fear and shame. I turned towards Oliver. He was lying on his back, hands behind his head, facing me.
‘Don’t be a queer,’ he said. ‘I dislike queers, filthy bastards.’
I turned away in misery and blinked furiously to keep the tears at bay.
‘You just haven’t found the right woman yet. You need the ride. That’s all that’s wrong with you. Bloody virgin. Leave it to me. I’ll get you fixed up.’
He bounded out of bed, reached over and tousled my hair, and flicked his towel towards my arse underneath my sweat-drenched sheet. If he was trying to turn me off him, he was doing a spectacularly bad job. I decided to go along with the charade, however. After all, Oliver disliked queers.