Unravelling Oliver(19)

The new academic year started slowly, the drab autumn greyness of Dublin seeming so dull compared to the sun-drenched brightness of Bordeaux. I tried to put the trauma of the summer behind me and get back into study and college life. I quickly linked up with some rather camp individuals, the ones I had shunned the previous year out of fear, and began to develop friendships in a different social circle. Even though I still met up with Oliver from time to time, we were clearly estranged, and any time I raised the topic of the summer we had just spent in Bordeaux, he quickly changed the subject, until after a few attempts I never raised it again. I don’t know if it was my sexuality, my relationship to Laura or the fact that I reminded him of death that caused the distance between us. Perhaps he blamed Laura for taking us to France in the first place? Whatever was in his head, I needed to move on.

Notwithstanding the harrowing end to my summer, I also returned a different person. Stepping out of the closet was liberating, and there was no way I could go back. My mother got to hear about the company I was keeping and was of course scandalized – threatened to tell my father, call the parish priest; but it was too late. My summer in France had freed me and given me a confidence I never had before. The fire and its devastating consequences made me realize that life was too short to spend any part of it in denial of the truth. I felt at peace in my new skin, almost reborn. I was determined not to be ashamed, despite what the church or the law said.

My mother was trying her level best to get me back into the closet, but I just wasn’t having it. Eventually she did tell my father. He was appalled; threatened to disown and disinherit me, and suggested that Laura didn’t want to come home because she was ashamed of me. That hurt. I begged for understanding. This is who I am, et cetera, all to no avail. He spoke of the disgrace that I would bring on the family and the humiliation to him personally. I was genuinely sorry for that. I promised him that I would be discreet about my activities, but he was disgusted and ranted about having worked hard all his life only to be confronted with the fact that he had raised a nancy-boy.

In retrospect I must be grateful that my father wasn’t a violent man. Lots of fathers were. Dad was hugely disappointed, but it was hard for him and I wonder now if it might not have been better to hide my ‘depravity’ from my family. Later events would, however, eclipse my coming out and thankfully reunite us as a family, what was left of us.

In November 1973, Father Ignatius was summoned to the house. I didn’t know it until he turned up, but I was aware that there was a flurry of cleaning, dusting and vacuuming activity for a week before his arrival. Silver was polished and the ‘good’ plates and linen tablecloths appeared from wherever they had been quarantined since the previous Christmas Day. I was ushered into our rarely used front room on a Saturday morning, presented to Father Ignatius and left alone with him. I was furious at being tricked into this encounter and I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. He wasn’t the fire-and-brimstone type – a relatively new appointee to the parish, he was in his early thirties, with a gentle way of speaking. His embarrassment was palpable as, I’m sure, was mine. After some awkward pleasantries, there was a pregnant silence that threatened to give birth any minute. Eventually, I broke its waters by apologizing for having him brought here.

‘I suspect that my parents have asked you to come here because I think I’m a homosexual,’ I said; and, feeling brazen, added, ‘In fact I don’t just think it.’

There was a pause, while he coughed unnecessarily and readjusted himself on the leather armchair. It squeaked absurdly as if he had farted, and he quickly and deliberately moved again, causing another squeak, to make it clear that it was the chair and not him. I have eschewed leather furniture ever since.

‘It’s a sin, you know.’

‘I know, Father.’

‘Will you swear never to do it again?’

‘But, Father, you don’t seem to understand. It’s not just a matter of it, of sexual intercourse, it’s a fundamental part of who I am.’

‘But it’s a sin!’

‘I know, Father.’

We went around in circles for a while. I declared that even if I never did it again, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from thinking about it or indeed the man who might perform it with me. He reddened and declared that thinking about it was a sin too and suggested that I could think about flowers or trees instead. I asked him why it was a sin if I wasn’t hurting anyone, and he appeared confused.

‘What about getting married? Having children?’

‘I don’t want children.’

‘What if you change your mind?’

‘About having children or about being gay?’

‘The first one.’

‘What if you change your mind about having children?’

Silence. He wasn’t programmed for that answer.

With another priest, my question to him could have been seen as the height of insolence, but he had a soft way about him and a style that was not intimidating in the least. I felt emboldened.

‘I won’t,’ he said eventually.

‘Neither will I.’

‘What about the other thing?’

‘Being gay? Changing my mind isn’t an option! It’s not a decision I have made. I have only decided not to hide it any more. Not to hide who I am. I have never been interested in women, as much as I have tried. Don’t you think it’s unlikely that I might start now?’