Unravelling Oliver(33)

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 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.