Unravelling Oliver(34)

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.