Unravelling Oliver(59)

Studies in genomic theory are advancing at a rapid rate thanks to the new data available from DNA mapping, and science now tells us that skin colour is not determined by only one gene. Instead, it is determined by many (polygenic inheritance). Therefore there are many factors that have a role in the skin colour of a person besides the skin colours of their parents. It may still be possible that you are my father if you have any ethnic ancestry.



She proposed to visit me in order to do a DNA swab test. She assured me it is a simple, non-invasive procedure. She was coming to Dublin and hoped that I would agree to meet her.

Having watched the video footage of you many times, I think it most likely that we are, in fact, related. I do not know if this will be a source of shame to you or what your views of racial harmony might be, but please bear in mind that when I set out to find my parents, I did not for one moment think that I might find one in jail. The wonderful parents that raised me would be horrified if they thought that this might be the case, and I have no wish to tell them. Nor would I want to go public if this turns out to be true.



I put the letter aside. I left my room and wandered out to the yard. The guard smiled and nodded.

‘And how’s Oliver today? It’s a cold one, eh?’

‘Do you have a cigarette?’

‘Indeed and I do.’

He handed me a cigarette, solicitously lit it for me and tried to engage in some light banter, but I am known as a loner so he soon stepped away to leave me to my customary solitude.

Father Daniel was right about everything. The story about my father and the native girl was true. What became of her and what was she like? I have an image of her in my mind, dressed in tribal clothing, walking away from her village and her life into an African sunset, thinking herself cursed by my birth. I find myself weeping for her at odd moments and, strangely, missing her, and wondering if she ever missed me. I think of my father and imagine his public humiliation when I was born, caught in his lie of denial, and I feel a small degree of pity for him.

Then I think of Laura, and how confused she must have been by her child. Who would have believed that I was the father? Certainly not me. This is why she could not send me a photograph, and why she could never have brought her baby home, not in those days. How could she have explained her baby’s paternity? She must have questioned her own sanity. There was a kind of accepted racism at the time among the Irish middle classes. It went unacknowledged because it never had to be confronted. In Ireland in 1974, I could count on one hand the number of black people I had ever seen. Laura’s child would have created a scandal for her family. Also, it was one thing to be an unmarried mother, but another thing altogether to be a single unmarried mother with a black child she had no way of explaining. I did that to Laura. I made her think she was insane. I killed her.

My daughter Annalise came to visit me today. She is beautiful like her mother and, I suppose, like my mother and, in a strange way, like me. It is some kind of genetic accident that I was born white, but this girl is undoubtedly mine. Mine and Laura’s. I still had the slimmest doubts right up until the moment I saw her. She has the same clear blue eyes and the sense of vibrancy and purpose that Laura had when I first met her, but her skin colour comes from my mother, via me.

It was awkward at first, but I used my old charm to put her at her ease until the atmosphere was at least cordial. I made enquiries about her son, my grandchild, and she showed me a photograph of a small boy, perhaps two years old, sitting in between her and her husband. He has a mischievous smile on his face and I can tell he is happy. I am glad. I asked her if she was happy, and she grinned quickly and ducked her blue eyes.

She sat opposite me, and I watched as she nervously buttoned and unbuttoned the cuffs of her expensive silk blouse, and I did not want to deny the truth to myself any longer.

I could, however, deny it to her.

I admitted that I knew Laura well, that we had dated in college and that we had spent a summer together in Bordeaux. I told Annalise that her mother was brave and beautiful and would have desperately wanted to keep her. I denied knowing that Laura was ever pregnant, and could not explain why she might have named me as the father. I said that there were some South African workers at the vineyard in the summer of 1973 and implied that Laura must have had a liaison with one of them. I recalled them as good, strong and cheerful boys but regretted I could not remember their names.

I told her that there would be no point in doing a DNA test. I told her all about my parents, Mary (née Murphy) and Francis Ryan, a priest at the time of my birth. I suspect Annalise must already have known of this detail. I even recalled for her my earliest memory: I am sitting on my father’s knee in a large garden while my laughing parents embrace each other on a bench. We are the only people in my world. My mother has red hair; she wears spectacles and lipstick. My smiling father is in a high-waisted suit. The bench is under a tree. One of the boughs of the tree hangs low and heavy with blossoms over my father’s head. My mother carries me over and puts me into a swing. There is a safety bar across it. She pushes me gently, and I laugh because I like the feeling of the air rushing through my stomach. I want her to push me a little higher, but she is afraid to do so. My father takes over the pushing and she goes back to the bench to sit down. My father pushes me higher and I am thrilled. After a little while, I use my feet as brakes. I feel the gravel and note a cloud of dust rising. I run over to my mum and jump into her lap. She hugs me close to her, and I know that my father is watching with pride. I am warm and safe.