Liz Nugent - Unraveling Oliver

He was curious about my family, constantly asking me to retell stories and anecdotes from my breaks at home. Not having a mother, he wanted to know about mine.

Oliver’s father visited maybe once every year or eighteen months. Oliver would be in a knot of anxiety for weeks leading up to a visit, trying his best to raise his grades and keep out of any hint of trouble. He looked forward to it and dreaded it in equal measure, I think. When my mother or other parents visited, they always brought gifts for their children, usually a care package of some sort or, if you had particularly cool parents, a set of darts, water pistols, or other weapons of minor destruction.

A boy would always be very popular in the wake of a parental visit, as he would be expected to share the swag. Some suggested that Oliver was keeping it for himself and simply refused to share, but I know that wasn’t the case. His father never brought him anything, except a book of psalms once.

Approaching summer holidays toward the end of my second year there, my mother suggested that I invite Oliver to join us on the farm for a few weeks. I wasn’t sure about this plan, if I’m honest. It was one thing to be hanging out in school, whittling slingshots out of branches and spying on the school nurse and her boyfriend, Father James, but school and home were very different environments. My home was a particularly feminine one, with a widowed mother and three girls, while Oliver was growing up in a school surrounded almost exclusively by men, except for the aforementioned nurse and a few of the cleaners. I remember being worried by his reaction to my family and vice versa, but I needn’t have. All the women in my family fell in love with him. My mother would have adopted him if she could, and it was the most painful embarrassment to watch all my sisters going through the various stages of romantic attraction to him. Una, the youngest, was nine and spent as much time as possible climbing onto him for piggybacks or asking him to read to her. Michelle, thirteen, feigned a sudden curiosity in anything that Oliver had an interest in and spent her time baking new delicacies with which to charm him. Aoife, at sixteen, one year older than us, tried a different tack, pretending that she didn’t notice him, but always seemed to be in some state of undress when we walked in from the barn and developed a way of draping herself over our furniture that could only be described as louche.

Oliver took it in his stride. I’m sure he was somewhat discomfited, but he must have been flattered all the same. That was probably the first time he’d been around women of his own age. At first he was shy and overly polite, but he gradually relaxed until he almost became accepted as one of the clan. The plan was that he would stay three weeks. His father had apparently stipulated that Oliver must earn his keep and be put to work on the farm, but we were all used to working our summers on the farm anyway, so Oliver blended in quite well. Oliver proudly sent his first postcard to his father, telling him how much he was enjoying his time and assuring him that he was working hard nonetheless. Two days later, my mother received a phone call from Mr. Ryan instructing her to return Oliver to the school immediately. He should have had another eight days with us, but Oliver’s father would brook no argument and offered no reason for the change of plan. My mother was very upset, I recall, and bought Oliver a whole new set of clothing before we put him on the train back to Dublin. Oliver bade us farewell stoically. He didn’t question his father’s decision or express resentment. He didn’t seem angry about it, but I clearly remember the shine of tears in his eyes as we waved him good-bye from the station platform, my three sisters blowing him kisses, my mother as heartbroken as they were.

We never got a valid reason for Oliver’s sudden departure. As far as I know, he just went back to the school and spent the rest of the summer with the priests. My mother always maintained that his father acted out of spite, that the postcard alerted him to the fact that Oliver might actually be enjoying himself, and so he felt compelled to put a stop to it. There wasn’t really any other explanation, I’m afraid. It is hard to credit that anyone could be so cruel to their own flesh and blood. I guess we will never know the reasons why, unless Oliver writes his autobiography. But I’m not sure if he would be allowed to do that now.

When we left school, Oliver went to college and I returned to the farm. We would meet up occasionally in Dublin for a few drinks. I knew from rumors that he had a small apartment in Rathmines and worked evenings and weekends in a fruit-and-vegetable market to pay his rent. I guess once he was educated, his father washed his hands of him, his duty done. Oliver spent summers working abroad to pay his college tuition, and I think he must have flourished and gained confidence during that time. One summer he went with a gang from college to work on a vineyard. Apparently there was some tragedy connected with a fire, but I never heard the full story, as we lost contact around that time.

In December 1982, I was pleased to receive an invitation to Oliver’s wedding to a girl called Alice who was illustrating a book he had written. I was happy that he had found both love and a publisher. My mother was ill in the hospital at the time, and I couldn’t make it to the wedding. It was a shame. I would have liked to have celebrated his happy day with him.

Just a few months later, I got an invite to the launch of Oliver’s first book. I was confused at first, as the author’s name on the invite was Vincent Dax, but when I called to query it, the publisher let me know that it was Oliver.

There were only ten or twelve people there; one was Father Daniel from the school, two or three were his friends from college who I had come across once or twice, and of course his agent, publishing folk, and his new bride, Alice. She was lovely, very warm and gracious. I recall that even though she had illustrated the book, she insisted that it was Oliver’s night and Oliver’s success.

Oliver was a nervous wreck, and immediately I recognized why. He was waiting for his father. The fearful boy so desperate to impress that I recalled from our school days hadn’t completely disappeared yet. All evening, as people congratulated him and he read passages from the book, Oliver’s eyes swiveled backward and forward to the door. I asked him eventually if his father was expected. He gave me a look that said it was none of my business and not up for discussion. Later we had a few drinks in Neary’s and he relaxed a bit. I asked him why he had used a pseudonym. He grew embarrassed, and I guessed that perhaps his father had insisted upon it.

Since then, I have seen Oliver only a handful of times, but I noticed that when I met him, he seemed increasingly casual and breezy in conversation and almost dismissive of our shared childhood. Finally, he stopped returning my calls and didn’t respond to invitations.

He popped up on TV sometimes on the review program or as a pundit on the radio, but it is years since we really knew each other socially.

When I grew up and met Sheila and we had our little boy Charlie, I often thought about what fatherhood should be. My own father had killed himself with work and was barely a presence in our lives; Sheila’s father was the local family doctor in Inistioge and by all accounts cared more for his community than his family. Other fathers may be violent alcoholics or too idle to provide for their own. None of us are perfect. I did my best with Charlie, and he is now a fine young man who makes me proud every day. Some men, though, they shouldn’t be fathers; they are not cut out for it.