Dermot (his given name) had joined the priesthood in a desperate attempt to escape the reality of his sexuality, as if by ignoring it, he could pretend it wasn’t there. The seminary, he later told me, was full of young gay men, most of whom found solace in each other, but he, raised in a more severely Catholic home than my own, was determined not to yield to his inclinations. My confession to him seemed to open the floodgates, and I listened as he recounted his years of utter loneliness, repression and frustration. We talked for three hours. Mum was delighted when we eventually emerged.
The afternoon concluded with my agreeing to meet him for a drink in a small hotel in Bray the following Sunday after Mass. It was clear that Dermot was struggling with the priesthood and with his faith as much as with his sexuality. The church condemned us and yet there were other things going on that the church was ignoring, the full extent of which we have only recently learned. Dermot was aware of some incidents, and had reported them and seen the perpetrators moved or promoted and the ‘misdemeanour’ covered up. He felt that if he expressed his sexuality it would make him as bad as the abusers, and it took some time for me to convince him that there was a world of difference between two consenting adults engaging in a physical relationship and an older man in a position of power using that power to interfere with a child in some cases not old enough to understand what was being done to them. Dermot went to confession over and over again and spoke to his bishop, tried to be honest with them. They more or less told him to shut up about everything or face a transfer to some godforsaken spot on the globe. After six months of soul-searching, he quit the priesthood altogether and reverted to his given name. We had become close friends and confidants by then, and not long afterwards we became lovers. Before Dermot, I had never thought of settling down with one man. I assumed that, as a gay man, my relationships would probably be fleeting sexual encounters, but I found to my surprise that I loved him deeply and wanted him as a permanent fixture in my life. Thankfully Dermot felt the same way, although it took him a bloody long time to admit it.
But I am skipping ahead. Once I had come out to my parents in the autumn of 1973, I am not sure why I felt the need to, but I wrote to Oliver to tell him officially that I was gay. I think I wanted to explain myself to someone who had known me before and also to excuse the jealousy I felt towards him and Laura that summer. I wanted him to know that he couldn’t ‘dislike queers’ because I was one and I considered him a friend. I think I probably should have been sober when I wrote the letter. I cringe now when I think of it. I received a reply within the week. I don’t know exactly what I had wanted or expected, but he admitted that my declaration in the summer was no surprise to him, apologized for trying to set me up with Madame Véronique, wished me well in my life and hoped that I would meet a good man. It seemed clear to me that he was drawing a line under our friendship.
I must have caused quite a degree of stress for my parents around that time. There were more trials and tribulations when I declared my intention to drop out of college and open a restaurant. This time, though, Mum was on my side and eventually convinced my father to lend me the capital required. I had practically moved into the kitchen in the months after my return from France, and Mum was delighted at all my discoveries. Some ingredients I had brought home with me and some I imported from my deflorist Thierry. Dad was impressed by the food but thought I should be spending more time with my books, although when I single-handedly did the catering for a dinner party they were hosting for twelve of their most sophisticated friends, who swooned over each course, my father was persuaded to concede that I had a gift worth investing in.
All these negotiations served to distract us from the fact that Laura had stated that she wasn’t coming home for Christmas. Her irregular letters home told of the building project undertaken to restore the east wing as a result of donations from all over the province. Though somewhat mystified, we were proud of Laura’s charitable actions and despatched a large hamper accompanied by an equally large bank draft courtesy of my father.
My restaurant, L’étoile Bleue, opened at the end of March 1974 in a laneway off a Georgian square in the city centre. In the space of a year, my life had turned upside down in spectacular style. The restaurant did good business from the start, and within a few months I could see that if trade continued at the current rate, I would be able to repay my father’s investment within maybe five or six years, so all was fabulous. Then, in August, Laura came home.
My parents were, of course, relieved and I wanted to hear all about what was happening in Clochamps, how the building project was going in Chateau d’Aigse, how Madame Véronique was, whether she had seen Thierry, and so on. Laura answered my questions but seemed distant and uninterested. She looked pretty dreadful too: she had dark circles under her eyes and she was very thin. She just picked at her food at mealtimes. We didn’t recognize her odd behaviour for the nervous breakdown she was having. My mother brought her to a doctor who recommended a foul-smelling tonic that had no effect whatsoever. When I suggested getting in touch with Oliver, she barely reacted at all. I didn’t understand what was going on with Laura, but I was worried. I offered her a few weeks’ work in the restaurant. She had deferred college for a year and still had more than a month before she started again. She would be OK for a few days and then she wouldn’t show up at all, leaving us frustrated and short-staffed. She said she was tired. ‘Of what?’ I said. ‘You don’t bloody do anything!’
Reluctantly I approached Oliver to ask if he would call to the house to see her. He obliged by offering to take her out for a meal in my restaurant or anywhere she wanted, but Laura refused to go. Oliver even wrote her a letter, but Laura didn’t want to see him. I wondered if perhaps there was more to Oliver and Laura’s break-up than I knew. To all outward appearances, he had been a gentleman throughout their entire relationship – there was no question that he had cheated on her or anything like that – but it was clear that Laura wasn’t going to forgive him for rejecting her. Usually it was Laura who did the rejecting. She clearly couldn’t handle being on the receiving end. I didn’t think that Oliver could be held responsible for her depression. Not then.
9. Stanley
I find it difficult to believe what is being said and written about Oliver. It is true that I haven’t seen him in decades, but the person they are describing in the headlines is not the boy I knew.
When Oliver became so hugely successful as Vincent Dax, I was really glad that his life had worked out so well, because as far as I remember he had a fairly miserable childhood, even by Irish standards. I know because I was there for part of it. They say that children always accept their own reality as normality, so I suspect that Oliver wasn’t that aware of how neglected he was, but it was certainly whispered about at the time.
My father had died the year before I arrived in St Finian’s in south Dublin. I was fourteen and had three sisters. I think Mammy just wanted me to have a more stable education and to have some masculine influences on my life. We lived in rural south Kilkenny and I ended up working the farm quite a bit, but Mammy was determined that I wouldn’t follow my father into an early grave, which, she insisted, was a result of working his fingers to the bone from dawn till dusk. The other more pressing reason, though I didn’t appreciate it at the time, was my chronic shyness. I have a disfiguring port wine stain across my left eye and for most of my life have been self-conscious about it. My mother felt that if she didn’t find a way to get me off the farm at a young age, I would probably never leave home. She was right.