Although it would be another seven years before I laid eyes on Julian Woodbead again, he remained a constant in my mind throughout that time, an almost mythological figure who had walked into my life one day to overwhelm me with confidence and charm before disappearing just as quickly. When I woke in the morning, I would often think of him waking too, his hand, like mine, slipping inside his pajamas to encourage the cascade of endless pleasure that our youthful tumescence had begun to offer. Throughout the day he was there in one form or another, commenting on my actions, a wiser, more self-assured twin who knew how I should act, when I should speak and what I should say better than I did. Despite the fact that we had only been in each other’s company twice and briefly on both occasions, I never questioned why he had become a figure of such importance to me. Of course, I was still too young to recognize my fascination for what it was and put it down to a sort of hero worship, the type I had read about in books, and this awe seemed characteristic of boys like me, quiet boys who spent too much time alone and were uncomfortable in the presence of people their own age. So when we were unexpectedly thrown into each other’s company again, it unsettled as much as delighted me but I was determined that we should become firm friends. Of course, I never expected that by the year’s end Julian would have become the most famous teenager in the country but then who could have predicted such an unexpected turn of events? Violence and political unrest were not the everyday considerations of fourteen-year-old boys in 1959; as with most generations we were solely concerned with when we would next eat, how we could improve our social standing among our peers and whether anyone might do to us the things that we were doing to ourselves several times a day.
I had entered Belvedere College as a boarder a year earlier and, to my surprise, I didn’t hate it as much as I had expected to. The anxiety that had marked my childhood had begun to lessen and, while I was still not the most outgoing of pupils, I didn’t walk down populated corridors in fear of assault or insult. I was one of that fortunate cadre of boys who, for the most part, is left to his own devices, neither popular nor disliked, not interesting enough to befriend but not fragile enough to bully.
The dormitories contained what were called “paired rooms,” furnished with two beds, a large wardrobe and a single dresser. My roommate during my first year was a boy named Dennis Caine, whose father was that rarest of creatures in the 1950s: a critic of the Catholic Church who wrote inflammatory articles in newspapers and was regularly given airtime by excitable producers at Radio éireann. A pal of No?l Browne’s, whose Mother and Child Scheme had brought down a government when Archbishop McQuaid realized that his proposal meant that Irish women might be allowed an opinion of their own without having to run it past their husbands first, it was said that he was on a mission to extract the clerical poison from the secular body, and he was regularly portrayed in pro-Catholic newspaper cartoons as a snake, which made no sense whatsoever considering the analogy. Dennis, who had been admitted to the school before the Jesuits realized who his father was, was accused of cheating in an exam and, with absolutely no evidence whatsoever to support the allegation, expelled after a farcical inquiry and cast into the wilderness of a non-denominational education.
Of course, everyone knew that the entire thing had been a setup and that the priests, acting upon the orders of some superior power, had simply planted evidence to show his father what happened to those who went against the authority of the Church. Dennis protested his innocence but perhaps he didn’t mind too much, for the guilty verdict meant that he could leave Belvedere and the tender embrace of the school forever. He disappeared with scarcely a goodbye.
And then Julian arrived.
A rumor had gone around that a new boy would be joining us, which was unusual in itself, as it was already the middle of the school year. The rumor escalated into speculation that it was the son of someone in a public position, a boy who, like Dennis, had been expelled from his previous school for some egregious crime. Charlie Chaplin’s son Michael was mentioned, as was one of Gregory Peck’s children. A bizarre rumor took hold for a few hours that the former French President Georges Pompidou had chosen Belvedere for his son, Alain, when one of the sixth-form prefects swore that he had overheard the geography and history teachers discussing security arrangements. And so, when the headmaster, Father Squires, stood up at assembly on the day before Julian’s arrival to announce the name of our new alumnus, most of my classmates were disappointed that his surname was not one that suggested a more illustrious heritage.
“Woodbead?” asked Matthew Willoughby, the obnoxious captain of the rugby team. “Is he one of us?”
“One of us in what way?” asked Father Squires. “He’s a human being if that’s what you mean.”
“He’s not a scholarship boy, is he? We’ve got two of them already.”
“Actually, his father is one of Ireland’s most prominent solicitors and a former Belvedere boy himself. Those of you who read the newspapers might be familiar with Max Woodbead. He’s represented most of Ireland’s top criminals in recent years, including many of your own fathers. You’re all to welcome Julian and treat him with courtesy. Cyril Avery, you’ll be his roommate since you have an available bed in your room, and let’s hope that he doesn’t turn out to be as dishonest as his predecessor.”