When I was young, very young, before that summer in France, I tried hard to be a good person. I spent most of my life trying to impress a man who more or less refused to acknowledge my existence. My birth certificate names my mother as “Mary Murphy (maiden surname),” probably one of the most ubiquitous names for a Dublin female at the time. It states that my parents were unmarried. Over the years, private research has yielded absolutely nothing about her, and I could only speculate that this was not her real name. My father is listed as “Francis Ryan.” Under “Rank or Profession of Father,” it says “priest.” I realize that it must have been a scandal in 1953, or would have been, if it hadn’t been hushed up in some way.
My place of birth on the certificate is “Dublin,” although I do not appear in any register of births for maternity hospitals or nursing homes in the city, and because of that I can’t be sure that my date of birth is accurate. Two Mary Murphys gave birth on that date in the city. I have gone to great lengths to find them and their offspring and rule out any possible relationship to me.
I wonder how there could be no trace of her. I know it was a different time, but how could this document have been approved? The church’s stranglehold on the state was certainly strong in those days, but this was deliberate obfuscation. I once had the courage to ask my father about my mother and the circumstances of my birth. “She was a whore,” he wrote, in reply to my letter, as if that was all the explanation that was needed. It wasn’t too long before I got to hear a most bizarre version of the circumstances of my birth, but my father had to die before that tale could be spun.
One day, in March 2001, I was casually reading Saturday’s Irish Times and came across my father’s death notice in the paper.
“ . . . deeply regretted by his loving wife, Judith, and son, Philip . . .”
I wasn’t sure how to feel about this news. I wasn’t sad, certainly; maybe a little relieved. I had long ago accepted that he didn’t want me in his life, but the slimmest hope was always there that he might one day find it in his heart to forgive me for whatever he thought I had done, that he might take pride in my success and claim me as his own. Now that the hope was gone, perhaps I could relax.
The wording of the notice hurt me unexpectedly though. I was also his son, but didn’t merit a mention.
The funeral mass was the following Monday morning. My curiosity got the better of me. I told Alice that I had a meeting in town and went to the Haddington Road church. I lurked at the back, avoiding the glances of parishioners who might recognize me. Now was not the time for autograph hunters. There was a substantial turnout, a flurry of priests, a bench of bishops, and a cardinal. Judith was elegant and dignified, but gray, and Philip was aging badly, unlike his mother, but wore a priest’s collar, to my surprise. Ironically, I remember thinking that the family line would die with him.
When the time came, I shuffled forward with the herd to convey my condolences to the bereaved. Judith took my proffered hand wetly.
“Oliver!” she said, reddening and turning to Philip. “Don’t you remember Oliver . . . from school?”
Philip looked up, and I saw that his eyes were filled with tears and misery, and I wondered how he could feel that way. I could tell that he was confused by my attendance.
“Of course, yes, thank you for coming. I heard you are an author now?”
“A writer, yes,” I said. “Children’s books.”
“Yes.”
The line of mourners was building behind me and I knew that I must move on.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I managed to say.
Father Daniel from St. Finian’s was smoking a pipe outside the church. He greeted me warmly and thanked me for the annual donation I made to the school.
“I’d say that was hard for you . . . ,” he said.
“Judith and Philip . . . do they even know that I am his son?” I tried to keep the tremor from my voice.
“I think Judith knows.” He shook his head. “The death notice . . . that was your father’s wish. I’m sorry. He didn’t want any reference to you.”
Father Daniel offered his condolences to me, and it was kind of him, but I didn’t need them.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d be here. I was going to call you. Come and see me next week. There’s something I need to explain to you. About your father.”