out the sound of the tannoy, the cheering and the laughter. Stanley came in later with a cake his mother had baked especially for me. A giddiness overtook me and I indulged in a food fight with him, tearing the cake apart and flinging fistfuls of jam and sponge at him, at the walls, at the light fittings and the portraits of former masters. We laughed until our sides were sore, but our glee was different. Mine was bordering on hysteria.
Stanley was a friend, a real friend back then. I knew that I was different from the other children by the time I was in the senior school. They talked of holidays and cousins and fights with their sisters and Christmas presents and politics at the family dinner table. I had nothing to offer in these conversations. I was also marked out by my obvious lack of money. My uniforms came from the school’s lost-and-found office, and I had no money for the tuck shop. There was an unspoken agreement that Father Daniel would provide whatever I needed. I do not know if this was instigated by my father or if it was a simple act of kindness on Father Daniel’s part. I suspect the latter. But a teenage boy often has more wants than needs, and I could not ask Father Daniel for stink bombs or plastic catapults or gobstoppers or dirty magazines.
Stanley Connolly shared all these things with me and, indeed, Stanley gave me my first glimpse of home life
when I went to stay with his family on their farm in Kilkenny. I was surrounded by women for the first time. Stanley’s mother was a widow and he had three sisters. They terrified me. I had hit puberty and was barely in control of my hormones. I was tall and strong for my age and well able to do the farm work, but in the evenings when the family would gather for dinner, the noise and chattering of the girls unnerved me. I felt somewhat as if I had been mistakenly locked into a cage of exotic animals in the zoo.
They were incredibly kind and generous to me, and I know now that the girls were openly flirting with me. I should have been delighted with the attention, but I felt that the devotion was unwarranted, that any minute they would discover that I was a fraud, that they would realize a boy who did not deserve a mother could not belong in a family, blessed among women. I imagined that, like some unfamiliar species, they might all turn on me. Kill me. Eat me. I do not like cats for the same reason.
Stanley’s mother constantly fussed over me. She wanted to know what my favourite food was, and my uncultured palate betrayed me because I really only knew meals by the days of the week. Mondays: bacon and cabbage; Tuesdays: sausages and mashed potato; and so on. Eating real butter, home-baked bread and fresh meat and vegetables on unscheduled days made me uncomfortable. In school, we had fish on Fridays and that was my preference. ‘What kind of fish?’ she asked, and I could not tell her, but said that it was white, triangular-shaped and usually about four inches long. Mrs Connolly laughed, but I could see that she was sad for me, and from then on she set about
awakening my taste buds, which, while sweet and generous, only made me uneasier. I knew my manners and ate everything that was served, but my stomach was so unused to such richness that sometimes, at night, cramps would keep me awake until the small hours. On one of those nights, I resolved that I would learn about food when I was properly grown up and that I would not be embarrassed again.
I did not realize the extent of my institutionalization, but I was self-conscious about being the object of their pity, or admiration, or whatever it was, and when my father ordered me to leave, I was almost relieved to do so. Stanley was a witness to my poverty and my isolation, and I think he knew more about my circumstances than I told him. This embarrassed me, so I did not make much of an effort to keep in touch with him when I left that school, not until I got married and had my first success with a book and
Stanley was a friend, a real friend back then. I knew that I was different from the other children by the time I was in the senior school. They talked of holidays and cousins and fights with their sisters and Christmas presents and politics at the family dinner table. I had nothing to offer in these conversations. I was also marked out by my obvious lack of money. My uniforms came from the school’s lost-and-found office, and I had no money for the tuck shop. There was an unspoken agreement that Father Daniel would provide whatever I needed. I do not know if this was instigated by my father or if it was a simple act of kindness on Father Daniel’s part. I suspect the latter. But a teenage boy often has more wants than needs, and I could not ask Father Daniel for stink bombs or plastic catapults or gobstoppers or dirty magazines.
Stanley Connolly shared all these things with me and, indeed, Stanley gave me my first glimpse of home life
when I went to stay with his family on their farm in Kilkenny. I was surrounded by women for the first time. Stanley’s mother was a widow and he had three sisters. They terrified me. I had hit puberty and was barely in control of my hormones. I was tall and strong for my age and well able to do the farm work, but in the evenings when the family would gather for dinner, the noise and chattering of the girls unnerved me. I felt somewhat as if I had been mistakenly locked into a cage of exotic animals in the zoo.
They were incredibly kind and generous to me, and I know now that the girls were openly flirting with me. I should have been delighted with the attention, but I felt that the devotion was unwarranted, that any minute they would discover that I was a fraud, that they would realize a boy who did not deserve a mother could not belong in a family, blessed among women. I imagined that, like some unfamiliar species, they might all turn on me. Kill me. Eat me. I do not like cats for the same reason.
Stanley’s mother constantly fussed over me. She wanted to know what my favourite food was, and my uncultured palate betrayed me because I really only knew meals by the days of the week. Mondays: bacon and cabbage; Tuesdays: sausages and mashed potato; and so on. Eating real butter, home-baked bread and fresh meat and vegetables on unscheduled days made me uncomfortable. In school, we had fish on Fridays and that was my preference. ‘What kind of fish?’ she asked, and I could not tell her, but said that it was white, triangular-shaped and usually about four inches long. Mrs Connolly laughed, but I could see that she was sad for me, and from then on she set about
awakening my taste buds, which, while sweet and generous, only made me uneasier. I knew my manners and ate everything that was served, but my stomach was so unused to such richness that sometimes, at night, cramps would keep me awake until the small hours. On one of those nights, I resolved that I would learn about food when I was properly grown up and that I would not be embarrassed again.
I did not realize the extent of my institutionalization, but I was self-conscious about being the object of their pity, or admiration, or whatever it was, and when my father ordered me to leave, I was almost relieved to do so. Stanley was a witness to my poverty and my isolation, and I think he knew more about my circumstances than I told him. This embarrassed me, so I did not make much of an effort to keep in touch with him when I left that school, not until I got married and had my first success with a book and
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