Tim Comes Home

 CHAPTER 2

Tim was the first. It had never occurred to me to get into fostering, myself: I’d never even heard of a priest doing it before, but somehow I found myself manoevered into it by a charming boy and my best friend. I’d preached the annual retreat for the lads at St Tarcisius’ Home for Boys, and when it was all over I was relaxing with the Principal, a colleague of mine from the seminary who had remained a close friend. Father Paul Topham was still a lovely guy, but very much a teacher and headmaster now. As such, he never had much trouble shooting from the hip when he felt the situation demanded it, and this was no exception. As we lingered over our whisky and diocesan gossip, he said suddenly,

‘Johnny, have you ever thought of fostering?’ It was like a bolt from the blue.

‘What about it?’ I asked suspiciously. ‘You want me to come and work here some more? I don’t mind; you know I love the boys.’

‘No, you old sod, I mean take a boy home. We’re getting over-full here, and could really use a bit of space.’

‘Less of the old sod; I’m only thirty. Same age as you! Anyway, what do I know about kids?’

‘You’re really good with them. They warm to you because you’re friendly, but you stay yourself with them. You don’t try and pretend you’re a teenager, like some priests do, which the lads see through straightaway and really hate. And they don’t just like you, they also respect you.’

I mulled this over for a minute. ‘Well, thanks, I think. It’s true, I’m very fond of kids, but it’s a big step from liking them to having them in my home 24/7. Don’t you think there might be a reason why priests don’t foster?’

‘Johnny; you have one of the smallest parishes in the diocese; it really can’t take all your time. You can’t be that busy’.

‘I write’.

That’s true; I write theological textbooks that people who like that sort of thing are kind enough to find useful. Don’t go looking for them yourself, though, unless you find it difficult to sleep.

‘Exactly; you’re at home almost all the time. It couldn’t be more ideal.’

I thought of the clinching argument: ‘The Bishop would never agree’.

‘He already has. He thinks it’s a brilliant idea’.

‘WHAT? You’ve already spoken to the Bishop, you bastard? Well, thanks a bunch!’ I was cross, most of all at having my most clinching argument blown away. Well, the most clinching argument that I was prepared to let on about then, anyway. I was saving the big guns for later.

Paul was smug. ‘Well, whatever it takes. My boys come first, in my mind, and if I get a whiff of a good home for them, I want to see them happy. We do our best here at St Tarcisius for them, but really we are a sort of all-the-year-round boarding school, and we can never give them the individual love, care and attention they desperately need. Their lives are a desperate scramble for love, and when they don’t get it, they try to grab our attention in other ways, and that means that, despite all we do, many end up in juvenile courts by the time they are sixteen. What do you expect me to do? I’m asking you to take one—well, perhaps another one later—because I am finding it difficult to find enough love for sixty-three.’

I was silent. What could I say to that? I knew exactly what he meant; whenever I came to St Tar’s, the smaller boys would clamber all over me like monkeys looking for attention, and the older boys would hang back, too cool to say anything, but looking with longing eyes at the smaller boys’ frank admission of their need. I was very fond of the boys already, and felt deeply for them in their unsatisfactory upbringing. The only thing that could be said for it was that the Catholic home was better than Turling Park, the state alternative. I was weakening, but I thought that I had better stop this before I became so interested that I would be going home with a lad in the back of my car. I was going to have to tell the truth. Time for the big guns!

‘Look, Paul, there’s something you need to know, and I think it’s going to change your mind about my suitability. I’m going to have to ask for a lot of understanding here, and ask you to respect the confidentiality of what I am about to say. Since there’s no easy way to say this, I’m just going to have to come out with it, Paul, and you’re going to have to deal with it in your own way. Erm,……I’m afraid that I’m gay.’

There was an uncomfortable silence; Paul’s face was unreadable.

I thought it necessary to add ‘I have always kept my vow of celibacy, though, if that’s any comfort.’

‘Did you think I didn’t know you were gay?’ Paul said in an amused voice, smiling now.

‘Wha………?’

‘Close your mouth, or the flies will get in! Oh Johnny, I’ve known you continually since you were twenty-one, including living with you at the Seminary. I watched you perving at me when I was playing football or coming back from the showers…… oh, don’t worry; I was flattered, and you know enough about me to know that I’m not one for holding back if I’m upset about something. And besides, you’re my best friend. I reckoned that if you were going to make a move on anyone you’d have made it on me, and you’ve never tried anything except steal a glance now and then.’  

‘Paul…I don’t know what to say! I’m so embarrassed! But it’s true, you were then, and still are, a really beautiful guy, body and soul. I love you properly, as well as fancy you improperly.’

Actually, I more than fancied him improperly; I was deeply in love with him, and had been for years. I smiled nervously at the very good-looking man who had occupied my fantasies for the last nine years and who was also my dearest friend. Paul kept himself at the peak of fitness, and had been sent to run St Tar’s because three women in his last appointment, a parish, had fallen for him and fought amongst themselves for his favour. The repercussions were horrible, but I don’t want to go into that here.

‘You’re not so bad-looking yourself, you know, Johnny. And you don’t act gay; I don’t imagine anyone even suspects, unless they know you as well as I do.’ he said back. Which was also true, I suppose, if truth be told. I have many women friends and have even been accused of having affairs with some. Which, as Simon, an openly gay friend, commented, did my reputation no harm whatever. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘the issue here is that I know how you perv, and you’ve never perved on the boys’.

‘No’, I said. ‘Kids, thank God, do nothing for me in that area, apart from general admiration of their cuteness and so on. But that’s not what people think. People think that all priests are child molestors these days; there’s me with one or two cute boys living with me; what could I say if people start spreading malicious gossip? And don’t say that isn’t a possibility, because in fact it’s only too likely.’

‘Yes, I can’t deny that that is an issue, and we’d be fools to ignore it’, said Paul. ‘So I think you need to get yourself a housekeeper. A female woman of the feminine gender. Not live-in, necessarily, just somebody to be a presence every day, who can spread positive gossip about what goes on in the house. And it’ll be good for the boys as well, they need some feminine influence in their lives; this is far too masculine an atmosphere here at St Tar’s’.

‘A breeder?’ I said in my best queeny voice, ‘You want me to bring a breeder into my home, leaving fishy trails all over the furniture?’ The crude joke made us both giggle and broke the rather tense atmosphere. It was followed by a few more cracks, and when we had subsided, I discovered that I was already making plans in my mind, taking it for granted that I would now have a family.

Suddenly it hit me, and there were tears in my eyes; not having a family was the thing I most resented about being gay (though I suppose priesthood was hardly a way down that trail, either) and suddenly it looked like it was going to be possible. I knew now I really wanted to do this, that it was a fulfillment of a dream for which I had never dared hope.

‘No girls’, I said. ‘I’ve got nothing against girls; I like girls, but I wouldn’t know what to do with one. I have no sisters, or even female cousins. I went to an all-boys school. What do I know about times of the month and frilly knickers? And I’ve only got one bathroom!’

‘No, don’t worry’ said Paul. ‘We only have boys here; Tim is very definitely a boy, and he’s longing to meet you’.

‘Wha……? You’ve spoken to a lad already? You’re bloody sure of yourself!’. I was suddenly furious, aware that I’d been manipulated all through this conversation. ‘You already have every detail sorted out before I’ve even agreed? What about the boy? Don’t we even get a chance to work out if we’re going to like each other? What’s the poor lad done to get dumped on a total stranger for the rest of his childhood?’

‘Trust me; I’m very good at my job, and I haven’t gone wrong yet. Real parents don’t get to choose their children, and in my experience it’s better that way. This is not a consumer choice, Johnny, but a Christlike act. And anyway, you’re not a total stranger, he knows you quite well; you’ve been coming often to St Tar’s for a few years now.’

‘Yes, but do I know him?’

‘I suppose not; Tim’s a quiet lad, thirteen and a half years old, and tends to hang at the back of groups. When he came here he was completely illiterate, but he’s made excellent progress and if anything, he’s quite bookish now. His home seems to have been sexually abusive and violent—his back is scarred—though he refuses to talk about it at all. Never a word. He’s very gentle, and doesn’t like the normal boyish rough and tumble, which might be due to his past, or our team sports, though he has recently been using the weights in the gym quite a lot. He’s only got a couple of friends, but he’s frantically loyal to them and they to him. And to be perfectly honest with you, I think he’s probably beginning to suspect that he may be gay.’

‘Poor little bugger. Sorry, no pun intended.’

‘He’s really a lovely lad, and I very much doubt he will give you any trouble; food, drink, clothes and love will be all he’ll need. He’ll be watching television with the others now; shall we go and meet him?’

‘For God’s sake, no, Paul! I’m stinking of whisky, and this has all been too much to take in at once. Paul, this last couple of hours has turned my life upside-down and I’ve got a great deal of thinking to do.’

‘Sure, Johnny. I’m sorry; I’m just so keen to get you together. I know you’ll love each other’. Paul pulled himself up from the sofa in one strong and beautiful movement. He went over to his desk, where he rummaged for a few moments and brought back to me a photograph.

‘This is Tim; it was taken last week at the local swimming pool.’

For the first time I looked at the face that was going to become so important to me; the person I was going to love before anyone other than God. He had middle-blond hair, cut short, but not too short, and piercing blue, blue, eyes; a chiselled face with high cheek-bones and a smile that would make you do anything for him; this boy was truly beautiful, but with a sadness in his eyes that went straight to my heart. Was this to be my son?

‘Can I keep this?’ I asked.

‘Sure; it was taken for you anyway’.

I went home in a whirl, and I stayed in a whirl for the next month. The local child care authority came to inspect the house, interview me again and again, and run police checks on my background. I advertised in the parish magazine for a housekeeper and managed to secure the services of Teresa, a big Scottish mumsy widow with two sons who had grown up and left home. Perfect. I didn’t mind cooking for an army, but washing and cleaning clothes and house were jobs I hated. Scrubbing boys’ collars and cuffs, ironing school shirts and throwing football kit into the washing machine were things I was definitely not looking forward to. But Teresa said to me with a smile that she loved nosing around other people’s homes, and cleaning was the best way to do it, so we were suited.

My first meeting with Tim was not the great event I thought it would be. We met at St Tar’s, just about the most awkward place for a good chat, so we shook hands uncomfortably, and I took him out for the afternoon. I recognized him as soon as I set eyes on him; he had always been around when I visited, hanging to the back of groups, but never saying a word. Somehow, I had never seen that magical smile, nor heard him speak, and so we had missed each other—or rather, as I was to find out, I had missed him. He already knew me very well.

That particular afternoon, I was rather at a loss where to begin; I asked him what he wanted to do, and he had no particular ideas either, so we ended up simply wandering around the shops. I couldn’t help noticing that his clothes were terribly ill-fitting—he told me later that boys had to fight among themselves whenever any new (which meant second-hand) clothes arrived at St Tarcisius. Being by nature self-effacing that meant that he was left with what remained when others had taken what they wanted, which often meant that what he got was nothing. He had on a scruffy old pair of jeans; the holes in its fabric were not fashionable ones, but caused by wear and tear. They were clearly too tight and too long; he had worn away the hems as they caught under his feet and the threads trailed behind him in the dust. He wore mismatched socks, and his plain once-white t shirt was far too small, leaving his midriff bare whenever he moved. Automatically and unselfconsciously he was always tugging it down. His training shoes were so old that they were actually back in fashion, but these were the originals. Again they were too small for him, and the backs were broken down by his heels which extended beyond the back of the shoes. So he walked along with a type of shuffle that had become part of him. My heart was broken just to watch him, simply because it did not seem to occur to him that he was in any way to be pitied. And I was filled with puzzlement and even anger at Paul and the other staff at St Tarcisius who had not noticed how neglected this lad was. Time would soon show just how I misunderstood them. Tim had a way of simply not being noticeable, of disappearing into the background; indeed it was his habitual state, especially when he didn’t want to be found.

We found a Macdonald’s and, much as I abhor the place, I know that healthy lads love it. So we went in—Tim’s eyes noticably brightening—and we had a Big Mac each and a drink.

‘Do you come here often?’ I asked, mentally kicking myself for such a brilliant and original opening gambit.

‘No; this is my first time’ said Tim, speaking around a huge mouthful. ‘I’ve heard about it from some of the others, though; it’s brilliant, isn’t it.’

‘Hm; it’s all right for some, if they like this sort of thing.’ I said grumpily.

I immediately saw the pain in Tim’s eyes as the food turned to ashes in his mouth; he said quickly ‘Would you rather go somewhere else; honestly, it’s fine by me?’ He was so eager to please, or rather desperate to please, that it hurt.

I backtracked quickly.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Tim. I want you to be happy this afternoon, and if this makes you happy, then there is nowhere else I’d rather be’.

Tim smiled then, that same smile that he had made for the photograph—this time it was for me—and I began to love this quiet boy. He said softly ‘Nobody has ever said that to me before’.

I had the most difficult time keeping the tears back. Why the fuck do people do this to children? I have no difficulty at all in believing in the existence of a devil.

I was sorry when the time came to take Tim back. Although we hadn’t said much to each other, we had ‘connected’, and the silence was companionable, rather than strained.

Back at the Home, I spoke rather sharply to Paul about Tim’s clothes, asking if it was all right for me to buy him some more. Paul discouraged me, saying that he knew Tim was terribly shabby, but to get him clothes now would just rub into the face of the others that Tim was about to be fostered out of St Tar’s, and simply emphasize their own need. Though I was still cross, I saw the point straight away.

‘Besides’, said Paul, ‘Shopping is what I do best, and I’m not going to miss the little spree you and Tim will have when he moves in, for anything!’

Three weeks later, again amidst the garish reds and yellows of Macdonalds Tim and I looked at each other over our polystyrene containers and polystyrene food and said nothing with words, but a bond was forming in our hearts. We had spent six or eight afternoons together by this stage.

‘So’, said Tim casually, ‘are you going to be my dad, then?’.

I choked on my Diet Coke ‘Bloody hell; you move quickly, Tim!’ I saw the pain and insecurity in his eyes again, and he shrank back as if I was going to strike him. I saw immediately that I was going to have to tread very carefully with this lad. ‘Tim; it’s very early days; there are a lot of hoops to jump through first for both of us. We’ve got to get to know each other better, you’ve got to come and see where I live, to see if you’d like it, there’s school to be discussed, and so many other things, don’t you think?’.

Tim shook his head obstinately. ‘I don't care about all that; I know already,’ he said.

‘Know what?’

He looked exasperated. ‘Know that I want to come home with you. I don’t care about the details; anything is fine with me. I’ll sleep in the coal shed if I must. I just want to come home. Actually, I want to do it today. Now. I’m tired of waiting. I want to be your son. I want you to be my dad. What’s the point of hanging around even longer?’

‘The point is, Tim, we hardly know each other. Look, I understand you want a home; hell, life must have been dreadful to you up till now, but there may well be a better alternative to anything that I could offer you. With me, your life would be a bit odd, to say the least; as for a real home; brothers and sisters, a mother; I can’t offer you anything like that. You really have to be sure that you can do without these things if you are going to come with me. You mustn’t just take the first option that comes along simply because it’s a quick way out of St Tar’s; it’s got to be the right option.’

Tim went bright red and his eyes teared up. ‘That’s bollocks, bollocks, bollocks! Sorry, Father John, but it is. You often come to St Tar’s, I’ve listened to you, I’ve been to confession to you, I’ve watched you and dreamed that one day you would take me home with you, that you could be my father in reality, and not just as in ‘bless me Father for I have sinned’. And you’re not the first; Father Paul has tried me with two other families, and I wouldn’t have them, because I knew what was right, I know where I belong. I wouldn’t stay with them, because I knew I belonged with you.’

This impassioned speech took me aback, and left me mute for a minute while I gathered my thoughts. When I could speak again, I said

‘Do you mean that this is all your own idea, about me becoming a foster-father, I mean?’

‘Well yes…er…no…well, it was a sort of mixture. After my last try with a family, I talked with Father Paul, and he was pretty cross with me for messing it up. The family was really nice, and they wanted me, but I didn’t want to be there. He asked me what I did really want, and I told him I wanted to go with you. I thought he would blow up, but he didn’t, he just went all quiet like you did just now. Then he said “You know, Tim, I’d been wondering whether Fr John would make a good foster father. We can always ask him, there’s no harm in that”. And I’ve been praying every day since then for this.’

Tim squared his shoulders, and looked me in the eyes with his piercing blue ones that I found so irresistible. He said firmly, ‘Look, Father John: what I want isn’t in doubt. The only question is whether you want me. And I want you to tell me, today. Do you?’

I looked down. Was this really only a thirteen year old speaking to me? Thirteen going on thirty, perhaps. I looked up to be sure, and met his swimming eyes, filled with a deep appeal and need for that which he obviously felt only I could supply. I saw love there already, love and trust such as I had always longed for from an adult, and never thought to look for in a child. I thought to myself ‘If I say no, I am going to destroy him. He feels this to be his first and only chance of happiness. But am I ready for this? Is this going to destroy my life? I’m not ready to make this choice. It’s too soon! Can I love this lad enough to be my son?’ I looked up again at him, and the distress in his eyes brought a sudden pain to my heart; I felt his hurt as my own, and sensed for the first time an urge so overpoweringly strong to protect this boy, that anything that brought him pain I would resist to the last ounce of my strength. So I looked straight at him and, not able to bring myself to say a word, I just simply nodded.

The tears in his eyes broke their bounds and poured down his cheeks. In a flash he was in my arms sobbing his heart out. I could feel his heart pounding against my chest as he clutched me fiercely to him. He turned his head so that his mouth was by my ear and said one word;

‘Dad!’

In a moment I joined him in his sobbing, and we held each other there in Macdonalds while the crowds round us looked on curiously as they stuffed their faces with french fries, unknowing that here in their presence the world had jumped on its axis, the Jordan had turned back on its course, the mountains had skipped like rams, and the hills like yearling sheep.

I pressed my face into his blond hair and for the first time smelt his special smell. I kissed the smooth lightly-tanned skin of his forehead.

‘Tim, my son’, I whispered.