During the closing scenes of my novel The Heart’s Invisible Furies, which take place shortly after the result of the 2015 Equal Rights Marriage Referendum was announced, I quote David Norris, who was asked about his own ambitions towards marriage. “It’s a little bit late for me,” he said. “I’ve spent so much time pushing the boat out that I forgot to jump on and now it’s out beyond the harbour on the high seas, but it’s very nice to look at.”
It was a beautiful, humane remark, tinged with regret but also an acceptance that each of us is born and dies in a particular period and can only live our lives within the constraints of that time.
Like marriage, fatherhood is something I grew up assuming that I would never experience and now, at 53, I know I never will. I’ve made my peace with that but am glad that younger gay men and women can have every expectation that it might be part of their future in the same way it is for heterosexuals.
I would have been a great dad. I adore children, I’m good with them and know how to talk to them. When I visit schools to talk about my books, I get a huge buzz from the enthusiasm of young readers. Their questions can be incredibly random. How much money do you earn, what car do you drive, and do you own a dog are regulars, but some are more outlandish. “Are you friends with David Beckham?” was one that I used to regularly encounter . (“We peed next to each other at a book launch once,” I didn’t tell them; I assume he retains as vivid a memory of this incident as I do.)
“Do you write about the second World War so much because you fought in it?” has come up more often than I wish. (“No, the first,” is my standard reply.)
I have plenty of writer friends who are parents and I see the adjustments they’ve had to make in their lives to pursue their careers while being present for their kids and sometimes I envy them and sometimes I’m glad that I didn’t have to make those same compromises. That said, while I’m proud of the fact that I’ve been publishing for 32 years, whenever I’m asked about my greatest accomplishment, I’m never stuck for an answer.
It’s being an uncle.
I became one quite young, aged 20, and threw myself into the role with gusto. The nephew in question, Jamie, is 32 now and, after what might politely be called a few misadventures during his teens and 20s, has settled down into responsible adulthood, running a successful business and enjoying a happy relationship.
As well as being his uncle, however, I’m also his godfather. Some months back, I attended a family Christening where Jamie himself became a godfather for the first time, which made me feel as old as the hills. Does this make me a grand-godfather, I wondered?
I’m in a WhatsApp group with my nephews, niece and their respective partners and, the day before the Christening, I messaged with some advice on how to perform the role which I have spent three decades perfecting. This is what I came up with.
- The Big Box Theory: Kids love presents, especially if they come in big boxes. The present itself might be crap but if the box is big enough, the excitement of the unpacking more than makes up for whatever cheap tat might be inside.
- You must always say goodbye through the medium of cold, hard cash. As it’s 2024, the child will probably have some sort of tap and pay machine, so bring your debit card.
- It’s important to be seen as much, much cooler than your godchild’s father. There are plenty of ways to achieve this, but owning a Vespa, on which he can ride as a pillion passenger, is a good start.
- Despite the religious connotation of the term, you are in no way responsible for his spiritual development. Honestly, we’re probably all going to hell anyway and we’ll need someone to hang out with.
- Attend events you have no interest in being present at, such as concert recitals, football matches or art shows, saying things like “he’s actually a really good singer/footballer/artist”, even if he’s tone deaf, can’t tell his left foot from his right and is clearly colour blind.
- Take it upon yourself, when he’s about four, to teach him a musical instrument.
- During his teens and early 20s, there’ll be times you want to lock him in your basement, providing him with just enough food and water to keep him alive, until he starts acting like a normal human being again, but you will resist this impulse and continue to love him.
- Make it clear that no matter how much chaos he causes, and no matter how many arguments you have, if you’d been lucky enough to have a son, then you’d be proud if it had been him.
If you follow these instructions, then 32 years down the line, you’ll know you did it right and there’ll be few people in the world who you enjoy hanging out with more.
But remember, you’ll still be paying for the pints. That never changes.
John Boyne is interviewed about his new novel Fire in this weekend’s Ticket