The Church Times review signalled the intense power of this
book and it certainly lived up to this.
It is the story of a father (Robert Anthony Welch) and his
alcoholic son (Egan). It is a tragedy,
not in the glib way that the media apply the word to each and every death they
report, but in the literary sense.
It was not an easy book to read, not easy for anyone, but
more so as my own relationship with drink has at times been complex. For example, I found myself trying to read it
on a train journey, with a can of Stella on the go, and I just could not turn
the pages, for there were tears in my eyes.
It feels as those Egan and his alcoholism had a symbiotic
relationship, there is the refrain within the book – taken from a suicide note
written by Egan – “it is not alcohol that killed me. It’s something else.” It
is clear that it was not in a straightforward way simply that Egan was drunk
that he came to the place where he died. And the wrestling of the book is
Robert wrestling with the search for what that something else was.
I think the times when my parents (a Vicar and his wife)
have been most truly Christ-like has been in there care of the various
alcoholics that crossed their path. The
stash of tins under the stairs, to be dispensed two an evening, for the one who was told by their Doctor not to
go cold turkey was one of the very few times I have seen the Church of England
living out Biblical principles of manna from heaven…
There is the incredible honesty of Robert, he admits the
deep annoyance that not only did he have to cope with Egan’s behaviour, but
because they couldn’t have drink in the house so as to protect Egan, he
couldn’t have his customary evening glass of wine to take the edge off life -
at times when life was such that it really needed the edge taking off.
We like to live in a tidy world, but drink is untidy, I
sometimes call it “the chaos monster”.
There have been many times when I have had a few drinks, and a lovely
evening, and I think “I’ll go to the bar, get a refreshing lemonade, perhaps a
tea...” and then find myself returning from the bar with a massive glass of
wine or a double vodka. And the end of
the evening was rarely as “lovely” as I would have hoped.
Or I call to mind the different reactions there can be to
the ring of the last orders bell, I never got used to the fact the most of the
students who went to the bar (and they themselves were a minority) at Bishop
Grosseteste would on hearing the bell finish their drink and head to bed, while
I, as was I’m sure the norm in Durham, heard the bell and got a couple of
drinks from the bar to tide me over till chucking out time…
There is a lot in the book about the “Irish” identity and
how that predisposes you if not to drink then at least to the “something else”
Egan thought had killed him. I am not sure
how that sits with me. There is a lot of
poetry and folklore, which chimed in well – as Christians there is too much
wisdom which we dismiss – we need a bigger understanding of what truth is.
It is a book that I really want people to read, but I am worried
that people will read it and not get it.
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