All the Beggars Riding

by Lucy Caldwell

  ‘Estate agent.’

  ‘House in the suburbs and garden and dog?’

  ‘Yes. Well, apart from the dog. But they do have a cat.’

  ‘You and me really are the odd ones out, then. The misfits.’ He looked at me intently. ‘We’re the misfits,’ he said again, and then laughed before I’d had a chance to think up something witty or reassuring to say. ‘We’re the broken biscuits. Here, is that a line from somewhere, dja know? Or am I making it up? Hang on, I think I’m— D’you know the Pulp song?’ and he suddenly sang a few words. ‘“Mis-shapes, mistakes, misfits.” There you go. I was right all along.’

  Once more, I didn’t know what I was meant to say. To buy time, I reached for my wine glass, took a swallow. His mind was too quicksilver for me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s probably an anticlimax for you, meeting me.’

  He looked immediately disappointed: you could see it, rippling through his face.

  ‘I’m not what you expected,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, no,’ I said, horrified. ‘I don’t mean that at all, I meant – I really did – I meant me.’

  The next few minutes are a bit of a blur. It felt – I remember this feeling – as if something was slipping through my hands, a rope made of water I was trying to clutch but which just kept pouring away. The pub was really filling up, too, which made it hard to hear each other. Somehow – I have no idea how – we persisted. Things settled again; lost the feeling of lurching irretrievably out of control. We talked a bit about Belfast, and my trip over. How surprised I was at how pretty, how intimate, how friendly the city was. We finished our drinks and I went up to get us another.

  The alcohol began to do its work, then, with those second drinks. We started to talk about ourselves – ask tentative questions about the other. Our day-to-day lives. I won’t try to write it all down; so much of it was banal, meaningless in and of itself. It was only the fact of it being the two of us there, saying those things, that made them important.

  We talked about London, his painting. He’d often thought of moving to London, he said. Then he laughed. He had a quick laugh that came often; a lopsided grin. He’d often thought of moving to Buenos Aires, or Ulan Bator. He might as well. He had no real ties here, a bit of teaching at the art college, an occasional evening class, nothing you’d call a real tie. No wife – no children.

  It was the second time he’d brought up wife and children.

  ‘You’ve never’ – I hesitated – ‘met anyone? Or . . . ?’

  ‘Ach, there’s been a couple,’ he said. ‘I can’t say there hasn’t been a few. Truth be told, I’m a bit of a bastard, really. I sort of – lose interest, you know? I’m not actually that nice to them. Woe betide anyone who tries to tell me that, though. So, in answer to your question: nope. I’m a lost cause.’ He smiled. ‘Yourself?’

  I told him, briefly, about Jeremy. I told him about the new blonde – wife, now, I realised, it wouldn’t be girlfriend any more. I told him about the baby; how I’d been included in the round-robin email with the picture, the screwed-up mewling little face in a babygro with ears like a rabbit. I told him how it felt to see that baby, his baby, whether he’d meant me to see it or not; whether it was a kindness – before I heard it from anyone else – or a mistake, hitting ‘send to all’, or if his life had changed so much it hadn’t even occurred to him what I might feel on seeing it.

  ‘Bastard,’ he said. ‘What a fucker.’ He was only saying it dutifully, of course – what else could he say? But for some reason, I found myself telling him about the Danish clinics, the idea of a baby. I might still do it, I said. I don’t think I will, but I might. When I’d finished, he just looked at me for a while, and then when he did say something all he said was, Well, fair play to ye. Fair play to ye. And yet it felt – there’s no way of putting this sufficiently – as if the almightiest burden had been lifted from me. I don’t even need to do it, I thought. But I can – I could.

  It was silly, I see now. It was reckless: the alcohol, the nerves. But at the same time, it felt like something, it really felt like something.

  We had a third drink; a couple of packets of crisps. We went outside to smoke a cigarette – he smoked Marlboro Reds, full-strength, and I cadged two of them, although I hadn’t smoked in years. The conversation stuttered and flowed, coming up against unexpected obstacles, and finding unexpected ways through. How surreal it feels now, writing it all down. But how necessary somehow to fix it, to have it, to pin it down and preserve it.

  ‘Dja know Louis MacNeice?’ he said at one point.

  ‘No,’ I admitted, wishing I did. ‘Is he – a friend of yours, another artist, or . . . ?’

  ‘Nah, nah. He’s a poet.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  ‘No, sure, why would you know him, you’ve no reason to. Born here, lived most of his life in London. Died, late sixties, I think it was? Somethin’ like that. “When I was five the black dreams came, nothing after was quite the same.” That’s him. “I peel and portion a tangerine and spit the pips and feel the drunkenness of things being various.” That’s a great line there, is it not, “the drunkenness of things being various”.’

  ‘Y-yes.’

  ‘That’s what he’s most famous for. But my favourite is . . .’ He closed his eyes and leaned his elbows on the table, touching the tips of his fingers chapel-like together, and began to recite, ‘“The rain of London pimples the ebony streets with white, and the neon-lamps of London stain the canals of night, and the park becomes a jungle in the alchemy of night.”’

  He opened his eyes and grinned at me. ‘Powerful stuff. I did my degree show on those lines. “My wishes turn to violent horses black as coal, the randy mares of fancy, the stallions of the soul, eager to take the fences that fence about my soul.” Isn’t that great, that. “Eager to take the fences that fence about my soul.” What is it, Christ, near fifteen-odd years ago. They’ve been coming back to me lately, those lines. Been thinking I might – I don’t know. Do something with them. Fences of the soul. You know?’

  He laughed.

  ‘You think I’m talking out my hole.’

  ‘I don’t, honestly. Honestly I don’t.’

  ‘Aye, you do. Maybe it is all bullshit, after all. But what can you do?’

  ‘I don’t,’ I said again. And then, before I could think about it twice and decide not to say it: ‘I’d love to see some of your work, your paintings and that.’

  ‘You would, aye?’

  ‘Yes. I – I’d love to.’

  ‘Ach, sure.’ He thought for a moment, tipping his head to one side and gazing at me, bright-eyed, ironic, sizing me up. It was the sort of directness that’s beyond mere intimacy; a directness that forgets to be conscious of itself.

  I felt the heat rising to my face. Always, since I was a little girl, my neck and ears have flooded red when I’m embarrassed, pools that collect in my cheeks and are slow to disperse. I felt the rush of it now, and I couldn’t think of where to look or what to say.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said abruptly, leaning back and sending his stool screeching across the floor. ‘Terrible habit of mine. Would you for once have some manners Patrick Michael, the ma always said, and stop gawping at people.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said, after a moment. ‘You’re an artist. You look at people – it’s what you do.’

  He grinned at me. I found myself grinning back, and pretty soon both of us were laughing – laughing hard, laughing at nothing.

  ‘Come on, then,’ he said, when the last wave of laughter had subsided. ‘Too nice a day to be in here anyways.’

  He picked up his pint and drained the rest of it, holding his mouth open to let the lacy beige dregs slide in. I gulped the last mouthful of my wine.

  ‘Right,’ he said, setting his glass down and slapping his palms on the table. ‘Are we off, then?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘It’s not too far.’ He looked dubiously at my shoes. ‘Are you able?’

/>   My feet, swollen in their stupid shiny court shoes, were throbbing already. But of course I didn’t tell him this.

  ‘Well, as I say, it’s just a wee dander. And it’s not a night to be indoors.’

  He was right: it wasn’t. The sky outside was a deep, deep blue. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen. The sun, surprisingly strong, was slanting golden. The streets were filling with people, spilling from bars and pubs, smoking and drinking and laughing and calling greetings to passers-by. Their ties loosened or removed; their jackets slung over shoulders or on the backs of chairs. The pavements exhaling the warmth of the day; high up, hundreds of starling-flecks whirling and tumbling. Music cascading from bars. A Motown hit here, there some Van Morrison. I caught a snatch of the Shangri-Las, some Beyoncé. There was a carnival feel to the evening, I thought. It felt like a film set – as if everything had been chosen and placed, as if everyone was the most perfect version of themselves. It was the sort of evening that felt as if anything could happen, or perhaps already had. When there is an alignment between all of the parallel worlds spiralling with every instant, every decision, away from this one, so that all the people you could have been and all the choices you could have made, all of them, for a moment, touch. That sounds too much: reading that now, I’m cringing at myself. But that was how it felt: that sky, the sun, that Belfast night. Once again, I thought, incredulous: I hadn’t known – who could? – that it would be so beautiful. I felt – and it wasn’t just the warmth of the drink – lit up inside.

  ‘Skeepinup,’ he called over his shoulder, or something to that effect.

  I nodded vaguely, then realised he was still looking at me, watching for my response.

  ‘Mmm,’ I tried. He looked amused. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I love your accent, it’s just . . .’

  ‘You could strip paint with my accent,’ he said. ‘Stop being so polite. If ever you don’t catch me, just say, Whoa, Mikey – Well go on, say it – go on!’

  ‘“Whoa, Mikey”,’ I said, conscious of how ridiculously round my vowels sounded. Conscious that it was the first time I’d spoken his name, out loud, to him.

  ‘That’s better!’ he said. ‘What I’m just after saying is, it’s keeping up. The weather. It’s holding for you.’

  ‘Oh! Yes, it seems to be.’

  ‘You’re lucky. You never get days like this in Belfast. Not in September. Fuck, not in July or August either. Dja know they sell holidays here to Egyptian women, based on the premise the soft Irish rain’ll do wonders for their complexions? If it doesn’t rain at least fifty per cent of the time they get a full refund.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Would I lie to you?’ He laughed. ‘Who knows? Sounds like a good idea, anyways. If they don’t already do it they should.’

  We shouldered and wove our way down a tiny cobbled alley, hung on either side with huge, drooping hanging baskets and crammed, absolutely crammed, with people.

  ‘Duke of York’s,’ he shouted. ‘They do good live music on a Thursday, if you’re ever back.’ We fought our way through and turned right into a bigger street and he pointed out bars as we walked. The Black Box, it was a good music venue, too; the Spaniard . . . Down there was the Merchant Hotel, but of course I knew it, didn’t I, because I’d said I was staying at the Premier Travel Inn opposite. Well, a couple of streets that way was the River Lagan, that direction was the Waterfront Hall, five-ten minutes that way was St George’s Market, it was good on a Saturday, they had loads of farmers’-market-type stalls, a decent fishmonger’s, cakes and craft stalls, sort of thing, different bands each week . . . I should go there tomorrow morning, if I had time. I should go here . . . I should go there . . . Had I seen that? . . .

  Several times he paused in his tour-guiding to nod or raise a hand to a friend or acquaintance across the street.

  ‘It’s so – friendly,’ I said. ‘And all of this – I mean – wow. You know? Just – wow.’

  I must have sounded – something; envious, or wistful, because he hesitated for a second; glanced at me. ‘None of this would have been here ten years ago,’ he said. ‘This wouldn’t have been the Belfast Dad knew.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I know.’

  ‘This isn’t the place we grew up, either. Nicky and me. Well, it is and it isn’t, know what I mean? Sort of almost makes me think sometimes – I don’t know why I’m saying this to you – that you can change, you know? I mean I don’t mean you, I mean – “one”. Anyone can.’

  All traces of the joker had fallen away from him as he said that. His mouth, his eyes, were completely serious. Without the wisecracks, he looked older; sadder. In that moment, I loved him. I felt it: my heart swelling, actually swelling, warm in my chest.

  ‘I never used to think it was possible,’ I said. ‘But you’re right, maybe it is.’

  I’d said too much: been too English, too earnest. Perhaps anything I’d said would have been too much, whatever way I’d said it. His face resumed its ironic expression.

  ‘Listen to the hack of me,’ he said. ‘Leopard like me doesn’t change its spots, I’m tellin’ ya.’

  He lit another cigarette, without offering me one. We walked on.

  A couple of side streets, a couple of minutes more, and we were at his studio. ‘Been here near ten years,’ he said, as he felt in his pocket for his keys. ‘Gonna have to move on soon, I reckon. Landlord wants to put the rents up. Or else sell it.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He shrugged. ‘Everythin’ changes. Isn’t that what we’re just after sayin’?’

  He seemed angry, suddenly. I didn’t know why: if it was something I’d said, or if there was something I wasn’t saying that I should. His moods, I was realising, were mercurial. One minute he’d turn the full warmth of his sun on you, the next it was shadows. That’s Dad, I thought, and I remembered how as a little girl I’d do anything to please him, and how my heart leapt when I won a smile from him, a wink or a ruffle of the hair, or the prize – how ridiculous, how pathetic it sounds now – of a ‘wee Squrl’.

  We climbed four flights of concrete stairs, the stairwell dingy and the painted railing peeling in places, or rusted where it was peeled completely bare. He climbed fast, two steps at a time. I followed as best I could, my feet burning. By the time we reached the top it felt like a knot was tied behind each of my knees.

  ‘We’ll just have a wee gleek in,’ he said. ‘Don’t feel you have to, I don’t know. Think of something to say, or anything. My work’s not for everyone.’

  I was wishing now I hadn’t come. There was nothing I could say, I thought, that would be the right thing. I tried to catch my breath, lengthen and still it.

  He opened the heavy door into his studio.

  I followed him in, and temporarily lost all thoughts of everything.

  It was white, his studio: high-ceilinged and flooded with light. There were windows on three sides, the view from the right the glittering river, from the left the city, ending in those ever-present mountains. Cave Hill, Carrick Hill, Divis, the Black Mountain – I’d looked up the names in my guidebook – were purple and black and grey against the gathering sun. I turned, slowly, taking it all in. Maybe I’d be an artist, I thought, rashly, impulsive, if I lived and painted here.

  ‘You like it?’ he said, and his voice was light and amused again.

  ‘I love it,’ I said. ‘Oh—’

  ‘Hold your horses, woman. You haven’t even seen my paintings yet.’

  ‘I’m taking my time. I’m – acclimatising. I’ve never been anywhere like this before.’

  I tore my attention from the windows and took in the studio itself. The floor thick with spattered paint, the four, five easels set up in different places, with paintings in various stages of completion. The canvases stacked four, five deep along the back wall. Paintbrushes in mugs and jars of water. Half-finished mugs of tea, a kettle on the ground plugged into the wall. A couple of half-eaten sandwiches. A stack of Jaffa Cake boxes. An empty bottle of wine;
a half-full bottle of Bushmills. Saucers used as ashtrays, full of cigarette butts; their faintly dry, stale smell. The clean smell of turpentine, or white spirit, whatever it is artists use to clean their brushes. The oily smell of paint. The light, the space. I’d never been anywhere like it before.

  ‘I’d’ve give it a lickinapromise if I’d know we’d be coming back here,’ he said, nudging aside a mug with his toe. ‘I tell a lie: it’s always piggin’.’

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘And it’s all yours. Oh’ – suddenly remembering what he’d said about the landlord, and the rents. ‘I’m sorry. I forgot, I didn’t think . . .’

  He shrugged. ‘S’what happens, isn’t it? You have to move on. You can’t rely on anything being permanent. And I’ve been here donkeys – never expected it’d be this long. Just the way it is. Fresh pastures.’ Then in an American accent: ‘Fresh kills.’

  I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. He didn’t seem angry, though, so I moved to an easel to look at one of his paintings. To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure what it was, or what it was meant to be. It was huge swirls and swoops and blocks of colour, scarlets and oranges and golden and greens. There was another, similar, on another easel, but this one was in blues and blacks and yellows and streaks of crimson. The paint was put on thickly, so that in some places it was crested in peaks. Other parts looked like a comb or a stick had been dragged through them, and you could see other colours breaking through from underneath.

  ‘They’re – powerful,’ I managed, shyly. They were. You could feel the energy from them, pulsing.

  ‘They’re cityscapes,’ he said. ‘These here are more figurative.’ He gestured over to one of a woman, lying naked on a sofa. She had brick-red hair, mussed up, that fell halfway down her back. There was another of the same girl, a close-up of her face this time, and another of her neck and bare shoulders. I’m not very good at describing art. But again, looking at them, you felt a sort of energy: an angry energy, this time. They were raw, incredibly sexy. Almost too intimate to be looking at. In the full-length one she had pubic hair, unwaxed or trimmed, like a snarl of orange wire wool. One finger was dipped in it, coiled. She was staring back at the artist as he painted her with an odd sort of expression: provocative, but almost, if this is possible, at the same time pleading.