by Tim Buckley
CHAPTER 10
Dinner was a quiet affair, both of us treading carefully through the minefield of so many sensitivities and a fractured history. My father was never one for stories. Every son, I think, has memories of tall tales retold and superseded with ever greater superlatives. The school breakfast plate ever larger, the single sausage ever smaller. The wind and rain ever wilder, the free-kick from ever farther away. The dog ever fiercer, the rescued maiden ever more fair. But I have no such memories, no pictures of him in my mind’s eye sitting back in his favourite armchair, whiskey in hand, commanding his audience with the embellished deeds of his youth. Or the time he met Thomas Kinkade in Carmel. Or the time he was commissioned to paint the Rock of Cashel as a Presidential gift for the visiting Ronald Reagan. Oh, I encouraged and cajoled, I even tried to draw him out by tossing deliberate inaccuracies into my versions of events. But he would simply correct me and go no further.
The storyteller’s legacy is the library of tales that he leaves behind, and his legacy ensures that he is present even where he is absent. He is there when his stories are recounted, and it is often in the retelling that loneliness and longing are diffused. The storyteller is rarely forgotten. My father left me with no such parting gift when I moved to London. He was perhaps never entirely forgotten, but his memory became more and more distorted and my hindsight more blurred.
Regular conversation breeds habit and comfort that a shared interest or antipathy will always inspire a passionate dialogue. The first exploratory musings of strangers, on the other hand, bring the promise of unknown facts and incredible coincidence. With my father, I had neither.
I didn’t tell him why I was in Dublin. I hadn’t made a conscious decision to keep it from him, but no door opened that led me down that path. I did tell him that I had left my job and that I planned to spend some time rediscovering and rekindling my desire to create art and not advertising. And although I hadn’t thought about it in quite that way, it was true. Even when I had had Caitríona, the thrill of my work had been slowly but surely quenched. I was still content to work on campaigns for clients I had served for years – but what was once exciting and raw had become staid and repetitive. What had once been romantic had been tainted by the realisation that it was all slightly devious and a little disingenuous. And there had been many evenings when, working late into the night to finish a piece and meet a deadline, I stood back to admire the fruits of countless hours only to be slightly disappointed, slightly frustrated. What had started as art had been diluted and manipulated according to the whims of the marketing men. A model’s wistful eyes were made to grin, her pale skin bronzed, her individuality sacrificed in the name of uniform, conventional beauty.
But it was only after Caitríona had left me that I was struck by the insipid pallor of what I did every day. Unable to muster the artificial zeal that masked growing disaffection, my corporate days were numbered. My decision to leave only pre-empted the inevitable. And my new-found freedom also gave me back the opportunity and the liberty to create something that was truly beautiful to me and not just aligned with some corporate message. I had started in Paris, in the days before my nightly search for Aoife. And what had started as a way to fill time quickly grew into something more, something that got me out of bed every morning and gave the day a purpose before the night came. And there was the lurking aspiration to create something that would make Aoife proud and the acknowledgement that this was my only avenue.
“And how is your work?” he had asked.
I paused.
“Actually, I quit. A couple of weeks ago.”
He put his glass down slowly on the table and looked over my head and into the distance for a moment, squinting barely noticeably so that the crow’s feet that had emerged at the corners of his eyes deepened just a fraction, as though reacting themselves to my news.
“I see. You were offered another position?”
“No. I just…” I searched for the words to articulate my reasons, the emotions that drove me. I shrugged. “I just wasn’t enjoying it anymore, I suppose.” Immediately, I regretted my choice of words. Lochlann had always considered me flighty, unable to stick to a task, short of commitment. Abandoning a career, even one he deemed unworthy, because I wasn’t “enjoying” it would simply confirm his view. Life wasn’t there to be enjoyed, it was an obligation to be honoured.
He started to say something and stopped himself, but not before the look of disdain flashed across his face.
“And have you thought about what you will do now?”
“I want to paint. I think it’s a hankering I’ve had for a while, but I’ve never really acknowledged it, never had the chance I suppose. I want to spend some time thinking about it and working on a couple of ideas I’ve had.”
He furrowed his brow with a look of slight confusion. Then the confusion gave way to a barely discernible cloud of anger.
“Is that why you came here?” he said slowly, as though uttering the words only as they formed in his head. “Because of the exhibition?”
It was a moment before I realised that, logically, he had weighed up the day’s events and arrived at entirely the wrong conclusion. A conclusion that said I had only become back because of the opportunity to use his exhibition as a vehicle for my selfish aspirations. Even that I had manipulated the Master into opening that door on my behalf. A reasonable conclusion and an ugly one.
I put down my fork and knife and raised my hands in defence.
“No, no, not at all,” I protested. “It was nothing like that. I didn’t know anything about the show until the Master mentioned it to me last night. I don’t even have anything to show, I have no concrete ideas, I’ve certainly not considered a portrait, and – let’s be honest – it’s fairly unlikely that I’d have something in time.”
“Quite a coincidence then?”
“I guess so. If I’d been planning to hijack your exhibition, I’d be a lot better prepared than this.” My initial guilty protestations gave way to indignation. “Look, just forget the whole thing. It was just the Master’s way of trying to get us to work together, well-meaning but ill-advised. You don’t want me to show, and I have nothing to show. Let’s just forget it.”
I waved my arm as though petulantly batting the whole idea away with the back of my hand, and set about my beef with a renewed violence. Lochlann was watching me silently, his eyes burning the side of my face as I tried hard to ignore him.
Finally he sighed and said with a hint of resignation, “No. If you are really committed to your art, really committed to rediscovering your voice, then I certainly don’t want to stand in your way. I make no promises, of course, no guarantees that I will be able to show your work in this exhibition. But we said we would try it and that is what we shall do.” He laid his hand firmly on the table cloth to lay the case to rest, paused, and looked at me. “And I… apologise, for any suggestion that you might have been less than candid.”
I nodded, we ate, and the subject was closed.
The Master did not join us for a digestive whiskey – he called to say that the meeting had been a little feisty and he had retired to the pub with some of the parents to try to calm things down. I wondered again if that was all part of his Master’s plan.
I woke the next morning in my old bedroom. My room was in the attic, which had been converted when I finished in boarding school and started in University. It made little sense for me to rent an apartment in Dublin – the DART from the village also served the University and the commute was straightforward. On those evenings when I wanted to stay late in town, there were always plenty of friends’ sofas and floors to sleep on. And, in time, there was Caitríona’s bed. And so my father had offered to build me a suite in the loft, complete with bedroom, study and bathroom. I added a small fridge for beer, and my palace was complete.
Through one of the windows added at either gable end, I could look out on the
sea and the lighthouse. That morning, there was a light haze through which the sun shone faintly. I thought of the view from our little terraced house in London, of another grey terrace only twenty metres away and of the high rise block of flats behind it that dwarfed our street, the street that was clogged day and night with stalled traffic.
The house was empty and ghostly quiet when I padded down the stairs to the kitchen. Why do we treat silence with such respect? Why do we whisper in quiet, empty rooms? In the kitchen I hunted through cupboards and drawers to find some coffee and some bread or cereal. Pauline’s kitchen was her pride and joy, and she rearranged things almost weekly. She said it was “to keep things proper.” I suspected it was more to do with maintaining her indispensability. I’m sure she took great satisfaction from our inability to ever find anything and her inevitably coming to our rescue.
I found eventually a larder full of breakfast provisions, and made myself some coffee and some toast. I didn’t think, in my heart of hearts, that I could deliver a portrait in time for the exhibition opening. And even if I could, I didn’t believe for a moment that it would pass Lochlann’s criteria for inclusion. And yet despite these reservations, I was undeniably excited by the prospect of working on a portrait with a clear objective and a real purpose. Throughout my professional life, any attempt on my part to craft a work for my own sake and not for a client engagement had evaporated amid feelings of pointlessness. There had been no time to dedicate and no real purpose other than self-indulgence. Now I had time and reason, and even if the odds were stacked against me, I felt the stirring of a faint thrill in my gut when I thought about the opportunity to create.
That thrill dissipated slightly when I thought about my first job – to convince the young woman I had met only two days before to sit for me. The thought made me nervous even though I had, on the face of it, no reason to be nervous. I was an artist looking for a model, it was that simple. And yet this girl was my daughter’s friend. And that made everything impossibly complicated. This girl – she was a young woman and yet her association with Aoife meant that for me she could only be a girl. Aoife had never grown up in my mind. Forever young, like Oisín’s Niamh.
I thought about being completely honest with her. Tell her that I was looking for my daughter and that my search had led me to her. Tell her that it would mean the world to me to spend some time with her and to talk about Aoife. And that sitting for my portrait would afford us that opportunity. It was ridiculous and I ruled it out immediately. For one thing, she might not even know that Aoife was adopted, and I would risk breaking the ultimate confidence. Besides which, I didn’t even know this girl, and after years of white lies and careful avoidance of booby-trapped subjects, I wasn’t about to entrust so profound a secret to her.
I thought about concocting a great charade, passing myself off as a painter of some renown in Dublin circles. I felt sure that Ireland’s art firmament was not so celebrated in the public domain that my obscurity would be immediately obvious to a such a newcomer to the city. But I am a terrible liar, and such dissimulation would inevitably be found out before long. Besides which, such an imposture would require the experience and savoir faire of the genuine article, and my fumbling ineptitude would never pass for that. All of which might precipitate tears and recriminations from one person I could not afford to upset.
And so I opted for a diluted version of the truth. I am an aspiring artist, who has been given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to show his work at an exhibition held by an established Irish artist, who also happens to be my father. But I need a model. A friend in London saw Aoife play in the club, suggested her to me as an example of a new generation of Irish woman and I had tracked her down to this little house in North Dublin. Initially disappointed not to have found Aoife, it occurred to me that this French woman was an even more powerful example of new Irish womanhood – an immigrant making her way in a strange city, like so many Irish women in the past. It was a story full of holes and one that would bear little scrutiny, but she would surely feel reassured by the association with my father, a well-known personality in Dublin, and my obvious inexperience might even put her at ease.
It was decided. I cleared away my breakfast debris, picked up my jacket and set out for the village and the DART station.
I spent the short journey on the train rehearsing my lines. The old couple in the seats across the carriage elbowed one another, whispered and smirked at “yer man chattin’ away to himself.” A bit early to have been drinking, their eyes said. The train arrived in Malahide too early, I wasn’t ready. But then I was never going to be ready. So best to just get on with it.
St. Mary’s Terrace was deserted, its residents long gone to school and jobs and chores in the village or the city. I stood at the end of the street, gathering my thoughts and steeling myself. It had never occurred to me that she might be out, but the empty street made me suddenly realise that there was no reason why she, too, might not be gone to do a day’s… what? Did she work, or study, or practise her music? Part of me hoped predictably that she was out. But really I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to talk to her about my portrait. And I wanted to talk to her about Aoife, not today, but soon. And this was the first step along that road.
A young boy was sitting on the step of the first house on the terrace, hidden behind a huge pot-plant, playing with two toy action hero figures. He had stopped his game, his heroes frozen in mid-duel, and was staring at me from behind the ornamental tree.
“Are you lost?” he asked. “Cos if y’are, I can give yeh directions.” He articulated “directions” slowly and deliberately, like a treasured word newly learned, and nodded sagely. “Only three… no four euro.”
I smiled at him. His enterprise was worthy of that.
“No,” I said, “I’m not lost. But thanks.”
“Are you sure? Cos you look lost.”
“Well, you wouldn’t know where I could find some peace?” I said, teasing.
He furrowed his brow, then shrugged.
“No, I don’t know. But I could ask me mammy, I know she’s always looking for it?”
“No that’s ok, I’ll have a look down here. But thanks for your help, here’s your fee.”
I gave him a coin and walked off down the street, again seeking cover on the even-numbered side.
“Thanks, Mister,” he called after me.
I came to number 23 and paused, then crossed the street, climbed the steps and knocked on the door. There was silence for a moment, then I heard the sound of heels on tiles and she opened the door. The casual bohemian from two days before had been transformed into a smart young woman in a business suit and subtle make-up, her hair tied up behind her head. She carried herself with the confident, almost arrogant, self-possession that is the exclusive preserve of a French woman – all that was missing was the Gauloise. And yet something – was it the slight frame, or the dark, soulful eyes? – suggested something fragile, even lost.
“You again?” she said, drawing out each syllable in her slow, soft French drawl and tilting her head to put on an ear-ring. “Look, she is not here. I told you. She might never come here. You are wasting your time. And my time.”
She went to close the door, but I stepped forward.
“No, you don’t understand. I’m not here to see Aoife. I wanted to talk to you.”
She stopped, and raised one eye-brow.
“To me?”
I nodded.
“Why do you want to talk to me?”
“Well –” I drew a deep breath and delivered the well-practised lines “– I told you I need a model for a portrait. Look, I just can’t wait around for this Aoife, and I wondered if you would be interested? In sitting for me, I mean.”
“Sitting?”
“Yes, posing, modelling.”
“I am not a model.”
“I know, but it doesn’t matter. Actually it’s bette
r. More natural.”
She was silent for a moment, staring almost through me, weighing me up.
“I do not take off my clothes,” she said.
“No! No!” I was aghast, horrified that she might think I was some nasty little pervert seeking a cheap thrill. “No! That’s not what I do, not at all. Really.”
She seemed amused by my embarrassment, and let me squirm in it a little while she pondered the integrity of my motives.
“There is a café on the main street,” she said eventually, pointing in the direction from which I had come. “The Crock of Gold. Go there. I will meet you there in fifteen minutes.”
She closed the door and left me on the step. I turned, walked slowly down the steps and made my way towards the main street. She might never follow, might leave me sitting there, but then I’d know and at least it saved me the humiliation of a flat-out, face-to-face rejection.
“Hey, mister,” called my guide from across the street, “did yeh find it?”
I looked over at him.
“Do you know what,” I shouted back. “I just might have!”
“That’s good. See ya so.”
“See ya.” I waved back, and walked on.
I ordered a coffee in the Crock of Gold and took a seat at a table by the window. It was school lunch-time, and mothers with children in reluctant tow hurried along the street amid barked commands and reprimands. I wondered why my new young friend with the action heroes wasn’t at school. He had cut a lonely figure, playing alone on the front step, so eager to talk and to help. I thought of the imaginary world I inhabited with my toys in Lochlann’s empty gallery, a world he had never sought to enter, its crown prince in absentia. He was my father and I had never questioned the cards I had been dealt. But if I discovered that he was not my father, that I had come to him through some artificial arrangement conducted with due legal process, would that change everything? Would I then resent his absence? Would I demand more from him because he had entered willingly into the contract? Would I feel suddenly free of obligation? It was a game I played often. And how would I feel about the father who had absconded? The one who really was absent, who had never protected nor provided? Lochlann might have battled with the finer points of fatherhood, but he had always been there.