Bad Things Happen

by Tim Buckley

  “Thanks very much!”

  He grinned and looked around.

  “She gone home?”

  “Hélène? Yes.”

  “Fair dues to you,” he said, “you’ve a good eye on you. I saw her on the train Tuesday evening and I swear, everyone was just staring at her. She is a bit gorgeous, isn’t she? Too gorgeous to even notice me, by the way.”

  “I suppose she is.”

  “You suppose? You’re standing staring at her every day – if anyone should know, it’s you!”

  “Alright. In my professional opinion, she is very attractive. Satisfied?”

  “Oh right, and it was your professional judgment that picked a gorgeous French girl for you to work with one-on-one, six hours a day. Nice work if you can get it, I suppose.”

  I sighed and shook my head – this was a primary school playground discussion that I didn’t really want to have

  “You know why I asked her to sit for me. And you know that she’s my daughter’s best friend. My daughter’s best friend, for fuck sake.”

  He put his hands up in mock self-defence.

  “Jaysus, you were a lot more craic before you had kids, you know that?” he grinned.

  I grinned back and pointed a warning finger at him.

  “And while we’re on the subject, she is far too good for the likes of you – so don’t you even think about hanging around Hélène, do you hear me?”

  Oran looked at me askance.

  “Yeah, that’s right. In case you’d forgotten, I’m about twenty years older than her as well, I have no job, no money, and a smashed up car. Oh, and I might be spending a wee while in jail. How could she possibly resist that, eh?”

  “Isn’t it what every girl dreams of?” I laughed, and slapped him on the back. “Anyway, I think she’s got a soft spot for the guitarist in her band, and even twenty years ago, we’d never have been able to compete with a musician. We were never that cool! So having established that Hélène is way, way out of your league, come on – it’s been a tough day and I’d murder a pint.”

  The DART hadn’t yet started tipping glazed-eyed city workers into McGrath’s, their ties like nooses strangling them slowly. So we sat in the pub in the blissful peace of a late summer evening, a golden light from a dipping sun streaming through the terrace doors. When I worked in London, I used to relish these little trips to the pub before heading home. On the last working day of each month, basking in the smug satisfaction of having done my daily run in the morning, I would meet Caitríona to pay tribute to the small triumphs of the thirty days gone by. Neither dead nor fired. Or if she wasn’t able to make it, maybe just some colleagues or a friend. Or sometimes just alone with the paper and the crossword. Our lives are so fraught with targets and goals and things to be done that we don’t often take the time to acknowledge the small achievements of the everyday. I was determined that, in the face of growing lists of things to do, I would always take a moment to quietly celebrate the things that were done.

  We chatted about nothing for an hour.

  “Was that Niamh’s car I saw coming out of the car park this morning?” Oran asked me then, wiping away the moustache of creamy stout from his upper lip.

  “Yeah. She came up to the house.”

  “How is she?”

  “Good, I think. She’s tougher than we think is Niamh, I think she’ll be ok.”

  “It’s hard though – bringing up two kids on your own.” He shook his head. “I don’t know how you’d do it.”

  “I know. I said I’d meet her for a drink some night.”

  He looked at me.

  “Careful,” he said, and took a drink.

  I waited for him to continue, but he let the word hang in the air.

  “Of what?” I asked.

  “You know what. Rebound City.”

  In despair, I put my hand to my forehead.

  “Oran, do you think I have nothing else on my mind? Do you think I’m going round all day on a woman hunt?” I shook my head and leaned forward in my chair. “Oran, listen to me alright – it’s the very last thing I’m looking for. I mean it.”

  But his tone wasn’t the playground chaffing of before, rather it was uncharacteristically contemplative, grave even.

  “I’m not saying you’re on the hunt. I just don’t want to see either of you doing anything stupid. You two have a history. I’m just saying be careful, that’s all.”

  I nodded and accepted that his motives were sound. I changed the subject.

  “Listen, Hélène’s band is playing in town for the next few days. Will we go see them?”

  “What do they do?”

  “I don’t really know – trad rock I think.”

  He shrugged.

  “Sure, why not. Where are they on?”

  “Don’t know. I’ll ask her tomorrow.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He looked at his watch.

  “I’d better get off,” he said, picking up his glass to finish the pint. “A couple more of these and I’ll be here for the night, and I’ve to be in early in the morning.”

  “By the way,” I said, as we put on our jackets. “You said you saw Hélène on the train on Tuesday evening? Are you sure it was Tuesday?”

  “Yeah. I was coming back from the builders’ merchants. Why?”

  “No reason. Just, I thought she was playing down in Athlone on Tuesday night.” I shook my head. “I must have got it wrong. Doesn’t matter.”

  The next morning, I finally had to put aside my fear of the damage I could do with the acrylics and begin the end of the painting. I looked at the pencil sketching, and I had to admit that Lochlann might have been right. If it was to have been an image in charcoal, then with a few finishing touches it might well have stood the test of hanging at the show. It was a reasonable attempt to capture Hélène cast adrift and disoriented. But he was right, too, that the addition of earthy shades would give it an atmosphere and an ambience that pure monochrome could not and so that was what I needed to do. I just hoped it was not beyond me.

  “You look tired,” I said to Hélène, as she stifled a yawn.

  “A little,” she admitted. “We rehearsed until late last night, and it was hard.”

  “Why?”

  “These gigs in Dublin, they will be bigger than anything we have done before. More people, professional equipment.” She drew a long breath. “And Gerry says that there might be record company people there one night.”

  “Jesus – that’d be fantastic!”

  She couldn’t contain the nervous smile, couldn’t hide her thrilled trepidation.

  “Yes, it would. But we have to be so good, so perfect in fact.”

  “Where are you playing?”

  “At The Arena.”

  I was impressed – it was the kind of place that had refused us entry as students, and so retained a mystique that had survived the twenty years.

  “Well, Oran and I are going to come see you play. What night should we go?”

  She smiled again, for some reason flattered.

  “Friday, maybe? That will be the busiest night and the best atmosphere. Thank you.”

  “It’s a pity Aoife won’t be here to see you,” I said.

  It wasn’t an opportunistic manipulation to drag the conversation back to Aoife for my own motives – it was a genuine sense that it was a shame her friend would not be there for what might be a pivotal moment in her life.

  She nodded. “She would be excited, I think.”

  “I guess she’d love the chance to do what you’re doing?”

  “Yes, I think she would. She dreams of making beautiful music, new kinds of music that change the way people feel. And she dreams of having something Irish – some little piece of Ireland – in what she creates. But she dreams too about being on stage wit
h thousands of people screaming her name, or of having a record deal and CD’s on the shelves in record stores and signing autographs. Maybe all art is vanity, but we all have dreams.”

  I nodded.

  “We all do. But I hope it’s not just ego. If I ever finish this piece – and if I’m truly happy with it and with what it says – I think it would be enough for me to hang it in my house so that I could look at it every day, get lost in it and in its story. And if I hang it proudly for everyone to see, I hope that it’s because I want to tell them the story and to make them think about it and maybe be better for the thought. Or is it just because I need everyone to tell me how talented I am? I don’t know.”

  “When we rehearse, we love to just play and make music – I love when we play the last notes of a song and rise to a big finish, it thrills me. But nothing is the same as being on stage, looking at people who love what you are doing. We say it is because we want to make people happy, to entertain. But isn’t it really because we want to show off? It is the same for Aoife, I think.”

  “I can only imagine what that must feel like. I guess for a painter, there is no live performance. Only watching people looking at your work and reacting to it.” I smiled. “You don’t tend to get much hysterical screaming at an art show!”

  She looked me for a moment, assembling the words, then said softly:

  “I think maybe you would be proud of her, if you saw her play.”

  I stopped short and looked at Hélène. So many times I had dreamed of just that, of seeing her do whatever it was that she loved to do. And Hélène had seen her play. And Hélène was here with me in this room. For an instant Aoife was so close that I could almost touch her.

  I shook my head slowly.

  “I don’t think I’d have any right to be proud, Hélène,” I said, softly. “I’d be happy, so happy that she was happy and that she was good at doing what she loved doing. But I didn’t put her in that place, didn’t teach her or encourage her or share her frustrations and her successes.”

  I paused, searching for the words.

  “A father is someone who has created a place for his child to develop and succeed. He has every right to be proud. I would have none.”

  Hélène looked at me and said nothing. Still she looked at me. Finally, she stood and laid the violin and bow on the chair.

  “I need to fix my hair,” she said, pulling it free from the band that held it and shaking it loose. “Excuse me for a moment.” I walked over to the window and stared out at the Head. I had no right to feel proud, I knew that. And yet I had no doubt that I would. No doubt that I would see my daughter and that I would be filled with an uncontrollable pride until I would burst. Pride? No, not pride. Love. I would love her. I didn’t know her, had never met her, knew nothing about her. And yet I knew beyond any doubt that, the moment I saw her, I would fall in love with her.

  Hélène came back into the studio, and I shook myself free.

  “So do you think you might get a record deal then?” I asked, changing the subject and running away from the thoughts in my head.

  She shrugged.

  “I think we could, maybe we should – but it is so hard, there are so many good bands playing here now, it is hard to even get noticed. If we do get noticed, if the right person comes to see us and we play well, then we have a chance, I think. Gerry’s friend got us the gigs at The Arena. It’s our best chance.”

  “Why?”

  “It is nice to play in small towns, but you do not get noticed there. But we have to play there because we need to make some money! But venues like that in Dublin, that is where people see you, people who can make a difference.”

  “I guess so.”

  I thought about what Oran had said, about seeing her on the train. I wasn’t checking up on her, nor accusing, it was just a throwaway remark.

  “Weren’t you supposed to be playing in Athlone last Tuesday?”

  She thought a moment.

  “Yes, we did.” She looked at the floor as she said it, aware after years of experience that her wide eyes provided poor cover for a lie.

  “Oh. That’s odd.”

  “Why?”

  “Just that Oran said he saw you on the train on Tuesday evening.” I immediately regretted what sounded like an accusation, felt guilty for doubting her when she had done nothing wrong. What she did was none of my business, and my curiosity was shallow. “He must have made a mistake. Hardly the most observant man I know!”

  My attempt to throw the subject away on a joke was weak and it failed. She was silent, still looking at the floor. She was out of position, twisting the bow in her hand, but I didn’t correct her.

  “I’m sorry, Hélène, I didn’t mean to suggest… I wasn’t saying… anything.”

  She looked up at me at last, those dark eyes betraying the revolutions of her brain.

  “I didn’t go to Athlone,” she said, slowly.

  “It’s fine, Hélène, it’s none of my business,” I said, in desperate retreat.

  She continued to stare at me. The bow turned over and over in her hand, a mirror to the churning thoughts behind her eyes. Then she sighed deeply.

  “I was at the hospital. I go there every week.”

  I waited for her to elaborate but she was quiet.

  “Shit, Hélène, I’m sorry. I had no idea,” I said. I paused, not sure how deeply to probe. But hadn’t she volunteered the information? Even though I had perhaps led her down that path, it was as though she didn’t mind. Maybe she wanted to talk about it, maybe she needed an outlet. “What’s wrong?”

  She sighed and shrugged and shook her head wearily.

  “They don’t know. They do tests and give me medication. But they still don’t know. I get sick too easily, I seem to have been sick a lot recently, small things, but a lot. They say it’s something to do with my blood count. But I don’t understand.” She shrugged again. “You know, I am afraid that it is maybe a cancer. I think they are afraid too.”

  As simple as that. No drama, no hand-wringing, no plaintive howling and no bitter claims of injustice. An honest response phlegmatically delivered, as was her way.

  I couldn’t find words. Every response that came into my head was so useless, so horribly inadequate. I walked around the easel and knelt down beside her, and put my arms around her, holding her close. She didn’t respond at first, then she slowly put her arms around my neck and sighed again. It was only then that I realised how small, how fragile she really was. Fragile and alone.

  We stayed that way for four, five minutes maybe, until my knees ached from the hard stone floor. Then I stood up slowly, pulled round a chair from the other side of the desk and sat beside her.

  “Are you ok?” I stuttered, stupidly. “I mean, shouldn’t you be resting or staying in hospital? You should be taking it easy, shouldn’t you?”

  She shook her head.

  “They say I can stay at home, that I can continue to play music. I just have to be careful, of course, not try to do too much, not get sick. But until they know for sure what it is, they want me to continue to be as normal as I can.”

  I nodded.

  “And are they treating you ok, I mean are you happy with what they’re doing?”

  “Yes, I think so. I am not a doctor so I just have to trust them.”

  “Don’t you want to go back to France? To your family?”

  She shook her head.

  “No. I don’t want to have to talk to them about this.”

  Why, I wondered.

  “Listen, why don’t you come and stay here? There’s loads of room and Lochlann wouldn’t mind?”

  “No,” she said, firmly. “Thank you.”

  “Look, Hélène, I know you hardly know me and I know you might think I’ve done wrong things in the past – but I hope we’re friends and I really do want to help you.
And Lochlann is well-connected, he knows lots of doctors and medical people. He can help too. I’ll do anything I can. I mean that. Not just because you’re Aoife’s friend. You’re my friend too, I hope.”

  And I did mean it. This girl, whom I had met only a couple of weeks before, had touched me somehow. I admit that I had gone to find her to use her, in a way – to use her to get close to Aoife. But now I cared about this enigmatic, calm young woman. I cared about her and for her for reasons I couldn’t quite explain. And I didn’t feel the need to try.

  I couldn’t understand why she would choose to be alone. Why did she spurn the warm familiarity of her friends and family? What upheaval or fight could have been so final as to push her to lonely isolation just when she most needed support? I didn’t pursue it, I had no right and I knew nothing of the circumstances. And maybe the sea below Howth Head rekindled some distant emotions and fond memories of the ocean around Biarritz. Maybe it provided some comfort.

  I was in no mood to tackle the application of the acrylics. Already nervous, the morning’s tidings had filled my head with other thoughts and the distraction made me useless. So we ended the day early and went down to Howth village for lunch. She spoke candidly of how she had at first become concerned that something was amiss and how she had first visited the hospital assuming that it was an uncomfortable, inconvenient triviality that would be dismissed with antibiotics or some other medication. I was humbled that she remained so even, without so much as a suggestion of the histrionics that others would surely display in her circumstances. That I had displayed, perhaps continued to display?

  The world is a dark place. A dark place filled with black-souled people with scant regard for others and a rabid lust for power and wealth. A dark place filled with virulent disease that destroys even the most innocent, the most pure. A dark place at the mercy of fortune, a cruel, ambivalent force that strikes for no reason, based on no pattern or plan.

  And yet we choose to bring children into this world, aware of the darkness, aware of the pain that lurks throughout. Why? Why does any man or woman think that it will be different for their child? Why do they think that they uniquely can protect their child from the world? They can’t. Nobody can. And why do they see a future that is bright and hopeful when the evidence all around us points to ever greater violence and greed?