Bad Things Happen

by Tim Buckley

  I don’t think we were unhappy, nor do I think the life we would have gone on to live would have been cheerless or pained. I’m just afraid that it could have been better and that we would never have made it what it could have been.

  CHAPTER 28

  An autumn chill had crept quietly in when I ran out onto the Head the next morning. Approaching winter is felt first on the pale, fleshy, goosebumped skin of the still-bare thighs, then in the sharp air that invades the windpipe and the lungs. I drank it in, feeling cleansed as I did, purged of the contaminants of the real world. Despite arriving home in the early hours of that morning, I felt invigorated. My every footfall stroked the ground rather than pounding it and every step seemed spring-loaded. My breathing was easy and light, my legs were strong and loose and free.

  The school holidays were over and the cold breeze kept people indoors and off the head, despite the blue sky. I didn’t pass a single other person, and the solitude was empowering. I ruled what I surveyed, a modern day Fionn MacCumhaill, whose head lay buried beneath my feet. When I got back to the house, and had thrown a careless glance into the car park lest Niamh’s car was there, I prepared quickly for a day in the studio, excited that my work was near its end and that today might see it done.

  Hélène was more effervescent than I had seen her on the morning after any other gig. I smiled at her and applauded as she came into the studio. She smiled and took a bow, and I noticed her wince ever so slightly as she did so.

  “Are you ok?” I asked, all at once concerned given her revelation of earlier in the week.

  She nodded.

  “I am fine. It was a late night, that’s all. But it was such a good night!”

  She smiled again.

  “You guys were brilliant,” I said, shaking my head as I struggled still to understand how this waif-like girl could be so powerful and commanding. “I really mean it. I never knew you could sing. It was beautiful.”

  “It’s a wonderful song. It’s very easy for me to sing when the guys play it so well,” she said, warmth in her voice at the thought of her band. Or at the thought of Gerry, perhaps.

  “The band is great alright. Gerry’s got a great voice too, hasn’t he?”

  She nodded vigorously.

  “Yes, he does. He doesn’t really think so, but he has amazing talent. On the guitar too. And you know he wasn’t ever trained properly, he taught himself?”

  “Do you think there were any record company people there?”

  She shrugged again.

  “I don’t know. The club manager said there were, that his people let them in. But maybe he is saying that because it makes his club sound better.”

  She paused, and allowed herself a hopeful smile, embarrassed at the presumption.

  “But we hope so. We really hope so. It’s what we have all dreamed about for so long.”

  “But you have to look after yourself,” I said, trying to balance caution with reluctance to sour her mood or bring her down from her euphoria. “Just be careful.”

  She raised her eyes heavenward and smiled.

  “Of course I will, I am not an idiot, you know,” she admonished.

  “I know, I know!” I said, shuffling the easel so that the canvas caught the best of the bright morning light. I turned and pointed my brush at her. “You really should be proud of yourself. To have a passion, and a talent, and to have the courage to pursue it, to make it real.”

  She flushed slightly and looked at the floor, then looked back at me doubtfully.

  “Perhaps. But I am chasing a dream that might come – will probably come – to nothing. Only such a small number of people ever actually make it in this business,” she said, squinting through her thumb and forefinger at the tiny odds. “And then what? I have no career, no other qualifications, no experience. And there is not much joy in teaching violin to naughty children who would prefer to play football!”

  I shook my head.

  “You’d find something,” I said, “if it didn’t work out. You’d think of something. But you’ve had a go – more than that, you’ve given yourself a real chance – before it’s too late.”

  I thought of all the days I had sat in the office in London, sat with an army of jaded colleagues, and dreamed of something better, because believing in a dream that might one day come true was the only way to get through the humdrum.

  “Christ, so many people are unhappy with what they do, unfulfilled and discontent,” I said. “They don’t like what they do or what they’ve become, I really think they use their dreams to define who they are. They work in a grey office, pushing paper around and just trying to avoid failure, but in their minds they’re athletes or artists or singers or explorers or inventors... I think their dreams reserve a place for them in the world, an interesting, rewarding place, and a place to which they might otherwise have no right.”

  “But the world is full of people who followed an impossible dream, and of course they failed,” she said. “So now they wander the streets with a crazy look in their eyes.” She laughed. “That might be me, some day! You will find me begging on the street and maybe you will throw me a coin!”

  I sighed because it’s such a mixed-up world – we condition our young to be suspicious of their dreams, and we get old regretting the loss of our own.

  “But if you wait too long, the dream shatters,” I said. “And when you reach out to catch a shard, it floats away on the breeze. Sometimes it shatters on the realisation that it is just hopelessly unrealistic. Sometimes it shatters simply because we try and we fail. But sometimes it shatters because we’re afraid to fail, and that’s the saddest of all. I nearly lost my dream because I was afraid of losing it. I let it go because I was afraid of having to give it up.”

  I thought back to the endless, soulless Monday-to-Friday world that was my home. Or my prison?

  “When we went to London and I got a job at the marketing agency, I never for a moment believed that it was my destiny, never expected to be carried along on some wave of corporate inspiration. But we were all doing the same, and I forgot to question it. And as time went on, my dreams became my refuge too. They reserved for me a place to which I really had no right. In my own mind, I was an artist passing time until my greatness was unleashed on the world. So I let grey career aspirations take priority, and I let them crowd out the things I really dreamed about. Not because I stopped dreaming, but because I was afraid of failing, because to fail would be to lose the dream. If I failed, I could no longer take refuge in that place, I would lose the right.”

  The brutal irony became suddenly, starkly clear.

  “And it’s taken all of this,” I waved a hand at all that had happened, “for me to take it out and dust it off.”

  She leaned forward and took my hand in both of hers.

  “But you have a chance now to make that dream come true. Your father has given you this chance, so don’t waste it. And you will not waste it. Maybe some people never live their dream, but you are right – we are lucky. I get to play music I love with great musicians, to people who love to hear it. And you have the chance to hang a great painting at an important exhibition.”

  She squeezed my hand with a broad grin, then straightened her skirt and took the violin and bow from their case.

  “Now,” she said, with a flourish, “that is enough talking – let’s make something beautiful!”

  It was a day for great things. My mood was buoyant, her enthusiasm was contagious. The sun cast its autumn gold over the Head and gently chased away the chill of the morning. On the canvas, Hélène was coming to life. The cold grey shadows of a week before gave way to a figure that radiated warmth but remained vulnerable and fragile, and lost. It was in her eyes. The softness of the browns and warm ambers in her hair and in the room and in the faint hint of tan in her cheeks were in stark contrast to the frightened, lonely isolation in those big
, dark eyes. The strong and confident Hélène on stage was in such stark contrast to the girl who had opened the door that morning in Malahide and who lived with uncertainty in a strange place.

  We worked for hours without stopping other than to gratefully gulp down the coffee that Pauline ferried to us throughout the morning. Lochlann’s earthy browns had brought a new richness to the image. A sandy roughness to the stone walls. An auburn softness to the hair that tumbled wildly over her shoulders. The light brown of dry clay dust to the studio floor. Shades of the charcoal came through in places, in her eyes and her hands and in the little shadows on her face, and through them she retained an aloof detachment, a mistrust of the viewer.

  I mixed the burnt siena acrylic with water – enough water to make sure it was transparent, not so much as to over-dilute its sepia effect. And then, with a deep breath, I wet the brush and swept it across the canvas and watched as the picture was transformed, from clear reality to something uncertain, ambiguous, like a dream remembered.

  By morning’s end, we were exhausted, but I was entranced by what we had created. All through the preceding weeks, I had been pleased with our progress and happy with the way the painting had evolved. But always in the back of mind I knew that until it was done, the final spark that would illuminate the piece would be invisible. It was a function not of a single brush stroke, but of everything we did and every idea we put on the canvas and every fine adjustment and revision in the night-time hours when Hélène had gone home and I worked alone in the dark quiet of the empty gallery.

  And with the last stroke of the brush, it emerged from its hiding place. I can’t tell you what it was or how it manifested itself, but it took my breath away. The emotion was powerful, intense – I suppose I might have deemed it affected and pretentious in others, but it was very real to me. Hélène stared out from the canvas and her sense of isolation was tangible, I could hold it. Despite her fragile frame and heart-rending vulnerability, somewhere beneath the disappointment there lurked a latent passion, violently expressed by the vivid red sash draped over the back of her chair.

  It was no masterpiece, I kept telling myself. And it surely wasn’t. But I had set out to craft something of which I could be proud, something that was the very best I could do with the talent and the wherewithal available to me. And I never dared dream that it could be like this. I never dared dream that it would speak to me and tell its story, even if only to me. And for no obvious reason, I somehow felt sure that Lochlann would approve, that he would hang it.

  I sat down into the chair, suddenly exhausted. I looked at Hélène and nodded gently. She got up from her seat, laid the violin and bow on the desk, and came round to my side of the board. She stared at it for what seemed like forever. Then she leaned down to me and kissed my cheek.

  “Before, when I looked at it, I couldn’t really say that it was me.” she said, softly. “But now, I know that it is. I can feel that it is. I recognise this girl. I know her.”

  We sat and stood there for an age, just staring. And she stared back, telling an epic tale of hope and dreams and loss and defiance. I hope it was defiance, and not just a charade, because I wanted so badly for this girl to rise from the ashes and prove everybody wrong. My own Cosette.

  I stood up and started putting away my brushes and paints. All that I had read offered the same advice: when you think it’s done, leave it alone – you can only do mischief, so come back with a clear mind and a fresh perspective before you tinker and tamper with it. I could see a dozen things that I wanted to rework, repair, rearrange. But I shackled my eagerness and my ego and left the last of the paint to dry.

  I picked up a tube to check the drying time of the last tones I had added, but it was a Spanish brand and the instructions meant nothing to me.

  “Shit.”

  Hélène looked over at me.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  I handed the tube to her, pointing to the minute text that, I assumed, set out the drying time.

  “I don’t suppose you read Spanish by any chance?” I asked. “I need to know how long I have to let it dry?”

  She shook her head and shrugged, and handed me back the tube.

  “Sorry.”

  “Never mind, I’ll check with Johnny. I just want to know how long I have to make any last changes.”

  “Next time, you should buy French paints!” she said, with a grin.

  “I’ll make a note!”

  She turned her head to look again at the painting.

  “Do you think that he will put it in the exhibition?”

  “Lochlann? I don’t know.” I puffed out my cheeks and blew out a long breath of quiet hope. “I hope so. I really think it works, you know? I don’t think I have any more in me, I really don’t.” I looked at her. “I hope I’ve done you justice, Hélène. I hope I’ve told the story in your eyes. I really do.”

  She looked back at me and nodded.

  “I don’t think you can ever really tell another person’s story,” she said, and squeezed my shoulder gently. “But I think we have done well.”

  We were still staring quietly at our creation when there was a cough from the door and Lochlann came in.

  “Good afternoon to you both,” he said, the barest bow of his head to Hélène. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I wonder if I could have a word?”

  “Of course, Lochlann,” I said, getting up from my chair. “You’re not disturbing us at all.”

  Hélène picked up her handbag.

  “Excuse me,” she said to Lochlann, “I will leave you to talk.”

  “Actually, Hélène,” he said, “it was you I wanted to speak with.”

  He had taken her by surprise, and she was momentarily at a loss. But she recovered and put her bag back on the desk. She said nothing but looked at him and waited.

  “I was speaking with Oran this morning, and he told me about your concert last night in Dublin. Congratulations – it was quite a triumph from what he tells me.”

  Hélène smiled, even glowed a little at the unexpected praise.

  “Thank you,” she said. “That is very kind.”

  He shook his head.

  “On the contrary – it is rather self-serving I’m afraid. I don’t know if Aengus has told you about the exhibition layout, but I have a proposition for you. More a favour to ask, really.”

  She shook her head, entirely in the dark, and waited for him go on.

  “Well, the centre of the exhibition area will be a communal social area, where people can gather to meet or take refreshment or listen to a seminar. I wonder if – and this was Aengus’ idea, I take no credit – I wonder if you might provide some musical background for the opening night, based in the central area? Perhaps you know some other musicians who could form a string quartet or some such ensemble? I was thinking of perhaps some violin concertos – Vivaldi, Mendelssohn, Mozart, pieces of that nature?”

  Hélène raised her eyebrows in surprise, looked at me, and then back at Lochlann, letting out a silent laugh of delighted surprise. You would think he had offered her a record contract or a date at the National Concert Hall.

  “Of course, it would be an arms length arrangement in terms of fees and so on, I wouldn’t expect you to agree to it for any less than your normal rate,” he said, perhaps construing her smile as one of gentle ridicule.

  “Thank you, Lochlann,” she said, stepping over to him and kissing him on the cheek. “I would love to play at the opening night. My friend Gerry plays violin–” was there no end to his talents? “– and his sister plays also. I am sure they would be excited to play. I will talk to them tomorrow. Thank you so much.”

  “Well, that, that…” he was uncharacteristically lost for words in his embarrassment at her enthusiasm and unexpected display of affection. “That is wonderful, excellent. Very good indeed.”

  He turned to
leave.

  “Very good. I will leave the arrangements to you and Oran, but please come and talk to me if you have any questions. Have a good afternoon, both of you.”

  And he left the studio.

  Hélène and I looked at each other for a brief moment, then broke into a fit of excited, childish laughter.

  “Did you know about this?” she asked me.

  I shook my head.

  “I honestly didn’t,” I said. “We talked about music options, but it sounds like Oran was blowing your trumpet this morning. It’s him you need to thank.”

  She nodded.

  “He is a nice person,” she said, almost to herself.

  “Oran?” I smiled. “He has his moments!”

  “And the first time I saw him, when he was shouting at those men, I thought he was a nasty man.”

  She sounded almost guilty.

  “He has a short fuse, but he has a good heart.”

  She nodded, and looked at her watch.

  “Do you mind if I go home?” she said, apologetically. “It’s been a big week, I’m really tired.”

  “Of course, you get yourself home. Actually, let me get a cab for you.”

  She began to argue, but then stopped, perhaps thinking of the bus and two-train trip back to Malahide. We went into the house so that I could call the taxi company.

  “Are you ok?” I asked her, afraid that I had asked too much of her and that she was trying perhaps to prove that she was still strong when she might not be. “You do look a bit drained.”

  She smiled.

  “I’m fine. We have a night off tonight, I think I will go to bed and have a quiet night.”