Bad Things Happen Read online

I turned back into the room and sat down again. From the speakers in the corner of the room came the crackling voice of Luke Kelly singing Raglan Road, an old favourite of mine and a song I used to put on our music system at home in London or wherever when I felt like I needed to get back in touch with Ireland.

  “Yeah,” I whispered, “Aoife.”

  I had drained my glass and so he filled it again.

  “Your father told me,” he said, answering my unspoken question, “one evening about, I don’t know, maybe fifteen or sixteen years ago. We were sitting on his back porch having a whiskey, and he was unusually quiet, pensive. I asked him if anything was the matter. He paused, and then he told me about Aoife. It was her birthday. For some reason, the realisation that she would be going to school had hit him hard.”

  Caitríona had acknowledged her birthdays, but no more. I took to going to the pub alone after work on those evenings, just for an hour or so, to raise a glass to her and every year I made a note in my journal where it had been. Just so that I could tell her, if ever we met, that wherever I was and whatever I had been doing, I had always celebrated her birthday. And on one of those evenings, while I had been in a pub in New York or London or Johannesburg, my father had raised a glass to her as well, and shared her story with another human being.

  Part of me was bitterly indignant that my father should have betrayed my confidence, should have done that which he had no right to do. But I knew deep in my heart that there was no right or wrong in such instances, no guidebook or Code of Conduct. We simply make it up as we go along. And so the wave of self-righteous fury washed over me and was immediately gone, like a wave breaking on the shore.

  “I wasn’t sure if I should tell you,” the Master was saying, “or just keep it to myself. But it is what it is – I know and it’s only right that you know that. I hope you’re not too upset.”

  He was as matter-of-fact as ever, as though he had just broken the news to me that Mullingar and Athlone were the main towns of Westmeath and that Carlow’s main industry was sugar. I looked for a response in my glass but there was none, so I drank.

  “I’m not upset, or at least I won’t be when the shock wears off! I just don’t really know what to say. Speechless is such a hackneyed word, but…”

  “I’m sorry, I could maybe have broken it more gently. Circumspection has never been a particular forté of mine.”

  I smiled, and looked out of the window and across the road to the pier and the couples who strolled along it hand-in-hand or arm-in-arm.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking lately about how we’ve kept it all so secret. Caitríona and I never talked about Aoife even in private, let alone in public. And I wonder how she would interpret that? That we were ashamed of her? Or ashamed of ourselves? And I don’t think either of those is true. So I’ve been thinking about how to introduce her to my world, even though it’s a world she might never visit.”

  I raised my glass to him and smiled.

  “And maybe you’ve pointed me down that road, even taken a first step for me!”

  He raised his glass.

  “I’ll drink to that, Aengus.” He made a pretence of picking up an invisible piece of fluff from the carpet, and said, “And is that what brings you home?”

  I felt suddenly released by the Master’s revelation.

  “Yes, it is. We’ve spent the last twenty years hurtling through life, hungry for experiences and excitement. In the beginning, it was to leave behind the pain of letting her go. But somehow, we got carried away by the wave, lost sight of what we were about and where we were going. It was like we were afraid that someone was going to close the shop, that we wouldn’t be able to get the shiny things anymore. And so we kept accumulating experiences and ambitions and targets.” I shrugged with arms outstretched. “But sure it didn’t matter – there was always tomorrow, we could always sit down and figure it out later.” I stopped, and listened for a moment as Luke sang the closing lines of the Auld Triangle.

  “But then later never came. Caitríona was gone, and all of the landmarks by which we had navigated our life disappeared with her.”

  The Master stood up to change the record which had finished and now filled the room with its crackle. He sat back down and said nothing, letting me continue.

  “And I suppose I just needed a rock, something solid and fast to cling to while all of the transience flooded past me. Caitríona has always been that rock, and I needed to find a way to get at least a part of her back. And there was only one way to do that.”

  “Finding Aoife.”

  I nodded. “Finding Aoife. We talked about it before… before the accident, when the Adoption Agency started the contact database. But Caitríona was firmly against it. After she was gone, I agonised over the rights and wrongs of it, especially about betraying her wishes. But I think she’d understand. I think she understands.”

  He didn’t plamás me with empty reassurances that she would of course understand and want only what was best for me. Another bottle of the Rioja was already gone, and he walked over to the wine rack.

  “It would be reckless to continue unaccompanied,” he said solemnly, and brought the bottle and corkscrew back to his chair. “And that led you back to Dublin?”

  “Not directly.” I told him about her letter, about quitting my job and about the search in Paris. And I told him about the club and about Hélène and about the scribbled message in the old photo album. And I told him about the French girl in the house in Malahide, the girl I assumed to be Hélène.

  I reached for the now open bottle and filled my own glass.

  “And so now, I’m back precisely where I started. Except that I know she has made no more contact with the Agency despite my posting, and that she has made no more effort to get in touch with me.”

  He looked at me and I swear there was a shard of impatience in his eyes.

  “So what do you plan to do now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  It was just past pub closing time and four or five young lads strolled past on the street outside, laughing loudly and shouting at a group of girls further down the street. The girls responded and there followed a bout of good-natured but lewd, expletive-filled banter. From somewhere, a neighbour shouted at them to “Keep it down”, at which point the two sides became allies in a lusty attack on their new adversary. The Master smiled. How many of them, I wondered, had spent their formative years in his classroom?

  “I don’t know,” I repeated, to myself more than out loud. “I suppose all I can do now is wait and hope that she contacts me, or posts another communication on the database. There’s not much more that I can do here.”

  “You’ll go back to London, so?”

  “I suppose so.”

  He put his glass down on the table and sat back in his chair, hands forming a steeple with finger-tips together, glasses perched on the tip of his nose, and sighed.

  “Aengus, it’s not my place to preach, nor have I any right to advise you or tell you what to do – but I’ll claim the prerogative of an old teacher and I’ll do it anyway. You can listen to me or ignore me, that’s your choice and I’ll take no offence either way.”

  He put his steepled fingertips to his pursed lips and arranged his arguments, then began.

  “I think you’re in very great danger of being blinded by this sense of disappointment. You’ve been on this quest for a long time, and you’ve invested a huge amount of emotion in it. That’s only natural. But this setback comes when you least expected it, maybe, and that’s why your view of things is clouded.”

  I started to say something, but he stopped me with a raised palm.

  “Hear me out before you say anything. I firmly believe that we can only be truly happy when we are in control of our own destiny. Ah look’t, I know we’re never fully in control, we’re always at the mercy of fortune or God or whatever power in
which you choose to believe. But we have to make every effort to control that which we can control, to leave as little as possible in the hands of chance.”

  He pounded the open palm of one hand with the clenched fist of the other to emphasise every word.

  “Now, I agree with you that this French girl – maybe she’s Hélène, maybe she’s not – I agree that she’s unlikely to tell you too much. She sounds fairly guarded from what you’ve said, and why would she trust a complete stranger? But the fact is that she’s your best bet – your only lead. And that’s why you simply mustn’t let go of her. Go back to England now and you are, as you say, right back where you started.” He smiled and reached for his glass. “Now. That’s me done. Your turn!”

  “But she doesn’t know where Aoife is.”

  “Or she’s not telling.”

  “You didn’t hear the tone of her voice, the look on the face. It was like… it was… it was pure contempt. If they are – or were – friends, then they’re having the mother and father of all rows. She’s hardly going to go out of her way to pass on the message now, is she?”

  “Maybe not, but all I’m saying is this: you have found someone who knows Aoife. Maybe she doesn’t know where she is, maybe she doesn’t even like her. But she knows her, knows things about her that you need to know. Get close to her. Make her understand that you mean no harm and that it’s important, so important it transcends any petty argument they might be having. I’m not suggesting you tell her the whole truth, of course not – that would be a betrayal of a confidence to Aoife. But what harm can it do? It’s not like you have any compelling reason to go back to London now, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then.”

  We sat in silence, the plaintive sounds of an old lament from the record player framing my thoughts. At length, I shook my head.

  “You may be right, Master, but even if you are, how can I get close to her? How do I make her trust me? If I could go back to this morning, I’d do it differently. I wouldn’t go barging in like a bull in a china shop, blurting it all out. I thought she’d be there you see, I really thought it was her. But now my cover is blown. There’s no way back.”

  “Perhaps. But what’s the harm in trying, Aengus?” he said. He emphasised the word “trying”, his growing frustration beginning to seep through.

  “Look. How about this. You told her you were a painter looking for a model, a young musician. Someone said that Aoife might sit for you. Why not ask her if she’ll sit for you instead. Go back, tell her you’re really at a loss now, you simply have to find a model and would she be interested?” His eye twinkled, and he reached over to nudge me. “Appeal to her feminine vanity, Aengus – you can surely do that!”

  I smiled. “It’s a long time since I flirted, Master, and I wasn’t much good at it anyway. I’m not sure I’d be that convincing.”

  “Well then you need the practice!”

  I finished the wine in my glass and put it down on the table.

  “It’s late,” I said, standing up. “I should be in my bed.”

  He looked at his watch, and raised his eyebrows in surprise.

  “So it is, where did that evening go at all?” He looked up at me. “You’ve had quite a day of it, I suppose.”

  “You could say that. A long day, too much wine – good wine, but too much wine – and a trip through the emotional mill.” I smiled.

  He chuckled. “True, true. I suppose I should apologise.” His face grew serious again. “But, Aengus, you know I have only your best interests at heart, I just want to make sure you don’t act blindly. Like I said, the spectator often has the best view of the game.”

  He stood up and we walked to the front door.

  He put his hand on the catch, but before he opened it, he put his other hand on my shoulder and said, “Speaking of which, Aengus, won’t you go and see your father in the morning? This is too small a place to hide yourself away, and he would be truly hurt to hear from somebody else that you’re back.”

  My raised eyebrows and tilted head was a sufficient expression of my doubt.

  He shook his head. “No, Aengus, I mean it.”

  “OK, I’ll go see him in the morning.”

  “He goes into the Gallery about eight o’clock. He has some work going on, so he goes to let the workmen in. He’ll be there most of the morning.”

  “Then I’ll go see him there.”

  The Master opened the door and I stepped out into the night air. I turned back and we shook hands.

  “Thank you, Master,” I said, quietly. “For the meal, but more for the talk. I’ve never really talked about it all before. I’m a bit surprised I did tonight. That must have been some strong wine you plied me with!”

  He smiled the sly smile of a man who had accomplished what he had set out to do.

  “Goodnight, Aengus. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The rain is coming in sheets, borne by the wind that blows off the Irish Sea. It’s cold. Goosebumps cover my little white legs and the rain streams down the bare flesh below my football shorts. Mr. Duggan, the junior infants’ teacher who takes the football teams, is wearing a track-suit and an anorak against the elements. He gives us some last advice, and sends us out onto the field. They look much bigger than us, the team from the city school. Much stronger. They seem to snigger and smirk when they see us coming.

  But I don’t see their big full back. I don’t feel the bitter cold. I don’t hear Mr. Duggan’s words of encouragement. Because he’s here. Over there, on the sideline under a big black umbrella. That’s my father. Do you see him? He’s here to watch me play. For the very first time. He’s been very busy.

  Mr. Duggan throws in the ball and the game is on. I run after the boy with the ball, but he’s bigger than me and brushes me aside. He scores a point, and his team-mates clap him on the back. The ball comes towards me. I run to it and reach out. But a big brute of a boy barges me out of the way. I fall over in a muddy puddle.

  And so it continues. Then, the ball breaks loose. I grab it and make off up the field. But one of them gets hold of my jersey and drags me to the ground. Mr. Duggan blows his whistle and reprimands the sneering thug. He asks me if I’m alright. I brush off his concern with cheeks blazing red. I sneak a look over to the sideline. The other fathers are huddled together, calling out advice and encouragement. He stands apart. I can’t see his face, the umbrella is down low against the rain. He has to be careful you see. If he gets sick, he’ll have to take a day off work and he’s very busy.

  Mr. Duggan blows his whistle. It’s half-time. I think he’s maybe blown a little bit early. We gather around him. He says that we’re playing well. That they’re very strong and that we just need to keep working. We haven’t scored yet, but it will come. He blows again and sends us back into the game. I look over to the sideline. He’s not there. Maybe he went to get a cup of tea, to warm himself. I feel a surge of panic. He’s going to miss the start of the second half. Maybe Mr. Duggan could wait for him? But he doesn’t. I’m not watching and the ball hits my back. One of them laughs, and picks up the ball. He scores a point. He turns around and looks at me.

  “You’re shite,” he says.

  “No I amn’t,” is my retort.

  My boots are heavy with water and mud, my football gloves sodden and cold. Mr. Duggan tells me to move up the field, to full-forward.

  “But I’ll never get the ball up there, the ball never goes up there,” I plead.

  “Ah, you will. Go on, there’s a good lad.”

  I stand alone in front of their goal. I fold my arms to warm my hands in my arm-pits. Their goal-keeper is leaning on the post, talking and laughing with his friend who’s a substitute. Mr. Duggan looks at his watch, shakes it, then puts it to his ear. It goes on. Then it happens. Their big gorilla of a full-forward drops the ball and Oran toe-pokes it a
way from our goal. They’re all down around our goal, greedy for scores, and now there’s nobody near the ball. Oran runs after it. He’s very fast. He pokes it again. It’s coming to me. I’m petrified, then I shake free of the invisible chains and run after the ball. I pick it up – I don’t think I did it right, but Mr. Duggan mustn’t have seen – and I turn to face the goal. I kick it as hard as I can. Their goal-keeper turns around, horror on his face. He dives toward the ball. But it’s too late. Through the shower of muddy spray he has thrown up, he can only watch as it crosses the line. I’m rooted to the spot in disbelief. There is silence. Then Mr. Duggan blows his whistle. It’s a goal. The huddle of fathers watching from the sideline lets out a roar. My team-mates cheer and whoop and slap me on the back. I break into a wide smile, and turn to the sideline. I scan its length, but he’s not there.

  My smile evaporates. I stand stock still as Mr. Duggan blows his whistle for the end of the game. I turn to search the other touchline. It’s deserted save for a stray dog carrying a discarded glove in his mouth.

  I hope he found some tea.

  CHAPTER 7

  The combination of too much wine, drained exhaustion and a somehow rediscovered sense of inner calm lulled me into a deep sleep, and when the morning sun woke me early, I lay for a while in bed listening to the screeching gulls and raised voices from the harbour across the street. It had been quite a day, the day before, quite a day. In twenty-four almost Joycean hours, I had plummeted from a naïve and heady optimism to a black abyss of gut-wrenching disappointment before clambering back to… to what? Where had I gone in the Master’s company last night? His intervention seemed almost planned, choreographed, as though he’d been dispatched by some guardian angel to rescue me from my foundering craft and lead me to a safe haven. And so he had winched me from my black gloom in McGrath’s the previous afternoon and pointed out another way, where the waters looked somehow more benign, more navigable.

  The evening had given me a sense of release. The conundrum with which I’d been grappling for so long had, I think, taken on a blackness and an insuperability born of my reluctance to discuss it with another soul. I don’t know why I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it with even my closest friends. I could argue that they wouldn’t understand – but who could be baffled by the grief of loss? That I felt guilty about burdening them with my despondency when they all had their own storms to navigate – but I hope that I would be prepared to put aside my petty inconveniences for a friend in greater need. That to unleash my demons was tantamount to an admission that they were part of the problem? Perhaps. That I didn’t really understand it myself and could hardly, then, explain it to them? Almost certainly.