her self-confidence was one of those markers I’ve always held up to myself as proof that I had done a decent job as a father, a true indicator that she had grown strong and self-sufficient and would not be buffeted too easily by whatever life threw at her, nor would she shirk those moments when she would have to stand her ground, moments such as now when she turned her full face towards me and began abruptly
you were surprised by the work, upset
by way of opening the topic
I saw it on your face, it took you by surprise
yes, I conceded, a bit shocked, it wasn’t what I had expected, nothing like your previous work and
while the puzzlement in my voice was genuine it did nothing to hide the hurt which I feared would swell up in that surge of self-pity that was boiling within me and which was aggravated by the patient, conciliatory tone with which Agnes began telling me that
yes, it’s a bit of a departure all right, I don’t think I’ll ever fully get away from oils – nor would I want to – but over the last couple of months I’ve wanted to try something else, an experiment – to step outside the idea of oil painting towards something new and
this is it
yes, she said, with a frown, and however successful this exhibition is, my next work will probably be a return to oil, oil with blood on canvas, some sort of new amalgam possibly, I don’t know yet
she said, smiling and
leaning forward in the chair to offer me her full face, her shoulders straining out of the folds of her shift as if anxious to give clear evidence of both her commitment to the idea and her wish to set my mind at rest, all of which undid me so that in a gulping lurch I found myself explaining that
what I found difficult about the whole piece wasn’t just the blood
I should have warned you
it wasn’t just any blood, it was your blood
it’s ok, I took precautions
it’s a mutilation
no it’s not Dad, it was just a jab for god’s sake and she threw up her hands and smiled so
I felt assured now, ready to grasp this moment and press ahead with my own thoughts because
what I found difficult was the mixture of finger pointing and sanctimony in the whole piece, your righteous standpoint over the material, I wasn’t so sure about that
you think that’s a cheap shot, that I’m standing on some urban stage and poking fun at culchies with
her voice threaded through with that steely edge which always gratified me – a response all her own and so different to what would have been her brother’s evasive clowning in such moments – Agnes was always likely to go toe to toe on any point she felt strongly enough on so that
I’m not sure my accusation is that you are taking a cheap shot or
that maybe I’m Uncle Tomming here, gratifying urban audiences with the comedy capers of their country cousins
something like that, cheap ridicule, although I would be disappointed if you hadn’t thought of that yourself, you’re smarter than that
yes, that crossed my mind, but that’s not the same as saying I managed to circumvent it and
the choices you made were soft options, just the sort of stuff that would make us look ridiculous, all those drink-driving convictions, common assault, public order offences – as crimes there was something almost comic about them so that
yes, I agree, there is more comedy than danger in some of them – even the incidents of assault – but all the cases were taken from reports of the circuit and district courts and it was that sense of local reckoning which appealed to me – why, I cannot honestly say, but it was as if there was something manageable about the transgressions and sins that go to trial there – I don’t know, as an idea it’s still not fully formed, I’ve given it a lot of thought but it’s still not fully clear to me and
she looked serious now and I had a moment in which to consider that maybe I’d got ahead of myself in an attempt to understand the whole thing as these were not words that normally came tripping off my tongue, or more accurately I had never found myself in the sort of places where words of this type were necessary, but now they flooded ahead of me, threatening to carry me off to some sort of disaster so I drew hard on the reins and pulled back from wherever it was I was going because nothing good could come from losing the run of myself at an hour of the evening when it was nearly won, especially now with Agnes herself in such a conciliatory mood and winding up the topic by admitting
there’s nothing to worry about Dad, yes, there might be finger-pointing and accusation but it wasn’t personal, none of it was at you or Mam for that matter – you’re exonerated of all charges – it’s an idea in embryo and
she turned her whole face towards me with an expression of such open appeal that I softened instantly as some wiry tension in my gut unravelled to something warmer which drew the edge off the moment so that we could raise our glasses now, allowing us to settle into the knowledge that we had tested the moment severely and could let it rest for the time being, a conclusion confirmed in the relaxed expression on Mairead’s face who, till then, had studiously faded into the background but now, sensing the difficult moment had passed, was refilling her glass from the water carafe in the centre of the table and raising
a toast to our daughter on her big day, that it may be the first of many, and
so the moment was solved and we raised our glasses and clinked them together with a lingering note that hung over the table, taking a long time to fade
like the Angelus bell
which still reverbs in my head now, a single note ringing on in the brightness of the day as if the whole world were suspended from it
mountains, rivers and lakes
past, present and future with
the whole moment so complete now and tidied away that we could settle easily into each other’s company and turn to safer topics – specifically Darragh and his adventures down under, a subject which drove each of us in turn to different types of disbelief and frustration because
have you seen the head on him
the beard and the hair
that Methuselah look he’s cultivating
is it Methuselah or Mad Max
you can hardly see his face now when he comes on screen, just two eyes stuck in a bush
he reminds me of your father with that hair
Jesus, don’t go saying that
I don’t think he’s shaved since he crossed the equator
it’s more scarecrow than Old Testament prophet, if that’s what he’s going for
he say’s it’s hard work, that whole Waltzing Matilda thing, no time for personal grooming or
hard work my arse, the only photos he’s posted are of himself and the lads around a campfire in a woollen hat, skulling cans of Four X so
he had to go the other side of the world to do that and
but I think he’s moving on to some other job shortly, they’ve picked all the fruit in the greater Brisbane area and now they’re thinking of doing some time on a dairy farm and
what does he know about dairy farming when
as ever, when Darragh