White Walls

He had let her down again. It was as predictable as kicking air after the doctor’s hammer hits home, but the Painter held out every time. Not only was she now late, she was in possession of a tear stained Child, pulling at her like an errant balloon. A detached Georgian house loomed large over the bedraggled pair, assessing whether they were fit to enter. Despite spending the past 3 weeks decorating the property she still felt a stranger, its cold walls indifferent to her touch. She gently squeezed the smaller hand encased within hers and knocked for entrance.

The door opened to reveal an austere gaze and lapels laden with brooches. Arms folded and chin held at an obtuse angle, the Woman looked through the Painter before turning her attention to the Child.

“This is why you’re late?”

“I’m so sorry, I had someone to look after him, but –”

“I am not running a day-care centre.”

“No, I know – ”

“This is deeply unprofessional.”

“I had arranged something, but it fell through at the last minute. I didn’t think it would be a problem – I only have the one room left.”

“It is a problem. What about my plans? I’ve been waiting.”

“I’m sorry.”

A pregnant pause forced the Painter’s eyes downward.

“It is a problem”, the Woman repeated, “so I won’t be paying you for today.”

“But that’s – ”

“I’ll pay what’s owed for this week, but only once the bedrooms done.”

“He’ll just be sitting quietly, I didn’t think…”

“You’re quite right, you didn’t think.”

“I can’t be working for free.”

“The decisions been made. I’m in town for the next couple of hours but will be back this afternoon, when you’re finished.”

“I can’t – ”

“You can. Goodbye.”

The Woman pushed past the Painter and left the scent of figs in her wake. Mother and Child climbed the stairs with the same sombre reverence a mausoleum demands. French bay windows flooded the bedroom with Autumn light, illuminating the falling dust motes and perfectly white walls.

“Was the lady angry at me?” asked the Child.

“No darling, she was just angry.”

“I wanted to see Da.”

“I know honey, I think he forgot by accident.”

“Why would he forget about me?”

She had no answer. Siren sobs racked his pigeon chest and soon, a white noise permeated the entire room. It smothered everything. She looked into his hungry pupils and got lost. What hurt the Painter the most, that bitter twist, was that the Child was the mirror image of his Father. A simultaneous stamp of presence and absence. The worst of both worlds. The same animal eyes. The same white hair, bleached by lemons and sea-spray. She could not help but see him, decked in black leather, prowling like a panther. Impossible to miss. Lithe hands clenching and unclenching, deft hands that switched from caress to fist. Her art school circle didn’t know what to make of this Electrician who spoke exclusively in aphorisms. Constantly singing, drinking, laughing, smoking, swearing, she accessed his un-cut joy through osmosis. It was swagger justified – a rich Irish laugh at the world. Both arms were dipped in ink, teeming with black Róisín Dubhs, jungle cats and Indian dream catchers. Unapologetic. Invincible. Silver rings doubled as knuckledusters and the county boyhood boxer still battled within. Was unable to shrug off the shadows of his father’s beatings and knew the difference between a spade and a shovel. Liked her paintings even when she didn’t and was filled with so much love his voice would shake and tremble when he said the Painter’s name. Weeks and months flew by like clock hands in a bar room mirror. She had to take up oil painting because watercolours were too delicate for his portraits. It didn’t matter that all they had was a mattress, an orchid and a record player. They were intoxicated with desire and each goodnight kiss was a soporific sucker punch.

But when the Child arrived at the party unannounced, the Electrician began to fade away. Like a Polaroid in reverse. He began to take regular swims in seas of red wine, turning up days later, eyes dulled, mouth dry. He began to play the same song over and over, weeping until the sun came up, repeating “Mhairbh tú mé, a bhrídeach, is nárbh fhearrde dhuit (You have driven me mad, fickle girl – may it do you no good!)”. He slashed holes in her canvases and oscillated ceaselessly. He was not ready, but neither was she. Things fall apart, she was told. You won’t be alone, they lied.

The crying had stopped and the Child’s static fuzz was brought into focus. She folded the crumpled paper figure into her, feeling the hot breath on her ear, his wittering heart, a staccato rise and fall. They were tied together, forever. She knew it was not his fault.

Tins of paint lay stacked in the corner and the blank walls were oppressive with opportunity. The Painter pulled the Child close and whispered, “I need your help”. She began to snap the lids open with a screwdriver and soon, a full spectrum was available. She handed him a paint brush, saying: “Mumma used to paint flowers and faces and whatever was in front of her. She didn’t use to paint people’s houses, did you know that? Sometimes she created things using colour and feeling and form and shade. She used her eyes, head, hands and heart together. Sometimes she didn’t think, like this – ”

With a flick of the wrist, she dashed a deep mauve on the wall, splitting it in two. The Childs dilated eyes widened and his mouth was a perfectly formed O. They both knew a magic spell had been cast and gasped with laughter. The Painter began to throw acrylic yellow and neon red, weave marine teal and pastel pink. The Child danced beneath her furious work, catching the colour in his hands and working it into the floor. They moved with a whirlpool fluidity, looping and waltzing in mirror pivots before falling into a heap. The Painter’s tears mixed freely with her paint as she anointed the Child’s forehead with a white X.

“Mumma, why are you crying?

“Because I have you.” She replied.

Heads nestled together, they took turns gently biting one another, two disparate weights finding balance. They would learn to share their loneliness. They would continue holding the other one up. Without warning, the front door slammed shut and their eyes opened.