We get to the Tate Modern about half an hour later. It’s an amazing building. Converted from a decommissioned power station in the 1990s, the brown-brick edifice has a huge chimney rising up from its almost Art-Deco roof. Seated on the edge of the South Bank, it is virtually opposite St Paul’s Cathedral, which rises majestically from the north. The kids get all excited when they see the Millennium Bridge over the Thames that connects the two, recognising it from a Harry Potter movie. A couple of them start to run to the steps.
“Oy, get back here.” It’s amazing how easily the Essex tinge comes back to my voice. “Cameron Gibbs, get down from there now.” He’s already made it to the top of the stairs, and is mucking about with all the padlocks that lovers have attached to the rails.
Somehow, we manage to herd them all into the building. Niall speaks with the woman at the information desk, and she smiles back at him, handing him a book to fill in. When he comes back, we all follow, heading for the engine room.
The giant turbine hall is in the middle of the building, accessible from stone steps leading down to the recessed floor. Where engines once blasted out energy, now there is space and light. It’s the main installation of the gallery. The kids start to run down the stairs and we quickly follow after them. I try not to smile as they look around.
“Where’re the paintings?” Cameron Gibbs asks, standing on the bottom step.
“There is no painting. This is an installation,” Niall replies. “Sometimes there are sculptures, sometimes images projected on screens.”
“So where’s the fuckin’ art then?” Cameron spits out. He’s still annoyed with me.
I catch Niall’s eye. Like me, he looks torn between amusement and irritation.
“The people are the installation,” he says. “If you go down there, they’ll interact with you. The artist has planned it all out.”
“I’m not talking to fucking strangers.”
I begin to lose my patience. “Language, Cameron.” Some of the younger children are staring at him with their mouths open. “We’re out in public.”
“All I’m saying is,” Cameron continues, his voice almost patient, “if this is fucking art, then my street’s a bleedin’ masterpiece. All you have to do is come over and we’ll talk to you for nothing. How much does somebody get paid for something like this anyway? It’s like that naked geezer, innit?”
I frown for a moment, before working it out. “You mean The Emperor’s New Clothes?”
“I mean money for old bloody rope. Seriously, if this is art then I don’t want any of it.” Cameron turns around and wanders off into the crowd of people. Do the actors know what they’ve let themselves in for?
“He’s some kid.” Niall and I walk into the main room. “Not backward at coming forward.”
“Were you at his age?”
Niall laughs. “Not really. I was the scourge of the neighbourhood. My ma used to pull her hair out whenever I was brought back by a Garda or one of the neighbours. Luckily, I grew out of it.”
“You weren’t one for authority at university, either,” I point out. “Smoking dope in halls, breaking into buildings at night.”
“Ah, but that was all in the name of art. It served a higher purpose.”
“What purpose?” He’s got me interested now. I remember back to those days with a smile on my face. That doesn’t happen very often.
“Mostly getting a girl naked.”
What can I say to that? Apart from the fact he didn’t need to break into a build
ing to get me naked. I practically tore my clothes off every time we were together.
“Shall we go and round them up? There’s only another hour or so.” I change the subject quickly.
He smiles easily. “Sure. I thought we’d go around the Abstract Impressionists. Show them some Rothko and Monet.” His face lights up, as if an idea has come into his mind. “Hey, you should do the talking; you’re the one with the Art History degree.”
“I don’t have a degree,” I point out. “I never finished.”
And there it is. Our past seems to seep into everything. There’s a reason I didn’t finish, one we’re both more than aware of. It makes for awkward conversation.
“Well, we can share the burden.”
We’re about half an hour into the gallery when I decide to do a quick headcount. Trying to get them all to stand still is easier said than done. Eventually, I manage to tap each child gently on the shoulder as I count them off, making my way up to ten.
Except I only get to nine.