Sunday morning was distinguished by the quieter streets, and
the bells ringing across the city. The lower class inhabitants of the inner
circles of the old town divided neatly into the Church observers, and those who
considered they had better uses of their time on this day of rest. Ernest would have liked to see himself as one
of the church goers, but in truth it had been some years now since his Mother
was strong enough to stand the rigours of a long service, and a few years since
either of them had anything respectable enough to wear.
This morning, however, Ernest sent up a prayer from his room, that he was grateful to see the dawn. He shifted on the hard floor. For the first time in his life, he had chosen to sleep across the room from his Mother, taking what clothes and remnants he could find to make a bed, leaving his Mother weeping alone into her shredded silk pillowslip. Ernest knew that he was the cause of her distress, and this upset him to the point of physical pain, but at the same time she was - no – she was not to blame. Ernest stopped himself. He glanced up at the paper over the hearth. That portrait was to blame. The man in the portrait was still holding sway over his Mother, and was the cause of this rift between the artist and her son.
Ernest tidied himself up and left the room. He walked in the direction of the riverbank, trying to shake off not only the argument with his Mother, but the dreams that had infested his sleep all the rest of the night. The images in his head were a mixture of the remnants of the dream, and of the expression on his Mother’s face when he was driven, finally, to suggest that she would not tell him the name of his own father because she herself did not know it. And having said that, he could never take back the words and their implications. Every time he thought about, his face grew hot. He only held back his tears because of the church goers looking pitiably on him, a skinny boy from the slums who did not even know his own parentage.
Ernest could smell the river now, not only the filth that was slopped into it, but out on the mud banks was still the tang of the sea, of the wider world, a hint of distance that made the reaches of the Thames so attractive, even huddled as it was between the buildings, its flow chopped up by groynes, the footings of bridges and moored boats. Turning his face to the breeze that ruffled the surface of the muddy waters, Ernest gave way to tears. He told himself he did not care who his Father was, if he could only get back his Mother’s love. But he had told her he thought that she was the worst kind of woman, and he doubted that she would ever entirely forgive him.
This morning, however, Ernest sent up a prayer from his room, that he was grateful to see the dawn. He shifted on the hard floor. For the first time in his life, he had chosen to sleep across the room from his Mother, taking what clothes and remnants he could find to make a bed, leaving his Mother weeping alone into her shredded silk pillowslip. Ernest knew that he was the cause of her distress, and this upset him to the point of physical pain, but at the same time she was - no – she was not to blame. Ernest stopped himself. He glanced up at the paper over the hearth. That portrait was to blame. The man in the portrait was still holding sway over his Mother, and was the cause of this rift between the artist and her son.
Ernest tidied himself up and left the room. He walked in the direction of the riverbank, trying to shake off not only the argument with his Mother, but the dreams that had infested his sleep all the rest of the night. The images in his head were a mixture of the remnants of the dream, and of the expression on his Mother’s face when he was driven, finally, to suggest that she would not tell him the name of his own father because she herself did not know it. And having said that, he could never take back the words and their implications. Every time he thought about, his face grew hot. He only held back his tears because of the church goers looking pitiably on him, a skinny boy from the slums who did not even know his own parentage.
Ernest could smell the river now, not only the filth that was slopped into it, but out on the mud banks was still the tang of the sea, of the wider world, a hint of distance that made the reaches of the Thames so attractive, even huddled as it was between the buildings, its flow chopped up by groynes, the footings of bridges and moored boats. Turning his face to the breeze that ruffled the surface of the muddy waters, Ernest gave way to tears. He told himself he did not care who his Father was, if he could only get back his Mother’s love. But he had told her he thought that she was the worst kind of woman, and he doubted that she would ever entirely forgive him.
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