The Artist
The artist was a surprise. She did not look like an artist - she was not covered in paint nor wearing a beret, but she had a vague smell of paint about her and that strange smell which he always associated with the art rooms at school, but never actually worked out what it was. She was small, well, smaller than he was, and she had delicate mousey features, features that he felt would be difficult to draw and her hair was beautiful.
But there was more
But there was more to this, "more than met the eye" as they used to say, but he wasn’t sure what. He knew that it hadn’t always been like this and that once there were others in the house, no, not like the two children, others who came down to breakfast or who came in to breakfast, or came out maybe.
The aunts had always been strange and he knew that there were those who were frightened by them, but didn’t know how he knew and the memories he had of his childhood were not of his mother, although he knew that he did have a mother somewhere and that she had visited him from time to time.
So he did not know when he had come into this world of mirthless smiles and laughter this world of knowing nods and wrong answers, this world where rituals were played out by others who knew the way and he could do nothing but play his part as best he could in the hope that there was something else in heaven that would be his if only he kept his nerve.
....and sat down.
He didn't like eggs, he'd never liked eggs, he told them every day, but why should today be different just because it was his birthday? Aunt Sarah giggled insanely as she watched him offer the egg around the table, breaking into a coarse laugh when it was her turn. Sometimes he thought she was mad, at other times he was certain of it, then yet there were other times when he thought she was quite sane, just a bit eccentric, that's all.
She accepted the egg excitedly, snatching it from his plate once the others had stopped laughing. She didn't eat the egg immediately, but waited a while and watched as he began to eat the bacon. He didn't like fat, there was always too much fat. Aunt Sarah nodded her head enthusiastically as though encouraging him to go on and finish the plate. He smiled back at her, there was nothing else to do. He smiled at Aunt Anne. She smiled back. She had finished her breakfast. In the background he could hear the fly beating the floor. It would be like that for hours and even then it might not die.
Aunt Anne grinned towards the cup of lukewarm tea that rested by his arm. That meant "How much sugar". He smiled and asked for two. There was a laugh from Aunt Ellen and then a cackle from Aunt Sarah. Aunt Anne giggled and spooned out three teasponfulls of sugar into his cup just like every other day. The trio laughed again.
Only old Uncle James sat silent in the armchair. Richard wondered why they didn't get rid of him. There were places for people in his condition. There places for people like his aunts as well. A cup of tea steamed away to nothing on Uncle James's s armchair. He wouldn't drink it, he never did.
His aunts turned again and laughed as they realised that Richard was looking at him, then they whispered amongst themselves, suddenly breaking into fits of cackling. Five minutes later, the table was cleared.
Richard sat alone in his room: it had been a good show so far. It was always a good show, it could go on forever, they wrote his script and he acted the part, it was so easy. He looked slowly around the room, it had not changed, but the two children had moved to the opposite corner. They laughed at him, suddenly stopping as the girl pointed to his face. She whispered something so that Richard could not hear and the boy whispered something back. Richard cursed them and they laughed all the louder. Downstairs someone was washing up.
