THE BROPHYS.
A Story by Terry Collett
A FAMILY GET TOGETHER FOR A SKETCH FOR FAMILY PORTRAIT.
Bernadette Brophy posed for the painter. Father said not to give off any
goofy grins. She smirked. Her brother Frank gave off the impression of
having just woken up to a bright day. Mother looked at father who looked
at the artist wanting his money’s worth. The artist sketched, his
fingers holding the charcoal, moved swiftly over the page. Bernadette
looked at the painter’s hair. Wants it cut scruffy b*****d. Eyes too
close together. Gran said beware of those fellows. She wanted to sit,
but the painter insisted on them standing to get the details just right.
Frank fidgeted. Mother stared and Father gave off a near off silent
fart. Hoped no one noticed. Bernadette held her breath. Imagined she was
deep-sea diving. How long for? Some divers go for some time. She gazed
at the hairs protruding from the painter’s nose. Three or more. Curled.
She wondered if the smell had gone yet. She breathed cautiously. The air
held staleness, a slight hint of dead flowers and the artist’s paints.
Frank sighed. Mother hushed him. Father stared ahead like a captain on
the ship’s bridge. Bernadette wanted to break into the goofiest of grins
or poke out a tongue. Instead she just smirked. The painter sketched
on; his eyes looking up and down every few moments from the page to the
family gathered. Bernadette felt an itch behind her knee; wanted to
scratch. Just a quick scratch. To ease the itch. He’d not mind. She bent
down and fingered behind her knee. Scratched. Mother flicked her
behind. The arse stung. She stood up red-faced and stared at the painter
with his brown eyes and hairy nose. The itch was still there behind the
knee competing with the stung arse. Mother muttered into her ear. She
could hear Father whispering inanities. Frank looked at her with a
sideways glance and a boyish grin. She wondered if the painter would
draw her newly formed budding breasts. Not that you’d notice. She pushed
out her chest, lowered her chin. She always gazed at her new buds at
bath time. To see how they were coming along. Bridget Kelly had bigger
ones. She’d seen them in the gym at school. Flopping about as she ran
and jumped the sexy mare. Bernadette hoped the painter got her nose
right. She had her mother’s nose; not her father’s thank Christ. That’d
be a punishment to see that painted for prosperity. The nuns said it was
vanity to worry over looks. Vanity of vanities Sister Agnes had said.
That nun had the features of a beat-up bum so she did. She’d no fear of
vanity with a face like that. The painter coughed. Mother said not to
fidget, poked in the back. First, the itch, then the stung arse and now
the poked back. She stood stiff and still. Didn’t want to get Father on
the wrong side. She hoped the painter got her eyes right; she’d her
father’s eyes, worse luck, without the bags though. Now the itch was in
her groin. Her hand wanted to scratch. Maybe if I do it slowly they’d
not see. She walked her hand slowly down to the groin and the fingers
began to scratch. Yes. Heavenly. Dreams are made of. Mother grabbed her
arm, squeezed. The scratching stopped. The itch remained, competing now
with the squeezed arm, the stung arse and poked back and Mother’s
breathy words in her ear, threatening a tanning or death or worse. The
painter stopped and smiled. His smile like a sliced melon. The family
unfroze, grinned, and smiled and Father eased out a trumpeting fart.
Everyone pretended not to notice. Father fanned behind him with his
hand. Mother patted Frank’s head and went red. Frank grinned goofily,
Bernadette scratched her itch, rubbed her arse, moved away from Mother’s
hand and words, and poking finger, sensing the sting still there,
holding her breath, gave a smirk. These family things are a disaster,
she mused, scratching her groin, waste of time, they never work.
© 2015 Terry Collett
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Author
Terry CollettUnited Kingdom
About
Terry Collett has been writing since 1971 and published on and off since 1972. He has written poems, plays, and short stories. He is married with eight children and eight grandchildren. on January 27t.. more..
Writing
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