SHATTERED PORTRAIT

“What’s the time Elize?” A mumbling sound came from the other side of the bed at five in the morning on an ice cold day in their chalet in the woods outside Boulougne. Elize and her husband had nothing to depend on for survival and warmth but the little wooden chalet type cottage that Maurice had built himself in that summer seven or eight years ago before hardship had struck his painting circle of clients and he was having to eke out a living for the time being. He was doing an almost fraudulent commission of artwork that was a copy of a famous Giotto Madonna, ordered by the Compte of the nearby castle. Maurice had been wandering in the grounds of the edifice and had come upon the Count surveying the damage done to the moat of the castle by the recent melting of heavy snowfalls in the area. The Count had discovered that Maurice was an artist. Ever on the lookout for a subject to paint he had inquired about the Count’s family. He knew a little about them from the odd bit of gossip that he had unearthed in the local village tavern where he had spent many idle hours on the hunt for subjects to use to flaunt his artistic prowess and also the coffers of the little cottage in the woods. “Elize get up. You never want to be the one who stokes the fire in the living room first in the morning. He nudged her almost violently in the early icy hours. The windows of the bedroom that also served as a studio when he was awake were thickly coated at the edge with snow and he could see snow flakes falling in the dim light of day, so dim that he could hardly see very far outside. He could hear the wind gently soughing amongst the pine trees outside as he lay there Elize still breathing deeply as she slept on. He heard the two children stirring. They would be hungry. He was determined not to have to be the one to stoke up last night’s fire in the grate and now nearly pushed Elize out of bed. “Elize - the fire! We must have some warmth in the place. Go and wake Grandmêre and the children and put some oats on to boil for breakfast.” Maurice had heard the only cock in their barnyard crowing. As usual it annoyed him because somehow the urgency of the day’s fare seeped into his consciousness. It was not only the cock that had awoken him although it was the most irritating on this frozen morning, but also the rest of the poultry. They had a habit of wakening him every day. The mooing of their cow urgent to have her udders tapped gave a superficial soothing to what Maurice felt as he was fully awake now. It would be another hard winter’s day of eking out a living with his painting. He tried to fight against the angry feelings that it was arousing in him as he lay there. Elize had still not moved. Why should he have to support his mother, wife and two children? All of them? A grating voice came from the small room next door. It was the old lady the only person on earth that Elize had any fear of. So Grandmêre was awake. That meant that they would all have to get up to face the initial chaos of the day. Grandmêre’s sharp cackle of a voice sounded through the door. Elize who feared her sharp tongue sat up suddenly as she heard the sound. With the general sulkiness of the morning’s rising she stumbled sleepily into the children’s room regardless of how she looked hair wispy and nightdress crumpled. “Angèle, Paule!”She shook them going from one bed to the other in the cold of the morning. “Is breakfast ready?” This was Paule. “No you idiot - Grandmêre has only just woken us as usual. Your father is of his habit still in bed. He should set the example in the household and rise first.” ”Then I’m going to stay in bed some more too,” said the eight-year-old Paule. “You are a naughty boy,” chided his mother continuing “Angèle you’ll get up to go and milk our cow won’t you little girl?” “Yes mother” came a sleepy but willing voice from under the coverlet that her mother had patiently stitched in the time when Maurice was out painting. This was when they had seen better days and life had seemed more fruitful. The little girl pattered off to the bathroom and not to be outdone at the prospect of a new day Paule leapt out of bed too. Then there was the usual argument over the use of the bathroom only to be quelled by Maurice’s sudden awakened presence. “Off you go Angèle - you are quiet this morning. You seem to be the only one who wants to get up on these frosty mornings!” “Oh! me too mama” came the words from little brown-eyed Paule. Angèle was already dressed and struggling with the rusty latch on the kitchen door leading out to the barnyard. A reluctant Maurice followed her to supervise the milking of their only cow. This was because Elize was trying to prepare breakfast for the five of them with little Paule dancing around the stove like a Red Indian. “Quietly now Paule or I will spill this hot water that I am boiling for our oats. Go and see how Angèle is getting on with the milking outside you naughty boy.” She had just noticed that he was not wearing his warm parka. “Go and put on your warm clothes.” She thought to herself, it is just as well that I keep a steady eye on these two. Just then in came Angèle trying to carry the huge bucket of milk with Maurice trying to take it out of her hands without slopping the full container of fresh creamy milk. Grandmêre entered the room and shrieked at Angèle when she saw what was happening. ”Let go child! Maurice can’t you take it from her?”