and going away
forever. I’ll still live at home here with you.”
“You will go away,” said Mrs
Smith, finally shedding a single tear, “you will.”
The following morning Icarus
arrived at breakfast time wearing his best T-shirt and trousers –
his mother wouldn’t allow him to lower himself to the level of his
degenerate peers by wearing denim jeans. He sat down to his
porridge, two slices of toast and Marmite, and a cup of tea, saying
nothing more than a muffled “morning” to his mother. Mrs Smith
hoped that the madness of yesterday had passed, that the silly talk
of going to find a job was forgotten. For her, time seemed to be
slowing to a crawl, each second stretching into a minute, into an
hour, into an eternity.
Icarus appeared to be eating
more slowly than usual. It’s almost, Mrs Smith mused to herself, as
if he’s tasting that breakfast, that same breakfast that he has
eaten almost every weekday of his life, for the first time. He
doesn’t want to go, she thought. He’s procrastinating, lingering,
loitering, delaying. She did not realise that the change in pace
was in her head alone. Nor for one moment did it occur to Mrs Smith
that Icarus might well be savouring that bland, boring breakfast in
the hope that it was the last time he would be eating it.
So Mrs Smith watched him,
sibilant synonyms slipping through her vacant mind, until Icarus
washed down the final crust with a mouthful of tea. He pushed his
plate away from him, leant his elbows on the table, in just the
manner that she had told him not to, and rested his chin in the
palms of his hands.
Mrs Smith was about to admonish
the boy, to tell him to get his elbows off the table, but found
that she could not. She looked down at him from across the tiny
kitchen. The plump boyishness of his face would soon disappear, she
realised. He was growing into the handsome dark looks of his
father’s Greek heritage. Swarthy, she thought, but not too dark –
that must be my influence, she thought – but certainly the son of
Dedalus.
“Mother,” said Icarus, waking
her from her reflection. “Mother, do you think that tomorrow I
might have something different for breakfast? I’m getting a bit
tired of the same thing all the time.”
Oh, what joy, thought Mrs Smith.
He has forgotten, he is still my boy, he is staying home after all,
and all he wants is something different for his breakfast. She
walked around the table and held his head to her breast, running
her fingers through his curly black locks.
“What’s that for?” he asked,
startled.
“Just because … because I’m
feeling happy, joyful, ecstatic …”
“Well, try not to mess my hair.
I want to look nice when I go looking for a job.”
Mrs Smith took a few moments to
recover her composure.
“So,” she said finally, “you’re
determined to continue with this silliness, this childishness, this
wilfulness …”
“I don’t want to go back to
school, Mother. I want to find a job and earn some money so that I
can go out and …. do things.”
“What do you mean, do
things?”
“I want to go and find out what
the world is really like. I don’t know anything about life except
from what I’ve learnt from school and books. From what I’ve seen on
television and in magazines, I know there’s much, much more out
there.”
“Don’t I give you everything you
need?”
“You do. You have. You’ve given
me everything, but I still need to find a life, I need to find what
life is.”
“I gave you life, I gave you
breath.”
“You gave me life, Mother, you
gave me this life, but I know now that there is more. I’ve never
ever ridden on a bus, or in a car. I want to …. to expand my life
beyond the few streets around here.”
Mrs Smith put up her hand and
stopped him. “It’s that bike, isn’t it?”
“No. Yes. No. Well, I don’t know
… I suppose that is has something to do with that.”
“I knew it,” Mrs Smith’s voice
rose in anger. “I knew it
forever. I’ll still live at home here with you.”
“You will go away,” said Mrs
Smith, finally shedding a single tear, “you will.”
The following morning Icarus
arrived at breakfast time wearing his best T-shirt and trousers –
his mother wouldn’t allow him to lower himself to the level of his
degenerate peers by wearing denim jeans. He sat down to his
porridge, two slices of toast and Marmite, and a cup of tea, saying
nothing more than a muffled “morning” to his mother. Mrs Smith
hoped that the madness of yesterday had passed, that the silly talk
of going to find a job was forgotten. For her, time seemed to be
slowing to a crawl, each second stretching into a minute, into an
hour, into an eternity.
Icarus appeared to be eating
more slowly than usual. It’s almost, Mrs Smith mused to herself, as
if he’s tasting that breakfast, that same breakfast that he has
eaten almost every weekday of his life, for the first time. He
doesn’t want to go, she thought. He’s procrastinating, lingering,
loitering, delaying. She did not realise that the change in pace
was in her head alone. Nor for one moment did it occur to Mrs Smith
that Icarus might well be savouring that bland, boring breakfast in
the hope that it was the last time he would be eating it.
So Mrs Smith watched him,
sibilant synonyms slipping through her vacant mind, until Icarus
washed down the final crust with a mouthful of tea. He pushed his
plate away from him, leant his elbows on the table, in just the
manner that she had told him not to, and rested his chin in the
palms of his hands.
Mrs Smith was about to admonish
the boy, to tell him to get his elbows off the table, but found
that she could not. She looked down at him from across the tiny
kitchen. The plump boyishness of his face would soon disappear, she
realised. He was growing into the handsome dark looks of his
father’s Greek heritage. Swarthy, she thought, but not too dark –
that must be my influence, she thought – but certainly the son of
Dedalus.
“Mother,” said Icarus, waking
her from her reflection. “Mother, do you think that tomorrow I
might have something different for breakfast? I’m getting a bit
tired of the same thing all the time.”
Oh, what joy, thought Mrs Smith.
He has forgotten, he is still my boy, he is staying home after all,
and all he wants is something different for his breakfast. She
walked around the table and held his head to her breast, running
her fingers through his curly black locks.
“What’s that for?” he asked,
startled.
“Just because … because I’m
feeling happy, joyful, ecstatic …”
“Well, try not to mess my hair.
I want to look nice when I go looking for a job.”
Mrs Smith took a few moments to
recover her composure.
“So,” she said finally, “you’re
determined to continue with this silliness, this childishness, this
wilfulness …”
“I don’t want to go back to
school, Mother. I want to find a job and earn some money so that I
can go out and …. do things.”
“What do you mean, do
things?”
“I want to go and find out what
the world is really like. I don’t know anything about life except
from what I’ve learnt from school and books. From what I’ve seen on
television and in magazines, I know there’s much, much more out
there.”
“Don’t I give you everything you
need?”
“You do. You have. You’ve given
me everything, but I still need to find a life, I need to find what
life is.”
“I gave you life, I gave you
breath.”
“You gave me life, Mother, you
gave me this life, but I know now that there is more. I’ve never
ever ridden on a bus, or in a car. I want to …. to expand my life
beyond the few streets around here.”
Mrs Smith put up her hand and
stopped him. “It’s that bike, isn’t it?”
“No. Yes. No. Well, I don’t know
… I suppose that is has something to do with that.”
“I knew it,” Mrs Smith’s voice
rose in anger. “I knew it
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