El Greco and his mother

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El Greco and his mother lived two doors down from the street corner. El Greco was nothing like his namesake. No stern patrician profile, no lean and ascetic demeanour. This El Greco was large, flabby, big-bellied and soft. Wet sensual lips glistened repulsively from his dark olive complexion. Lank brown hair sought to hide his shifty eyes. He was unemployed, shiftless, lustful – and a mummy’s boy.

His mother always dressed in black, which only accentuated her large bricklike form. Imposing tree-trunk legs culminating in soft puffy ankles and swollen feet soft added to the sense of invulnerability she exuded. Her curly grey hair was drawn back severely, her bland face belied a wilful temperament. There was a golden ring on her left-hand ring finger – not a wedding ring but a signet ring. This was a source of much gossip and conjecture. Was El Greco born out of wedlock? (It would explain much if he were, commented the cynics.) Had she ever been married? She said she was and that family tradition dictated she wear this ring rather than a traditional gold band.

They often waited at the bus top together, and when the bus arrived, El Greco would rush forward, daring other passengers to prevent him, the great El Greco, from being first on the bus, followed closely by his mother. He would pay her fare while she seated herself, then he would sweep past her and the seat she proferred, to sit next to some pretty Asian or Islander girl, who cringed at his presence. He never noticed their discomfit, or if he did, refuse to accept that he, El Greco, could receive such a welcome.

His mother, on the other hand, saw how he was silently reviled and felt the pain he never knew.