Free The Spark by H. G. Howell Page B

linen shirt. He rolled the stiff sleeves over his bony elbows and gave his hair one final tease. Content with his attire, Marcus descended to the waiting aggression.
    “I’m tellin’ you Jocelyn, no man from no police – secret or othe’wise is going t’ take our home.” The tired voice of his father said as Marcus entered the small, but manageable, dining room. Marcus’ father wasn’t a big man. He sat at their eating table, thin, old, and bald. At this moment he was on the verge of defeat. The years had not been kind to Gerold Seyblanc.
    “You say this Gerold, ye do e’ry time.” Marcus’ mother Jocelyn, protested. She leaned on their wooden table as she spoke down to Marcus’ father. “But what ‘bout when the rest of our money is gone? What then? You say no police is goin’ t’ take me home, but who’s that hangin’ on the bell all day when yer not here?”
    In some ways, Marcus felt sorry for his mother, for she had been born into nothing and rose to mediocrity through her marriage to a chief salter. Now she risked to fall back to the life she never wished to return. As his father’s money grew, so too did his mother’s ego and eccentricities.
    If Marcus had not known the wiser, he would have claimed it was his mother who ruined the family’s income for she had grown quite found of maquillage . This was a lavish, noble product women painted on their faces to ‘enhance’ their features; red paints were used to create luscious lips, rose coloured powders to mimic a maid’s blushing cheeks, and even a product to paint the eye lids. Beneath crusted layers of maquillage , his mother’s skin had become porous and distressed. With the loss of his father’s work, she had not been able to continue with her façade, and she refused to wash the last remaining flakes from her skin because she could not replenish her collection.
    Across the table, his father looked a shriveled shrew as his mother seethed down upon him like vengeful Del Morte. Marcus felt a stirring defiance in his gut as he looked in pity at the man whom he admired.
    “Mum, leave ‘im be.” Marcus said. The wrathful woman that was his mother turned her attention towards him. With slow, vengeful strides she rounded the table and hovered over her son.
    “What did you say t’ me boy?” Her breath steamed hot and furious in his face, smelling of cloves and barley
    “I said,” Marcus began, staring into his mothers brown eyes, whose lashes were caked with clumps of aged maquillage . “Leave ‘im be.”
    Marcus hadn’t seen her hand dart out, but he certainly felt the force of the blow as his mother struck him. Tears welled in his eyes as he held his stinging cheek.
    “See what ye’ve done to ‘im?” She snarled. “Ye see what puttin’ ‘im to work in the mines has done to me sweet lil boy, Gerold? Ye’ve gone an’ made ‘im an insolent bugger like the rest ‘o ye salt kin.” Turning her attention back to Marcus, she said, “Ye best mind yer tongue boy.”
    “Or what?” Marcus clenched his jaw, waiting for the next blow to fall.
    “Or ye will find yerself livin’ in the boardin’ houses right quick.” His mother threatened. “I’m yer moth’r an’ I deserve more respect than the two o’ ye give.”
    “Son, thankee, but let it be,” his father squeaked from across the table. Marcus looked at his father, whose weepy green eyes refused to return the stare.
    Marcus was surprised, hurt even. There once was a time Gerold Seyblanc would have fought even his own wife for the safety of his child. Where once sat a broad shouldered man of esteem and worth amongst the salt-kin, now only a defeated, worthless shell sat.
    He couldn’t take it any more. Too long had Marcus sat idly by as his mother brought his father low; too long had Jocelyn Seyblanc ruined the sanctity of family for her own selfish desires. A fire burned in his heart, a fire, Marcus knew, that would no doubt end only in his pain.
    “No.” Marcus winced