Pugilistic Portrait

"Are you alright, sir?"

I felt as if I had been punched by a heavyweight, and one without gloves at that. I tried to focus. I was propped up on a low chair or stool of some sort and was looking up at a middle-aged man who seemed somehow familiar. There was nothing familiar about my surroundings.

"Where am I?"

"You are in a tavern, my friend, and appear to have drunk a flagon or two beyond your wisdom."

There was something strange about the way he spoke. Something theatrical, like he was playing a part in an old Victorian music hall sketch. I couldn't quite work it out.

"A Tavern?" I remembered going to the National Portrait Gallery not into a pub."

"I was in the gallery..." I said vaguely, trying to recall what had happened before I passed out.

"The galley, you say? You are a ship's cook? I don't care for cooks. One tried to Molly me one day and then accused me of stealing when I refused him. He wanted to give me one, but I gave him one he will never forget."

I could see the frown grow on his face and was quick to disabuse him of any thought that I was a ship's cook, or any other kind of sailor."

"Not galley, gallery. Art gallery, the National Portrait Gallery in London."

"Portrait Gallery is it? Where they keep paintings?"

"Yes, that's where I was. Then how did I get here?"

"How did you get here? Why you came through that door, the same as all my other patrons. It seems, though, that you are the only one who could not manage to walk back out. As for portraits, not ten minutes hence, you were looking at mine on yon wall."

Looking up I could see the portrait of Jem Wharton, the nineteenth century bare-knuckle fighter. That's it, the last I recall I was looking up at the painting. Looking at the landlord, again, I could see it was indeed the man in the painting. How could that be? Wavering a little I asked him:

"Would you mind telling me, sir, your name?"

"My name, sir, is Wharton. James Wharton of London, proprietor of this establishment. The same whose likeness appears to attract your attention, for you were stood looking at it for long enough.

"Yes, I remember now. I was looking at the painting."

"That you were indeed. Before you fell to the ground, the worst for the demon drink."

"No, I had not been drinking."

"I can assure you, my friend, you were drinking a plenty."

He had a concerned but not unfriendly look on his face. As I rose from the stool he took be by the arm, steadying me.

"You be careful now. I have a room out back which you are welcome to use to sleep it off, should you wish it."

"No, no, though I thank you for your kind offer. May I just have another look at the painting."

"You really do seem to like it, sir. It was done by a gen'leman painter, when I was a younger man, fighting all comers for prize money."

"Yes, I read that you were a boxer, a bare knuckle fighter."

I looked again at the muscular figure in the painting, with his confident pose and the sash of victory around his waist. I imagined, as before, what it would feel like to receive a punch from so fit a fighter.

Then it happened for a second time. It must have been my imagination but, in the instant before the blow struck, I was sure I saw the flash of movement from the right arm of the figure in the painting.

The world exploded in a series of bright flashes, before darkness descended upon me. I felt no pain but was sure that I had been struck square on the jaw.

"Are you all right, sir?"

I felt as if I had been punched by a heavyweight, and one without gloves at that. I tried to focus. I was propped up on a low chair or stool of some sort and was looking up at a middle-aged man who seemed somehow familiar. It was the volunteer gallery assistant I had been speaking to earlier.

"I think you must have passed out," said the gallery assistant. "You started to waver as you were looking at one of the paintings. I have called an ambulance. It should be here any minute."

O ~ 0 ~ o

Yesterday, I visited the National Portrait Gallery in London, on the way to a business appointment. I was intending to spend some writerly time in quiet contemplation in a room I think of as 'poets corner'. Portraits include those of Percy Shelley, Lord Byron and the godmother of science fiction, Mary Shelley (top right to left below).

My intention was to write a spooky story about Mary Shelley's portrait. I started writing (on my ancient iPhone) but had to give that up when another visitor insisted on making a lengthy complaint to one of the gallery staff. He wouldn't shut up and I found this irritating so decided to go elsewhere. As I walked into the next room along I was struck by a portrait of the boxer Jem Wharton, 1839. Many are under the impression that black people first came to this country from the Caribbean in the 1950s. They are wrong and many people have come here from Africa over the centuries, some settling. Wharton may have been born in London and he certainly spent most of his life here, before moving to Liverpool (North West of England) to run a tavern. I was planning to research an article on the painting but chose to write this short story instead, in order to heed Lamar Wiggins's 'Twilight Zone Tuesdays' call on the FB group: Vocal+ Assist

Thanks for the inspiration Lamar (Not to mention Gem, Mary, Percy, George and the irritating visitor to NPG Monday November 25).

Thanks for reading.