I paint what I see.
I paint how I feel.
I'm a man who paints.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Every picture I paint
always begins the same way.
It begins in the same colour.
Underneath every picture
is the colour white.
Flake white.
Hmmm.
Yeah. Huh.
Hmm.
No.
Ah, caught you! I got, no,
no. I saw you, I saw you.
No, no, not today,
no sweeties today.
No, I've given them to
all the good children...
...no, no, no, not today, no, no.
Tomorrow if you're lucky.
If you're not naughty.
I need it today!
Wash your face and I'll
give you some tomorrow.
Two minutes.
Oh, oh, hello.
Oh, oh, very well, um,
very well, yes, that's...
Tell him I'll call around
this time tomorrow.
Thank you, thank you.
Sorry.
There's that woman again.
Very refined. Hair and
clothes immaculate.
I approve. Middle class.
I dreamt of becoming
a concert pianist.
I practised and practised
every day.
When we lived in Victoria Park.
Ah, a different world.
Is that you, Laurie?
Yes, mother, it's me.
Who else would it be?
I've no idea.
You could've been a burglar!
Burglars don't have
their own front door key.
Anything's possible,
living in Pendlebury.
People get up to all sorts
of malpractices
as soon as your back is turned.
What are you doing?
I'm hanging up me
raincoat, mother.
Don't let it drip.
No, mother.
Wipe your feet.
Shake that umbrella.
Do you hear me, Laurie?
Yes, I hear you, mother.
Then why don't you answer me?
Don't be so belligerent.
You're such a vexation.
Enter.
Good evening, mother.
Good evening, Laurie.
Right-oh.
Did you remember to
bolt the front door?
- Always do.
- Ah, good.
You can't be too careful.
No, mother.
There was a woman last week
left her front door on the latch
and in less than an
hour she had no carpets.
The culprits had
rolled away the lot,
including a rag rug.
Oh, the pilferers.
Who told you that story?
The Anglican Times,
they don't lie.
That's the kind of people
we have living around here -
our neighbours, the...
the working class.
Where have you been?
You're very late.
You know where I've been, mother;
spent the day working.
Where were you today?
Old Trafford.
I hope you've remembered
to wash your hands.
My hands are clean, mother.
Oh, I'll be the judge
of that. Let me see.
Satisfied?
I suppose they'll do.
Ah, now then.
Oh...
How was your day, mother?
Oh, same as usual.
I just lie here,
waiting for the inevitable.
No, don't say that.
Why not? It's true.
There's no use deluding ourselves.
We both know where my life is heading.
No. You got years left in you.
How do you know?
I can tell.
Hope so.
- Oh, oh, sorry, yeah.
- Under there.
All right, all done.
Right, thank you.
- But you haven't sugared!
- Oh, sorry about that.
Did you not find any distractions
on your wireless today?
- No.
- The afternoon concert?
No, I did not.
Today's been one of my
bad days. The pains...
I, I thought my bed was
turning into a coffin.
You mustn't give up, mother.
Why not?
What kind of woman dreams of living
in a two-up, two-down terrace
in Pendlebury?
- There, your tea.
- Thank you.
You'll feel better tomorrow.
Won't you, ay?
And mind, Dr Mills makes
his visit, doesn't he?
Oh, yes.
Dr Mills makes one
of his weekly sorties
and I'm grateful for
every one of his tonics.
Yes, mother. Dr Mills keeps
you cheerful, doesn't he?
No, I'm never cheerful.
I haven't felt cheerful since 1868,
the year of my confirmation.
That was a long
time ago, mother.
A lifetime.
We're living in 1934.
I'm aware of that.
I blame your father
for everything.
Such a downfall.
Hello? It's the rent man.
It's me.
I had great hopes for
you and your father.
I thought you'd both be
successful men of business.
Men of speculation.
But he wasn't capable
and neither were you.
Hopeless.
I'm coming!
What's for dinner? Laurie!
- Sausages.
- Pork or the beef?
- Pork.
- Properly grilled, I hope.
Singed.
I can't digest anything greasy.
I'm aware of that, mother.
London.
How many sausages
do you want, mother?
I can't digest a thing.
Not this evening.
- One or two?
- Three.
Righto.
And a round of bread and
butter. To ease my digestion.
Bread will lay a lining.
Righto.
Where did you purchase them?
- What?
- The sausages.
- A butcher's.
- Which butchers?
McCreadie's or Harrison's?
- McCreadie's.
- Aah.
You can't go wrong
with Arthur McCreadie.
He's been slaughtering
things for years.
Mm, did you purchase them from
Arthur McCreadie or the boy?
Um, the boy.
Ohh, he sees you
coming, that boy.
- He does not.
- Yes, he does.
He'll sell you any old sausage.
He's canny.
He was born in
Chorlton-cum-Hardy.
Whereas you were born...
- What?
- ...unworldly.
Unworldly... There's no harm done
in being unworldly, is there?
Time after time,
I'm amused by life.
And saddened by it.
Oh, oh!
- Still raining.
- Still raining?
Pitter patter.
- Pitter patter.
- Pitter patter.
- God's tears.
- God's tears.
I long for you to be happy, mother.
One day.
- Do you?
- Yes.
Let's not be
sentimental, Laurie.
There's that woman again.
- Which woman?
- Our new neighbour.
Oh, really? Oh.
Such a social life, hasn't she?
Can you see what she's wearing?
Uh, clothes.
- Oh, don't be so stupid.
- I was joking, mother.
Who's laughing?
She's always immaculately
dressed, isn't she?
A woman of quality.
I approve.
Come on, come on
to mummy!
My baby, come on.
I wonder why she's
living 'round here.
My thoughts precisely.
She's certainly a cut above the rest.
Perhaps she's fallen
on hard times.
Not with a fur-trimmed collar.
And a husband who wears
expensively cut suits.
What haven't you noticed his
debonair trilby?
- No I haven't.
- You should be more observant.
A man needs to show an interest
in business people.
If he is to get on in life.
I'm always telling you that.
Good boy.
You need to cultivate important
people, Laurie, to better yourself.
But you never listened,
you preferred to sit upstairs in the attic,
attending to your hobby.
It's not a hobby, mother.
- Isn't it?
- No, it's not.
What do you call it?
And where has it got you,
this hobby?
Nowhere. We can't afford it.
You sitting up there, night
after night, burning the gas.
Think of the unpaid bills.
I'm paying them back, mother.
Father's debts.
You're not to worry.
How are you going to pay them back
on the wages of a junior clerk?
You're a middle-aged man.
Not a word of promotion in 25 years.
I shall do it, mother.
I promise.
I'm determined to pay father's
creditors back. Bit by bit.
Ah, ever hopeful.
Hope gets a lot of people
through life, mother.
Ever hopeful.
Most people in Pendlebury are
bone idle, that's their trouble.
People can't help being poor.
No shame having nothing, is there?
Of course there's shame.
We are middle-class, Laurie.
We lived above our means, mother.
Father knew it.
He tried to keep you happy.
Happy? The day we married it rained.
Misfortune poured upon me ever since.
He made me into the family joke.
For years and years he borrowed
money off my relations,
I knew nothing about it.
I served your aunties and uncles
French pastries from Greenhalgh's,
while all the time we were penniless.
They must've thought my
Nottingham lace doilies ridiculous.
- May I offer anybody else more tea?
- Ah, yes.
You never liked any one of my
paintings, mother?
No.
I'm not the only one, am I?
Have you read the
evening newspaper?
The evening paper, mother?
Yes, you usually bring an evening
newspaper home, don't you?
- Well, this evening... I forgot.
- Oh, oh you forgot.
Oh, well then.
Shall I read it to you?
I don't need you to read me the
newspaper, mother.
Why not?
You need to be enlightened.
'An ugly painting.
The painting by Mr L.S. Lowry -
Coming From The Mill -
is confusing and appears
to have been painted by a child.
The figures if we may call them
figures are nothing but smudges.
Ridiculous marionettes suspended
in a squalid industrial scene.
If this is Mr Lowry's vision of the
Lancashire landscape and its people,
I feel very sorry for him.
It is a most unsatisfactory picture and
an insult to the people of Lancashire.'
Mr Denby is not impressed,
Laurie!
What does he know?
What does he know?
He knows more than you know.
He knows everything! He's an art critic!
I'm not interested in what
Mr Denby knows, mother.
He doesn't know me
and I don't know him.
He knows something about your
picture! 'Coming From The Mill'.
He doesn't approve!
He decrees it an insult!
Why do you do it, Laurie?
Painting these squalid
industrial scenes,
that nobody wants to buy!
Paint what I see, mother.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Paint how I feel.
How you feel?
What about how I feel?
I don't want to feel like
everybody's laughing at me.
Nobody's laughing at you,
mother.
Laughing at my paintings
is a laugh at me.
Yes! Every painting looks as if
it was painted by a child.
Yes, but a child didn't paint
it, mother, I did.
Yes, precisely.
Oh, give it up. Laurie.
For my sake.
Try and find another hobby.
It's not a hobby! Mother.
I went to art school.
Night school.
For 15 years.
And where's it got you? Nowhere.
I know everything about
artistic attributes, Laurie,
and you don't have any. You're not
an artist and you never will be.
Then what am I, mother?
Ever since you were born, I've
asked myself the same question.
What is Laurie's purpose?
Why was he born?
And I don't know!
I've got no idea
what or who you are!
I'm a man who paints.
Nothing more, nothing less.
I paint to fill in the time.
I paint for something to do.
I'm not fit for anything else.
Night after night I sit up here.
In the attic.
Nothing in the house stirs.
The smell of the turpentine.
The hiss of the gas jet.
Outside, one solitary star
watches over me.
This is my world.
I'm safe here.
Alone.
I paint and I paint.
A smudge here with my finger.
A stroke of the brush there.
I see light and atmosphere.
In the bleakest of places.
A railway arch, a stone viaduct.
I see beauty in everything.
A man just has to
open his eyes and look.
Observe everything.
- Hello!
- Hello!
Life!
What does that make me?
Am I an artist?
What would you call yourself,
Laurie?
Hello! It's the rent collector.
Rent man's here!
It's me!
Mr L.S. Lowry.
Oh, this is a lovely desert,
Laurie.
You've really excelled
yourself this evening.
A real treat for my digestion.
Glad you're enjoying it, mother.
- Thank you.
- I did.
Can't go wrong with
prunes and custard.
What time it is?
- Eight o'clock.
- How do you know?
Because the clock
in the hall just chimed.
Why can't you set my clocks
properly, Laurie?
I don't know where I am.
There's a knack to telling the
time in this house, mother.
The method.
There's a method in your madness,
I'll give you that.
- I muddle through.
- Yes, you're a muddle all right.
You're a one-off,
I'll give you that.
Well we can't all be the same
article, can we mother?
Oh, no, that's true.
You were late again,
home, this evening.
Laurie, weren't you?
- Was I?
- Yes, at least 10 minutes late.
I was beginning to get worried,
what were you doing?
I um...
Nothing.
Right.
Well?
I've got some news to tell you, mother.
News? What kind of news?
- I've received a letter.
- A summons? Father's debts?
No, no, no, no...
I received this letter the other day...
and it's um,
it's from London.
- London?
- Yes.
London?
Who do you know from London?
A Mr Bernstein, mother.
Mr Bernstein is a gallery owner.
And uh..
He wants to see some of my, my
paintings and if he likes them,
there's a, there's the possibility
of me having an exhibition.
Isn't, isn't that marvellous?
At last,
somebody's seen something in,
in me paintings.
London!
Aye, aye, London.
What do you say?
You can't believe everything
that's written in a letter.
Laurie. Especially not a letter
from London.
Pretentious people make
all sorts of promises
and they've no intention
of keeping them.
Uh, Mr Bernstein sounded very genuine
when I spoke to him
on the telephone.
Telephone?
You telephoned Mr Bernstein?
Eventually got through to him
this, this evening.
So that's why I was, you know...
What did he say?
- Praised me.
- He praised you?
I've no reason to doubt him, mother.
Oh, well that depends,
doesn't it?
- On what?
- On whether he can be trusted.
Still, it's a nice letter as letters go.
Put it up on the mantelpiece.
Save it for a rainy day.
Well everyone needs
a little encouragement
now and then I suppose.
'Dear Mr Lowry, Dear Mr..'
'Dear Mr Lowry, there is a
simplicity to your work.
Nothing is artificially created through...
...through likeness or representation.
All is conveyed through
sheer expression of feeling.'
Feelings.
I've cold feet.
- I said, put your teeth back in.
- But my teeth hurt.
Well I don't care, I'm not
kissing you with no teeth in.
It's unhygienic.
What are you staring at, Laurie?
Flames from the fire.
Fluttering. Like moths' wings.
The things you see.
Where you get it from, I don't know.
Not from me, that's for sure.
Imagination.
You'll never leave me,
will you Laurie?
- No, mother.
- Promise?
I promise.
Ah, oh that's good.
That's right. After all, what
woman would have you?
You and me, forever and ever.
Lying here.
Safe.
Floating away.
Like a boat.
Yes.
Like a boat on the sea.
Floating away.
Safe.
Oh, those mongrels.
Always spoil everything,
don't they?
Brush my hair, will you?
Tell me about your day.
What would you like to know,
mother?
Oh, everything.
Your day is my day.
I see no one, only the maid.
How's that feel?
Lovely.
Oh, you brush beautifully.
Well, today mother,
I saw a man...
Rent man!
- Oh, oh, it's you, Mr Lowry.
- Seem to have caught you there.
Vera, Mr Lowry's here!
A man?
- Yes.
- What kind of a man?
I saw a man having a bath.
- A bath?
- Yes.
- What's it like down there?
- Bloody dark.
Vera! Mr Lowry's here!
He was a coal miner
at Agecroft Colliery.
His wife wouldn't let him
in the house unclean.
Five shilling, miss.
Mr Lowry, we're a bob short this week.
Oh, are you? Oh, right.
Well, that's twice isn't it this year.
I'm sorry. Couldn't get the
hours, could you Stanley?
- Can't get blood out of stone.
- What are you doing?
Where's me bloody towel?
How disgusting.
Oh, the sights you see in Salford.
There's mother
having her tea inside.
Come back here when I'm talking
to you, where you going?
What's the world coming to?
The type of heathens you have to
visit beggars belief.
- I don't mind.
- You should mind.
Ah, it's, it's informative seeing
how others live, mother. It's lives.
- Sordid life.
- No, it's real life.
It's all part of the picture, mother.
People are like monkeys,
most of them.
Guess what else I saw today?
I don't want to guess.
- Let me tell you.
- No.
Today...
I saw a woman...
- A woman?
- Yes.
What kind of woman?
A woman... taking a ride on a bus.
So what's so unusual about that?
She had a beard.
You saw a woman with a beard?
Yes!
Whiskers.
Whiskers?
Whi...? What was she wearing
whiskers for?
No idea.
Didn't ask her.
Why not?
It's not polite, mother.
- But, was it detachable?
- Detachable?
Yes! Detachable, elasticated.
Was she going to a fancy dress do?
No.
Then what was she wearing a
beard in public for?
Well she was growing it.
Is that legal?
Presume so.
Was it real?
Yes.
- Her beard was real.
- And it was clean?
It was combed to perfection.
She had a dignity.
A nobleness.
An acceptance of who she was.
I found her rather...
...beautiful.
How disgusting.
You amaze me.
The things you say,
the things you see...
no wonder you've never had a girlfriend.
That's got nothing to do with anything.
Yes it has.
You find things beautiful
nobody else does.
I did a sketch of her on the back of
an envelope, would you like to see it?
There.
No. I do not.
I've no interest in life's
deformities.
Mother. Thought might like
to paint her one day.
Capture her likeness for others to see.
The woman belongs in a circus
freak show, not in a picture frame.
How embarrassing.
Why can't you paint
something picturesque?
You know, something tasteful?
What exactly do you suggest
that I paint, mother?
Bowl of fruit
would be a great improvement.
People like to see nice things.
Flowers appeal to everyone.
Still life.
Apples, oranges, bunch of
grapes...
A few pears.
Bananas. Piled high.
Oh no, don't be ridiculous.
My paintings are...
They're not just pictures of
factories, mills, and streets, mother.
Every window, every brick, every
stroke of colour, it's...
It's made up of me.
I have to do it, mother.
I'm compelled
to put down everything.
You should visit Dr Mills.
You're not right in the head.
Control yourself.
When...
See when I'm...
When I'm walking
through Salford streets,
collecting the rounds, people's rent,
I feel that I need to capture
a way of life, mother.
You see... our world.
The truth.
How dare you?
The truth has nothing
to do with living in Pendlebury.
Our world is elsewhere, back in the
house we had to leave in Victoria Park.
We came here... your father
couldn't afford...
...for us to live anywhere else.
He failed us.
Laurie, he failed me.
It was years ago, mother.
I belonged in Victoria Park.
A place with starched white collars.
And the scent of lavender soap
on people's skin.
It's a different world.
I cannot abide ugliness.
I haven't the constitution for it.
I've never stepped
near the mill in my life.
The very idea is abhorrent.
There's a mill across the street,
mother. And around the corner.
We... hear the sound of it.
People labour there every day.
The life of it, we hear it
thumping, thumping away.
We're part of it, mother.
It's humanity.
Survival.
It's the battle for life.
Where is the beauty?
There.
Like rats, they are.
Ivory black, vermillion,
Prussian blue, yellow ochre.
Crowds can be the loneliest of places.
They haunt me...
the lonely souls.
Ghosts...
Is that you, Laurie?
Yes, mother.
Who else would it be?
I've no idea,
you could've been anyone.
Come in.
Good evening...
Ooh, right, yeah...
Lovely. What's a...
Tell me, why the...
Today I had a visitor.
- A visitor?
- Mm-hm.
We don't have visitors.
- I do.
- No, you don't.
You made sure
the world paid for 10 years.
The only visitors you get are Dr Mills
and the girl who does your dusting.
Sneaks in the evening newspaper.
Well... today I had a visitor.
Visitor... who?
- Can't you guess?
- No.
- Yes you can.
- No, I can't.
- Yes, you can.
- No, I can't. Was it a bailiff?
Oh, no. You always bring
in such horrible things.
No... today...
I had a lady caller.
Who?
Our new neighbour from next door.
Mrs Stanhope.
- Mrs Stanhope?
- Mrs Stanhope.
She wanted to see me.
She's making collection for
St. Boniface's Church.
The restoration fund.
So I said, of course, she could
come in. Let her in.
You? You let a stranger
in the house? You?
Mrs Stanhope's not a stranger.
Laurie!
Doreen's my new found friend!
Doreen?
Yes.
We've a lot in common.
Doreen's husband
is making her life a misery.
Do you think I'm made of money?
Well that's what you kept saying
when you were courting me.
He's a Labour Party Councillor.
I can't win with you, can I?
So she's forced to live in
Pendlebury.
In the filth.
You keep your act.
She's not pleased.
And you can live alone
horrible house in Pendlebury.
She shops in Marshall and Snelgrove's.
Oh.
She stay for long?
Oh, long enough to have
a polite conversation
and to form an
acquaintance and Laurie...
that's not all.
She admired one of your paintings.
Which, which one?
'Sailing Boats', 1930.
Mrs Stanhope knows about
paintings, she goes to art shows.
Course she'd never heard about
you, but she admired your painting.
She never...
"It's a perfectly delightful
picture."
"It's a perfectly delightful
picture."
- That's wonderful, isn't it?
- Yes!
I'm amazed. Actually, I'm...
Well, flabbergasted, actually.
So was I. Oh, Laurie. Fetch it up
here so I can see it for myself.
I want to savour Mrs Stanhope's
"perfectly delightful picture."
- You do?
- I do!
Go on, now, hurry up!
Be careful now!
Oh, such excitement.
Be careful of my china
ornaments.
My little Pug dog.
It's an antique, I think.
Here it is, mother.
The painting.
Oh, yes.
Oh, yes, I see what
Mrs Stanhope sees.
- You like it, mother?
- I do. Its merits are obvious.
I painted it for you.
- You did?
- I did, yes, yeah.
- Well, I don't recall when.
- It was for your birthday.
You not remember?
I painted it from memory.
It's a gift of the past.
- 'Sailing Boats.'
- A gift... of the past.
Now this is what I call
a proper painting.
Why can't you paint
like this anymore?
Oh, the sea... the sky...
Well, you said you didn't like it.
- I didn't.
- Yes, you did.
When I first gave it to you... you
turned your head away,
and closed your eyes.
Well that must've been
one of my hazy head days.
No, no I like this painting.
Very much.
We danced
at the seaside together.
Yes. Lytham St. Annes,
the promenade.
- I was seven years old.
- Yes, you were.
Whitson.
How beautiful you were.
And how blessed was I.
Life held so much promise in the
beginning...
The whiteness...
- 'Sailing Boats'.
- 'Sailing Boats'.
- You truly like the painting, mother?
- Oh yes, I do.
"A perfectly delightful picture."
Would you like me to, to hang it
on your bedroom wall?
In here?
Yes, so you can see it every day.
What would be the point of that?
- I thought you liked it.
- Oh, I do like it.
- I shall pay the two shillings entry fee.
- For what?
For the Manchester Academy
Summer Show.
Mrs Stanhope says
amateur artists can enter.
I want you to enter
'Sailing Boats'.
And when that Mr Denby sees it he'll
write a review worthy of your talents.
And everybody
in Manchester will read it,
and you'll make your mother so proud.
Won't you?
Hmm? What do you say?
- I don't know, mother. Um...
- What do you mean you don't know?
The... Well, I painted it for you.
Well, of course, you did.
But I want everyone to admire it.
You'll do this for me...
won't you?
It'll make me so happy.
- Happy?
- Yes.
Well, I'll enter the painting
for you, mother.
Course I will.
- Ooh!
- Of course.
Oh, how wonderful! Ooh, ooh.
Childhood games.
Childhood friends.
Something I've never known.
Who's that? Who's here?
Playing.
There's nobody there!
Well, well, well, well.
That's very strange.
That's very strange.
Oh, well.
I, I think I've, I think I've
gotta sneeze.
Oh! Oh!
Oh, where's my money gone?
Oh, I hope nobody's picked it up.
It was always mother and me.
Wrapped up, locked away.
Hidden behind her lace curtains.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
You must always be vigilant where
other children are concerned.
Lice and nits.
I don't understand.
The art critic, Mr Denby,
has made no mention of your painting,
in the Summer Show.
Hasn't he?
No. Doreen Stanhope told
all her cultured friends...
We don't need an art critic to tell
us what we like, do we, mother?
Yes, of course, we do. People need
to be advised, it's mandatory.
Painting's there, it exists.
It will always exist.
People can see it for what it is.
Or not.
I've a good mind to write to the
editor of the newspaper and complain.
The man claims to be an
expert, an expert on what?
He obviously knows nothing about art.
Quite.
Thank goodness you didn't agree to the
London exhibition, how embarrassing.
Drink your tea, mother, it's...
going cold.
I paid two shillings for the
privilege of entering your painting
into the Summer Show.
Why can't people see what we can see?
"A perfectly delightful picture."
What are you doing this afternoon?
Oh, the usual.
Might make a start on your windows.
You're working too hard, dear.
Nice to get out a bit.
It isn't healthy staying in
with me all the time.
You've never said that before,
mother. Why's that?
This afternoon, Doreen Stanhope
is calling to see me.
We're going to share a vanilla
slice from Greenhalgh's.
So, why the long face?
Haven't got a long face, mother.
Well that's debatable.
Why don't you make a few
sandwiches and walk into Farnworth?
That would be nice.
I don't want to go for a walk
into Farnworth.
Well you can't stop here.
Laurie!
I'm intending to have a tte tte with
Doreen, I'm entitled to a bit of privacy.
Well, sorry you find me an
embarrassment, mother.
No, I just want you to get out more.
That's all. I insist.
Very well.
If you want me out of the way...
I shall get off into Bolton.
No, I just want you to be able
to get out a little.
Anyway, what's the big
attraction of Bolton?
A chimney. Yes, it's the
tallest in Lancashire.
You certainly know how to live a life.
I might make
some sketches on the way.
- Don't be late.
- I won't be late, mother.
You enjoy your vanilla slice.
Oh, I intend to.
Good.
Jealousy.
For years, I've come up here.
For years,
I've walked across this moor.
Alone. I don't need anyone.
You can see everything from up here.
Like a bird, I observe it.
Majesty of everything.
The landscape, the towns,
smoke-belching, steam and fire.
The power of industry,
like a furnace...
...burning.
'Dear Mr Lowry,
There's a simplicity to your work.
Nothing is artificially created
through likeness or representation.
All is conveyed by sheer
expression of feelings.'
There's a mystery in
everything... a poetry.
People think they can do what
they want. They can't, you know.
Nobody is free.
We're all captured.
In a picture.
And everybody is a stranger
to everyone else.
Hello, mother! It's me!
Mother?
Did you have a good afternoon?
Did you talk about, um,
interesting things?
Did um...
How long did Mrs Stanhope stay?
It was a fleeting visit.
Well I see you haven't eaten
your vanilla slices.
Mrs Stanhope wasn't in
the mood and neither was I.
Shall I take it... take it away,
put it in the larder?
You can drop it down one
of your chimneys for all I care.
What is it, mother?
What's the matter?
You know what's the matter.
Do I?
Yes you do!
- Um, no I don't.
- Oh, you don't?
Then read this
and all will be revealed.
It's a cheque, mother,
for 20 pounds!
20 pounds!
All right, smash up the house.
You're round the twist you!
You're like your mother.
How dare you talk about my mother?
I haven't finished with that!
Finished with that!
Well, I'm finished with you!
Get out of my house. You ruined it.
You ruined it - me whole life.
Mr Stanhope wants to buy a painting.
Does he?
He, he wants to buy a painting.
Uh, Cyril!
Oh, Cyril wants to buy
one of your paintings.
- Yes.
- And which painting is that?
The painting hanging in the
Summer Show.
And what's it called?
- 'Coming From The Mill.'
- I can't hear you.
'Coming From The Mill.'
And how did it get to hang
in the Summer Exhibition?
- I entered it.
- Did you?
I entered both paintings,
mother.
'Coming From The Mill' and
'Sailing Boats'.
And you didn't tell me?
You didn't keep me informed.
I didn't want to upset you,
mother... you know it's...
I thought it were best you
didn't know.
Well I know now, don't I?
And so does Mrs Stanhope.
Mrs Stanhope's not pleased,
no she's not pleased at all.
She thinks 'Coming From The
Mill' is a sordid, ugly picture.
And so do I!
She's bettered herself, she doesn't
want to look at a lot of mill workers
hanging on a parlour wall,
she doesn't want to be reminded that
she was born in Cotton Bottom Lane.
She's furious!
She's made me promise not to let
you sell that painting and I agreed.
You are willful.
And selfish.
From your conception,
you robbed me of my life.
I've sacrificed everything for you,
what have you done for me?
- Paint, mother.
- Industrial scenes nobody wants.
Well, Mr Stanhope does.
Mr Stanhope.
What does he know about art?
He's a Socialist.
He's made a career
out of grime and filth.
It's Mrs Stanhope I care about.
And her friends, her cultured
friends. And I want to belong.
Are you not pleased, a little?
Just a little... that somebody wants
to buy... a painting... mother?
That somebody can see something...
Nobody can see anything!
Well, Mr Bernstein can see
something, in London.
He said so in his letter, here.
Well let me see.
- Give it to me.
- Oh... right.
No, no, no, no, no!
Thank goodness that's over.
It's not over, mother.
Till I send Mr Bernstein some
more of my paintings.
Mr Bernstein has yet to decide.
Well you send him some
paintings, see what it gets you.
So this is
where life has brought me.
You... Me...
The rent collector...
The invalid...
I do my best, mother.
- Really?
- That's right.
Why is it,
when I look at you... I...
I always want to close my eyes.
I never wanted a child, never.
Never wanted... never wanted a child,
I never wanted a child...
This is me, mother.
The man standing
before you is me!
Nothing more, nothing less.
What is that?
A man, mother.
A man that paints.
Have you never... have you never really
liked any one of my paintings, mother?
No! No! That's the simple truth.
Laurie!
What are you doing?
Laurie, I've fallen out of bed!
Laurie!
You come and pick me up!
Laurie! What are you doing?
Laurie!
Laurie!
I'm going to burn them, mother.
I'm going to burn every painting!
I wish you had years ago.
- Is that what you want?
- Go on, do it!
- Would that make you happy?
- Do it!
- Now!
- Every painting I did was for you!
Gonna do it, mother, for you.
Every painting I did was for her.
Every painting, every painting I did...
...for her!
Everything I do is for her.
Everything I do... is for her.
Everything I do is for her, for love...
Nobody comes to see me now.
No lady caller.
No Mrs Stanhope.
Doreen.
Mrs Stanhope said
we'd go somewhere cultured.
Enlighten ourselves with
like-minded people.
A different world.
Pitter patter.
Pitter patter.
This is a lovely bowl of soup.
Not too hot, not too cold.
Just right.
I hope you'll clear out the back yard.
The neighbours don't want an
unsightly mess.
You're very quiet today!
Are you sickening for something?
Did you burn them?
- Burn what, mother?
- Burn the paintings?
No, mother, no.
I thought it best not to.
I didn't want to ruin
Mrs Stanhope's washing.
Oh! That's very wise.
I'm very glad to hear it.
We should never upset our neighbours.
We might need them one day.
I'll put the paintings where they
belong, back in the attic there, later.
Hide them away.
What do you intend for my painting?
- Your painting?
- 'Sailing Boats.'
Well, I'll get it back from the
exhibition I suppose, I'll just...
Well, I'll hang it back in the hall,
I suppose.
Will you hang it in here?
On my bedroom wall.
I might as well look at it while
I lie here, don't you think?
Here mother,
here's your painting.
My painting.
A gift of the past.
We danced
at the seaside together.
On the promenade.
- Lytham St. Annes.
- Yes.
Everything, everything is...
captured.
How beautiful you were,
and how blessed was I.
Life at the beginning
held so much promise.
A whiteness.
Mother and son.
One day they'll knock this house down
and no one
will know we ever lived here.
Our whole existence
will have been for nothing.
- Look, can you see it, mother?
- Mm-hmm.
There. Everything is captured
in the painting.
Forever.
Isn't it?
'Sailing Boats.'
'Sailing Boats'.
I'm a man who paints.
Nothing more, nothing less.