a little nervous smile.
‘Alf?’ She touched his arm, but he was restless, tensed to be away. ‘Go on, then.’
Alf sprang up. He skidded to the edge of the garden, slipped through the hedge and was gone.
Gertrude went back to her book. She was reading about children’s nightmares, their fear of the dark, and how one boy had been told the bogeyman would get him if he touched himself in bed. But what no one seemed to understand about the boy, and why he was still afraid, was that the bogeyman was already there in his imagination, so he might as well go on.
It was hot. Too hot for early June. Gertrude forced herself up and into the house, shivering in that moment of near blindness as she stepped in out of the sun. She felt her way into the kitchen and, running the tap for coldness, she glanced sideways at Max’s canvas still turned against the wall. It had been a week since the picture had been started, and just as long since work on it had stopped. Now her guest slipped out before breakfast, and did not come home again until late. If she wanted to talk to him, she had to wander through the village, peer round corners, traipse down lanes until she found him, perched on an old milking stool, wrapped in a paint-splattered smock. He’d taken to wearing a felt hat, old and brown and dented on the top, and he sat, oblivious to opinion, surrounded by his roll of lining paper, his paints and brushes, his palettes and his pots. He’d painted five houses now, and he was on to the sixth. They were intricately done, the bricks in all their shades of reddened clay, the pantile roofs, the thatches, the gardens and the trees. How many buildings were there in the village? she wondered, and as she started to calculate she realized he’d be here until next spring.
‘When I die,’ Kaethe had said to her, trying to smile as if it were hypothetical, a meandering conversation between friends, ‘I worry that Max will be…’ – she tried to breathe, but the breath came only as a rasp – ‘that he’ll be lost.’
Gertrude had squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sure…’ But Gertrude had no idea what would happen to Max. In all the years of her and Kaethe’s friendship he’d always held himself aloof. From her. From everyone. He’d used his deafness, she was sure of it, to keep himself apart.
‘Max likes to do things for people,’ Kaethe went on. ‘He painted all day and half the night because it pleased our father, and then when he came to England he stopped, really just for me. If no one asks him to do anything, I worry that he’ll…’ Kaethe’s voice cracked and she turned her face away.
‘I’ll invite him to the country.’ Gertrude smiled. ‘Ask him to do a painting of my house.’
‘Yes.’ Kaethe nodded, releasing her hand, exhausted. ‘That’s it. Then he can do something for you.’
But Kaethe had been wrong about her brother. No one had asked Max to paint the whole of Steerborough. No one understood why he was even there, muddling up the traffic on the village’s one street, peering through windows, examining borders, choosing which house or cottage would be next. He’d painted Molly Cross’s cat, enticing it with scraps, throwing crumbs of cake to keep it still, and then at the last minute he’d turned it from black to ginger just so it would stand out to more effect against the hedge. He’d painted the wasteland behind the Woollards, the village’s one disgrace, hens and bedsprings and old bicycles rusting away in nettles three feet high. There was even Mrs Stoffer’s poster for her production of Twelfth Night , pinned up outside the shop, and in tiny letters he had painted the time, the date and the fact that Mrs Stoffer had taken on the unsuitable role of Olivia herself.
Gertrude trickled water down over her face. Was it that her guest had overstayed his welcome? Or was it actually that he was never there? She stood still, testing her responses, listening to her breathing and her pulse. She looked at
‘Alf?’ She touched his arm, but he was restless, tensed to be away. ‘Go on, then.’
Alf sprang up. He skidded to the edge of the garden, slipped through the hedge and was gone.
Gertrude went back to her book. She was reading about children’s nightmares, their fear of the dark, and how one boy had been told the bogeyman would get him if he touched himself in bed. But what no one seemed to understand about the boy, and why he was still afraid, was that the bogeyman was already there in his imagination, so he might as well go on.
It was hot. Too hot for early June. Gertrude forced herself up and into the house, shivering in that moment of near blindness as she stepped in out of the sun. She felt her way into the kitchen and, running the tap for coldness, she glanced sideways at Max’s canvas still turned against the wall. It had been a week since the picture had been started, and just as long since work on it had stopped. Now her guest slipped out before breakfast, and did not come home again until late. If she wanted to talk to him, she had to wander through the village, peer round corners, traipse down lanes until she found him, perched on an old milking stool, wrapped in a paint-splattered smock. He’d taken to wearing a felt hat, old and brown and dented on the top, and he sat, oblivious to opinion, surrounded by his roll of lining paper, his paints and brushes, his palettes and his pots. He’d painted five houses now, and he was on to the sixth. They were intricately done, the bricks in all their shades of reddened clay, the pantile roofs, the thatches, the gardens and the trees. How many buildings were there in the village? she wondered, and as she started to calculate she realized he’d be here until next spring.
‘When I die,’ Kaethe had said to her, trying to smile as if it were hypothetical, a meandering conversation between friends, ‘I worry that Max will be…’ – she tried to breathe, but the breath came only as a rasp – ‘that he’ll be lost.’
Gertrude had squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sure…’ But Gertrude had no idea what would happen to Max. In all the years of her and Kaethe’s friendship he’d always held himself aloof. From her. From everyone. He’d used his deafness, she was sure of it, to keep himself apart.
‘Max likes to do things for people,’ Kaethe went on. ‘He painted all day and half the night because it pleased our father, and then when he came to England he stopped, really just for me. If no one asks him to do anything, I worry that he’ll…’ Kaethe’s voice cracked and she turned her face away.
‘I’ll invite him to the country.’ Gertrude smiled. ‘Ask him to do a painting of my house.’
‘Yes.’ Kaethe nodded, releasing her hand, exhausted. ‘That’s it. Then he can do something for you.’
But Kaethe had been wrong about her brother. No one had asked Max to paint the whole of Steerborough. No one understood why he was even there, muddling up the traffic on the village’s one street, peering through windows, examining borders, choosing which house or cottage would be next. He’d painted Molly Cross’s cat, enticing it with scraps, throwing crumbs of cake to keep it still, and then at the last minute he’d turned it from black to ginger just so it would stand out to more effect against the hedge. He’d painted the wasteland behind the Woollards, the village’s one disgrace, hens and bedsprings and old bicycles rusting away in nettles three feet high. There was even Mrs Stoffer’s poster for her production of Twelfth Night , pinned up outside the shop, and in tiny letters he had painted the time, the date and the fact that Mrs Stoffer had taken on the unsuitable role of Olivia herself.
Gertrude trickled water down over her face. Was it that her guest had overstayed his welcome? Or was it actually that he was never there? She stood still, testing her responses, listening to her breathing and her pulse. She looked at
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