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on its own: me.
    I turned to face her, trying not to lose my balance on the wobbly footstool. She was still speaking to me. ‘I’m sorry, Hendrickje, but it’s time for you to leave home. You’re twenty-one and we will need the space, especially with three little ones to look after. Not right away, but you should make plans to depart for Amsterdam and find work within a few months.’
    Then her mouth opened and closed again as if she might say something else. After a few ticks of the clock she turned and left.
    I climbed down from the footstool, sat on it and looked at the dirty water in the bucket. Let van Dorsten deal with his windows.

The Supper at Emmaus
    Rembrandt’s house, Sint-Anthonisbreestraat, July 1647
    I arrived at the imposing house with its many windows and red shutters. I ran up the few steps to the front door, lifted the knocker and held it. Once I let it hit the plate there’d be no turning back from my new life. I gave three determined knocks.
    The housekeeper, a woman of sturdy frame and resolute airs, opened the door and almost dragged me inside by my elbow. In the entrance hall there were two gentlemen seemingly waiting.
    Geertje grumbled, ‘Might as well take the lot of you up now. I doubt he’ll welcome the interruption.’ At the same time she was stripping me of my coat as you would a child. Then she gestured at a tray of mugs and a jug of beer on a side table, but as I made to lift the tray, she told me, ‘Wait,’ and handed me the jug only. Then she waved her arms, herding us up the stairs like errant sheep.
    She followed close behind with the clippety-clop of her clogs and the clanking of mugs on the tray. When we reached the door the gentlemen hesitated and looked at each other. Geertje huffed at the delay and pointed with her chin at the door. One of the gentlementook a deep breath, lifted his hand and rapped the door so gingerly that he barely produced a sound.
    â€˜Enter!’ a voice called from inside.
    I feared that all eyes would be on me, but instead our arrival was utterly ignored. Everyone in the big room was motionless, as if we’d walked into a religious tableau of wooden figurines. Three young men were seated around a table, which stood on a little platform. The one on the left had a pale complexion and short brown hair, while the one on the right had long trailing locks and a pointy nose. Our preacher at home always said long hair was a sinful pleasure in a man.
    Between them sat a boyish-looking youth who appeared modest despite his long brown hair, perhaps because of his air of quiet seriousness. The other two were gazing at him as if transfixed, while the boy was looking straight ahead at a man who I assumed was the master. He sat a few feet away, leaning forward in his chair. He was wearing a broad-rimmed hat, which partially shaded his face but did not conceal his furrowed brow. I’d never seen eyes so still and intent. He held the boy’s gaze as if his life depended on it, or was it the boy who held his?
    I moved further into the room and around them so I could see better. The table was decked with pewter dishes, tablecloth, wine and some bread and there were also a few scrunched-up napkins. It was not too difficult to surmise that they were posing for a picture but if they were models why were they wearing grubby working garb and why were the boy and master locked in wordless communion?
    The boy was holding the broken bread and there was wine onthe table so it had to be a scene from the Bible and I guessed that he was Jesus and this was the Last Supper, where Jesus breaks the bread and says This is my body, which is given for you . I’d always thought it very good of Jesus to atone for everyone’s sins.
    There was something so beautiful about the boy’s face that I too could not take my eyes off him; perhaps it was his expression, so understanding and so feeling.
    I prised my eyes away and looked again at