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settled in.

7
    Max’s frame was finished. He wondered, as he’d often done before, if making up the frame wasn’t his favourite part of the job. The one thing he knew he could do well. But then the very fact of having made a frame, expertly tacking the canvas to its back, forced him to embark on the next part of the journey, the sketching, the first stroke of the paint. He’d kept the measurements of Gertrude’s mantelpiece in mind as he’d sawn the lengths of wood. He knew this was absolutely the wrong way round, that paintings were not furnishings, that Henry would be outraged, but all the same it was Gertrude who was providing his room and board, had helped him to get away from the last dying memories of Kaethe, and he wanted, if he possibly could, to show that he was grateful. He carried the frame carefully inside, and turned it to face the wall.
Gertrude was before him as he straightened up. ‘Max,’ she said, and he noticed only then that the house was heady with the smell of food, the table cleared of sketches, laid with an embroidered cloth. There were napkins fanning out from wooden rings, and on each ring was a white label. Elsa, Max, Gertrude, Klaus.
‘Did you remember the Lehmanns will be here at seven?’ Gertrude asked.
Slowly Max backed out.
‘I’ll find you some flowers,’ he called, and he hurried into the garden and slipped through the side gate.
Max walked fast, taking the road towards the church, dreading the possibility of small talk turning the past into a piece of news. He could feel his feet pounding, batting away the questions they might ask, and he tried to remember what he knew of the Lehmanns, how they’d left, when, and which members of the family got out. Why here, of all places? But then he came across his view. It was a space between two houses, entirely made up of shades of green and blue. He hadn’t noticed it at first, so intently had he been concentrating on buildings, but then one day he’d happened to glance sideways and there it lay, a long thin alleyway of light. Sometimes Max just snatched a look at it, taking a bite, using the colours to chew on along the way. But today he stopped at the mouth of the lane. The ground was muddy, the fields shimmering with rain. Max looked at the soft leather of his shoes and, knowing it was ludicrous, he stepped in. The path was narrow, edged by private land, a sumptuous garden and a tennis court, the wire interwoven, the court swept clean. There were dark shadows from the hedgerows, but always, opening up before him, the overlapping stripes of blue and green.
    It was late when he arrived back. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Max stood in the doorway, his trousers sodden, his shoes abandoned in the hall. He looked at the table, his empty place, the other guests already seated round. ‘I became delayed.’
‘It’s quite all right.’ Gertrude was holding a dishcloth, attempting to manoeuvre a casserole on to a tile. ‘This is Klaus Lehmann, his wife, Elsa. This is Max. Max Meyer.’
Klaus Lehmann nodded to him, a small, neat, handsome man, but Elsa rose up to greet him.
‘Hello.’ She took his hand, and then, looking at his trousers, darkened to the knee, ‘Did you enjoy your walk?’
Her hand was light as paper and one strand of hair had curled across her cheek. Max blushed. Her beauty was so dizzying it stopped him where he stood. He stared at her, he couldn’t help it, and for a moment he thought he’d forgotten how to speak. He could feel the others watching him, see Elsa’s lips parting as she smiled, and then a distant cog shifted in his brain.
‘I should change,’ he said, relieved, forming the words as clearly as he could, and, stepping like a wade bird, he made his way to the stairs. Would Gertrude tell them, Max wondered as he peeled off his wet clothes, would she tell them he was… crippled, or would she let them find out for themselves?
    Max took his seat at the end of the table. He was opposite Elsa, but lengthways so