she was wondering, if instead of piano lessons, she were to offer help of a more analytical kind?
The first thing Max saw when he woke the next morning was his picture spread out below him on the floor. It wasn’t as good as he’d remembered it, the glisten was all gone, and without warning he was overwhelmed by an image of his father. His spirits fell with such force that he had to ease himself down to the floor. He must keep moving, or he’d sink, and he wasn’t sure he would ever rise back up. Slowly, slowly, he crawled across the room. Henry’s letters, in their case, were propped against the wall. He reached for them and held the leather close, breathing it in, nuzzling it against his face, chewing the soft edges between his teeth.
Yes , he read, when finally he’d roused himself enough to slip a letter from the case. Much, much improved. Go on like this and nothing will hold you back . Where, he wondered, was that picture now. Meyer … Henry had turned stern. It is all nonsense to take tips from people as to how things should be done. How does the ground model itself? And in what direction does the grass grow? It is YOUR solution to these problems that I want to see .
To lie still, Max thought, and never get up, but he forced himself to the window, and clinging to the ledge he pushed open the casement and leant out. The day was soft. A primrose-yellow morning lined with blue. The storm had taken something with it, and just for a moment he felt lighter, purer, more able to forget. Quickly, before his spirits slumped again, Max pulled on his clothes. He rolled up his painting and, without waiting for a cup of Gertrude’s brown brewed tea, he took up his water colours and set off along the lane.
He walked purposefully towards the church, past the crooked house, the old farm and the postbox with its royal red seal. He walked until he was outside the village’s last house. It had a trellised porch, white-painted, with three steepled windows in the roof. Its small square garden was fenced in, and beyond it there was nothing but heath land as far as you could see. Max sat down on the stump of the old gatepost, the iron of which had been torn out, patriotically, for the war. He unrolled his scroll of paper, revealing Gertrude’s house, and just beside it, white and ready, a waiting, empty space. Heath View. The house reminded him of apples, the wood painted in the palest green, its windows, pips, its bricks laced through with pink. Max was just peering closer to gauge the exact shade of the wood when a woman stepped out. She hovered on the path, staring at him, suspicious, and then, turning back, she locked her front door.
10
Lily took a triumphant bite of her toast and, folding Nick’s letter into her pocket, she sped across the Green. She’d done it. She’d forced him into writing, and not just a letter, but a love letter.
For God’s sake, Lily , it started. Surely there must be another phone box somewhere? Or give me the number, why don’t you, and I’ll ring up and complain. Sorry to go on – his writing was smaller and less legible with each line – but why are you the only person in the world without a mobile? I miss you, that’s all… It’s hellishly busy at work, but I’m not going to say another word until you get on your bike, or your mule, or whatever it is you travel about on up there, and get to a phone box. I want to hear your voice.
As she dialled, Lily scooped coins out of her purse. Tenpences, twenties, two fifties and a pound. She stacked them up in little piles beside the pebble and the ever-present note. Call 999. Wait by the wall … Lily stared at the faded paper, its texture already grained with sun and damp, and she was just leaning over it, peering into its jagged face, when Nick’s message cut in. ‘You know what to do.’
The abruptness of it always fazed her, as if the last thing in the world he wanted was another call.
‘It’s me.’ The sound of her own voice made her
The first thing Max saw when he woke the next morning was his picture spread out below him on the floor. It wasn’t as good as he’d remembered it, the glisten was all gone, and without warning he was overwhelmed by an image of his father. His spirits fell with such force that he had to ease himself down to the floor. He must keep moving, or he’d sink, and he wasn’t sure he would ever rise back up. Slowly, slowly, he crawled across the room. Henry’s letters, in their case, were propped against the wall. He reached for them and held the leather close, breathing it in, nuzzling it against his face, chewing the soft edges between his teeth.
Yes , he read, when finally he’d roused himself enough to slip a letter from the case. Much, much improved. Go on like this and nothing will hold you back . Where, he wondered, was that picture now. Meyer … Henry had turned stern. It is all nonsense to take tips from people as to how things should be done. How does the ground model itself? And in what direction does the grass grow? It is YOUR solution to these problems that I want to see .
To lie still, Max thought, and never get up, but he forced himself to the window, and clinging to the ledge he pushed open the casement and leant out. The day was soft. A primrose-yellow morning lined with blue. The storm had taken something with it, and just for a moment he felt lighter, purer, more able to forget. Quickly, before his spirits slumped again, Max pulled on his clothes. He rolled up his painting and, without waiting for a cup of Gertrude’s brown brewed tea, he took up his water colours and set off along the lane.
He walked purposefully towards the church, past the crooked house, the old farm and the postbox with its royal red seal. He walked until he was outside the village’s last house. It had a trellised porch, white-painted, with three steepled windows in the roof. Its small square garden was fenced in, and beyond it there was nothing but heath land as far as you could see. Max sat down on the stump of the old gatepost, the iron of which had been torn out, patriotically, for the war. He unrolled his scroll of paper, revealing Gertrude’s house, and just beside it, white and ready, a waiting, empty space. Heath View. The house reminded him of apples, the wood painted in the palest green, its windows, pips, its bricks laced through with pink. Max was just peering closer to gauge the exact shade of the wood when a woman stepped out. She hovered on the path, staring at him, suspicious, and then, turning back, she locked her front door.
10
Lily took a triumphant bite of her toast and, folding Nick’s letter into her pocket, she sped across the Green. She’d done it. She’d forced him into writing, and not just a letter, but a love letter.
For God’s sake, Lily , it started. Surely there must be another phone box somewhere? Or give me the number, why don’t you, and I’ll ring up and complain. Sorry to go on – his writing was smaller and less legible with each line – but why are you the only person in the world without a mobile? I miss you, that’s all… It’s hellishly busy at work, but I’m not going to say another word until you get on your bike, or your mule, or whatever it is you travel about on up there, and get to a phone box. I want to hear your voice.
As she dialled, Lily scooped coins out of her purse. Tenpences, twenties, two fifties and a pound. She stacked them up in little piles beside the pebble and the ever-present note. Call 999. Wait by the wall … Lily stared at the faded paper, its texture already grained with sun and damp, and she was just leaning over it, peering into its jagged face, when Nick’s message cut in. ‘You know what to do.’
The abruptness of it always fazed her, as if the last thing in the world he wanted was another call.
‘It’s me.’ The sound of her own voice made her
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