stopped seeming such a messy encounter. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” I was muttering, full of confusion and excruciating embarrassment, but the big man beside me just burst out laughing. He had a laugh that came up from his belly; he didn’t look a man to be bothered by embarrassment. He just looked capable and friendly, with the muscular sort of hands you need to grind up powders with a mortar and pestle and mix them together. I didn’t know much about painting then, but I could already sense he would be good at his craft.
Soon I could feel the sunshine again as I walked up from the jetty to the house where I knew I’d find my family fussing happily around John Clement and where, sooner or later, the two of us would have a chance to talk again. Hans Holbein was trotting beside me, trying to make his massive frame small in the manner of humble men, and the skinny boatman was trotting behind, weighed down with bags and squawking, “Thought it was the right thing to put them in together if they both wanted to come down here. Save them a few pennies, I thought, missis.”
With Master Hans beside me, with his easel balanced on his shoulder as if it weighed nothing, drinking in the vista unfolding before us, I saw it again myself as if for the first time. And it became beautiful to walk onto our land through the wicket gate, and up through the lawns and beds, which suddenly seemed full not just of withered trees and shrunken shrubs, but of tomorrow’s berries and buttercups and lilies and gilly flowers and sweet cabbage roses, and up the steps toward the dignified redbrick frontage Father had chosen for us all—a porch, two bays, and two sets of casement windows on either side. The jasmine and honeysuckle stalks we planted last year when we moved into the house were already growing over the porch. And one day soon we’d be seeing cascades of sweet-smelling color coming from them.
“My English is not good, and I am sorry,” Master Hans was saying, slowly, so you had to concentrate on his words, but I liked watching his sensible, no-nonsense face and listening to the hearty voice, so that was all right. “But this is a very beautiful house. Peaceful. So I congratulate you. You must be happy living here.”
Talking to him was like dipping into a great vat of warming soup. Chunky broth with savory vegetables and a meaty aroma—not the grandest of food, but more wholesome and comforting than the most elaborate dish of honeyed peacocks’ tongues. Cheerfulness was spreading through me now as I pushed open the door. “Yes,” I said, feeling more certain than I had for a long time. “Yes, we are happy. Give me your cloak, leave your things here, and come straight to the table—you must be cold and hungry,” I went on, smelling the food being l aid on the table behind the wooden screens and hearing the murmur of voices. He paused. Suddenly he did look embarrassed. “Mistress, excuse me, I have one question before we sit with your other guest. Tell me, what is his name?”
In what I thought was a reassuring manner, I laughed. “Oh, he’s an old family friend. He’s called . . . John . . . Clement,” I said, pronouncing the words so clearly that even a foreigner could copy them, happy to have the chance to say the name. I began to nudge the German toward the hall, but Holbein didn’t seem to want to move. He chewed on the thought, looking puzzled. “John Clement,” he repeated. “That is the name I remembered. I drew a picture once of a John Clement. A young boy who would be my age now. It was my first commission from Master Erasmus. Would he be the son of this gentleman?”
I laughed again. “Oh no,” I said, shaking my head firmly. “This John Clement hasn’t got a son of our age. He’s not married. It must be someone else, or maybe you mistook the
Soon I could feel the sunshine again as I walked up from the jetty to the house where I knew I’d find my family fussing happily around John Clement and where, sooner or later, the two of us would have a chance to talk again. Hans Holbein was trotting beside me, trying to make his massive frame small in the manner of humble men, and the skinny boatman was trotting behind, weighed down with bags and squawking, “Thought it was the right thing to put them in together if they both wanted to come down here. Save them a few pennies, I thought, missis.”
With Master Hans beside me, with his easel balanced on his shoulder as if it weighed nothing, drinking in the vista unfolding before us, I saw it again myself as if for the first time. And it became beautiful to walk onto our land through the wicket gate, and up through the lawns and beds, which suddenly seemed full not just of withered trees and shrunken shrubs, but of tomorrow’s berries and buttercups and lilies and gilly flowers and sweet cabbage roses, and up the steps toward the dignified redbrick frontage Father had chosen for us all—a porch, two bays, and two sets of casement windows on either side. The jasmine and honeysuckle stalks we planted last year when we moved into the house were already growing over the porch. And one day soon we’d be seeing cascades of sweet-smelling color coming from them.
“My English is not good, and I am sorry,” Master Hans was saying, slowly, so you had to concentrate on his words, but I liked watching his sensible, no-nonsense face and listening to the hearty voice, so that was all right. “But this is a very beautiful house. Peaceful. So I congratulate you. You must be happy living here.”
Talking to him was like dipping into a great vat of warming soup. Chunky broth with savory vegetables and a meaty aroma—not the grandest of food, but more wholesome and comforting than the most elaborate dish of honeyed peacocks’ tongues. Cheerfulness was spreading through me now as I pushed open the door. “Yes,” I said, feeling more certain than I had for a long time. “Yes, we are happy. Give me your cloak, leave your things here, and come straight to the table—you must be cold and hungry,” I went on, smelling the food being l aid on the table behind the wooden screens and hearing the murmur of voices. He paused. Suddenly he did look embarrassed. “Mistress, excuse me, I have one question before we sit with your other guest. Tell me, what is his name?”
In what I thought was a reassuring manner, I laughed. “Oh, he’s an old family friend. He’s called . . . John . . . Clement,” I said, pronouncing the words so clearly that even a foreigner could copy them, happy to have the chance to say the name. I began to nudge the German toward the hall, but Holbein didn’t seem to want to move. He chewed on the thought, looking puzzled. “John Clement,” he repeated. “That is the name I remembered. I drew a picture once of a John Clement. A young boy who would be my age now. It was my first commission from Master Erasmus. Would he be the son of this gentleman?”
I laughed again. “Oh no,” I said, shaking my head firmly. “This John Clement hasn’t got a son of our age. He’s not married. It must be someone else, or maybe you mistook the