Max leans back in his chair and plays with his glass, nudging it back and forth on the tablecloth as the story continues. He's heard the tales of his parents' exploits all his life, of course, but they still bring a smile to his face – especially the way Ernst's girlfriend gasps in all the appropriate places.
"Is that true?" she asks at the end. Eyes wide and shining, leaning forward in fascination.
"Aye, every word," Mama says, concluding her account by tossing back the last of her drink in one gulp. She looks satisfied; she appreciates a good audience.
"Approximately," Papa adds. He's smiling at Mama – the small, private smile they share that always makes Max feel as though all's right with the world.
Vera clutches Ernst's arm. "How amazing!" she gushes. "I had no idea! Oh, it's better than going to the cinema!"
"A fair bit cheaper, too," Max says to Ernst, and is rewarded with a scowl and a kick to the shins beneath the table. He grins at his little brother and lifts his glass in a half-mocking salute.
"Mind you," Papa says to Vera, "at the time, it was more terrifying than exciting. Would you like something else to drink -?"
Vera declines, and the conversation turns to what Ernst and Vera are studying at Cambridge. But the girl's excitement has started the wheels turning in Max's mind, and when Mama rises to go to the kitchen, he follows her.
"What do you think?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe, glass in hand. His mother's movements are quick, deft, graceful without trying. When he was a boy he considered her the most wonderful woman in the universe – and time has not much revised his opinion.
In the dining room, everyone breaks into laughter.
Mama rinses out her glass and sets it aside. "She's a nice enough lass. He could do worse, that's for bloody sure."
"I meant –" He pushes off from the doorframe and comes closer. Mama holds out her hand and he gives over his own empty glass for cleaning. "Your stories. Have you ever thought of writing them down? Turning them into a film, or a book?"
She gives him a look, then shakes her head and laughs. "Your da would rather toss himself off of an airship. All that attention? No, love, we haven't."
"What if I wrote it?" he asks in a rush, almost before she's finished speaking.
He finds himself holding his breath. For an idea less than five minutes old, he's absurdly attached to it.
And he's perfect for it. He's a writer, he knows the subject matter… he may be a touch biased, true. But he could do it. It's a story worth telling; they are people worth celebrating.
He wants to share his parents' mad, amazing stories with the world.
He just can't believe it took Ernst's girlfriend to make him realize it.
Mama stops drying her hands and stares at him again. "Aye, that might be different," she says slowly, thoughtfully. "I know you'd do it properly. But you'd have to ask him. It's his story too."
"Of course," Max says, heart dropping. Papa thinks his poetry is brilliant, but Papa also thinks his day job as a reporter for The Times is rubbish. (It is rubbish, though not for the reasons Papa gives.) He grimaces and crosses his arms over his chest. "Never mind, then."
Mama clucks, ruffles his hair as though he's still five years old, and drops a kiss on his cheek. "Don't quit before you've started. He loves you… which is more than any other reporter can say. Quite right, too; those bum-rags."
He leans away from her and finger-combs his hair into order again. "Maybe if I used a nom de plume? Or changed your names. Or both."
"Or wait until we die," she says, cheery. She fetches two clean glasses from the cupboard. "He can't fuss about it then."
"Mama," he says, and she laughs again. Both of his parents are in excellent health; Max sometimes suspects that they'll outlive him.
"He might need to have a think on it, but ask him." She goes over to the other cupboard, where the brandy's kept, and removes a bottle. "Just wait until Ernst and his lassie are gone, aye?"
"Right," Max says, as more laughter echoes from the dining room. "The fewer witnesses the better, I suppose."
"Don't be so barking gloomy, love, you sound like your Großonkel Volger." Mama starts towards the kitchen door, bottle of brandy and two glasses in hand.
He trails after her. "Mama?" he asks, meaning the brandy.
She glances at it. "Oh. Well," she says, practical as ever, "a round of drinks can't hurt your chances."
