Gerbrand Bakker - June

Everybody’s gone. Uncle Jan and Uncle Johan got into Grandpa’s car and drove off. Grandpa’s not back yet. Dieke is waiting to see the car turn into the yard of the house next door and she’ll only manage that if she keeps her nose pressed to the glass. She’s expecting a lot more to happen today and sleep is the last thing on her mind. With all the things that have broken so far, there’s a chance the whole barn might collapse — and what if she was in bed and missed it? ‘Who broke this window?’ she asks.

‘I don’t know, Diek.’

‘Not you?’

‘No, not me.’

‘Is it going to fall out?’

‘Don’t be silly.’

Dieke sighs deeply.

‘Ask Grandpa who did it. He’s sure to know.’

‘When he comes home? Can I ask him then?’

‘No, give him some peace and quiet first. Tomorrow. You’re going to bed now.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘It’s already gone eight.’

‘But it’s holidays!’

‘You’re five.’

‘Why is Grandma up on the straw?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You never know anything.’

‘More than you. Maybe for Grandma, being up on the straw is like drawing for you.’

‘Huh?’

‘The way you start drawing when something’s bothering you.’

‘I draw all the time.’

‘Yes, but when you’re angry you use different colours and your tongue’s poking out of your mouth.’

‘Grandma’s mean.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘She pinched me, when we went to the zoo.’

‘You must have done something to deserve it.’

‘No, I didn’t. Was that a real sword?’

‘Yes, with a sharp edge.’

‘Did people fight with it?’

‘I don’t think so. Brush your teeth.’

Dieke sees her grandfather’s car drive past and slow down. She pulls her nose back from the glass and turns, walks to the kitchen and slides the plastic step over in front of the sink. She takes off everything except her knickers, dropping her clothes on the floor. A big blob of toothpaste on her Jip and Janneke toothbrush. ‘Cn ywu tuck mwe in, D-ddy?’ she asks.

Her father lays the newspaper on the table. ‘Sure,’ he says.

‘I’ll tidy your clothes up,’ says her mother, who doesn’t sound nearly as nice as her father.

Dieke skips ahead of him up the stairs as if it’s early in the morning. It will take her a while to fall asleep. Upstairs, she doesn’t go straight into her bedroom, but looks up at the door first. ‘Somebody changed my letters!’ she bawls.

‘Gosh,’ he says. ‘How could that have happened?’

‘Yeah! Who did it?’

‘Me.’

‘You? When?’

‘This afternoon. It said Dekie. I didn’t know who that was.’

‘Me. That’s me!’

‘I know. But now it’s written properly, now it says Dieke.’

‘Hmm,’ she says. She goes into her bedroom and looks around carefully. ‘The window’s broken!’ she screeches.

‘Yep,’ he says.

‘How’d that happen?’

‘It was the heat, I think.’

‘It’s scary!’

‘Why?’

‘It might fall out.’

‘No, it won’t. It’s the outside window.’ Klaas draws the curtains. ‘There. Now you can’t see it any more.’

‘I don’t like it.’ Before lying down, she goes down on all fours to peer under the bed.

‘Did you look in my bag?’

‘Of course not. It’s your bag, not mine.’

‘That’s OK then.’ She crawls under the bed and re-emerges with the bag.

‘Pyjamas?’

‘Too hot.’ Before lying down, she opens the treasure bag and, after rummaging around a little, pulls out the ring she found this morning. Then she pushes her legs in under the duvet. ‘It was fun, wasn’t it? Uncle Johan coming. Uncle Johan’s nice.’

‘Yes, he is. And Jan?’

‘Mm, him too. But Uncle Johan’s nicer. Can I go to Leslie’s tomorrow?’

‘Leslie?’ He chuckles.

‘What? What are laughing about?’

‘Have you ever been to Leslie’s?’

‘No. Just at the swimming pool.’

‘Then we’ll have to ring up his dad.’

‘We can do that, can’t we?’

‘It’s fine by me. Ask your mother tomorrow morning.’

Despite the heat, Dieke pulls the Sesame Street duvet up to her chin. ‘Nighty-night,’ she says.

‘Goodnight, Diek.’ He straightens up and walks out of the bedroom. ‘Open or closed?’ he asks in the doorway.

‘A little bit open.’ She’s almost forgotten him already, holding the golden ring between thumb and index finger in front of her face, peering through it with one eye closed.

He leaves the door ajar. And looks once again at the letters his father made. NAHNE , he reads. ENNAH, HANEN , and finally HANNE . Before going back downstairs, he studies the painting on the landing. A painting his father and mother left behind when they moved out of the farmhouse and into the house next door. Long ago Jan and Johan thought it was a portrait of Great-grandmother Kaan, although they never knew her, of course. He used to make fun of them about it, but looking closely now he does see a resemblance between this woman and his father. Griet Kaan as a young, carefree girl. Halfway down the stairs, he suddenly remembers where he’s seen that golden ring before: the Piccaninnies on the wall hanging in the bedroom. How on earth did one of those rings end up in a flowerpot?

‘This place is a madhouse,’ his wife says as he re-enters the kitchen.

‘Yep,’ he says, still thinking about the wall hanging and where it’s got to.

Dieke’s clothes are still on the floor, the plastic step hasn’t been moved out of the way. His wife is smoking a cigarette. Between the plates and cutlery on the table in front of her there is a mug of coffee. There are pans on the stove.

‘Dieke just told me that your mother pinched her.’

‘Really? When?’

‘At the party.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’ She sucks hard on her cigarette. ‘But actually your father’s even worse than your mother.’ She gestures outside, over the lopsided cactus. Zeeger Kaan is wriggling between the branches of the chestnut. It looks like he’s picking beans.

‘Yes,’ he says, sliding a chair out from the table to sit down. He rolls a cigarette very calmly, lights it and stares at the drinking trough full of dry grass for a couple of minutes. ‘What do you think of Highland cattle?’ he asks.

‘What do you mean? As meat?’

‘No, on the land. On paths. Between elderberries.’

She fixes her eyes on him. ‘I want to get away from here, Klaas.’

He lets the smoke drift out of his nostrils. ‘Maybe,’ he says. ‘Maybe.’

Entering the barn, Klaas is surprised by the silence. Dirk is no longer restless and doesn’t even look up when he goes over in front of the bullpen. He breaks a chunk of hay off a bale lying against the wall and tosses it into his feed trough. Some linseed cake goes on top. There’s already enough water in the big black trough. The bull sticks his head through the bars and starts feeding. There are no swallows flying in and out. Klaas steps up onto the bottom rung of the ladder, though he doesn’t know what he’s going to do. About halfway up he stops, pushes the extendable section up a little, then climbs back down. The upper part of the ladder rustles down past the bales of straw as he descends. After locking the hooks of the extendable section onto the bottom rung, he tilts the ladder back, lowers it and lays it flat on the floor. Then he takes an old broom, sweeps the shards from the advocaat bottle together and pushes them into an old cardboard box that is lying around. ‘Mum?’ he asks. No reaction. He calls again, louder this time. Silence, not even a crackle of straw. She must have fallen asleep. What do you expect after a whole bottle of advocaat, when she usually limits herself to a single glass on birthdays? Leaving the barn through the big doors, he sees that she’s switched on the light. He smiles.