Gerbrand Bakker - June

‘My mother never said a word about it. She must have talked to the Queen.’

‘You’d think so, yes. In any case she would have asked the child’s name. Is that you? The child?’

‘No. That’s my little sister.’

‘And she never mentioned it either?’

‘She died.’

‘Oh.’

‘That same day.’

‘No!’

‘And it was the fault of the person who took this photo.’

‘What?’ She’s curious, that’s why she got off the train and jumped the ditch. She runs her fingers through her hair. The rain is still very light. There are two girls standing at the train door. They stick their heads out. One looks in the direction of Anna Paulowna, the other in the direction of Schagen.

‘My grandfather was at our place just before. He came to see the new bulk tank. He probably looked at it too, but mainly he stood there staring at the sign the milk-tank people had screwed on the outside wall. A yellow sign. We cool our milk with a Mueller bulk milk cooler. Beentjes Bros. Assen. That’s what it said. It was like he thought the sign was more beautiful or more important than the tank itself. And then my father pressed a new camera into his hands and we all had to stand in front of the house. Stand or sit on the step in front of the blind door. My father and mother, my brothers, me, my sister and Tinus, the dog. He was an Irish setter and wouldn’t sit still. In the two photos my grandfather took he’s more a brown smudge than an Irish setter. My father bought him for hunting, but that was over the first time he fired the gun. He never pointed once and he was always scared to death of loud noises. We didn’t look happy enough, I guess, because after a while Grandpa called out, “It’s not a funeral, you know!” It was beautiful weather, the sun was shining and the photos turned out well, they’re in my parents’ album.’

‘But how old were you then?’

‘Seven.’

‘And you still remember all that?’

‘Memories, huh? Who can say? You make something of it.’

Brecht Koomen can sympathise with that. Sometimes she makes Jan Visser’s emails that little bit more interesting when she tells her friends and acquaintances about them.

The girls have disappeared. The train looks like it could leave at any moment, going either left or right. The light inside it has grown brighter, as the sky behind now really has turned dark grey. The rain is getting a little heavier too. The man takes his rucksack off and unzips it. She hands him the envelope, which has already grown quite damp, and the piece of cardboard. He sticks the photo and the cardboard in the envelope and puts it in the rucksack. ‘I’m getting a bit nervous now,’ she says, running her fingers through her hair again.

‘The train’s stuck here until they’re sure nobody’s left on the tracks.’

‘But how long will that take? We don’t know. Where are you going?’

‘Schagen. My youngest brother lives there.’

‘I’m going to my eldest sister’s. She lives there too. It’s her birthday tomorrow.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Brecht Koomen.’

‘I’m Jan Kaan.’

They shake hands.

‘When you get to your brother’s, you should rub some cream on your neck.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s badly burnt. Can’t you feel that?’ She’s so anxious to get back on the train she can hardly stand still. Knowing her luck it will drive off and leave her standing in the middle of the field with this man. In the dark and the rain. But her curiosity is stronger. Now she’s come this far, she stays there, with him.

Tuesday 17 June, but no school. Jan and Johan had their checked swimming bags on their backs, ready to leave. Assembling at school, going to the Polder House together, eating at school (something else neither of them had done before) and school swimming lessons in the afternoon. From the moment the new radio had been placed on the wide windowsill, there had hardly been a second’s silence in the kitchen. Only at night, really. They heard ‘Oh Happy Day’ coming out of the radio. Hanne was sitting with her back to the cold oil heater. There were plasters on two fingers on her right hand. A few days earlier she had stuck her hand in an empty apple-sauce tin. That went fine, but pulling it out again was less successful because the sharp-edged lid that had pushed down so easily came back up with her fingers between it and the side of the tin. Tinus was asleep in his basket, under the windowsill and the radio. Klaas had already left.

‘Get going,’ said Anna Kaan.

Sawing noises coming from upstairs.

‘Promise you’ll keep an eye on Johan.’

‘I promise.’ He did his very best to get the ‘r’ right, but nobody noticed.

Jan was seven and had a bike. Johan was five and already knew how to ride, but still had to make do with a blue scooter.

‘Slow down!’ Johan kept shouting. ‘Wait for me!’

Jan wasn’t listening to his little brother, he was busy saying all kinds of words with an ‘r’ in them. He found it difficult and because Zeeger had promised him a Dinky Toy if he could say it properly, he was desperate to get it right. The day before he’d suddenly figured it out and now he couldn’t stop.

The baker’s grey van was parked in front of the notary’s house. He swerved round it and suddenly had to swerve even further, because the baker had opened the door. ‘Hey!’ he shouted. The baker quickly pulled the door shut again. When Jan turned to glare at him, he saw the baker raising a hand and holding his head to one side. He guessed that meant he was sorry. The baker had a strange red face, a face that didn’t go with custard buns and almond cakes. Johan scooted around the van as fast as he could, not even noticing the baker. ‘Wait for me!’ he shouted again. Jan didn’t wait. He said a few more words with an ‘r’ in them and thought about the Queen. He decided to scowl as hard as he could and make a point of looking in the other direction. It was almost too much to bear that the butcher’s son and the baker’s daughter had been chosen to present the flowers instead of him.

Half an hour later the children were standing in neat lines along the Polder House drive. Class by class. Johan was standing right at the front, near the gate; he was still in the baby class. Klaas should have been somewhere near the door, but wasn’t. Everyone was really nervous. The year-four teacher squeaked once that they had to hold up their flags, but that was as far as their instructions went. The West Frisian folk-dancing group did a run-through without any music. An ancient man holding a violin down next to his knees stood and watched. He was wearing new clogs. A few children from year six burst out laughing when a farmer came walking up leading two pygmy goats and wearing overalls that were so new they still had creases in them. Everywhere there were photographers taking up position or walking around. Jan was in the front row. Next to him was his best friend, Peter Breebaart, who nudged him a few times without saying anything. They had to stand hand in hand, but of course you can’t do that and wave a flag at the same time. He did his best to stare down at the ground and got crosser and crosser and more and more indignant, especially after he saw the two flower-presenters standing there in their smart clothes, not lined up with the others, but at the gate. He thought his Norwegian cardigan, knitted for the occasion by Grandma Kaan, was stupid.

And then Teun Grint suddenly appeared. Even though year six were further along, under the linden espaliers at the front of the building. Just then the Queen’s car pulled up. Teun wormed his way into the line and took hold of Jan’s hand. He looked sideways at Jan. The Queen got out of the car and approached them. Jan suddenly remembered that he was angry, bowed his head and looked down at his feet. His mother had polished his sandals. He didn’t want to witness the presentation of the flowers at all. That hand around his. It was very quiet. Nobody cheered, nobody spoke. It was only when the ancient man began to play his violin that people started making noise and he heard the rustling of the traditional skirts. All at once Jan wanted to see the Queen after all, pulled his hand out of Teun’s and discovered that the lines of children had dissolved and all the mothers and teachers were standing in the way. He didn’t get to see her. A little later they lined up again, class by class, and walked back to the school building.