The fairly thin exercise book has a grey marbled cover. The label on the front is blank, he hasn’t given it a name. It’s not a diary, it’s a straw book. Before he starts writing, he leafs through it a little. The pages feel dry and brittle, but in other seasons they’re limp and clammy.
Thursday 9 October 1969. Anna’s back up on the straw. For the second time. Just after the funeral Jan and Johan couldn’t find their mother. Me and Klaas went looking. She was up on the straw. I asked her to come down but she didn’t say anything and wouldn’t come down. Mother-in-law came. On Saturday 5 July (1969), mother-in-law cooking, she came down. She sent her mother home. Yesterday (8 October) I leant the ladder against the loft. She kicked the ladder over when I was about halfway up. Broken wrist. Can still milk, but with difficulty. Plaster got dirty and wet. A few hours later she came down. No comment.
23 December 2003 (Tuesday). Klaas’s wife tried to get Anna down off the straw. She stood there yelling like a fishwife. Anna said nothing, as always. She took her duvet, fortunately. It’s bitter cold. When Klaas’s wife walked out of the barn she said something after all, ‘Go to your child.’ Hours later she came in, it was already dark. She was very angry and asked me why I hadn’t decorated the Christmas tree yet.
21 March 2004 (Sunday). It was to be expected. The old Queen is dead. Instead of plonking down in front of the TV (the whole damn day), she was up on the straw. What’s left of it anyway, there’s only about three layers. Today too there was all kinds of stuff on TV. There’s been fifteen months between the last time and now, although until December 2003 I thought she’d never do it again. After all, the time before that was the end of June 1994. ‘So,’ she said when she came in this afternoon. And later in the evening there was more. ‘Everyone and everything’s starting to die off now. Just me left to go.’
30 March 2004 (Tuesday). My heart was in my mouth but Anna didn’t make any trouble. She just sat in front of the TV watching the gaudy purple coach and kept watching until someone drew the curtains in front of the hole in the church floor. Then she put the kettle on.
Despite the brevity of his notes, the exercise book is almost half full because he eventually started using it as a gardening book too. Careful records of everything that’s died in the garden. First everything around the farmhouse, then, after moving to the other side of the ditch, in the garden here. Two elms blew over on 24 December 1977, several hostas didn’t come up in the spring of 2001, a pear tree fell on 1 April 1994, both the buddleias froze at the end of March 2002, a conifer turned brown after the summer of 2003 (inexplicable, mould?), the orpine (fell apart) was removed in the autumn of 1993. And in between the downfall of trees, shrubs and plants, the occasional death notice:
12 October 1981. Klaas had the vet look at Tinus. Addled with cancer, he said. Give him a shot, said Klaas. In the afternoon the collection service came to pick up a dead calf. Klaas wanted to give them Tinus too. I wasn’t having it. Dug a hole at the base of the last willow and buried the dog there. The ground was still loose. Klaas snorted a bit, Anna seemed almost relieved. She always told the dog off, she kicked him, but he was her dog. The whole time I was digging she stood there right behind me. I think she felt like ripping the shovel out of my hands.
May 1984. The back willow isn’t really taking. I’ve pollarded them twice now, the other four have formed a nice head. Leave it for now, it’s not dead. Tinus?
‘Should I start writing now, or wait a little?’ Zeeger Kaan asks Rekel. He’s sick of all those old things, the whole exercise book, but still feels obliged to keep it up. There’s not a single bird singing in the garden, which seems crushed by the heat. It’s no longer violin music coming from the radio, but talk, too soft to hear what it’s about. Now and then he makes out a word or two: Maartenszee, shipyard, volleyball. Rekel has sighed once, after hearing his name. He takes a pen from the pen cup, turns it between his fingers, taps the point on the open exercise book, then puts it back in the cup, which falls over, sending a few pens rolling over the desk. A couple end up on the floor. He closes the exercise book and puts it back in the drawer, then walks out into the garden in his socks. ‘So,’ he says, ‘come on, you.’ Rekel stands up and follows him reluctantly, as if he senses what’s about to happen. Zeeger slips his feet into his clogs at the side door, then lures the dog to the bank of the broad ditch between his house and the farm. He sits down and pulls the dog up onto his lap, then slides down until his clogs are resting on the wooden shoring. With some difficulty, he slides Rekel, who’s damn heavy and not cooperating, off his lap. The dog falls into the water sideways and goes under. Zeeger Kaan rubs his knees and leans back. Just to lie down for a moment. He doesn’t care that Klaas and his wife might be able to see him through their kitchen window.
Pygmy Goats
The baker with the chapped face is getting ready to leave the house. He wants to go. He doesn’t want to go. He puts it off. Radio North-Holland’s culture correspondent is discussing forthcoming events. Next week there’ll be a car boot sale in Sint Maartenszee, tonight there’s outdoor cinema at the old national shipyard in Den Helder, fairs in Harenkarspel and Middenmeer, a volleyball tournament in Schagen. Nice, he thinks. Lively. He puts his empty water glass down on the sink and goes through to the living room. The coffee table is covered with photos; the ashtray, table lighter and plant have made way and are now on the windowsill. In front of the dried-out newspapers.
He filled the time between looking at the calendar and spreading out the photos by going through the classifieds in the local paper. Under the heading PETS AND ACCESSORIES he couldn’t find a single puppy. Two old dogs for sale, because of the home situation. ‘Not them, then,’ he mumbled. He also drank a good few glasses of water, standing at the kitchen window looking out at the Polder House. Behind the Polder House there are several large chestnuts. The tall conifer hedge blocks his view of the cemetery.
He sits down with one hand on the small of his back, like a heavily pregnant woman. He never got round to putting the photos from the Queen’s visit in an album. The envelope that contained them — he can still see his daughter’s hands reaching out to grab it — is still the one from 1969, usually slipped between the pages of a reddish-brown photo album. He did stick in other, later photos, including those from the holiday in Schin op Geuclass="underline" late August 1969. It wasn’t a relaxed or light-hearted holiday, despite the beautiful weather. Every day sun, and every night a gigantic thunderstorm. Only their daughter smiling — in two or three snaps. The album is lying on one of the easy chairs; the envelope, now torn, is on top of it. He can’t remember when he last looked at this album. Sad pictures, each and every one, and later they only got sadder, because his wife and daughter were no longer there to look through them, giggling and whispering.
He looks at the clock and thinks, what do I care? Then takes a bottle of lemon brandy out of the sideboard and pours himself a drink. This time he doesn’t sit down like a pregnant woman; he has to concentrate on his balance to keep the spirits from spilling down the side of the small glass. One of the photos even shows those bloody pygmy goats. He’d forgotten that. Over the years he’d even begun to wonder if he hadn’t just imagined them. A farmer in spotless overalls is holding them tight while accepting the old Queen’s expressions of gratitude. The goats are eating a bunch of Sweet William, inadvertently dangled in front of them by a woman who is staring at the Queen with big excited eyes. Lots of pictures of his daughter and the butcher’s son, together holding an expensive floral arrangement. He takes a sip. There’s only one other shot of the Queen, seen from behind on her way into the Polder House, passing between two lines of children with flags. Jan Kaan is in the photo: sulking, with his belly pushed forward, flag hanging. He’s wearing a grey cardigan with black trim and silver buttons. A brand-new cardigan. He appears twice, both times with that scowl on his face. Why? The baker takes another sip, then puts the glass down between the photos. His daughter’s beaming. She seems really happy. The butcher’s son looks bored, with one leg bent casually, as if he’s indifferent to the whole event. Yet he’s the one who gets to present flowers to the Queen. The baker studies Jan Kaan again. Was he jealous? Is that why he looks so angry? Had he sat up straighter than straight in the classroom with his arms crossed, hoping to be chosen? Or did he just think he looked ridiculous in that Norwegian cardigan?