friend for life. They carry on loving you, grateful for every friendly word, even if you hit them or tell them off.
I’ve heard that dog owners choose the breeds that most resemble themselves and this seems right to me. If reincarnation exists and I have to come back in the next life as a dog, I think I’d be a golden retriever. My brother Robin has something of a pit bull in him.
Inside and out, we’re not very much alike, my brother and me. He’s two heads taller, has builder’s arms, and darker, close-cropped hair. Add an extroverted, dominant personality and you’ve got someone you’d better not mess with. At least other people shouldn’t—he’s the kind of brother every girl dreams of and I miss him even more than my parents.
One sunny day in April when I was fourteen, I was riding home from school along the bulb fields, rows of daffodils nodding their yellow heads at me in the wind. I thought how happy mum would be if I surprised her with flowers, and before I knew it, I’d laid my bike down on the side of the road, glanced towards the little house next to the bulb field and jumped over the small ditch which separated the bike path from the field.
Doing something like that wasn’t really me. I was scared that a farmer would come charging after me, but I couldn’t see anyone around and I went deeper into the field. By the time I saw the owner walking towards me, it was too late—he’d gone round me and was blocking my escape route. I froze among the daffodils, stammered something about paying, but he grabbed me by the arm, dragged me towards the ditch and threw me in. Literally. I couldn’t sit down for days for the bruises. I climbed up the bank, crying, and rode home. My mother and Robin were in the garden when I arrived. It took them a while to get to the bottom of what had happened.
‘Well, dear, you shouldn’t go into farmers’ fields,’ my mother said. ‘Imagine if everyone decided to pick a bunch of daffodils.’
That was typical of my mother. Of course she was right, but the daffodils had been meant for her and I’d reckoned on some sympathy. My mother has always been quite rational. A row with a teacher? Then you’d probably done something you shouldn’t have. Knocked off your bike in the shopping centre? Well, dear, you shouldn’t have been riding in the shopping centre.
But Robin listened to my sobbed-out story with growing indignation. ‘But the bastard didn’t have to throw her in the ditch did he? Throw, mind you. What a hero, fighting a fourteen-year-old girl. Look at her; she can barely sit down. Where did it happen, Sabine?’
I told him and Robin stood up and put on his leather jacket.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked my mother.
‘I’m going to make it very clear that he should keep his hands to himself,’ Robin answered.
‘No, you’re not,’ my mother said.
But Robin was sixteen by then, and tall and strong for his age, as well as stubborn. We heard the splutter of his moped and he was off. That evening during dinner he told us what had happened. He’d gone to the farmyard and had seen a man in blue overalls with a wheelbarrow. He’d stopped him and asked whether he was the wanker who’d thrown his sister into the ditch that afternoon. The farmer had confirmed it and before he could finish his sentence, Robin had hit him and pushed him into the ditch.
The farmer didn’t make an official complaint, something my mother was afraid of for a long time, and I worshipped my brother even more than before.
I leave the park and ride along the tramway towards home. My neighbourhood isn’t particularly chic but I like it, the Turkish bakery on the corner and the greengrocers with its crates of cooking bananas in front of the door. They give colour to the neighbourhood, much more than the dirty windows and china knick-knacks of other inhabitants. Or maybe it is precisely this combination that makes the Amsterdam suburbs so special. I’ll never go back to Den Helder to live.
I’ve got the whole afternoon ahead of me, protected inside the walls of my nest. Or should I go out? A walk in the park? I could clean the windows, they look like they’re made of frosted glass now that the sun is shining. But then I’d first have to clear the window seat, go through the piles of paper that have built up there and dust the lamps and ornaments. And then fetch a bucket of hot water and window cleaner, clean away the dust and the muck with big sweeps and then have it all dry without leaving any streaks. After that there’d be the outside and that’s always a real nightmare, using a chamois leather on a stick to reach them and it never quite works. I once hired a window cleaner, he came four times and then disappeared without any decent explanation.
I take a deep breath, already tired from the thought of all that hassle. I could buy plants for inside the apartment. I have a balcony garden, but I always forget to water inside plants and they always die. A couple of fake ones might be a solution. These days you can get ones that look quite real. Should I go out and buy a couple?
The sun is shining on the dirty windows. A feeling of exhaustion overcomes me. I sit back down on the sofa and switch on the TV. There’s nothing much on until As the World Turns begins. It’s my favourite soap. I can count on my telly friends. They help me get through each day. It’s a comforting thought that there are others worse off than you. At least I’m not accidentally pregnant and I don’t have a life-threatening illness. In fact I don’t really have anything to complain about, that is if it’s a good thing not to have anyone to make you pregnant or to stand by you through your life-threatening illness.
Bart comes into my thoughts. What has triggered that? I haven’t thought about Bart for years. Maybe it’s because of running into Olaf today. Meeting someone from back then reminds me too much of before, the memories are unleashing.
I try to concentrate on As the World Turns, but Bart looks back at me from the screen and Isabel has taken over the role of Rose. I zap to another station but it’s useless. The memories won’t let up. I’m getting flashbacks of things I’d long since forgotten.
I switch off the TV, pull on a jacket, get my red handbag.
Plastic plants. Where can you find them?
Inside the Bijenkorf department store I melt into the masses of shoppers. Why do the shops get so full as soon as the sun comes out? Why are people inside when the weather is so nice? I guess they must all be fed up with their sofas, chairs, clothes, shoes, jumpers and trousers, because every floor is jam-packed. The escalator takes me up and I see what I’m looking for right away: white gypsophila that looks real, pink and white sweet peas in lovely stone pots. I pick up a basket from next to the checkout and fill it with unusual greed. Tomorrow I’m going to clean the windows, clear out the cupboards and chuck out all my useless junk.
The checkout girl rings up the plants with impossibly long fingernails and says tonelessly, ‘That’ll be fifty-five euros and ten cents, please.
‘How much?’ I ask, shocked.
‘Fifty-five euros, ten cents,’ she repeats.
‘So much?’
‘Yeah,’ she says.
Fifty-five euros for a few fake branches and a couple of pots.
‘Forget it.’ I put the sweet peas back into the basket. ‘I’ll put them back myself.’
I go downstairs and glance at a rack of skirts. A saleswoman comes towards me. She has short black hair, dark-blue eyes and for a heart-stopping moment I think it is Isabel come back from the dead.
I’m rushing towards the escalator. Get downstairs, down, away from here. Outside, fast. Back on the bike, around all the shoppers. Home, back to my nest. I ride as fast as I can and arrive home in a complete sweat. Bike back in the corridor, lock, upstairs. The door closes behind me with a reassuring click.
No messages on the answering machine.
No flowers.
Only memories.