The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83¼ Years Old

by Hendrik Groen

Evert is coming home this afternoon. He has asked me to put a nice bottle of very old gin on ice for him. And he said I could buy a little something for myself while I was at it, if I liked. The welcome committee consists of the Club members plus Ria and Antoine, who are providing a high tea. Ria had asked the director if just this once they could cook a few little dishes in their room, but alas, Mrs Stelwagen was ‘so incredibly’ sorry, but the Board would not allow her to make any exceptions to the rules.

  ‘From now on we just won’t ask,’ Antoine said angrily an hour ago. He set the extractor on high and began preparing a veal ragout.

  There are flowers on the table and Mo will have a nice bow on his collar.

  Tuesday, 21 May

  At two o’clock yesterday afternoon Evert was delivered in a wheelchair to the door of his sheltered housing flat. An orderly pushed him inside, where the welcome committee awaited him: Eefje, Grietje, Graeme, Antoine, Ria, Edward, and yours truly in a party hat, standing by his garlanded chair. Evert suddenly had to blow his nose loudly.

  ‘Did you catch cold in hospital?’ asked Eefje wickedly.

  ‘Uh, no, in hospital it was the extreme thirst that got to me, mostly,’ he said, trying to save face. ‘I’m parched.’ His voice sounded shrill.

  ‘So perhaps a nice big glass of milk to start?’ said Edward.

  ‘I’d rather have a cocktail, please, if it’s all the same to you.’

  ‘Let me offer you something tasty to go with it,’ Antoine said, revealing an elaborate spread of both savoury and sweet titbits. There was also tea and champagne.

  It was a most enjoyable afternoon. There was strict agreement, at Evert’s express request, that there would be no mention of illnesses or hospitals.

  At four o’clock the patient crashed. Seconds later he was fast asleep with a contented grin on his face, a touching sight. We finished our drinks and then cleaned up. Now let’s just hope and pray that Evert doesn’t lose any more toes. A welcome home like this is fun only once.

  Edward’s excursion is scheduled for Tuesday, 28 May. With a little bit of luck Evert will be feeling well enough to participate. I feel a bit sorry for Antoine and Ria. Although they haven’t said anything, I sense they would love to join us on our outings. I’m going to do some lobbying on their behalf.

  Wednesday, 22 May

  It isn’t easy to keep your chin up sometimes. Today the conversation ranged from those two murdered little boys found in a drainage pipe, through rheumatism, hernias and wonky hips to, finally, the outdoor temperature refusing to climb above 11 degrees. It’s the end of May but all the heaters are still on; the thermostat is set at 23 degrees. The older, the colder. And then we have to consider the continual cutbacks in elderly care! People sigh, moan and deplore. The stock market seems to be the only thing that’s still going up, in a bizarre reverse measure of how bad things truly are.

  I read that they’ve started a nationwide campaign to combat the national mood of glumness in the Netherlands. The campaign organizers are hereby cordially invited to stop by our home. Lots of work to be done here. They could start with something simple: one day without mention of illnesses or ailments. Anyone who starts moaning about an ache or pain has to pay ten euros into a kitty. We’ll spend the winnings on a fancy champagne dinner.

  Antoine has given me his friend the retired lawyer’s telephone number. I’ll give him a ring this afternoon to ask him how to go about getting hold of all the rules and regulations.

  ‘He’ll enjoy that,’ Antoine had said.

  I’ll ask Eefje to listen in.

  Thursday, 23 May

  Our unit head, Mrs Gerstadt, has given Mr Bakker a warning: he has to watch his language. Bakker is slowly losing it. Alzheimer’s. Maybe they’ll move him over to the ‘other side’ one of these days. It would be no great loss. He was never the most civil customer to start with, but lately he’s been getting really crass. He curses and swears without any apparent provocation. When Gerstadt had a word with him for constantly raging on about ‘bleedin’ shitheads’, he glared at the floor, furious. The moment she was out of earshot he told his table companions, ‘That effin’ bitch struts about as if she’s got an effin’ cucumber up her arse.’ I couldn’t help find it hilarious, but the other five people sitting there were shocked speechless. I wound up hiccoughing into my handkerchief. They all glared at me. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if as soon as we were finished having coffee, Bakker’s words, perhaps somewhat sanitized, were relayed back to Gerstadt.

  Evert almost fell out of his wheelchair laughing when I told him about it. I may possibly be a candidate for Alzheimer’s myself, since I’m finding crude jokes much funnier now than I once did. I am growing less respectable all the time.

  Yesterday afternoon I talked on the phone with the lawyer recommended by Antoine. ‘Just call me Victor’ seemed enthusiastic and said filing an appeal based on the Governance Transparency Act would be a piece of cake. He suggested that we meet for further discussion. I had the telephone on speaker. Eefje nodded.

  We made a date for Thursday, 30 May at the Toll House, a nice old-fashioned establishment with tablecloths and pub food.

  Evert is doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances.

  Friday, 24 May

  ‘They do make a molehill out of every bull in a china shop, don’t they,’ said Mrs Pot upon hearing about the latest poison attack in Syria.

  ‘The Arab Spring is a bit like our own, isn’t it: more like autumn than spring,’ mused her neighbour, dunking her biscuit in her tea. Mr Bakker, with his usual self-restraint, remarked that so long as those Arabs were killing each other, he wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it.

  Analysts of world events at our coffee table are not known for nuance, and are not deterred by lack of understanding either. The same goes, I must add, for news on a more local level. A flood of indignation swept through the home when the mini-market downstairs was shut yesterday for a funeral. It was simply an outrage to have to go for an entire day without being able to buy cheese crackers or hairspray. You’d think we were in Eastern Europe! For a funeral, shouldn’t half a day’s closure be more than sufficient?

  This shop, whose assortment could easily fit inside three moving boxes, is the same one they lambaste for charging twenty cents more for the Toilet Duck than they do at Aldi.

  Last night Eefje invited me in for a glass of wine. Inspired by the Harassment Protocol, we discussed the possibility of drawing up a protocol for making old-age homes more pleasant for their occupants. We are in two minds about it. Is it worth doing? Is something like that wasted on our fellow residents? Are our limited energies not better employed making our own twilight years more agreeable? Or, rather, our twilight days; one never knows. We are leaning towards the latter option, but have decided to give it some more thought. At least it gives us a good reason to meet again soon.

  Saturday, 25 May

  A crematorium crisis: the coffin got stuck halfway in, so the oven door couldn’t close properly. The coffin caught fire and the smoke seeped into the chapel. The crematorium had to be evacuated. Anyone who hadn’t been weeping emerged teary-eyed. That’s what I call a spectacular way to say goodbye. This actually happened a few years ago.

  For myself, I’ve come up with the idea of having a small CD player hidden inside my coffin equipped with a remote control that will pipe out my voice shouting: ‘Hello, hello out there!’ (Knock-knock) ‘You’re making a mistake. Let me out! I’m still alive … Oh, don’t worry, just joking, I’m dead as a doornail.’

  Such a pity I won’t be there to enjoy it.

  I do have to give some serious thought, however, to my last wishes. Not that I have a lot of them, but there are a few things I don’t want. And I haven’t put anything down on paper yet. It’s a chore that one tends to put off as long as possible.

  The disadvantaged elderly in Amsterdam will shortly be able to ride the buses and trams for free. Disadvantaged we certainly are, only it’s a pity almost nobo
dy dares to ride the bus or tram these days: ‘The trams are packed with pickpockets and purse-snatchers!’

  Well, you can protect yourself from pickpockets by tucking your wallet somewhere secure, but there’s nothing you can do about insolent bus drivers who drive much too fast. I have to agree with my fellow residents, albeit reluctantly: public transport and the over-eighties are incompatible. It’s far too crowded, too fast, and demands physical agility you no longer possess. You hold up the other passengers and make them impatient. It makes old people anxious and helpless. I’ve noticed that I am getting more hesitant and uncertain myself, though I hate to admit it. So: thanks a lot, public transport, but we prefer to take our own dedicated minibus.

  Sunday, 26 May

  The first and only item on the agenda of the ad-hoc meeting of the Residents’ Association: new mobility-scooter regulations, motivated by a head-on collision between two motorized chairs turning a corner from opposite directions. Considerable chassis damage and one minor scrape. Of course, each claimed it was the other driver’s fault.

  The Residents’ Association wants to ask the management to put up traffic signs and mirrors at the blind corners.

  Last week, so the rumour goes, a resident wound up in hospital. Mrs Schaap didn’t just slip and fall, as reported; she was actually knocked down by a scooter. The driver, who wishes to have his identity kept secret, had been a bit too intent on his shopping basket. The director is keeping the exact details under her hat. The eyewitnesses must have been told to keep their mouths shut ‘for the sake of the investigation’.

  There is barely enough room for two scooters to pass each other in the corridor. Add to that the fact that many of the residents are either short-sighted or stone deaf or both, and, as you can imagine, this place can sometimes resemble one big circus attraction. It’s a miracle, actually, that there haven’t been many more casualties, especially if you take into account the average driver’s sluggish reaction time.

  And if the drivers would just keep their wits about them, then at a speed of five kilometres an hour there’s not much that can go wrong; but the panic at every encounter with another driver or pedestrian means anything can happen.

  I wish the Grand Marshal of this home much luck and wisdom in trying to come up with a traffic plan.

  Monday, 27 May

  This morning I received a brochure in the post: ‘Libid Crystal Shots will make your penis hard as steel. Volcanic ejaculations.’ I had a good laugh at that one. Could it be Evert’s idea of a joke?

  I had an uncle who used to mark each birthday with the boast that he could still batter down the church door with his willy. And since I’m going there: another uncle was fond of singing a ditty with the unforgettable refrain, ‘Aunt Marie, she had a trough big enough for a horse to stuff.’ They still have, I believe, a call-in programme on the radio for listeners trying to track down lost or forgotten songs. You get to sing the lines you remember on the air, and they try to dig up the rest of it for you. Should I …?

  I must get a move on: our club outing was moved forward a day. It is today instead of tomorrow, thanks to the stellar weather forecast. It promises to be the first balmy springtime day in weeks.

  Last night Edward checked with each of us individually to see if we could all make it. No one had a problem. Our calendars are completely blank – today, tomorrow, and the rest of the year. We have all the time in the world. We once complained about being over-scheduled; now we’re thrilled to bits if there’s something to jot down other than a doctor’s appointment.

  I have to be down in the lobby in half an hour in comfy outdoor clothing.

  Tuesday, 28 May

  We did not have far to go: a leisurely five-minute stroll took us to our destination – the boules strip on the green on the south side of our building. That is where the exclusive, first-ever jeu-de-boules championship for over-seventy-nines took place. Edward had planned it to a T: twelve shiny balls, tape measure, large trophy for the winning team, six comfortable deckchairs, table, tablecloth, Thermos of coffee and one of tea, apple pie, sandwiches, sunscreen, china, cool box filled with cold drinks, smoked salmon and eel on toast, parasol. All under a radiant spring sun.

  Edward had hired Stef, Grietje’s grandson, to take care of the logistics, and together they had loaded everything into his minivan that morning, and after a two-minute ride, unloaded it all again and neatly arranged it on the green.

  At noon we came trundling up, Evert leading the way in his wheelchair, amazed at what greeted our eyes. First there was coffee and cake, then the drawing of lots, and then the tournament. Three teams of two players each playing a full round. Stef was the umpire.

  Halfway through the contest lunch was served, and at the end, for the prize ceremony, champagne. The victors were Graeme and Grietje. A respectable second place for Eefje and Evert, who shouted that without toes his aim was considerably improved, and the bronze for Edward and myself. Graeme was taunted for being the Paul Gascoigne of boules because when he won he did look a bit teary.

  The one thing Edward hadn’t counted on was that half the care home had gathered towards the end to have a look. It was brilliant publicity for our club. Only, we don’t want any new members.

  At four o’clock everything was loaded back into the minivan and our little group trooped home again. Dead tired, but happy.

  Wednesday, 29 May

  An eighty-year-old chap has managed to climb Mount Everest. I have enough trouble stepping up on the kerb. It isn’t fair. The previous oldest record holder, Min Bahadur Sherchan, now eighty-one, promptly announced he intends to recapture his record next week. There’s also been a one-legged woman who reached the summit. On a prosthetic leg, surely? She can’t have got all the way up to 8,000 metres hopping on one leg, can she?

  The first man with no arms has also been spotted up there. It’s quite a remarkable convoy that makes its way to the top of Everest nowadays. I am waiting for the first incontinent veiled nun to plant the Polynesian flag up there, and then I shall have a go myself.

  I have rung my insurance company and it appears that I have to be ‘approved’ in order to qualify for a mobility scooter. I can make an appointment for six weeks from now. I think that I’ll just go out and buy one myself. I’ll check the consumers’ guide to see if they’ve tested any mobility scooters recently.

  There are three categories of buyers. The first, and biggest, group takes the middle road: not the cheapest but certainly not the most expensive product. A second, much smaller, group always goes for the most expensive, and the last group decides on the cheapest version. Unless I have a reason not to, I always go for the cheapest. At least I’ll be saving money. Naturally, cheap can cost you in the end, but on the other hand, dear is bound to cost even more.

  Call it coincidence: yesterday there was an article in the paper about an all-terrain scooter, the Action Trackchair, with caterpillar-tread tyres. You can drive it across hill and dale, and through heavy snow. Ten thousand euros, there’s the rub.

  Thursday, 30 May

  Evert is not doing well. The wound just will not heal. A nurse comes daily to change the dressing, so that’s not the problem.

  ‘She’s a bit of all right! So I don’t mind if she has to keep coming.’

  He still talks the good talk. But when I picked up the dog this morning (I continue in my role as full-time dog-walker) he did not hear me come in and I overheard him say to Mo, ‘Your master may not be around much longer, Mo, and honestly, I don’t know what’s to become of you.’

  I coughed, rather uneasily, to let him know I was there.

  ‘Did you overhear what I was saying, Henkie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you think, should I have Mo put to sleep if I die? You can’t put an old brute like him in a shelter. You can’t do that to the shelter.’

  ‘Jumping the gun a bit, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well …’

  I am prepared to look after Mo, but only as long as Evert’
s alive. If he dies, his flat has to be surrendered – without the dog. Dogs are not permitted on my floor.

  Friday, 31 May

  Eefje and I had an appointment yesterday afternoon with the retired lawyer, Victor Vorstenbosch, seventy-one. A posh, self-satisfied fellow who, as he admitted to us in a plummy voice, tends to ‘get rah-ther bored at home’. He was looking forward to rolling up his sleeves again. His former office never rang him for a consult any more, and that did not sit well with him, he didn’t mind telling us. He’d like a chance to show them he’s still a clever old fox. In short, he was keen. He promised he would this very week contact the administration to request, under the Governance Transparency Act, any document that may have even the faintest relevance. The request will be made under his name. Eefje remarked astutely that our home wasn’t a publicly owned institution, and that the law might therefore not be applicable. Yes, she had a point there, Victor admitted. He would take it into consideration in his pursuit of the rules and statutes.

  He said we could come back in a few days’ time and review the draft request, which he prefers to keep with him at home; he has lost faith in the trustworthiness of his fellow man over the years. ‘That care home confidentiality clause doesn’t carry much weight, and email security is virtually non-existent.’

  We seem to have landed in a spy thriller! Let’s just hope we can dig up some juicy scandals.

  Mr Schansleh, a friendly chap who lives on the third floor, was a passionate pigeon fancier before moving here. He couldn’t get over it: some Chinese man paid €310,000 for a Belgian prize pigeon. ‘Unbelievable, just unbelievable!’ he kept saying. Edward wondered what would happen if an expensive pigeon like that ever decided to join his gutter-mates on Dam Square. Or if some sportsman shot it out of the sky, for a pâté. ‘Would it taste like three hundred thousand smackers?’