The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83¼ Years Old
Page 30
The nurse said it probably won’t be long now.
Then I felt compelled to go to Evert, to take my mind off it. Before I had a chance to open my mouth, he said, ‘Ah, your pretty old sweetheart – it’s close, is it? Let her have her peace.’
Then he poured me a cup of coffee, offered me a chocolate and glanced at the clock. It was twenty-past twelve.
‘Now that’s good timing,’ he said. ‘On holidays I don’t drink before twelve o’clock.’ He poured us each a small extra-special Christmas brandy.
‘Cheers to you, my very dear friend.’
Then I went back to my room to get it off my chest by writing it down. I’ll try to take a little nap, then get changed and plaster down my hair, and at four I am expected back at Evert’s for Christmas dinner. I can’t wait.
Thursday, 26 December
The Christmas dinner was splendid. Ria and Antoine shuffling into the darkened room bearing an enormous turkey with three sparklers in its bum; Evert helping his own lap to a big slice of tiramisu when pudding was served; and, if I may say so myself, my after-dinner speech, which wasn’t bad either. It was about friendship as the essential ingredient for a good life. It may have been a bit on the sentimental side (Antoine dabbed away a tear) but it came straight from the heart. We raised a glass to Eefje, ‘the silent heart of our club, tragically too silent now’. Then we drank to friendship, until death do us part. Not an abstract concept for any of us.
After dinner the chefs were given a standing ovation.
Our Boxing Day dinner is at one o’clock today, when we’ll join those residents whose children haven’t picked them up to spend the day with them. The timing gave rise to some sighs from people who hate to be put off their schedule, not even for the birth of their saviour.
We’ll have to listen to at least a few grumbles in the order of, ‘I’m not that fond of a hot dinner at lunch,’ or some variant thereof.
In an hour or so I shall go downstairs, determined not to let myself be irritated. By anybody.
Friday, 27 December
Christmas dinner number two did not disappoint. The staff had put out place cards, because last year there was a bit of a skirmish over who should sit where, a number of residents having staked out a place for themselves early in the day by leaving a purse on ‘their’ chair. At least they hadn’t taped it off with a No Trespassing sign.
I discovered that I’d been seated next to Evert. I bet they didn’t dare put anyone else next to him. Grietje and Edward were also at our table, and the Eversen sisters, who find everything delicious, lovely, wonderful and fantastic, so you can’t go wrong.
The cook had outdone himself and instead of the old pork tenderloin in cream sauce, he served up a wild game ragout over rice. Quite a daring move. In order not to shock us too much, it was shrimp cocktail for starters and vanilla ice cream with hot chocolate sauce for dessert.
It was delicious and quite convivial.
Even Mrs Stelwagen’s welcome speech was excellent; that is, mercifully brief. If you aren’t a gifted speaker, the least you can do is follow one rule: keep it short.
It’s a rule that is often forgotten, especially at funerals. ‘I’ll never forget the first time I met Pete, it was at a meeting of the Flying Rats, the pigeon-fanciers’ club, and he said to me, “Jan,” he said, “won’t you …” ’ Whenever someone starts off that way, you know you’re in for a snooze, and that it’s going to be mainly about the speaker himself.
Saturday, 28 December
At Evert’s suggestion, we are moving New Year’s Eve forward by two hours, because he says he’ll never make it to midnight. Nobody raised any objection. We’ll simply set the clock ahead two hours. We’re celebrating it at Ria and Antoine’s.
On New Year’s Eve old people are just like dogs: they’re too scared to go outside because they’re terrified of the fireworks. Not wholly without cause. There are quite a few hooligans in this neighbourhood who have it in for dogs and old people. One Canta had a firecracker tossed under the wheels; the blast caused it to veer off the road and plough into a fence. Luckily the damage was limited to a dent or two. For the rest of his life the owner never dared to take his vehicle out on the road again in December. The intrepid louts immediately took to their heels. The police took firm action: they made one extra round of the neighbourhood. That should teach those miscreants a lesson.
Although the victim wasn’t one of ours, there was great indignation about it in here.
The newspaper has published a list of famous Dutch citizens who died in 2013. There were a couple that I had missed.
The deceased are a favourite subject of discussion among the elderly. Perhaps it’s to remind themselves that they are still alive.
Sunday, 29 December
Eefje is dead.
At 11 o’clock last night I kissed her on her wrinkled forehead and whispered, ‘See you in the morning.’
She drifted off peacefully an hour later.
I just went to look at her. She still looked so beautiful.
I wish I could be happy for her, but I am too sad for that right now.
We are starting 2014 with a funeral. Unhappy new year.
Monday, 30 December
We’re not cancelling our club’s New Year’s Eve party, although it will be a lot less fun than anticipated. The sanctioned festivities for the residents here are never called off either; with so many extremely old patrons, management can’t afford to scrub everything every time someone dies. There would be nothing but cancellations.
Ria and Antoine were just frying up a batch of New Year’s doughnuts when they heard that Eefje had died. They thought doughnuts would be inappropriate, and decided to donate them to the Salvation Army. Later they regretted their decision, and now they’ve made another batch for tomorrow night.
‘It was best for her.’
You can say it a hundred times, but it doesn’t make a dent in the grief.
We have ordered red roses for Eefje. The funeral is Thursday afternoon. I hope the sun shines for it.
Eefje was a night person, and would have loved an evening burial, with Chinese lanterns and torches and everything. Apparently that can’t be arranged.
Afterwards we’ll gather at Evert’s for a glass of white wine and bitterballen. Eefje hated cake; or the cake served at funerals, anyway. Or tossed into fish tanks, presumably. I never did get up the nerve to tell her the story of the cake in the aquarium.
Tuesday, 31 December
This is the last time I’ll write in this diary. Funny idea. It has grown to be part of the daily routine, like dinner. Sometimes you look forward to it, sometimes you don’t have any appetite, but you wouldn’t ever dream of skipping it altogether.
Without Eefje and without the diary, I shall have time on my hands. Maybe I’ll have to write a novel.
It could have been a very good year, and for part of it, it was. But what happens last skews the final verdict. I met someone I wish I had met half a century ago. Now I shall just have to make do with eight wonderful months and two very sad ones. I must try to be thankful for every happy day, as Grietje is, and I am trying with all my might, but sometimes it’s just not mighty enough.
I won’t let the new year slip through my fingers. On to spring! And then: on to the wine country! Trembling with fear and trepidation to see if we’ll make it. We have the trembling part covered, at any rate.
The Old But Not Dead Club must stand by its name, or else it’s a club of nothing.
And after that trip, I’ll have to come up with another plan. As long as there are plans, there’s life.
This afternoon I shall go out to buy a new diary.
THE BEGINNING
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First published in the Netherlands as Attempts to Make Something of Life.
The Secret Diary of Hendrik Groen, 83¼ Years Old by Meulenhoff 2014
First published in Great Britain by Michael Joseph 2016
Translation copyright © Hester Velmans, 2016
Cover illustration by Victor Meijer
The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-1-405-92401-6