‘Oh,’ says Jezuolda Kwanten. ‘A journalist did ask me a few questions.’
‘“The high-spirited sister began as an art teacher, but retrained and now uses her creative talents as a sculptress. Proudly, she showed me a sketchbook in which she has already immortalised our monarch in pencil. Mr Samson of the Government Information Service commented, ‘With spectacles on, Her Majesty will be a sure hit. They add contrast to her face.’”’ The Queen sighs. ‘A bronze bust,’ she says. ‘A sure hit.’
‘Ah,’ says the sister. ‘Newspapers.’
‘Your name, by the way, is completely misspelled. It says Jeseualda.’
‘Humph.’
‘What was yesterday’s highlight as far as you were concerned?’
‘The barefoot skiing. I didn’t know that was even possible. I did some sketches of it.’ The sister reaches for the sketchbook, possibly to show her drawings of the waterskiing.
The demonstration itself made little impression on the Queen, she doesn’t need to see the drawings too. She was constantly distracted by unruly schoolboys, who were being held back from the dais by policemen. She’s finished with the North Holland Daily and picks up the Schagen Courier. Once again, the whole front page, as if nothing more important has happened in the world. One of the photographs shows her sitting on a wooden chair and leaning over a small fence to look into a plastic box full of fish. ‘Ugh,’ she says quietly, telling herself firmly that she must remember to think of her legs today. She searches the article for a comment about the elderly violinist. Merrily moving his bow up and down over the taut and slender strings, Van der Goes kept his old eyes open wide so as not miss one iota of the regal apparition. The editors have let their hair down in Schagen. She turns to the next page to find out what the real news was yesterday. Next to an article with the headline From 87 cents down to 40, bread war in Harderwijk, a small article stands out because of its brevity. Child run over, it says. She hears Jezuolda’s pencil softly scratching away, sees the jerking movement of her right arm out of the corner of her eye. Of course, she thinks, a bust of the Queen in a relaxed state. A fatal accident yesterday afternoon claimed the life of the two-year-old daughter of the Kaan family. While playing with the dog, the girl apparently found her way onto the road where she was hit by a delivery van. The child died on the spot. The muted scratching is suddenly no longer quiet; the snatches of brass-band music have merged into a cheerful march, dominated by the trumpets. The Piet Hein bumps against the dock; Röell slides along the leather bench. ‘Stop drawing,’ the Queen says, ‘now.’ She takes the packet of cigarettes out of her bag and lights one.
Jezuolda Kwanten looks shocked.
‘What’s got into you all of a sudden?’ asks Röell, who has slid back to her original position and is looking down her nose at her.
The Queen stares at her hands, feels an itching on the knuckles of her index finger. That child, she thinks. That mother and child. The beams of light shining in through the portholes disappear one after the other; it must be another passing shower. The mother’s smile breaking through, the story taking shape in that instant from all the little things that come together to form a greater whole – the kind of story that lasts a person’s whole life, that should last a person’s whole life. The falling bike, the photograph taken so close by it almost hurt her ear, her hat, her gloves.
‘We have to go,’ says Röell.
The Queen looks up. Just like yesterday, Jezuolda Kwanten is very close by; the woman who belongs to the Order of the Sisters of Charity has her eyes trained on her. For a moment she’s distracted and wonders what exactly the sister thinks of the description ‘high-spirited’. The brass band is irrepressible, they’ve probably been instructed to play as loudly as they can during disembarkation. Kwanten stares shamelessly, studying closely, counting the crow’s feet, registering lines, while out of nowhere ‘Blom’s Breadery’ pops into her head. She draws on her cigarette.
‘Have you read something unpleasant?’ Jezuolda Kwanten asks.
‘You must stay very close to me today,’ she says.
‘It would be my pleasure, ma’am,’ says Jezuolda Kwanten.
There’s a knocking on the saloon door and Van der Hoeven enters. ‘They’re waiting for you,’ he says in his warm young voice. ‘Dierx is very enthusiastic.’
‘Van der Hoeven,’ the Queen says, ‘could you take Röell’s place today?’
‘But . . .’ says Röell.
‘Of course, ma’am.’
‘Röell has the programme.’
‘I have it too,’ says Van der Hoeven.
‘And, Röell, could you please use the formal “you” when speaking to me from now on, and most definitely in company? Then I’ll use it when speaking to you too.’ She stubs out her cigarette and pulls on her leather gloves, trying to suppress thoughts of the little girl’s cheek. She is the first to leave the saloon. The island air is fresh; she takes a deep breath and braces herself for a whole day of music, pensioners, schoolchildren, the handicapped, fluttering tricolours and, above all, the stench of fish. Van der Hoeven puts up an umbrella and the Queen notices that he has beautiful hands, hands that match his voice. She feels like touching those hands. Not now, later perhaps, in the car. Jezuolda Kwanten hums softly. Did Röell stay behind in the saloon? The Queen thinks of the pygmy goats, and the mayor of Texel approaches her, glowing with delight. When he welcomes her warmly by taking her hand in both of his, the new day has officially begun.
Wednesday 18 June.
Contents
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Headline Material
Straw
Dust
Rot
Gold
Cuttlebone
Straw
Christmas Trees
Hydrangeas
Coffee
Shit
Shells
Blouse
Straw
Birds
Straw
Capitals
Shit
Water
Straw Book
Pygmy Goats
Piccaninny
Gravel
Ledge
Radio
Straw
Walking Stick
Oh Happy Day
Walking Stick
Chestnut
Straw
Chestnut
Gravel
Nature Reserve
Shit
Barn
Straw
Fish
Straw
Toasting
Dinner
Shit
Bedtime
Digging
Calling
Sitting
Flirting
Swearing
Jumping
June
Waiting
Headlines
June Page 25