by Val Wood
Margriet was puzzled to see her oma pick up the document she had given her, but Gerda explained that it just so happened that Hans had told her that his grandmother was an excellent seamstress.
‘So everything is falling into place,’ she said, patting the piece of paper. ‘You will go home with everything you require.’
Mevrouw De Vries was sitting in her doorway knitting something bright and colourful. She got up immediately when she saw them and began chatting volubly to Gerda, though Margriet could understand nothing of their conversation. Lia came downstairs to welcome them.
‘I am so pleased to see you again, dear Margriet,’ she said, and Margriet thought she sounded rather emotional. She gently touched Margriet’s cheek. ‘You have become a beautiful young woman since I last saw you.’
Margriet dipped her knee and thanked her. She remembered how kind Tante Lia had been, and how easy to talk to. ‘It’s lovely to see you again. How is Klara? And my oma said that Hans is now working at the Vandergroene Company.’
‘Klara is out visiting a friend, but she will be home soon. And would you believe that Hans is in England! He rushed home the night before last and said that his manager wanted him to go with him to the Hull office and they were leaving that evening; after Hull they will be travelling on to other towns. He will be so sorry that he has missed you.’
Gerda, whose conversation with Mevrouw De Vries did not prevent her from listening to Lia and Margriet’s, frowned slightly, muttering ‘Tsk’.
‘I will be coming again,’ Margriet said as she followed Lia upstairs to her apartment. ‘Oh, this is so nice,’ she exclaimed. ‘What a lovely view of the canal and the boats and the bridges.’ She went to the window and looked one way and then the other. ‘I remember the pretty garden you had in your other house,’ she said. ‘You must miss it, but the view of the Amstel must make up for it, doesn’t it? We live upstairs at home too, but we don’t have such a view or a garden either, just rooftops and alleyways.’
‘But you can have pots and baskets of plants, which is all I have now,’ Lia said. ‘My tulips are in flower already.’
‘Yes,’ Margriet said eagerly. ‘That’s one of the reasons why I’m here – as well as to visit Oma, of course,’ she added hastily. ‘And I think, Tante Lia, I might ask for your advice on tulips!’
She was invited to sit down in the window and Lia pulled forward a small table so that she might put out a coffee cup and plate for her. Margriet thought wistfully of the time she had visited the Jansens in Gouda with her father, and eaten waffles sitting on a canal wall. Unbidden, tears came to her eyes; she missed him still.
Lia seemed to understand. ‘We are both thinking of your father, I think,’ she said softly, and Margriet nodded, too choked to speak. ‘He was a good friend to us,’ Lia went on. ‘To my husband, and to me and my children too after Nicolaas died.’ Her voice faltered as she continued speaking. ‘I – we never thought that losing someone so special could happen again. Life is very hard sometimes.’
Margriet wiped her eyes. ‘I feel his presence here very strongly,’ she said. ‘Perhaps it’s because we are in his own country.’
‘He loved being with you in England,’ Lia murmured, and Margriet nodded, remembering that he had once told her that. ‘I think what you are feeling now is the great love that he left behind?’
‘Yes,’ she said wistfully. ‘Perhaps so.’
Her grandmother told her that everything was arranged and that Mevrouw De Vries was willing to help them. ‘Mevrouw and I will go out this afternoon, and buy everything that is required.’
Then the plan was explained to Lia, who smiled and said she would help too, as she was also a good seamstress.
‘And I can sew a neat hem, and so can Florrie,’ Margriet said excitedly. ‘She used to let down the hems of my dresses when I had outgrown them. I’ll tell her about it and she’ll want to help too.’
‘So we’ll have a sewing circle,’ Lia said. ‘How long do we have before you return to England, Margriet?’
‘Less than a week. Then I must go home to Mama. She’ll be lonely without me.’
Klara came home in time for lunch, and then the two grandmothers trotted off to the draper’s and the haberdasher. Lia, Margriet and Klara, who tucked her arm into Margriet’s, set off for a local flower market, where Lia showed Margriet the stone pots and hanging wicker baskets and how the tulips, hyacinths, primroses and other spring flowers were displayed. ‘If you haven’t much space you can stand pots one on top of another to make a tower, and plant trailing ivy so that it grows over the edges, or put them on a wall or ledge.’
They saw Florrie on the other side of a canal and called to her, then watched as the young man she was with gave a short bow and left her, lifting his hand in farewell. Florrie crossed a bridge and came towards them, and blushed when Lia teasingly lifted her eyebrows as Margriet introduced her.
‘I – erm, the young man asked if I was lost,’ she explained, ‘and he gave me directions. I got mixed up with the canals.’
In the flower market there was a stall selling refreshments and they perched on high stools to drink piping hot coffee. Florrie gave a sigh of pleasure; there were no such treats for her at home, where she was constantly looking after other people’s children. Margriet told her about her idea, which seemed to be coming to fruition.
‘I can help,’ Florrie said. ‘I make my own clothes, and things for my sister’s children too. And I’m quick. I can hem a skirt faster than anyone I know.’
‘Well, there’s a challenge.’ Lia laughed. ‘Wait until we tell your oma, Klara; she thinks no one can hem faster than her.’
When they trooped back to Lia’s house they found that the two grandmothers had arrived first, and the table in the ground-floor apartment was strewn with a mound of black woollen cloth, a heap of white and striped cotton, a box of different-coloured silk thread and bobbins of white and black cotton.
Mevrouw De Vries took a tape measure from a drawer, and gave Margriet’s grandmother a pencil and notebook to write down the figures. She stood Margriet on a stool to measure her from waist to feet, and then asked her to stand down so that she might measure her shoulder width, front and arms, and lastly her head.
She nodded in satisfaction, went back to the drawer and flourished a pair of scissors, saying something that Margriet couldn’t understand. She looked questioningly at Lia.
‘And so we begin,’ Lia translated.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
They cut and stitched and cut and hemmed, and Lia threaded coloured silk and embroidered patterns of padded stem stitch, blanket honeycomb and French knot in various shades of green and blue and gold on to black cloth and they all looked and admired.
Then Klara took Florrie to the kitchen and they made starch in a deep bowl and plunged in squares of white cotton which they squeezed and partially dried and then pressed with a hot iron that drew off steam but didn’t scorch, and took them back to Mevrouw De Vries, who tucked and turned and stitched then ironed again so that the item stood up on the table crisp and taut without falling over.
In between times, Lia or Klara made coffee or brought lemonade, biscuits and cake, and now and again one or other of the group would get up and walk round the table to help their circulation, and then Mevrouw Vandergroene called out ‘One finished’. An hour later, Mevrouw De Vries called ‘Twee afgewerkte’, and Florrie smiled and translated ‘Two finished’, and the Dutch ladies laughed and clapped their hands. Then, as the day darkened and a lamp was lit, a third was finished and they sat back and sighed.
‘Now only the boys,’ Klara said, and her mother declared that the rest could be completed the next day.
‘Thank you,’ Margriet said. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’
‘Come then, Margriet,’ Lia said. ‘Let us see the fruit of our labours. Klara, will you begin to make supper? We have soup, ham, cheese and herring.’
‘I’ll make pancakes too, Moe,’ Klara said. ‘Everyone likes
those,’ and Florrie said she would help.
Lia gathered up an armful of finished garments and asked Margriet to come to her bedroom. ‘There’s a cheval mirror in there and we can see how you look.’
Margriet followed her into her bedroom. It was a pretty room, with landscape paintings of high mountains and green meadows adorning the walls. A white lace covering was spread over the bed and on this Lia draped the garments. Margriet raised her arms to undo the buttons at the back of her bodice and out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw her father. He was smiling.
She must have made a small breathy sound because Lia turned quickly. ‘Something wrong?’ she asked. ‘Margriet, lieveling, are you all right?’
‘Y-yes. Thank you. I turned a little dizzy, that’s all.’
‘You are so pale.’ Lia was concerned. ‘You have been sitting for too long.’ She opened the window and a soft breeze rushed in, bringing with it the scent of hyacinths and narcissi. ‘You must take a short walk before we have supper. Perhaps you would like to do that now?’
‘No, no, it’s nothing, really. Could you – would you mind unbuttoning my gown?’ It had been the sudden movement that made her feel dizzy, she thought as Lia unfastened the buttons at her neck. But why would I think of Papa now, especially here where he has never been?
She stepped out of her skirt and took off her bodice and Lia helped her into the black cotton blouse and wool skirt. Then she slipped on the embroidered waistcoat that Lia had so patiently stitched, and fastened the striped apron round her waist. Next she stepped into a pair of Klara’s clogs and then Lia turned her to face her and carefully pinned on the white starched winged cap.
‘Every area has its own style of cap or bonnet, did you know?’ she asked, smiling at her, and Margriet felt a mystical sense of déjà vu.
‘Turn round,’ Lia murmured, ‘and see what I see.’
Margriet slowly turned to look in the long mirror and saw the reflection of a Dutch girl in her traditional costume, but the face looking back at her was not her own. It was Anneliese.
After supper, Margriet, Oma and Florrie walked back to Gerda’s house. Margriet still felt rather strange, her head empty of meaning and understanding. She couldn’t understand why she had visualized her father; his image was so strong that he had seemed to be in the room with her. She had wanted to ask Lia if she had seen him too, but thought it would be a senseless question, for why would she? There would be no reason at all, for Lia and her family had only moved to Amsterdam after his death. And then to see Anneliese too, but surely that was simply a trick of the mind. Whenever she thought of Anneliese, she always pictured her dressed in Dutch clothing.
The other finished garments were parcelled up with hers ready to be taken back to Hull, and the final two would be completed the following day. She was beginning to have doubts. Maybe it was a silly idea and the intended recipients wouldn’t agree to her plan, but Mr Webster and Mr Reynoldson, and Oma and Lia, seemed to think it would work. And she had to do something.
Gerda was speaking. ‘Such a pity that Hans was away,’ she said. ‘He told me he would let me know if he might be travelling to England.’ She sighed. ‘But Lia said it was very short notice, and I suppose he didn’t have time.’
Margriet nodded. It was the second time Oma had mentioned Hans. ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘I’ll come again.’ She turned to Florrie. ‘If you can come with me?’
‘If Mrs Sanderson will allow it,’ Florrie said. ‘She is my employer, Miss Margriet; I can’t take advantage of her good nature.’
‘You look after her children, yes?’ Gerda asked. ‘You like this work?’
‘I like working for Mrs Sanderson,’ Florrie said. ‘She includes me in her family arrangements; she’s not like an employer.’ She glanced at Margriet and added hastily, ‘I don’t mean that I didn’t like working for your mother, but I didn’t want to stay after Mr Frederik – that is, when Mrs Vandergroene married Mr Ramsey.’
‘I know, Florrie,’ Margriet said gloomily. ‘I didn’t want to stay either.’ She stopped. She had said too much; she certainly could not tell Florrie that she hoped the situation might have changed by the time she arrived back home.
‘Well,’ Gerda said, ‘if you ever get tired of looking after other people’s children, Floris, perhaps you would consider coming to live with me? As a companion? Until such time as you might perhaps want kinderen of your own?’
‘Oh!’ Florrie stood stock still. ‘Oh, goodness. I would – I do!’
Margriet looked at her with fresh eyes. Why had she never considered that Florrie might want a life of her own? Her own home with a family who belonged to her, instead of always serving others. She wasn’t so very old, maybe only in her twenties; and Margriet thought of the young man Florrie had been talking to on the other side of the canal. Perhaps she might make a good match here in Amsterdam.
‘And then, mevrouw,’ Florrie continued, ‘we could travel to Hull together; you to visit Miss Margriet and I to visit my sister and her family.’
Margriet could hear the contained excitement in Florrie’s voice and felt pleased that there might be an opportunity opening up for her; one day, she thought, there might even be such a possibility for herself. She wasn’t unhappy, but she couldn’t help wondering if there might be something more to life than she had now.
The week passed swiftly, and on the last day the new clothing was packed into parcels to take home. Margriet told her grandmother that she would come again as soon as she could, but explained that she wouldn’t want to leave her mother alone for too long. ‘I think she is very vulnerable without me. And I’m afraid that Mr Ramsey might come back.’
‘It seems to me,’ Gerda said practically, ‘that he won’t come back if there is no money to be had, and if he can’t get his hands on the house.’
‘How do we learn to trust, Oma?’ Margriet asked. ‘What will I do, for instance, if someone should ask for my hand in marriage? How will I know whether he wants me or only my property, like Mr Ramsey with Mama?’
Gerda hid a smile as she gazed at her beautiful, innocent granddaughter. ‘Well, lieveling, if he loves you he will not be able to hide it. And if you love him too you will know it without any doubt, and it won’t matter whether he is rich or poor. Though try to love someone rich,’ she added hastily, only half teasing. ‘But whichever he is, you will know if he is the right one.’
‘Did Papa know, do you think, when he met Mama? I used to think sometimes that their fondness for each other had died.’
Gerda gave a small sigh. She didn’t know Frederik’s wife sufficiently well to comment, but she had got the impression that she was a cold woman, whereas – of course she would think well of her son – Frederik had always been a loving child.
‘Your papa was full of love,’ she said softly. ‘I can’t speak for your mama. Love has to be shared or it can disappear into thin air.’ She leaned across and kissed Margriet’s cheek. ‘Don’t be afraid, lieveling. You will find a love to last.’
It was early morning when the ship docked in Hull; both Margriet and Florrie had woken in time to watch as the ship rode out of the German Ocean and into the calmer waters of the Humber estuary. The sunrise lit the low-lying meadows of Holderness, the reclaimed Sunk Island and the rooftops of still-sleeping villages, until it reached the windmills and church steeples and touched the tall buildings and warehouses of Hull with a warm glow as the ship slipped silently through the locks and finally into Junction Dock, two minutes from home. Margriet asked Florrie to find a porter for their luggage. ‘I know it isn’t far,’ she said, ‘but the parcels are quite heavy.’
Florrie looked round for someone to carry their luggage from the dockside to Parliament Street, and then Margriet spotted a boy with a handcart. ‘There’s Billy!’
‘Billy, is it?’ Florrie said. ‘Do you know him, Miss Margriet?’
‘Yes. He’s one of the boys I was telling you about.’
‘Well, in that case …’ Florrie
raised her voice. ‘Billy! Come and give us a hand here.’
Billy came up at a trot and grinned at Florrie as he skidded to a halt. ‘Yes, miss, what can I do for you?’ Then he saw Margriet and touched his hat and she noticed that he still had the tulip threaded through it, though it was rather limp and withered now. ‘Miss,’ he acknowledged.
‘Can you tek this lot to Parliament Street?’ Florrie lapsed into her native Hull dialect.
‘Certainly can, miss.’ He began to load the luggage and parcels into the cart.
‘Is this your handcart, Billy?’ Margriet asked. ‘Or is it a borrowed one?’
‘It’s mine, miss,’ he said. ‘I found it some weeks back. I didn’t pinch it,’ he added quickly. ‘It had a leg missing, but I found a piece of wood that fitted, more or less, and nailed it on. It’s a bit lopsided and ’wheels are skew-whiff, but it does ’job all right.’
Billy was right: it leaned to one side and the wheels seemed to go any way but straight, but he seemed quite adept at pushing it and within minutes he was pulling up outside Margriet’s house ahead of them.
‘How does he know where you live?’ Florrie asked. ‘You must be careful he doesn’t tek advantage, Miss Margriet.’
Margriet laughed. ‘You sound just like my mother, Florrie. I’m surprised at you.’
‘Well, if you’re in my charge, Miss Margriet,’ Florrie said firmly, ‘I must tell you what’s right and what’s not.’
‘Of course you must.’ Margriet kept a straight face and wondered what Florrie would think if she knew that she had spent time on her own with Billy and the two girls, without a chaperon. ‘I do understand that you are responsible for me.’
Billy and Florrie carried their luggage to the top step and Margriet took money from her purse to pay him. She thanked him, and just as the door was being opened she managed to murmur, ‘I need to speak to you about something, Billy. Will you and Betty and Mabel meet me tomorrow at about noon in Trinity Square?’