In the days that follow, I hear the details of the disaster. Cornelis Soetens, the master of the powder store in the former Poor Clares Cloister, had gone inside with a burning torch. No one knows exactly what went wrong, because he didn’t survive the accident. There were nearly 90,000 pounds of gunpowder stored in the depot, left over from the fight against the Spanish in the last century. The explosion destroyed the whole north-eastern side of Delft. A deep crater is all that’s left of the place where the depot once stood. In the surrounding streets, there’s not a single house left standing and body parts are still being uncovered in the rubble.
The damage is severe in the rest of the city too. All the church windows, including expensive stained-glass ones, have been smashed to tiny pieces and the roofs have been torn off many of the houses.
More than five hundred people have died and a huge number of people have been wounded, many seriously. The number of blind and lame people in Delft has doubled in a single stroke. Luckily, Evert’s pottery is far enough from the site of the disaster and not as much as a finger bowl has been damaged.
26
Time passes slowly. I can’t do much more than lie on my back. The only distraction is the hustle and bustle in the infirmary. The physician comes twice a day, accompanied by a surgeon, who does operations. The innkeeper and his wife have taken on tending to the wounded themselves with the help of a couple of maids and grooms.
The wailing from other parts of the ward makes me glad I’ve only got a broken leg. That, along with my burns and cuts, will heal on its own, unlike the wounds of many others here in the sick room. All day long, the physicians cauterise arteries, trepan skulls, cut away abscesses and amputate limbs. Even though they keep all the doors open during the day, the stench of the alcohol used to knock out the patients and that of rotting flesh persist.
Stinking poultices have been applied to my arms and legs to ward off infection. They don’t seem to be helping. Several of my wounds now have fiery red edges and are starting to throb. In the beginning, only my broken leg had been giving me trouble, but now I’m burning up as if I have a fever.
Coming round from a brief doze, I’m surprised to find someone standing next to my bed. I slowly turn my head towards the visitor, half expecting it to be Evert. Instead it’s Jacob. I blink, hoping my eyes are blurry from the fever, but when I open them he’s still standing there.
‘Hello, Catrin.’
I can only stare at him.
Jacob sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed. He lifts the blankets slightly and frowns. ‘A broken leg, that’s no good.’
‘What are you doing here?’ I get out the words with difficulty.
‘Seeing how you are. You were lucky.’
‘Depends on where you’re standing.’
‘True. You live on the other side of town so you needn’t have been anywhere near where it happened. But if you look around, I think you’ll agree that I’m right to say you were lucky.’
‘How do you know where I live? Why are you here?’
He smiles. ‘You disappeared so suddenly. No one knew where you’d gone.’ Jacob picks something disgusting out from under his nail. ‘Those posh types you worked for looked straight through me when I spoke to them.’
‘So how did you find me?’
‘I had a little dalliance with that housemaid of theirs, Greta. Everything soon became clear then.’
I close my eyes, exhausted. I can’t deal with this. Not now. ‘What do you want from me, Jacob? You’ve got half my money, have you come for the rest?’
‘No, you can keep your money. I’ve only come to visit.’
I look at him warily.
‘Truly. I’ve known for a while that you were in Delft. When I heard what happened, I came at once to see how you were.’
‘Of course you did.’
‘I’m here, aren’t I? And haven’t I left you alone this whole time? I’m really not as bad as you think. And I wish you the very best.’
‘Well, as you can see, I’m fine.’
He looks me over. ‘On the contrary, I don’t think you look good at all. You’ve got a fever.’
In a single movement he whips off the covers and peers with a furrowed brow at the dirty, fraying bandages that cover my wounds. ‘What have they put on them?’
‘I don’t know.’
Without asking my permission, he unwraps one of the bandages and examines the substance underneath. ‘It reeks. I think you’d do better taking it off.’
‘The physician knows what he’s doing.’
‘Do you remember what we used to smear on the cows when they got a cut? A salve made from marigold and bramble leaves.’ He uses the bandage to wipe off the dried poultice and moves on to the next dressing.
‘What are you doing? Stop that! It’ll start bleeding again and then—’
‘It’s not been bleeding for ages. Make sure they don’t put any more of those dirty rags on you. I’ll bring something else.’
‘I think that’s a good idea.’ Evert appears by the bed, nodding with approval. ‘You seem to be getting worse rather than better, Catrin. It’s time to try something else.’ He introduces himself to Jacob, who returns the courtesy.
‘I’m an old friend of Catrin’s,’ he says. ‘We’re from the same village.’
‘Any friend of Catrin’s is a friend of mine.’ Evert claps him on the shoulder. ‘Have you come here because of the disaster?’
‘Yes, I was worried. I had been planning to drop in, and I set off as soon as I heard.’
Apparently, Evert notices I’m not saying anything. He keeps looking back and forth between me and Jacob. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he says amiably. ‘I’d like to have a few minutes alone with Catrin now, if I may.’
‘Fine. I’ll go and see about getting a different salve for her.’ Jacob stands up, bids us farewell and walks off.
Evert watches him go. ‘Who’s that?’
‘He used to work for Govert and me on the farm.’
‘Why has he come here?’
‘I’m wondering that myself.’
‘He is right about the treatment you’re getting here, though. Compresses that stink are no good.’
Isaac and Adelaide come to visit me, but fortunately they don’t stay for long. The fever is making me weak, I’d rather be alone. The next day, Adelaide returns. She lays a hand on my forehead, her face serious beneath her linen cap. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Yes,’ I rasp. My mouth is dry; my lips are splitting.
She goes off and comes back with a pewter mug. She gently helps me into a more upright position and sets the mug to my lips. ‘I’ve been praying for you,’ she says.
Evert told me once that Adelaide secretly follows the old faith. She’s very pious and trusts in God’s plan. I myself don’t always have so much faith in His intentions, and certainly haven’t over the last few days. The ongoing chorus of groans around me makes me feel we’re at His mercy rather than under His protection. But I don’t say this to Adelaide, who’s sitting next to me with her rosary hidden in the folds of her dress.
‘You’re being tested fiercely, Catrin. I find myself wondering how long I could bear it in here. But at least you’re still alive. You were spared in a miraculous way.’
‘But why?’ I try to bring her face into focus. It seems to be hanging in a mist, now close by, now further away. ‘Why is one person spared and another not?’
‘Why indeed …’
‘I don’t understand. I’ve done such bad things, I’m a sinner.’
‘As are we all.’
‘Things that get you sent to hell. Things you have to burn for forever. When I was stuck under the rubble and the fire was coming down on me, I thought this is it. Hell. Do you know what you have to do to be given absolution? It’s not so hard for Catholics, they buy an indulgence or say Hail Marys all day. Or they make a pilgrimage. I’d love to make a pilgrimage. Do you think God would forgive me then? I don’t know. You have to feel
remorse and I don’t. I’d do the same again.’ A cool hand on my forehead quiets my words to a mumble. Adelaide’s soothing voice comes to me from far away.
‘Don’t talk too much, Catrin. Sleep now. I’ll stay with you. Get some sleep.’
People come and go. When I’m awake, I hear muffled voices and see figures go past. It’s as if I never fully wake up, as if I’m lying under water looking up at the surface, where faces ripple and dissolve.
One morning I finally return to the surface. The world is in focus again, sounds reach me clearly, the way they used to. Evert is sitting next to me, his face pale and drawn.
‘At last,’ he says softly. ‘How do you feel?’
‘Tired.’
‘I can imagine. You had a dangerous fever. We were afraid that …’ He stops and runs a hand through his hair. ‘The physician didn’t want you moved, so we’ve been watching over you in shifts. Jacob gave me a salve to put on your wounds.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, something with marigold, bramble leaf and fleawort. I’m glad I listened to him, because it helped straightaway.’
Marigold prevents infections and fleawort is good for wounds, just like bramble leaf. Jacob knows a lot of herb lore. On the farm he always tended the sick and wounded animals. Even though I understand his ulterior motives in healing me, I’m grateful.
‘I’ve talked it over with Angelika and Quentin, and you can stay with them. You’re leaving here today,’ says Evert.
I wonder whether it’s a good idea to saddle a heavily pregnant Angelika with receiving me, but I feel too weak to protest.
Later that same afternoon I am taken to my friends’ house on a stretcher. There, I’m welcomed with a warmth and interest that touch me deeply. Angelika has a somewhat older housemaid who works hard and takes a practical view of things.
‘It makes no odds to me whether I’m taking care of four people or five,’ says Truda as she throws back the doors of the box bed in the kitchen.
Evert and Quentin lower me gently inside. They’ve been treating me like I’m made of glass the whole way, but being moved has still worn me out. I lean back on the pillows woozily.
‘Have a little nap,’ says Angelika. ‘I’m going to as well.’
‘Where are you sleeping? Surely not in the attic?’
‘No, Truda’s going up there. You’re having her bed in the kitchen.’
‘All this fuss, just for me, and you in your condition …’
Angelika comes up to the edge of the bed and puts her hand on my arm. ‘Catrin, I’m just glad you’re still with us, and that I can do this for you. It’s no trouble really, it’s Truda who does all the work. You’d be better thanking her.’
Behind her, Truda shakes her head darkly. ‘We’ll have come to a pretty pass the day I’m not willing to give someone with a broken leg a bite to eat.’
But of course she does much more. That afternoon she changes all my bandages for clean, new dressings and combs and plaits my hair. ‘Otherwise we’ll be having to cut it off, what with all these tangles.’
I hear from Truda that Jacob was at the door, asking how I am, and had nodded with satisfaction and gone away again once she told him the fever had subsided.
‘Didn’t he want to come in?’ I ask.
‘Should I have asked him to? Do you want to see him?’
‘No, I was just wondering.’
‘I did find it strange that he went straight off again,’ says Truda. ‘He must be a good friend if he’s come all the way from the North to see how you are. He told me you’re a widow, you haven’t had it easy and that’s why he’s keeping an eye on you. He’s found a job here in Delft, so he can stick around. I reckon he likes you.’
She winks at me, but I don’t respond. I pretend to be falling asleep and Truda goes away. As soon as I’m alone, I open my eyes and stare at the panels of the box bed.
27
At the end of October, Angelika goes into labour. Her cries wake me a little after midnight and increase in volume and intensity with the passing of the hours. There’s a buzz of excitement in the house. Quentin is up, Truda isn’t leaving Angelika’s side, Katherine and Gertrude wake up and come down in their nightdresses and sleeping caps to find me. I let them clamber into my bed and distract them with stories.
‘Why haven’t you got a baby, Catrin?’ asks Gertrude.
‘I nearly had a baby, but it passed away.’
‘Was it a girl?’
‘No, a little boy.’
‘We had a little brother. He died too,’ says Katherine. ‘And mothers die as well.’
‘No they don’t!’ says Gertrude in fright.
‘Yes they do. You don’t know, you’re still a baby.’
These words make Gertrude huddle closer to me. ‘Mama isn’t going to die, is she, Catrin?’
‘Of course not,’ I say soothingly. Angelika’s previous births went without complications, so I feel I can promise them that.
This time it ends up taking a bit longer. The midwife comes, Angelika’s screams get weaker and weaker, it is light outside and there’s still no baby. I curse my leg for keeping me so powerless and rooted to the spot, unable to support my friend. Finally, as the daylight streams into the house, I hear the shrill cry of a newborn. I watch the door tensely until Quentin appears.
‘It’s a little boy!’
‘Congratulations! And Angelika? Is she all right?’
‘Fine. Exhausted but very happy.’ And with that he’s away again.
In the isolation of the box bed, I listen to the activity in the living room and am overcome with emotion. I’m glad when the girls come storming back in.
‘We’ve got a little brother!’
‘So I hear, how nice for you both.’
‘And he isn’t dead,’ says Gertrude smugly. ‘And neither is Mama.’
‘What’s his name?’
She has to think about it, her fine little brows knit together. ‘It’s a difficult name …’
‘He’s called Allardusin,’ says Katherine.
‘What a magnificent name.’
‘What was your baby called, Catrin?’ asks Gertrude.
‘He didn’t have a name,’ I say. ‘He died before I’d thought of one.’
They nod and run off to play outside.
Angelika is up and about surprisingly quickly. The very same day she comes shuffling her way through the house to sit with me. She has Truda bring her son and lay him in my arms. I look at his little face, the balled-up hands and tiny nails, smell that peculiar, sweet baby smell and pass him back to Angelika with a smile. ‘He’s beautiful.’
‘He is, isn’t he? Quentin is so happy.’ Angelika beams down at her baby, full of pride and then looks at me. ‘You never told me what happened with your little boy. Was he still alive after the birth? Or would you rather not talk about it?’
‘No, I’d rather not talk about it.’
Angelika looks downcast. ‘I should never have brought it up, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine.’
But of course it isn’t fine. Once she’s left the kitchen with Allardusin and Truda has gone outside to hang the washing, I close the doors of the box bed and, for the first time in ages, I cry for my son.
After three more weeks, the day finally arrives for me to be allowed out of bed. With Angelika and her family around me, I’ve had enough company and distractions, but I long to be able to move around again. I wait impatiently for Evert, who’s got hold of some crutches for me. My legs dangle over the edge of the bed. Smiling broadly, Evert comes in and hands me the wooden props. ‘These will have you back on your feet in no time. Well, foot anyway.’
He lifts me up and the parts of my body he touches suddenly seem to glow. A few seconds later I’m standing on my good leg, leaning on the bed while Evert keeps hold of me. His breathing sounds laboured above my head, I hardly dare look up at him. Evert puts the crutches under my arms and takes a step back. ‘Give it a try.’
A
s I take my first faltering steps, he stays close, one hand held out protectively. I soon get the hang of it and hobble up and down the hall.
‘Finally,’ I say to Evert, who’s watching with his arms folded. ‘I’m coming straight to the workshop with you.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, of course I’m sure. I’ve been doing nothing for long enough. Painting won’t do my leg any harm, so there’s no reason not to get back to work.’
‘As long as you promise not to go gallivanting around the workshop for no reason. There’s rubbish all over the floor.’
‘I’ll stay at my bench like a good girl.’
He nods at me approvingly. ‘Fine, I could certainly do with your help.’
I say goodbye to Angelika in the living room. We hug and I give little Allard, as he’s now known, a kiss.
‘I’ll miss you,’ Angelika says sadly. ‘It was nice having someone to talk to. You’ll still be sleeping here for a while, won’t you? You won’t be able to go shopping or cook for yourself yet.’
As much as I’d prefer to go back to my own house, and probably would manage with a bit of help, I must admit it’s a relief to be freed from household tasks, so I agree.
‘Then I’ll see you tonight. Go and enjoy your painting. I think Evert is delighted to have you back,’ says my friend.
That sounds a bit ambiguous, but I decide to assume she means as an employee. Which seems plausible when I enter the workshop. By the look of it, production has doubled during my absence. The walls of the painters’ studio, which had once been bare, are now lined with shelves groaning with unfired earthenware and both ovens are in use. There are crates of firewood, sacks of minerals and baskets of finished pieces ready for delivery. In one corner of the studio, a couple of lads are grinding pigment non-stop and every single seat at the workbench is occupied by a painter.
‘We’ll find a place for you,’ says Evert when he sees my face. ‘If the others squeeze together a little, you can sit at the corner. That’ll be easier with your leg.’
There’s a racket coming from the courtyard and I shuffle over to the window on my crutches. The spot previously used by the cat for sunbathing is now rammed with handcarts, barrels and crates of clay and men are rushing to and fro.
Midnight Blue Page 13