‘So busy,’ I remark to Evert, who comes to stand beside me.
‘It’s as much as I can do to keep up with the number of orders. They’re coming in from all over the country, recently even from England.’
‘So it’s a success.’
‘It’s a huge success. And it was your idea, so you’ve definitely earned a raise. From now on you’ll receive the same as I’d pay a man doing your job.’
‘In that case, I’m getting straight to work, before you think better of it.’ I’ve almost turned my back when someone else in the courtyard catches my eye. Jacob! At first I’m speechless, then I splutter, ‘What’s he doing here?’
‘He was looking for a job and I needed clay treaders,’ says Evert. ‘Why, is that a problem?’
At that moment, Jacob looks straight at me, as if he senses my presence. We’re yards apart and there’s a window between us, but I can feel the threat radiating from him. For a few seconds we maintain eye contact, and then he turns and continues on his way.
‘No,’ I tell Evert, who’s watching me expectantly. ‘It’s no problem at all.’
28
Thankfully, Jacob keeps his distance. Even so, I still don’t trust him and do my best to keep out of his way. And that’s not so difficult, since our work keeps us in different parts of the workshop. After a while, my uneasiness about his presence ebbs away. Maybe he really was just looking for a job and I’m too suspicious.
My leg is healing well. Soon I’m able to leave my crutches aside and take a few tentative steps to grab something I need. I still need to lean on tables and cupboards, because I don’t yet dare walk entirely unsupported.
The days grow shorter and with them our working hours. The demand for Dutch Porcelain, as we have come to call our new kind of earthenware, keeps on growing, so we’re working harder than ever. We don’t take any breaks, and even eat our lunch between tasks to make the best of the daylight.
Flowers, peacocks, dragons, ornamental trees and Chinese figures in long robes fill my days and nights. In the daytime I paint them, at night I dream about them. I decorate plates and vases and am getting better and better at it. I quickly come to see my work of two weeks earlier as completely amateurish and now trace my brush over the pot with a surer hand, more smoothly, in a single fluid motion without removing the tip once. Doing it this way means no blob of paint every time you put the brush to the surface, and gives you a much prettier end product. Frans and I experiment with different brushes and come to the conclusion that sable ones work best. We turn them into riggers, brushes with a long, fine tip, which we use to do the contours.
Even the firing process is refined. The raw product first goes into a trough of white tin glaze before being dried and painted with black cobalt oxide. The objects then get a layer of lead-based glaze to give them a high sheen.
After that, everything’s baked again, and this phase is decisive for the final result. Stoking the fire is a painstaking task. If the fire’s too hot, the colour will be ruined by the smoke and heat. It takes a while for us to determine precisely when the blue we’re after develops.
Evert discovers that adding cooking salt to the tin glaze prevents the pot from being tinged yellow. He experiments with the firing temperature until he achieves the lustrous blue he has in mind. When pieces are set to be fired for the second time, he places them in fireclay containers called ‘saggers’ so they’re better protected from the heat. The pieces being fired for the first time are placed underneath, without protection. Triangular wedges, stays, prevent the objects from touching and sticking to each other.
Naturally, Dutch Porcelain has its imitators. Others around us have emulated our methods and enjoyed their own success. One pottery after another is established, but none of them manage to produce the same quality.
‘How’s your leg?’
I’m on my way home when Jacob appears next to me. It’s the beginning of December and the street is slippery because of a layer of snow.
‘Good,’ I say.
‘Then why are you still on crutches?’
‘Because it’s slippery. I’m scared I’ll fall.’
‘Let me help you. Take my arm.’
‘No, thank you.’ I soldier on resolutely.
‘Catrin, I’m really not as much of a bastard as you seem to think. You misunderstood me that time in Amsterdam. You saw it as blackmail, I saw it as an act of mutual friendship and support. It’s simply a matter of how you look at it.’
I step out of the way of an old woman pulling a sleigh full of bundled kindling and ignore Jacob. He closes the distance in a couple of steps and grabs my arm.
‘Truly, Catrin, I never wanted to scare you. I would never do anything to hurt you.’
My crutches and his firm grip on my arm force me to stand still. ‘You threatened to report me and made off with half of my savings. What do you want to call it? I call it blackmail.’
‘I would never have turned you in.’
‘You say that now. What do I care? My money’s gone, and yours probably is too. I was wondering when you’d be back for the rest.’
‘You can keep your money. That’s not what I’m after.’
‘Oh no? So what do you want from me? You can’t tell me this was the only place you could find a job, here in Delft with Evert.’
Jacob grabs my shoulder and forces me to look at him. ‘What I want is your friendship. We’ve all got a dark side and sometimes it comes to the fore. You’re no better.’
I can hardly deny it.
‘I want to make up for it, Catrin. I brought you that salve, didn’t I? You could have died if I hadn’t.’
‘Yes, and then you wouldn’t have been able to get anything else out of me. That would have been a shame.’
He releases me unexpectedly, with a sad expression. ‘I understand, I deserve that. I’ll leave you alone, maybe that way you’ll believe me.’
He is about to leave, but I stick out a crutch and stop him. ‘What have you told them back home in De Rijp?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Not to anyone?’
‘No. I’ve only been back once, as it happens.’
‘And?’
‘People think it’s odd that you left so suddenly. They’re talking.’
‘And what are they saying?’
Jacob shrugs. ‘The usual gossip. You know how it goes.’
‘Do they think that I …’
‘Put it this way: no one would be surprised. But suspicion isn’t enough.’
It’s starting to snow again. I watch the falling flakes and wonder whether it’s snowing at home as well. ‘I can never go back,’ I murmur. ‘Mart doesn’t trust me. He won’t wait for a judge.’
I see something like sympathy in Jacob’s eyes. ‘If you ask me, you’re better off staying here. Just as long as you know they won’t be hearing anything from me.’
I nod, hitch up my crutches and hobble home.
I know without looking outside that it has snowed during the night. It’s early morning and there’s a strange glow in the living room. Last night I left the shutters open, so now the light is streaming in. I climb out of bed, grab my crutches and go over to the window. The yard is covered with a thick layer of snow. I stand gazing out until I get too cold. I won’t be able to get back to sleep, so I may as well get dressed. I’m worried about how I will get to work through all this snow.
The answer appears an hour or so later, once I’ve eaten and the hustle and bustle on the street outside shows that the working day has started. There’s a knock at the door and I’m not surprised to find Evert standing on my doorstep.
‘I thought the snow might be difficult on your crutches, so I’ve come to fetch you.’
I smile and let him in. ‘How kind of you.’
‘Kind? I wouldn’t dream of letting my best painter wind up back in bed with another broken leg.’ Evert winks. ‘It’s high time you tried walking without those things. I talked to Bohm the surgeon yesterday and he
said you can put weight on your leg again.’
‘I’m too scared to.’
‘How long has it been? Almost eight weeks? The break should have healed by now.’
‘My leg feels so strange. So limp.’
‘Your muscles are weak, you need to get them moving again. Just try it. Come on, I’ll help you.’ Ignoring my protests, he takes my crutches away and grabs my hands. ‘Walk, Catrin. If anything goes wrong, I’ll catch you.’
I take one uncertain step.
‘Now try your bad leg,’ says Evert.
I take another step, only to fall straight into Evert’s arms. ‘I can’t, I’m not strong enough.’
‘Don’t give up yet. It didn’t hurt, did it?’
He’s right, and I really do want to get off my crutches, so I give it another try. This time it goes a little better.
‘I don’t know whether I dare try it without you helping me.’
‘You don’t need to. I won’t let go of you. I’m never letting go of you again.’
I look up in surprise and find myself face to face with him. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me. I’m asking you to marry me. Maybe it’s a strange time to ask, but I have to know what you think of the idea. If you could ever love me. If you say you can, even a tiny bit, then that’s enough for me. Sleep on it for a few days and tell me then.’
‘I don’t need to think about it.’
‘No?’ He looks at me uncertainly and I see a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes.
I throw my arms around him and kiss him hard and deeply.
29
Maybe it’s my abiding sense of loneliness or maybe it’s me adjusting my dreams to match reality. It takes so much effort to go through life alone. Maybe I’m accepting this proposal because it’s the best thing for me under the circumstances. Maybe I do love Evert somewhere deep in my heart. Otherwise, I would have asked for time to think it over.
I don’t really know. The only thing I know for sure is that I want someone in my life who’s there for me.
We’re in no rush to get to work. Evert is too much of a gentleman to try to go all the way so soon but we spend some time getting to know each other. Lying together in bed, he says, ‘If you start asking yourself later today or tomorrow what in God’s name you’ve done, I’ll understand.’
I stare at him in shock. ‘Do you think I said yes because of a moment of madness or something?’
‘Perhaps. I know I took you by surprise.’
‘The proposal was a surprise and I didn’t stop and think about it, but that’s a good sign. If you have to spend days thinking about it, you’ve probably got your answer.’
‘That’s true. But still, if you have any second thoughts …’
I don’t have any second thoughts and we set the date for 28 December. It gives us only three weeks, just enough time to prepare for the ceremony.
For a few days after his proposal, Evert is cautious, almost nervous with me, as if he’s waiting for me to tell him it was all a huge mistake. With every day that passes, I’m more sure of my decision. I’m coming to see that there are different kinds of love: my fleeting infatuation with Govert, the overwhelming desire that bound me and Matthias, and the meeting of the minds I feel with Evert. No burning desire, no physical attraction confounding my decision-making but rather a feeling of familiarity and affection. That’s good enough for me, I can’t ask for more. And I don’t deserve more.
Our friends are delighted about our engagement. All and sundry come to wish us well.
‘This is exactly what I’ve been hoping for,’ says Angelika happily.
Even the workers at the pottery congratulate me, some more enthusiastically than others. Frans gives me a curt nod, Jacob leans back and looks at me in wonder. ‘So you’re marrying the boss,’ he says. ‘Nicely done.’
I ignore both of them.
My first wedding was one big party that went on for days. In accordance with country tradition, I was first kidnapped by Govert, then taken back by my brothers, after which I had to formally declare my acceptance of Govert. After that the preparations for the wedding could begin, a party the whole village was invited to. We used the farmyard and the threshing floor for the celebration and there still wasn’t enough room. The cows were scared by the wild dancing, when everyone tried to make as big a racket as possible by banging and clattering whatever came to hand. At the end of the evening, Govert and I tried to sneak off but they were all keeping a close eye on us and we ended up being carried upstairs to our marriage bed on their shoulders to cheers and hoots. The biggest challenge was getting the revellers to leave, and it was only thanks to Govert’s height and broad shoulders that they didn’t give us a helping hand taking off our wedding clothes.
The day Evert and I say our vows, on a cold, sunny afternoon, is a quieter affair. People go all out for a first marriage; with second weddings they try to be a bit more discreet. I don’t mind, I don’t feel much like celebrating without my family there. I sent them an invitation but received the response that Delft was too far away and they couldn’t leave their duties for that long.
Evert is also struggling with the fact that only our friends are here. Even though he’s nothing but smiles all day, you can see the sadness in his eyes about what’s missing. Adriaan and Brigitta send their best wishes but don’t come.
‘It’ll take them a while to get used to the fact that you’re marrying their former housekeeper,’ I say in the coach on the way to the church.
‘That’s their problem.’ Evert kisses my hand. ‘For the first time in five years I’m happy again, and I’m not letting anyone take that away from me.’
The coach stops at the market, where friends and distant relatives of Evert’s are waiting by the entrance to the church. A big cheer goes up as I step down in my cornflower blue, lace-edged gown and for a moment I feel a little less alone. I walk into the church on Evert’s arm under a shower of petals. I had known he was well-liked in Delft, but only now do I see how well. Half the town seems to have come out, and those who haven’t been invited are standing in the market square to watch.
Once we’ve exchanged our wedding vows and the time comes to put a ring on each other’s finger, all the onlookers, inside and outside, applaud loudly.
A small number of guests are invited to join us for the wedding breakfast at the Mechelen Inn. There are speeches, toasts, jokes and anecdotes, followed by even more toasts.
My wedding night is as I expected, tender and restrained. Evert’s lovemaking doesn’t awaken the same wild lust in me as his brother’s. The next morning, I wake up early and spend a long time gazing at my husband’s face. He seems older now, sleeping on his back, with a double chin and bags under his eyes from many sleepless nights. His mouth is slightly open and he’s snoring gently.
I try to go back to sleep for a while. I don’t manage more than a brief doze. I can hear Anna clattering around in the kitchen, lighting the fire. She’s a quiet but hardworking woman whose husband died a year ago. She has two grown-up children who she doesn’t want to burden by giving up her job, which is why at sixty she’s doing all of Evert’s backbreaking household chores. Mine too. It wasn’t too long ago that I was a housekeeper, now I’ve got one of my own.
My thoughts immediately turn to Amsterdam, the house on Keizersgracht and then, involuntarily, to Matthias. I see his face before me, hear his voice as if I’d only just spoken to him. This stirs up a bittersweet pain. How is he going to react when he comes back and finds me married to his brother? Maybe he won’t care, maybe he doesn’t even think about me any more.
‘So,’ says Jacob one morning when I come into the workshop and there’s only the two of us there. ‘You’re Mistress Van Nulandt now. How does it feel?’
‘No different from when I was Barentsdochter.’
‘I don’t believe that. It must be a strange feeling, having your employers as your in-laws,’ he says, sniggering.
He’s right. Evert being my
husband doesn’t feel strange in the least, but that I can now call Adriaan my brother-in-law and Brigitta my sister-in-law definitely does. Let alone Matthias.
‘Good work, Catrin,’ whispers Jacob in my ear. ‘I knew we were cut from the same cloth.’
Jacob isn’t the only one who has to get used to the situation. I’m the boss’s wife now and am treated according to this new position. Jokes of the type employees always make about their boss suddenly cease and no one dares complain when the work rate is too high or Evert tells someone off.
It’s only once they notice I never tell him about anything that goes on behind his back that the atmosphere returns to normal. We close down for Christmas and don’t work over New Year either. In keeping with tradition, the New Year is greeted with parties in the inns, bonfires and a great deal of noise intended to drive out evil spirits.
Children run all over town with rattles, drums and the lids of pots and pans, while teenagers and adults get out their rifles and shoot into the air with carbide charges and gunpowder, making for big bangs.
Rather than spending my New Year’s Eve with cups and plates, I spend it with Anna up to our ears in candied fruit, beer, fat and flour, making lardy cakes all day. They aren’t only meant for our friends but for the wassailers who go door to door on the first of January. Just like in De Rijp, it’s traditional for people to sing a New Year’s song or recite a proverb wishing good luck in exchange for something tasty or a few coppers.
I’d been expecting Angelika to drop in with the children, but they don’t come. I’ve hardly seen her since the wedding, even though we were speaking almost every day at first. It’s niggling me. I know something’s going on, I’m certain of it.
With my mind made up, I wrap a couple of the finished cakes in a cloth and go to see her. Angelika jumps when she finds me at the door.
‘I’ve brought you a treat,’ I say.
Katherine and Gertrude come hollering to greet me. Their mother quiets them, sounding flustered. I wink and give the girls a cake. An uneasy silence falls.
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