Lil's Bus Trip

by Judy Leigh

  ‘All right.’ Cassie met his eyes. ‘I don’t see why not. Thank you, Piet – that would be very pleasant.’

  His dark eyes shone. ‘The pleasure is all mine.’

  20

  It was almost six o’clock and Lil and Maggie were debating where they should eat that evening. They had passed several Italian restaurants, a brightly lit Asian-fusion restaurant and a small taverna. Lil wasn’t particularly hungry; she had dragged Maggie and Albert along the banks of the river for half an hour, stopping to point at bright barges and curved bridges, and now they were all tired, especially Maggie, who was complaining that her ankles had swollen to at least twice their normal size.

  Maggie stopped. ‘I bet Ken, Sue and Denise are in that floating restaurant by now, eating chow mein. Can’t we go there?’

  ‘You have to book in advance,’ Lil replied.

  ‘What about a takeaway? I could murder a pizza.’ Maggie licked her lips. ‘Chicken wings. A burger. Chips.’ She thought for a moment. ‘All of them.’

  Albert shook his head and muttered, ‘Beer.’

  ‘Why don’t we go back to the hotel and pick up some takeaway food on the way?’ Lil suggested. ‘We can sit in our room with some junk food and a few bottles and slum it.’

  Albert nodded. ‘Card game.’

  ‘I can’t play cards,’ Maggie said. ‘But I’ve always wanted to wear one of those trilby hats and say, “I’ve come up trumps.”’

  ‘I can teach you to play.’ Lil nodded. ‘I’m pretty handy at poker.’

  ‘Okay, we’ll do that later.’ Maggie sighed. ‘I’m hungry now. And thirsty.’

  ‘Right, let’s grab a cup of coffee, then we’ll go back and have an evening in,’ Lil suggested again. ‘We’ve eaten at fancy places and enjoyed the local food for several days. There’s a TV in our room and we can just eat out of cartons and relax and take it easy.’

  Albert grinned. ‘Good. Beer too.’

  ‘We’ll get beer, Albie – oh, look over there. That’s perfect.’ Lil broke into a broad smile.

  ‘What’s perfect?’ Maggie screwed up her eyes. ‘I can’t see what you’re looking at.’

  ‘A coffee shop.’ Lil pointed across the road. She gazed at the coffee-shop frontage and a wide grin spread across her face. ‘This is where we’re going. I’ll treat us all.’

  Albert nodded; whatever Lil suggested was bound to be right.

  Maggie agreed. ‘Okay. I’m dying for a cuppa. But why this place?’

  ‘Look – what a gorgeous picture.’ Lil pointed eagerly: the painted sign depicted a man, his eyes two golden stars, staring into the sky. Around his head were various planets in stunning technicolour. The café was called Stargazer; the huge sign was painted yellow, red and green; below it, the words ‘coffee shop and juice bar’ in black letters. The door had been flung wide and, inside, welcoming music was playing. Lil recognised it as Donovan’s ‘Mellow Yellow’, a tune she knew well from the sixties. Cassie had often sung Donovan songs as a teenager, accompanying herself on the banjo. Lil noticed the warm golden lights behind the window, and saw there was a bar with pretty coloured strings of lights shaped like stars, and the aroma of coffee beans filled her nose, making her sigh with anticipation.

  She led the way inside. Lil thought it was a lovely place: bright lights, spangly designs on the walls – rainbows, huge green leaves, shooting stars; at wooden tables, groups of young people were chattering, drinking coffee, munching cakes, using their phones.

  The man at the counter with a white ponytail had a badge proclaiming his name was Henk. He was middle-aged and very tall, and his face shone with cheerfulness. Lil slid onto a tall stool; Maggie and Albert copied her. Lil beamed at Henk.

  ‘Hello. Do you speak English?’

  Henk’s smile broadened. ‘Yes, and French and German. Dutch too.’ He met her eyes. ‘Would you like coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please – what do you recommend? I like latte.’

  ‘We have good arabica beans. Small or large latte?’

  ‘Large, please,’ Lil replied.

  ‘Two large ones,’ Maggie added. ‘I need the caffeine.’

  Lil glanced at Albert. ‘Three large lattes. And a cake.’ She pointed her finger towards a display. ‘They look nice.’

  Maggie became suddenly energised. ‘Ooh, chocolate brownies. I’ll have one of those.’

  Henk raised an eyebrow. ‘You want a brownie?’

  ‘Would one each be too much? Before dinner?’

  Henk was suddenly anxious. ‘I think so. Three brownies are quite a lot…’

  Maggie shook her head. ‘I’m sure I could manage a whole one by myself. Probably two, even three.’

  ‘Three? Wow, so much respect,’ Henk murmured.

  ‘No.’ Lil took charge. ‘They are quite big and there’s chocolate on the top. We’ll share one between us, then we won’t be too full by the time we get the pizza and chips.’ She met Henk’s eyes. ‘A chocolate brownie, please – and can you cut it into three portions? We’ll share it.’

  Henk was staring at her, filled with admiration. ‘Of course. And three lattes. Coming right up.’

  Lil beamed at her friends. ‘This is working out well. We’ll have coffee, then it’s about fifteen minutes’ stroll back to the hotel – we dawdled coming down here, so we’ll be much quicker going back – and we’re sure to pass a pizza place or a takeaway.’

  ‘What if we don’t?’ Maggie fretted.

  ‘Then we’ll just ring up from the hotel and order it in,’ Lil announced. ‘I’m quite happy to ask at the hotel desk if I can use their phone.’

  Albert rubbed his hands together as Henk placed three huge white cups in large saucers in front of them. Maggie grabbed her latte eagerly and slurped, leaving a foam moustache on her top lip. Henk placed the sliced brownie on a small plate, three napkins next to three forks. As Lil handed him two notes, he met her eyes. ‘Enjoy.’

  ‘We certainly will.’ Lil reached out to the plate, forked her portion and took a delicate bite.

  Cassie had enjoyed a fascinating afternoon in the museum, exploring the galleries with Piet Cornelissen. They shared a similar taste in art, preferring the rustic characters of Vermeer and the agrarian peasantry of Anton Mauve to the battle scenes of Pieneman. Piet seemed fascinated by Cassie, too; his eyes widened when she told him she performed as a poet in a variety of venues and also sang and played the banjo. He was amused by her outspoken banter: she asked him openly if he often visited the museum in order to meet women and he replied that he was a Rijks Friend; his annual membership allowed him to come and go whenever he liked, and, because he lived quite locally and it gave him inspiration for songwriting, he could often be found browsing through the galleries – but never before had he thought of talking to a woman he didn’t know. Cassie had given a cynical snort; she would defer judgement.

  Piet had told her something about his life over coffee, his Surinamese mother and his Dutch father, his teenage years in Amsterdam and his fascination for playing and listening to live music. She, in exchange, had chatted about her wonderful mother, the American soldier father she’d never met and who had left nothing behind but an old banjo; she told him about the many years she’d spent abroad, teaching in Africa and China. They chatted about composition and favourite bands, finding that they had so much in common.

  It felt natural then that after the museum, they moved on to an Italian restaurant, where they ate pasta and talked more, drinking beer, their heads close. At seven o’clock, Piet suggested that it was time to go to the Zwart Gat. He was due to play at eight and he wanted to introduce Cassie to the other musicians. She wondered whether she should go back to the hotel and change her clothes, but Piet protested that she was perfect, dressed as she was. Cassie considered her options. Lil would be fine; she was with Maggie and Albert. She sent a brief text to Emily and Tommy, asking them to let her mother know her whereabouts, joking that she still had to do this after so many years, and then smiled at Piet and said
she’d love to hear him play.

  The Zwart Gat was, as its name suggested, a gloomy cellar reached by several stone steps; there was a small dimly lit stage at the far end and rustic wooden tables and chairs in the surrounding gloom. The club was already almost full, but Piet found a table close to the stage where two middle-aged men were sitting drinking beer, reserving two seats. Piet’s friends introduced themselves as Jan the drummer, who had sparse fair hair, and Joop the bass player, who wore a trilby. Cassie shook their hands, sat down and gazed at the stage, where a man was setting up amplifiers and speakers, running cables along the length of the floor.

  They drank beer and chatted for a while, then two elegantly dressed women appeared on stage, playing guitars and singing a soulful version of ‘Wild Horses’. Cassie clapped enthusiastically. Then Piet stood up and leaned over, whispering in her ear. ‘It’s my turn now.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Cassie called.

  ‘Come and sing with me?’

  She shook her head. ‘This is your slot, Piet – I don’t want to butt in.’

  He met her eyes, then clambered on the stage, picking up a guitar and fiddling with the keys, checking the tuning. He leaned towards the microphone and spoke in Dutch, then proceeded to play a song about a watermelon man. His voice was gravelly and warm, and Cassie watched him carefully as his fingers plucked strings: he was talented and extremely professional. He played two more songs, ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’’ and then a slow, sad rendition of ‘Autumn Leaves’. There was an aching tenderness in his voice that made Cassie wonder if he knew the pain of lost love. She applauded him warmly as he finished and he leaned towards the mic.

  ‘Dank u,’ Piet murmured, then his eyes moved to Cassie. ‘I will speak in English now. We are lucky to have someone here with us from England who is a great poet and singer. I wonder if she will come to the stage and give us one of her poems, perhaps? In English – that would be okay.’ He smiled at Cassie, a teasing grin, and she stood up with a show of reluctance and wandered over to the stage, clambering up beside him.

  ‘Cassie Ryan.’ Piet waved an arm in acknowledgement of her presence next to him and everyone clapped.

  Cassie lifted her hands in apology. ‘Thank you. I’d love to perform a poem for you, but it will have to be in English.’

  She glanced at the audience, serious with anticipation. Someone shouted, ‘Give us a poem – tell us what do you think about Amsterdam.’

  An idea came to Cassie. ‘I can give you a poem about a place in Belgium. I wrote it a day ago. It’s never been performed before – you’d be the first people to hear it. I recently stayed on a farm near Boom and there was a fascinating legend, a story about a man called Oud Woot, who had been imprisoned inside a tree for many centuries.’ She offered the audience a hopeful grin. ‘Would you like me to read the poem?’

  Applause ricocheted around the room, echoing on the ceilings. Cassie reached into her handbag and pulled out a piece of paper. She took her time, aware of the eyes on her, waiting for her first word; Piet was next to her, staring in admiration. She cleared her throat softly.

  Bark-mouthed; centuries-muffled

  Oak-choked, smooth limbs cankered,

  Feet fettered as arms strive for the sky

  Trunk dappled, dark mottled

  He twists against the wind’s whip

  Deep wooded, stifled, he will not strain out

  His sin was to look – and he was locked

  He craved – now caged and corked

  Shackled, silent, muscles stilled

  Arms hewn for gallows; trunk sapped

  Eyes rage cleaved, unseen

  Dogs sniff at his roots and scent him there

  Now gnarled and gagged he twists,

  Whispers and rots in his stillness.

  There was a pause, then suddenly applause erupted from every corner. Cassie smiled gratefully, leaning towards the microphone. ‘Dank u. Thank you.’

  Piet put a hand on her arm. ‘Do you know the song “Can't We Be Friends?” Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald?’

  ‘I know it well,’ Cassie replied. ‘But…’

  Piet winked and turned his attention to the audience. ‘Now we can sing a song together. It is good to have Cassie here in Amsterdam. So, I will sing this song with her, hoping that she can stay longer with us here and, if she can’t stay, that she will want to come back soon.’

  He began to pluck strings, his eyes on Cassie, and they sang together, Piet’s gravelly voice an octave below Cassie’s strong throaty swell. Cassie was enjoying herself; singing with Piet was easy. It felt nice to have a partner, a foil for her performance. Until now, she had always been alone on stage. And he was professional, a smooth, confident singer with an easy stage presence. As they returned to the table amid the cheers, he took her hand.

  ‘Thanks, Piet, I really appreciated that.’

  He leaned close to her. ‘They already love you here in the Zwart Gat.’ They sat down and Joop handed them each a beer. Piet moved his mouth close to her ear. ‘You know, Cassie, you should stay in Amsterdam. It is a place that suits you. The people welcome you and you fit in really well here.’

  ‘I have to say—’ Cassie met his eyes ‘—I do like the Zwart Gat, very much.’

  ‘Your poem was very good and your singing voice is sensational.’

  Cassie shrugged. ‘You’re very kind…’

  ‘No.’ Piet’s tone was hushed. ‘You could belong here, Cassie. You should stay.’

  Cassie thought of Lil, of her home; she thought about Jamie. ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Meet me tomorrow. Spend the day with me. Let me try to change your mind.’

  Cassie glanced around. The club had a warmth, a friendly atmosphere; people were rocking back and forth in their seats, clapping hands softly, smiling. On stage, a young man and woman were singing a blues song. Cassie’s eyes fell on Piet, the tenderness of his gaze as he smiled at her. She imagined what it would be like to live in Amsterdam, to perform there regularly, to get to know Piet better. She sighed. It was a wonderful place – she felt at home. It might be very nice indeed.

  21

  It was past eleven when Cassie returned to the Roodhuis Hotel. She’d have liked to stay at the club longer but she’d thought of Lil and Maggie asleep in their shared room and decided to return before the Zwart Gat closed. Piet had insisted on walking back with her. He’d invited her to meet him for lunch the next day but Cassie hadn’t been sure; she’d explained that she was on holiday with her mother and they ought to spend some time together. Piet had light-heartedly replied that Lil could come to lunch with him too; it would be a pleasure to meet her. Cassie sighed, kissed his cheek briefly and promised to text him in the morning; she was already forming a plan. She’d spend most of the day with Lil and the evening with Piet. She’d tell him tomorrow.

  She raced up the stairs to the first floor. There was music blaring from their room as she burst in and stopped still, staring. The TV was on loudly; there was a metal rock band in concert screeching, the screen flashing. The lights in the room were all turned off except for one glowing bedside lamp. Lil, Albert and Maggie were sitting on pillows on the carpeted floor, facing each other, frowning deeply with concentration. They were each wearing a baseball cap with the word Amsterdam emblazoned across the front. Albert had a matchstick between his teeth, his face a picture of pure concentration. On the floor between them playing cards had been loosely strewn, a fan of spades, diamonds, hearts and clubs. Cassie caught her breath. The room was littered with empty cartons; a cardboard box was smeared with tomato and cheese; a few stray chips lay on the floor. Beer bottles were everywhere, discarded metal tops; paper wrappers of biscuits had curled and been thrown to one side. A few chicken nuggets had been left on top of Cassie’s bed on a piece of toilet paper. The room was a mess and the three card players were oblivious to the detritus around them; their eyes were focused on the playing cards.

  Lil was laughing, tears streaming as she stared at Maggie, who
was wearing a long blouse and a pair of pink knickers that were clearly visible above the sagging waistband of her tan-coloured tights. Her shoes and a skirt were in a heap beside her and she was blinking at her cards, speechless and confused. Lil repeated, ‘Look at my poker face, everyone – you don’t know what a winning hand I’ve got.’ She held up a beer bottle, swigged from it and froth ran down her chin.

  Albert wore nothing but a once-pristine white vest that had tomato smudges down the front, socks and a baggy pair of underpants. His legs stuck out in front of him, bent at the knees. His arms and broad shoulders appeared from the top of the vest; he was peering at his cards, shaking his head and muttering, ‘Read ’em and weep,’ several times in a low, hollow tone.

  Maggie raised her eyes and stared at Cassie, who had inadvertently placed her hands on her hips in disapproval. Maggie made a low mooing sound and whispered, ‘We’re playing strip poker.’

  ‘And I’m winning.’ Lil began to laugh again until she rocked backwards and almost fell over.

  Cassie moved quickly to sit beside her, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulder. ‘Lil, are you all drunk?’

  Lil shook her head and laughed. ‘We’re having such a nice time. The pizza was very tasty. The tomato was so red…’

  ‘It was good pizza,’ Maggie agreed. ‘I was so hungry. I could eat another one right now.’

  Cassie frowned, thinking, and then she realised. She wrapped her arm around Lil more tightly. ‘What have you been up to this afternoon?’

  Lil started to cackle, as if Cassie had said the most ridiculous thing. She wiped her hand across her eyes and her fingers were damp with tears. ‘You should have come with us. We went into a coffee shop and the barista made us lovely lattes. Then we got some takeaway food. We were all starving. My hip doesn’t hurt at all, though – that’s why we’re sitting on the floor playing…’ She was suddenly serious. ‘Cards are just so important. You can really concentrate and expand your mind. It’s like we’re really proper gamblers, like the ones in Casino Royale.’