the tabletop. Mother got up and silently poured another cup. Henk could do that too, make his spoon jump in his cup, but he smiled at me while he was doing it and he thanked Mother after she'd filled his cup. I saw Riet looking at Father. He stirred the milk skin into his coffee. Then she looked at me. In her eyes I saw again the bewilderment with which she had looked at me the night she met Henk. I don't remember talking to her. She did her talking with Mother. It was a week of silence.
She must have had a job, I don't remember. Three days later she was still at our house, as if she didn't know what to do next. She infected Mother with her mood. They'd walk around together, often to the Bosman windmill, as if they knew it was a place that meant a lot to Henk. She ate with us, and that was completely natural. At least for Mother and me. Not for Father. That evening, if I'm counting properly it must have been 26 April, he worked his way through his meal in silence. Just after shoving a forkful of potato into his mouth he spoke to Riet, it was virtually the only thing he said to her in that whole week of silence, 'I want you to go away and never come back.'
She put down her knife and fork – she was the only one who ate with knife and fork – neatly alongside her half-empty plate, slid her chair back and stood up. 'Fine,' she said calmly, as if she'd expected it, as if she'd been waiting for it. She walked to the hall, put on her coat and left through the front door. Mother started to cry. I got up and walked over to the front window. I saw her turning onto the road, on her bike. That's how I remember Riet: her back bent (she had a headwind), her blonde hair fluttering, riding her bike down a narrow, empty road that got emptier and emptier towards the dyke. She disappeared, just like the red light had in November, behind the window frame.
Father had more to say, 'And you're done there in Amsterdam.'
I became Father's boy. Mother didn't stop crying.
16
I'm skating. After four nights of frost Big Lake has frozen over except for an oval-shaped hole in the middle. If I keep an eye on the ducks, coots and moorhens, I'm safe enough. The Amsterdammers haven't shown up yet, they don't know it's already skateable. During the last real freeze, years ago, I bought a pair of racing skates because I wanted to skate corners. You can't skate corners on Frisian skates. Now I'm skating corners, faster and faster, wider and wider. I go down a little lower on my stiff knees. The faster I go, the less cracks appear in the ice, which is black in places. Skating before Christmas – it's been a long time. About a dozen Shetland ponies watch me stupidly, they don't see ice, they see smooth water. When my knees and lower back can take no more, I finally have to brake to stop myself from flying into the bone dry undergrowth along the east side of the lake. If it stays this cold, I'll be able to skate to Monnickendam in a few days and maybe do a circuit around Watergang or Ilpendam.
I learnt to skate without Henk and without Father. Father is scared of frozen water, although he'd never admit it. We did everything together, Henk and I, except skating. The farmhand taught me how to skate, Mother encouraged me. She skated on figure skates, turning elegant pirouettes, doing figure of eights and regularly shouting, 'That's right!' The farmhand didn't pull me along, which I think is the usual way of teaching someone how to skate; he pushed me. His big hands enclosed my bottom like the seat of a chair, he bent his knees so much he was almost squatting. When I shouted stop, he braked and held me back by wrapping his hands around my hips. As I remember it, he skated around with me like that for hours. Long after Mother had finished her figure of eights. But it can't have been like that. Father must have strode out into the field to remind him sharply that he had more important things to do than entertain himself on the ice. He would
She must have had a job, I don't remember. Three days later she was still at our house, as if she didn't know what to do next. She infected Mother with her mood. They'd walk around together, often to the Bosman windmill, as if they knew it was a place that meant a lot to Henk. She ate with us, and that was completely natural. At least for Mother and me. Not for Father. That evening, if I'm counting properly it must have been 26 April, he worked his way through his meal in silence. Just after shoving a forkful of potato into his mouth he spoke to Riet, it was virtually the only thing he said to her in that whole week of silence, 'I want you to go away and never come back.'
She put down her knife and fork – she was the only one who ate with knife and fork – neatly alongside her half-empty plate, slid her chair back and stood up. 'Fine,' she said calmly, as if she'd expected it, as if she'd been waiting for it. She walked to the hall, put on her coat and left through the front door. Mother started to cry. I got up and walked over to the front window. I saw her turning onto the road, on her bike. That's how I remember Riet: her back bent (she had a headwind), her blonde hair fluttering, riding her bike down a narrow, empty road that got emptier and emptier towards the dyke. She disappeared, just like the red light had in November, behind the window frame.
Father had more to say, 'And you're done there in Amsterdam.'
I became Father's boy. Mother didn't stop crying.
16
I'm skating. After four nights of frost Big Lake has frozen over except for an oval-shaped hole in the middle. If I keep an eye on the ducks, coots and moorhens, I'm safe enough. The Amsterdammers haven't shown up yet, they don't know it's already skateable. During the last real freeze, years ago, I bought a pair of racing skates because I wanted to skate corners. You can't skate corners on Frisian skates. Now I'm skating corners, faster and faster, wider and wider. I go down a little lower on my stiff knees. The faster I go, the less cracks appear in the ice, which is black in places. Skating before Christmas – it's been a long time. About a dozen Shetland ponies watch me stupidly, they don't see ice, they see smooth water. When my knees and lower back can take no more, I finally have to brake to stop myself from flying into the bone dry undergrowth along the east side of the lake. If it stays this cold, I'll be able to skate to Monnickendam in a few days and maybe do a circuit around Watergang or Ilpendam.
I learnt to skate without Henk and without Father. Father is scared of frozen water, although he'd never admit it. We did everything together, Henk and I, except skating. The farmhand taught me how to skate, Mother encouraged me. She skated on figure skates, turning elegant pirouettes, doing figure of eights and regularly shouting, 'That's right!' The farmhand didn't pull me along, which I think is the usual way of teaching someone how to skate; he pushed me. His big hands enclosed my bottom like the seat of a chair, he bent his knees so much he was almost squatting. When I shouted stop, he braked and held me back by wrapping his hands around my hips. As I remember it, he skated around with me like that for hours. Long after Mother had finished her figure of eights. But it can't have been like that. Father must have strode out into the field to remind him sharply that he had more important things to do than entertain himself on the ice. He would
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