Read Online The Twin by Gerbrand Bakker - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gerbrand Bakker
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have glared at me – a six- or seven-year-old kid – because Henk was doing the yearlings. Or collecting eggs, perhaps tail docking. Mother would have been downcast in the kitchen, back at work, because even she would have had an earful. Skating with the farmhand, what was she thinking?
That might have been the day that Father – simply because I was having fun doing something else – decided for himself that Henk would be the farmer, even though I was the oldest, if just by a couple of minutes. Henk helped Father, I went skating and treated the farmhand as an equal. Maybe it was just one incident in a series of events that made Father conclude I wasn't suited to succeed him. After Henk died Father had to make do with me, but in his eyes I always remained second choice.
A few long strokes carry me to the place in the reeds where I have left my clogs. I take my skates off and look out at the water birds. Father calls coots and moorhens 'water hens' because he always gets them mixed up. Later today I'll go and see how the frost flowers on his windows are doing.
Frost flowers remind me of Henk and his warm bed.
Even before I reach the road I see the livestock dealer's lorry turning into the yard. I don't hurry. He'll go looking for me but, before he's been everywhere, I'll be home. My thoughts catch on the word 'everywhere', and straightaway I see the livestock dealer standing on the blue carpet next to Father's bed, cap in hand, silent, wriggling his toes and looking serious. Father isn't silent, he jabbers and gabbles and keeps talking until I come into the room. I hurry, the frost-covered grass crunching under my clogs. I swing my legs over the last gate and run into the yard.
The livestock dealer emerges from the barn. When he sees me he makes to raise his cap but changes his mind. 'You've got a few good calves in there,' he says.
'Yes,' I say, still panting.
'Cold,' he adds.
'Yes.'
'Been skating?'
'Yeah. Big Lake's already frozen.'
'I sold your sheep.'
'That's fast.'
'Ah, one of those hobby farmers. A hundred and twenty-five a head.'
'Not bad.'
He pulls out his wallet, an enormous thing that's chained to his belt. He licks his thumb and index finger, pulls out five fifties and digs a handful of change out of his pocket. He takes thirty per cent, whatever the price.
'Thanks,' I say. 'You going to declare it?'
'No.'
'Good.'
He walks over to his lorry, parked in the middle of the yard. Before climbing into the cab, he says, 'Have a good Christmas.' He's talkative today.
I vaguely remember an art shop at the start of the Prooyen and park the car. It's called Simmie's. I notice that I'm feeling nervous and open the door without looking through the windows. A large woman in loose-fitting clothes approaches, the artist herself from the look of her. Was there something I wanted to ask? 'No, I'm just looking.' It doesn't take me long; if these colourful splotches are art, I'm a gentleman farmer from Groningen. Back on the street, I smell the wood fire from the smokehouse. I buy a pound of eel, which the fishmonger rolls up in old newspaper and puts in a plastic bag. Then I carry on along the waterfront. There's a gallery near the English Corner. The soapstone statues on the shelves along the wall are beautiful, especially to touch, but I am still thinking of a painting. I head back to the middle of town. Banners announcing 'FIREWORKS' have been hung everywhere. A crib with life-size cows and donkeys has been set up in the roofed outdoor section of The Weighhouse. A child touches the nose of a donkey and almost tumbles off the raised floor with surprise when its head rocks back and forth. In the old harbour there is an enormous Christmas tree on a barge, all lit up. The barge is stuck in the ice.
Walking back to the car, I pass an antiques shop. I go in, even though the last thing I'm looking for is more old junk; I've just tossed a load of that on
That might have been the day that Father – simply because I was having fun doing something else – decided for himself that Henk would be the farmer, even though I was the oldest, if just by a couple of minutes. Henk helped Father, I went skating and treated the farmhand as an equal. Maybe it was just one incident in a series of events that made Father conclude I wasn't suited to succeed him. After Henk died Father had to make do with me, but in his eyes I always remained second choice.
A few long strokes carry me to the place in the reeds where I have left my clogs. I take my skates off and look out at the water birds. Father calls coots and moorhens 'water hens' because he always gets them mixed up. Later today I'll go and see how the frost flowers on his windows are doing.
Frost flowers remind me of Henk and his warm bed.
Even before I reach the road I see the livestock dealer's lorry turning into the yard. I don't hurry. He'll go looking for me but, before he's been everywhere, I'll be home. My thoughts catch on the word 'everywhere', and straightaway I see the livestock dealer standing on the blue carpet next to Father's bed, cap in hand, silent, wriggling his toes and looking serious. Father isn't silent, he jabbers and gabbles and keeps talking until I come into the room. I hurry, the frost-covered grass crunching under my clogs. I swing my legs over the last gate and run into the yard.
The livestock dealer emerges from the barn. When he sees me he makes to raise his cap but changes his mind. 'You've got a few good calves in there,' he says.
'Yes,' I say, still panting.
'Cold,' he adds.
'Yes.'
'Been skating?'
'Yeah. Big Lake's already frozen.'
'I sold your sheep.'
'That's fast.'
'Ah, one of those hobby farmers. A hundred and twenty-five a head.'
'Not bad.'
He pulls out his wallet, an enormous thing that's chained to his belt. He licks his thumb and index finger, pulls out five fifties and digs a handful of change out of his pocket. He takes thirty per cent, whatever the price.
'Thanks,' I say. 'You going to declare it?'
'No.'
'Good.'
He walks over to his lorry, parked in the middle of the yard. Before climbing into the cab, he says, 'Have a good Christmas.' He's talkative today.
I vaguely remember an art shop at the start of the Prooyen and park the car. It's called Simmie's. I notice that I'm feeling nervous and open the door without looking through the windows. A large woman in loose-fitting clothes approaches, the artist herself from the look of her. Was there something I wanted to ask? 'No, I'm just looking.' It doesn't take me long; if these colourful splotches are art, I'm a gentleman farmer from Groningen. Back on the street, I smell the wood fire from the smokehouse. I buy a pound of eel, which the fishmonger rolls up in old newspaper and puts in a plastic bag. Then I carry on along the waterfront. There's a gallery near the English Corner. The soapstone statues on the shelves along the wall are beautiful, especially to touch, but I am still thinking of a painting. I head back to the middle of town. Banners announcing 'FIREWORKS' have been hung everywhere. A crib with life-size cows and donkeys has been set up in the roofed outdoor section of The Weighhouse. A child touches the nose of a donkey and almost tumbles off the raised floor with surprise when its head rocks back and forth. In the old harbour there is an enormous Christmas tree on a barge, all lit up. The barge is stuck in the ice.
Walking back to the car, I pass an antiques shop. I go in, even though the last thing I'm looking for is more old junk; I've just tossed a load of that on
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