CHURCH CLOCK chimed six times. It was the first of September. My first day at work. Unfortunately, I was even more exhausted than when I had climbed into bed the night before. I would have had to get a grip, and make myself presentable. Everyone knows a good first impression is half the battle. My skin and hair felt greasy. A ray of sunlight crashed into the room like a silent battering ram, and in the brightness of morning, I suddenly noticed a large, green patch of mould on the wall. Repulsive stuff. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? I had time to spare and decided to look for some water and a rag or brush to scrub those armour-plated monsters from the wall. I put my shoes on and walked down the garden path, which was starting to look like a game trail, to the hand pump. To my annoyance, it was out of order, though I could hear a gurgling, sucking sound after pumping for five minutes. I cursed and went inside, aware that I would have to go to the school unwashed and certain that the Sisters—and even the boys—would jeer at my slovenly appearance. It was just as well I used some of the money Father and Mother had given me to buy a new suit. It would go some way to saving the situation. I was too nervous to eat a bite. Unwashed and with a rumbling stomach, but prepared for battle, I went to the boys’ school.
I knew they would already be waiting for me. Before going in, I dragged my fingers through my spiky hair, which I suspected the wind had blown into a jumbled mess on my way to school. An insect landed on my forehead, a daddy longlegs. Picking it up gingerly between thumb and index finger so as not to squash it, I threw it up in the air. I thanked whichever power had allowed me to get rid of the creature in time to safeguard my solemn entry. As I opened the door, a thin line of sweat trickled down my temple and lost itself in the jungle of my side whisker.
At that moment, the church bells chimed. I shut the door and stood for a moment, awkward in my suit. Sixteen eyes stared at me: challenging, shy. Marcus smiled. I marvelled at how calm and modest the boy always looked, and how, from the first moment, it had kindled a feeling of solidarity in me. Walking to my desk, I took care not to stumble over the stone step of the raised platform. Their heads turned to follow me. Dropping my schoolbooks on the desk with an impressive thump, I pointed at the cracked window pane.
‘We shall talk about this in a minute,’ I said. ‘First, I’d like to know who you are. Each of you will stand up in turn and tell me four things. One: first name. Two: surname. Three: your father’s profession. Four: your average marks of the past year.’
‘Whuk?!’ exclaimed the wiry beanpole with the shock of hair on the second row.
For a moment, I wavered between going over and boxing his ears for his insolent question and pretending I hadn’t heard it. I explained again what I wanted to know, in a sterner voice than before.
‘Whuk?!’ he said again. I came down from the platform, stood next to his desk, ordered him to stand up. He stood up hesitantly.
‘Jef. Schyttecatte. Contractor. And I didn’t understand the last thing we had to say.’
Jef was the tallest of the class, and tough-looking.
‘Mr Schyttecatte,’ I repeated slowly and gravely. ‘Truly a fitting name.’
The boys sniggered. Jef eyed me with suspicion. He didn’t know what would come next, and whether I was making fun of him. The confrontation with the toughest of the pack—a textbook case. His exercise book lay on his desk. When I lifted my hand to pick it up, he made a movement that thwarted my plans: almost imperceptibly, he planted his feet further apart and tilted his head toward me. It dawned on me he expected a thrashing. Did his reputation depend on it? Up to me, then, to disappoint his expectation, especially since I’d have bet anything he would take the beating without batting an eyelid. He looked at me: strong jawline, lips clamped shut like a boxer’s. Besides, I didn’t want to hit anyone.
‘What does “whuk” actually mean?’ I asked.
I had again thrown him off balance. The others, too, looked surprised. After a short pause, he stammered, ‘Whuk … er … that means that … er … I weren’t sure ’bout the last thing I were meant to say.’
‘Ah. Well, Mr Schyttecatte, you have taught me a West Flemish word. And what is the polite way of asking this of someone who doesn’t speak West Flemish and therefore does not know the meaning of “whuk”?’
He pondered the question for a while. I looked around the class and saw a twinkle in Marcus’s eyes.
‘I do believe Mr Schyttecatte does not know the answer to my question,’ I said after a pause, keeping my tone light. ‘Does anyone here know how that question ought to be asked? Just raise your fingers.’ Marcus raised his finger, but I picked the grimy, stained finger of the boy two desks behind him. Not because I didn’t want him to succeed, I wanted another boy to say it to make sure Marcus wouldn’t become the target of Jef’s resentment.
‘What did you say!’
‘Correct!’ I said. ‘And what is the name of the boy who has given this crystal clear answer?’
‘Roger!’ he said, as proud as punch. I noticed Jef looked more relaxed, and slightly bewildered, as he realized he wasn’t going to get the thrashing that would have strengthened his position as leader of the pack.
‘Again! And correct this time, Mr Schyttecatte!’
More sniggering. I made sure to keep a friendly voice, but a stern look on my face. He wanted to sit down again. I had to end this performance before it could backfire.
‘Jef. Schyttecatte. Contractor. Fifty-seven per cent.’
‘Good! Sit down!’
I nodded at Roger.
‘Roger! Malfait! Farmer! Eighty-three per cent!’
‘Walter. Soete. Postman. Fifty-four per cent.’
The twins desperately searched their memories but could not retrieve their marks. They exchanged embarrassed looks and lowered their eyes when it was their turn.
‘Marcus. Verschoppen. Farmer. Ninety-five per cent.’
I finished by telling them my name. Now that the first lesson was about to begin in earnest, I decided to forget about the broken window.
-
‘THE FOUR OF us together like this is just right,’ Father said after dinner one day, tilting his chair on its back legs, his belt loosened. Mother was picking beans out of Henri’s hair and wiped his face with the dish cloth.
‘Four is a magical number, you know,’ he said to me.
I was chewing on a tough piece of pork, shoving it from left to right with my tongue.
‘Do you know why?’
He slowly lifted his left hand to his right and swatted a fly that had landed on it. The squashed insect stuck to the hairs on his arm, a yellowish pulp oozing from its abdomen. With a flick of his hand, he swept the fly under the table.
‘Because there are four of us,’ I said happily. I had finally managed to swallow the piece of meat.
‘Yes, that is true. But if you give the number four a bit more thought, you’ll find it is a very special number.’
Mother lifted the kettle from the stove and poured the hot water into the
