cloth.
He left me and I finished up quickly, not wanting to linger in the studio. It was no longer comforting there.
That afternoon van Ruijven and his wife visited. Tanneke and I were sitting on the bench in front while she showed me how to mend some lace cuffs. The girls had gone over to Market Square and were flying a kite near the New Church where we could see them, Maertge holding the end of the string while Cornelia tugged the kite up into the sky.
I saw the van Ruijvens coming from a long way off. As they approached I recognised her from the painting and my brief meeting with her, and him as the moustached man with the white feather in his hat and the oily smile, who had once escorted her to the door.
‘Look, Tanneke,’ I whispered, ‘it's the gentleman who admires the painting of you every day.’
‘Oh!’ Tanneke blushed when she saw them. Straightening her cap and apron, she hissed, ‘Go and tell mistress they're here!’
I ran inside and found Maria Thins and Catharina with the sleeping baby in the Crucifixion room. ‘The van Ruijvens have come,’ I announced.
Catharina and Maria Thins removed their caps and smoothed their collars. Catharina held on to the table and pulled herself up. As they were leaving the room Maria Thins reached up and straightened one of Catharina's tortoiseshell combs, which she wore only on special occasions.
They greeted their guests in the front hall while I hovered in the hallway. As they moved to the stairs van Ruijven caught sight of me and paused for a moment.
‘Who's this, then?’
Catharina frowned at me. ‘Just one of the maids. Tanneke, bring us up some wine, please.’
‘Have the wide-eyed maid bring it to us,’ van Ruijven commanded. ‘Come, my dear,’ he said to his wife, who began climbing the stairs.
Tanneke and I stood side by side, she annoyed, me dismayed by his attention.
‘Go on, then!’ Catharina cried to me. ‘You heard what he said. Bring the wine.’ She pulled herself heavily up the stairs after Maria Thins.
I went to the little room where the girls slept, found glasses stored there, polished five of them with my apron and set them on a tray. Then I searched the kitchen for wine. I did not know where it was kept, for they did not drink wine often. Tanneke had disappeared in a huff. I feared the wine was kept locked away in one of the cupboards, and that I would have to ask Catharina for the key in front of everyone.
Fortunately, Maria Thins must have anticipated this. In the Crucifixion room she had left out a white jug with a pewter top, filled with wine. I set it on the tray and carried it up to the studio, first straightening my cap, collar and apron as the others had done.
When I entered they were standing by the painting. ‘A jewel once again,’ van Ruijven was saying. ‘Are you happy with it, my dear?’ he addressed his wife.
‘Of course,’ she answered. The light was shining through the windows on to her face and she looked almost beautiful.
As I set the tray down on the table my master and I had moved that morning Maria Thins came over. ‘I'll take that,’ she whispered. ‘Off you go. Quickly, now.’
I was on the stairs when I heard van Ruijven say, ‘Where's that wide-eyed maid? Gone already? I wanted to have a proper look at her.’
‘Now, now, she's nothing!’ Catharina cried gaily. ‘It's the painting you want to look at.’
I went back to the front bench and took my seat next to Tanneke, who wouldn't say a word to me. We sat in silence, working on the cuffs, listening to the voices floating out from the windows above.
When they came down again I slipped around the corner and waited, leaning against the warm bricks of a wall in the Molenpoort, until they were gone.
Later a man servant from their house came and disappeared up to the studio. I did not see him go, as the girls had come back and wanted me to build up the fire so they could bake apples in it.
The next morning the painting was gone. I had not had a chance to look at it one last time.
That morning as I arrived at the Meat Hall I heard a man ahead of me say the quarantine had been lifted. I hurried to Pieter's stall. Father and son were both there, and several people were waiting to be served. I ignored them and went straight up to Pieter the son. ‘Can you serve me quickly?’ I said. ‘I must go to my family's house. Just three pounds of tongue and three of sausages.’
He stopped what he had been doing, ignoring the indignant sounds from the old woman he had been helping. ‘I suppose if I were young and smiled at you you'd do anything for me too,’ she scolded as he handed the packages to me.
‘She's not smiling,’ Pieter replied. He glanced at his father, then handed me a smaller package. ‘For your family,’ he said in a low voice.
I did not even thank him — I snatched the package and ran.
Only thieves and children run.
I ran all the way home.
My parents were sitting side by side on the bench, heads bowed. When I reached them I took my father's hand and raised it to my wet cheek. I sat next to them and said nothing.
There was nothing to be said.
There followed a time when everything was dull. The things that had meant something — the cleanliness of the laundry, the daily walk on errands, the quiet studio — lost importance, though they were still there, like bruises on the body that fade to hard lumps under the skin.
It was at the end of the summer that my sister died. That autumn was rainy. I spent much of my time hanging laundry on racks indoors, shifting them closer to the fire, trying to dry the clothes before mildew took over but without scorching them.
Tanneke and Maria Thins treated me kindly enough when they found out about Agnes. Tanneke managed to check her irritation for several days, though soon she began again to scold and sulk, leaving it to me to placate her. Maria Thins said little but took to cutting off her daughter when Catharina became sharp with me.
Catharina herself seemed to know nothing of my sister, or did not show it. She was nearing her confinement, and as Tanneke had predicted she spent most of her time in bed, leaving the baby Johannes to Maertge's charge. He was beginning to toddle about, and kept the girls busy.
The girls did not know I had a sister and so would not understand that I could lose one. Only Aleydis seemed to sense that something was wrong. She sometimes came to sit by me, pushing her body close to mine like a pup burrowing into its mother's fur for warmth. She comforted me in a simple way that no one else could.
One day Cornelia came out to the courtyard where I was hanging up clothes. She held out an old doll to me. ‘We don't play with this any more,’ she announced. ‘Not even Aleydis. Would you like to give it to your sister?’ She made her eyes wide and innocent, and I knew she must have overheard someone mention Agnes' death.
‘No, thank you,’ was all I could say, almost choking on the words.
She smiled and skipped away.
The
