I entered. ‘And I don't listen behind doorways.’
‘Of course you don't.’ Pieter was smiling again as if I had told a joke. Like everyone else, he thought all maids eavesdropped. There were many assumptions about maids that people made about me.
I was silent the rest of the way. I had not known that Tanneke could be so loyal and brave, despite all she said behind Catharina's back, or that Catharina had suffered such blows, or that Maria Thins could have such a son. I tried to imagine my own brother beating me in the street but could not.
Pieter said no more — he could see my confusion. When he left me in front of the apothecary he simply touched my elbow and continued on his way. I had to stand for a moment looking into the dark green water of the canal before I shook my head to clear it and turned to the apothecary's door.
I was shaking from my thoughts a picture of the knife spinning on my mother's kitchen floor.
One Sunday Pieter the son came to services at our church. He must have slipped in after my parents and me, and sat in the back, for I did not see him until afterwards when we were outside speaking to our neighbours. He was standing off to one side, watching me. When I caught sight of him I drew in my breath sharply. At least, I thought, he is Protestant. I had not been certain before. Since working in the house at Papists' Corner I was no longer certain of many things.
My mother followed my gaze. ‘Who is that?’
‘The butcher's son.’
She gave me a curious look, part surprise, part fear. ‘Go to him,’ she whispered, ‘and bring him to us.’
I obeyed her and went up to Pieter. ‘Why are you here?’ I asked, knowing I should be more polite.
He smiled. ‘Hello, Griet. No pleasant words for me?’
‘Why are you here?’
‘I'm going to services in every church in Delft, to see which I like best. It may take some time.’ When he saw my face he dropped his tone — joking was not the way with me. ‘I came to see you, and to meet your parents.’
I blushed so hot I felt feverish. ‘I would rather you did not,’ I said softly.
‘Why not?’
‘I'm only seventeen. I don't — I'm not thinking of such things yet.’
‘There's no rush,’ Pieter said.
I looked down at his hands — they were clean, but there were still traces of blood around his nails. I thought of my master's hand over mine as he showed me how to grind bone, and shivered.
People were staring at us, for he was a stranger to the church. And he was a handsome man — even I could see that, with his long blond curls, bright eyes and ready smile. Several young women were trying to catch his eye.
‘Will you introduce me to your parents?’
Reluctantly I led him to them. Pieter nodded to my mother and grasped my father's hand, who stepped back nervously. Since he had lost his eyes he was shy of meeting strangers. And he had never before met a man who showed interest in me.
‘Don't worry, Father,’ I whispered to him while my mother was introducing Pieter to a neighbour, ‘you aren't losing me.’
‘We've already lost you, Griet. We lost you the moment you became a maid.’
I was glad he could not see the tears that pricked my eyes.
Pieter the son did not come every week to our church, but he came often enough that each Sunday I grew nervous, smoothing my skirt more than it needed, pressing my lips together as we sat in our pew.
‘Has he come? Is he here?’ my father would ask each Sunday, turning his head this way and that.
I let my mother answer. ‘Yes,’ she would say, ‘he is here,’ or ‘No, he has not come.’
Pieter always said hello to my parents before greeting me. At first they were uneasy with him. However, Pieter chatted easily to them, ignoring their awkward responses and long silences. He knew how to talk to people, meeting so many at his father's stall. After several Sundays my parents became used to him. The first time my father laughed at something Pieter said he was so surprised at himself that he immediately frowned, until Pieter said something else to make him laugh again.
There was always a moment after they had been speaking when my parents stepped back and left us alone. Pieter wisely let them decide when. The first few times it did not happen at all. Then one Sunday my mother pointedly took my father's arm and said, ‘Let us go and speak to the minister.’
For several Sundays I dreaded that moment until I too became used to being on my own with him in front of so many watchful eyes. Pieter sometimes teased me gently, but more often he asked me what I had been doing during the week, or told me stories he had heard in the Meat Hall, or described auctions at the Beast Market. He was patient with me when I became tongue-tied or sharp or dismissive.
He never asked me about my master. I never told him I was working with the colours. I was glad he did not ask me.
On those Sundays I felt very confused. When I should be listening to Pieter I found myself thinking about my master.
One Sunday in May, when I had been working at the house on the Oude Langendijck for almost a year, my mother said to Pieter just before she and my father left us alone, ‘Will you come back to eat with us after next Sunday's service?’
Pieter smiled as I gaped at her. ‘I'll come.’
I barely heard what he said after that. When he finally left and my parents and I went home I had to bite my lips so that I would not shout. ‘Why didn't you tell me you were going to invite Pieter?’ I muttered.
My mother glanced at me sideways. ‘It's time we asked him,’ was all she said.
She was right — it would be rude of us not to invite him to our house. I had not played this game with a man before, but I had seen what went on with others. If Pieter was serious, then my parents would have to treat him seriously.
I also knew what a hardship it would be to them to have him come. My parents had very little now. Despite my wages and what my mother made from spinning wool for others, they could barely feed themselves, much less another mouth — and a butcher's mouth at that. I could do little to help them — take what I could from Tanneke's kitchen, a bit of wood, perhaps, some onions, some bread. They would eat less that week and light the fire less, just so that they could feed him properly.
But they insisted that he come. They would not say so to me, but they must have seen feeding him as a way of filling our own stomachs in the future. A butcher's wife — and her parents — would always eat well. A little hunger now would bring a heavy stomach eventually.
Later, when he began coming regularly, Pieter sent them gifts of meat which my mother would cook for the Sunday. At that first Sunday dinner, however, she sensibly did not serve meat to a butcher's son. He would have been able to judge exactly how poor they were by the cut of the joint. Instead she made a fish stew, even adding shrimps and lobster, never telling me how she managed to pay for them.
The house, though shabby, gleamed from her attentions.
