Nature is six weeks ahead of herself. But – bad news for the migratory birds that have made the decision to stay put this year – there’s a cold spell on the way.
Thursday, 10 January
The care home has a lovely garden. But for some inexplicable reason it is locked. In winter no one is allowed in. For our own good, presumably. Management knows what’s best for us inmates.
So if you want some fresh air at this time of year, you have to make do with a stroll round the neighbourhood. Ugly sixties flats. Dismal refuse dumps masquerading as strips of grass. You would think that at night the street cleaners roll through the area strewing litter instead of sweeping it up. One has to wade through a sea of tins, empty crisp packets and old newspaper. The people who used to live here have almost all traded their flats for a modern terrace in Purmerend or Almere. The only ones left are those who can’t afford to do so. Turkish, Moroccan and West Indian families have moved into the vacated buildings. It makes for quite a jolly melting pot.
My range these days is about 500 metres each way, with a pause on a bench at the halfway mark. I can’t manage much more than that. The world is shrinking. Starting from here, I can take one of four possible one-kilometre round trips.
Evert has just been to see me. He is getting enormous pleasure from the kerfuffle surrounding the fish massacre, and has a plan to turn it up a notch. He wants to mount a second offensive, this time with pink fondant fancies. He thinks the colour will have a more dramatic effect on the water. Yesterday he took the bus to a supermarket a few kilometres down the road specially to obtain a supply. If he had bought them here, in the home’s mini-market, they would be bound to remember his purchase. The cakes are now stashed in his cupboard. I asked if he thought they were safe there. ‘It’s a free country; a person can hide as many fancies in his own home as he fancies, can’t he?’ he said.
Saturday, 12 January
The home’s director, Mrs Stelwagen – I’ll have much more to say about her later, in all probability – has announced an energy-saving measure: the thermostats in the residents’ rooms are not to be set above 23 degrees. If the oldies are cold, they should simply wear their coats, is the message. There is an Indonesian lady who likes to have her thermostat at 27 degrees. There are bowls of water set out all over her room to increase the humidity. Her tropical plants are thriving. There hasn’t yet been a decree stipulating the maximum size for houseplants, but I suspect Stelwagen is working on it.
Mrs Stelwagen is always friendly, ready with a willing ear and an encouraging word for everyone, but concealed beneath that veneer of sympathy is an unhealthy dose of self-importance and power lust. She is forty-two years old and has been in charge for a year and a half now, but is always on the lookout for an opportunity to kick or arse-lick her way up the ladder, depending on whom she is dealing with. I’ve been watching her for a year or so.
I also have a most valuable informant: her secretary, Mrs Appelboom. Anja Appelboom was the secretary of the last director, Mr Lemaire, for twenty-three years, until the latest merger when Lemaire was forced into early retirement. Anja has two years to go before she gets her pension, and since a new office manager was appointed over her head, she’s determined not to let Stelwagen get the better of her again. Anja still has access to all the minutes and confidential documents. A few years ago she lived next door to me and saved me from the homeless shelter by arranging for me to come here. More on that some other day perhaps.
I often have a coffee with Anja in her office on Thursday mornings. That’s when Stelwagen and the office manager are off to their meeting with the unit managers and the district manager. Promotion to district manager is the next leap Stelwagen is hoping for.
It’s a chance for us to gossip. ‘Can you keep a secret?’ she’ll often ask before launching into a blow-by-blow of Stelwagen’s latest machinations. We’ve collected quite a dossier on her.
Sunday, 13 January
Last night Evert tossed six pink fondant fancies into the fish tank on the second floor. The goldfish gorged themselves silly. Their corpses are floating up there among the cake crumbs. All hell has broken loose.
Evert simply excused himself during after-dinner coffee, announcing he was going to the loo, then climbed the stairs, peering round to make sure no one saw him, and chucked the cakes he’d been hiding under his jacket into the water. He deposited the plastic wrapper neatly in the wastepaper basket – not such a bright way to dispose of the evidence, I suppose, but luckily the cleaner has already been round to empty the bins.
The fish tank is tucked away in a rather dark corner, so no one noticed anything last night. The operation wasn’t without risk; if he’d been nabbed, he’d have been obliged to call in the moving van. Perhaps somewhere deep down he doesn’t care if he gets caught, even though whenever he’s in a tight spot he’ll lie through his teeth, and rant and rave, swearing he had nothing to do with it. That’s how the game is played, he says. His philosophy: the only point of being alive is to kill time as pleasantly as possible. The trick is not to take anything too seriously. I envy him. But I’m a fast learner.
I myself was rather on edge yesterday, because Evert had told me about the attack beforehand so that I could prepare a foolproof alibi for myself. It wasn’t easy. I had to hang about in the Conversation Lounge until finally a couple who live on my floor stood up to go upstairs. ‘I’ll walk with you, for some company,’ I said. Mr and Mrs Jacobs did give me a rather funny look.
The alarm was sounded just after nine this morning. Mrs Brandsma, on her way to church, caught sight of the fish floating belly-up. They tried to keep it quiet at first, apparently, but Brandsma had already blabbed about it to everyone she encountered on her way to find the duty nurse. My next-door neighbour has just knocked on my door: ‘You won’t believe what I just heard …’
I’m looking forward to all the chin-wagging when I go down for coffee.
Monday, 14 January
Another pet catastrophe: Mrs Schreuder accidentally hoovered up her canary while she was cleaning its cage. When after several desperate minutes she finally managed to control her shaking hands enough to get the hoover open, there wasn’t much left of her perky little birdie. She should have turned off the machine immediately, of course. Her little Pete was still alive at first, but gave up the ghost a few minutes later. Schreuder is inconsolable and racked with guilt.
The only victim support from the staff was the advice to throw out the cage as soon as possible.
Everyone in here has strong views on the subject of cake crumbs in fish tanks. But ask them what they think of the war in Syria and they’ll stare at you as if you’ve just asked them to explain the theory of relativity. A handful of fish floating belly-up are a thousand times worse than a busload of women and children blown to smithereens in some far-off country.
But let’s not be hypocritical: I am enjoying the fish scandal immensely, I cannot pretend otherwise. The outrage that has overtaken the entire population here is remarkable. I’m about to go back down to the Conversation Lounge for some more juicy fish talk.
Winter has arrived. Not a flake of snow on the ground, but yesterday I saw the first old gentleman stepping outside with wool socks pulled on over his shoes. To guard against slipping.
Tuesday, 15 January
Here it is, the first snowfall of the year. Which means nobody ventures outside, and everyone’s stocking up on provisions. In our little shop downstairs there’s not a packet of biscuits or bar of chocolate to be had any more. The War, you know.
It’s lucky for today’s young people that we are just about the only ones left who’ve lived through the War; soon they won’t have to put up with any more old-crocks’ tales about tulip-bulb soup and having to walk seven hours for a bunch of carrots.
The final count is seven dead fish.
Yesterday the police were called in. The two young constables hadn’t a clue how to go about solving the case. None of the bright efficiency you see on the tell
y from these two. First they inspected every nook and cranny of the aquarium. As if they thought there might still be one left in there in need of resuscitation.
‘Yeah, they’re dead all right,’ said the one.
‘The cake’s what did them in, probably,’ said the other.
Stelwagen had ordered the dead fish to be left in the tank as evidence. Maybe she’d been expecting a forensic pathologist; who knows.
In any case, the officers just seemed eager to get out of there as soon as they decently could. The director was insisting on a thorough investigation, but the younger copper told her that it would entail lodging a criminal complaint.
Couldn’t she do that right now? No, she’d have to make an appointment at the station, either in person or via the website.
Fine, but what were they supposed to do with the dead fish? The constable suggested the rubbish bin. ‘But don’t leave them in there too long. Or you could flush them down the toilet.’ Then the gentlemen turned on their heels and vacated the premises. ‘Night, ma’am.’ Mrs Stelwagen was appalled. ‘Outrageous! It’s simply outrageous! Is this any way to treat the taxpayer?’
It was lovely to witness the woman’s helpless tantrum. Apparently her power has no reach outside the four walls of this institution.
Wednesday, 16 January
Evert dropped by. To avoid the Conversation Lounge, we went for a little shuffle through the snow: walk for five, rest for five. We are faced with the inevitable: rollator, mobility scooter or the Canta LX microcar. Such sexy options.
A week ago, in front of the secondary school round the corner, a boy of sixteen or seventeen showed off a tomato-red Canta he must have ‘borrowed’ from his gran. He used the little car to tote the prettiest girls’ schoolbags, with the pretty girls themselves following on their bikes. I haven’t ever seen a youngster driving a mobility scooter for fun, or pushing a rollator. That is why my preference is for a nicely pimped Canta. Even if that throws me in with all the other pathetically bad drivers at the wheel of one of those biscuit tins.
A Canta ploughed full steam ahead into a confectioner’s shop the other day, coming to a stop in a deluge of liquorice and assorted shortbread, with two fat ladies’ horrified faces smashed against the windshield. Their little dog had got stuck under the brake pedal. Truth is better than fiction.
Here the topic of almost every conversation is either the snow or the great fish caper. The old biddies keep coming up with the most fanciful conspiracy theories, and some aren’t shy about making unsubstantiated accusations: for example, close to the time of the murder, two residents had seen Mrs Aaltje in the corridor where the fish tank is located …
The fact that her room is on that corridor, and that, being three floors up, she can hardly be expected to climb in through the window, did not deter anyone. Poor Aaltje, a timid little mouse who can’t weigh more than forty kilos and doesn’t dare look you in the eye, has never harmed fish nor fly.
After the coppers’ visit, the director called a meeting ‘to allay fears a bit’. She informed us that every room on the second floor had been thoroughly searched ‘for form’s sake’. As if the perpetrator’s room would be revealed by the presence of cake crumbs galore. No one piped up to ask if management had the right to inspect the rooms. I didn’t either; didn’t have the nerve.
However, over coffee there was plenty of whispered innuendo about rooms on other floors that could stand a thorough inspection as well. Accompanied by vehement nods: ‘Oh, yes!’
Thursday, 17 January
I’ve been reading back through my diary entries. Perhaps they’re a bit gloomy so far. I assure you that there are some decent people in here too!
My friend Evert, of course. He lives independently just around the corner in the sheltered accommodation with his dog – an old, friendly, very intelligent, lazy mutt named Mohammed. Whenever Evert’s gout acts up, I’m the one who walks the dog. Walking the dog doesn’t entail very much, owing to my limited range, but then Mo’s range is even more limited than mine. One loop round the building, that’s it. A trickle against ten tree trunks, and once a day a turd deposited on the grass, which I have to whisk away in a little plastic bag since I am being spied on from dozens of windows. If I were to leave a poo in the spot where it was expelled, there would be a scramble to be the first to report me.
Then there’s Edward. A man of few words. He is hard to understand because of his stroke, but he chooses his near-unintelligible words carefully. Whenever he does attempt to say something, you know that repeating ‘Excuse me?’ several times will be worth it. What he economizes on words, he expends on shrewd observation.
Grietje: a real dear, friendly and sympathetic without fawning.
Graeme, the last of this group for now, seems insecure and introverted, but always tells it to you straight, without riling you.
These are the men and women I don’t mind sitting with over a cuppa. It’s more or less a given, really, for something as simple as whether to sit down next to someone or not follows strict unwritten rules. We all have our prescribed places: at the lunch table, at bingo, in ‘Moving to Music’ class, in the meditation room. If you want to be hated, just try sitting down in someone else’s spot and not moving when one of these doddering old babies comes up to you and pouts, ‘That’s where I sit.’ (‘Well, if I may venture to say so, you seem to be standing at the moment. Right in front of my nose.’) That is if you haven’t already been warned, as you’re limping to an empty chair, ‘That’s where Mrs So-and-so sits!’ Upon which everyone always apologizes, and shuffles on. When what you really should do is sit down. And say, pointing to the other empty chairs, ‘She’ll sit over there today, or she can just sod off.’
Friday, 18 January
Over the past three days management has issued a travel restriction; after all, who wants to risk a broken hip? It doesn’t improve the mood round here. Not that the residents tend to go out much even when it isn’t slippery; but still, most take a daily stroll to the shopping centre, the postbox, or the park. And the greater the prohibition, the greater the need. The old biddies are sitting by the window today staring at the snow that just will not melt, complaining about the council that keeps the roads ploughed but leaves the pavement and bicycle paths awash in brown sludge. They do have a point.
The staff have swept the front steps so that we can make our way unhampered from the front door to the bus stop. But the agonizing uncertainty about what might await you at the other end, when you get off the minibus, makes most people decide not to risk it. Fear is an ever-present counsellor.
The fish tempest-in-a-teacup has died down somewhat. It was only a matter of time before something else came along to distract people’s attention. Well here it is: besides the snow, it’s the rumour that the council wants to put up the parking rates. The oldies worry that if the meter needs to be fed with one euro more, their children will come less often. If my children were so put off by having to pay one bloody euro extra that it made them stay away, I wouldn’t want them to visit me at all. When I ventured, very cautiously, to express my opinion on the matter over coffee, I was told that it was easy for me to say, seeing that I don’t have any children and never have any visitors in the first place.
There is a grain of truth in that. Almost every name in my address book is crossed out. Two that aren’t may or may not still be alive. Another doesn’t remember who I am. That leaves only Evert and Anja. Graeme, Edward and Grietje aren’t listed in my address book. Not a very impressive list of friends, is it. The choice is either dying young, or enduring an endless string of funerals. I now have just five more funerals to go, max, not counting the ones I go to only out of politeness.
Saturday, 19 January
Friday is ‘Feel Good Fitness’ day. That’s when you see the old biddies scurrying down the halls on their way to the ‘gym’ in the most remarkable exercise outfits. The ladies are truly past the point of shame, and it is not a pretty sight. Pink leggings hugging skinny, bony kne
es or fat, jiggling thighs, form-fitting T-shirts pulled tight across what was once a pair of breasts. The physical decline on proud display. At my age, it is not conducive to feeling good.
The venue: a little-used conference room in which the tables are pushed to the side and the chairs arranged in a circle. The exercise largely takes place sitting down, so as not to dishearten the wheelchair-bound. There’s a bit of waving of arms and legs to the beat of some cheerful music. And groaning. And loud proclaiming of ailments preventing the execution of certain moves. ‘I can’t do that with my colostomy.’
Then it’s time for a game of ball-tossing. Confession: the ball isn’t in play all that much. It’s the vocal cords that get the most exercise – cheering one another on for the simplest of exploits. Like a mother applauding a toddler who after twenty tries finally manages to catch the ball: ‘Yes! You did it! What a clever boy!’
We’re all very good sports, let’s just put it that way.
So indeed, yesterday I attended ‘Feel Good Fitness’. It was my first time. And also my last. When it was over and the instructor – ‘Call me Tina’ – gushed that I should definitely come again next week, I told her right then and there that once was enough.
‘Oh, and why is that?’ she asked suspiciously.