Discovering Daisy

It was raining when they disembarked in the early morning, and Daisy, looking around her, reflected that this flat and damp landscape wasn’t at all what she had expected. But presently there was a watery winter sun, and the built-up areas were left behind. They stopped for coffee, and then drove on.

‘Loenen aan de Vecht,’ said the driver. ‘The other side of Amsterdam on the way to Utrecht. Not far now—we turn off the motorway soon.’

He bypassed Amsterdam and emerged into quiet countryside, and presently onto a country road running beside a river. ‘The Vecht,’ said Daisy, poring over the map.

It was a delightful road, tree-lined, with here and there a pleasant house tucked away. On the opposite bank there were more houses—rather grand gentlemen’s residences, with sweeping lawns bordering the water and surrounded by trees and shrubs.

Before long they came to a bridge and crossed it.

‘Is it here?’ asked Daisy. ‘One of these houses? They’re rather splendid…’

They turned in through wrought-iron gates and drew up before an imposing doorway reached by stone steps. There were rows of orderly windows with heavy shutters and gabled roofs above the house’s solid face, and an enormous bell-pull beside the door. Daisy got out and looked around her with knowledgeable eyes. Seventeenth-century, she guessed, and probably older than that round the back.

The driver had got out too and rung the bell; they could hear its sonorous clanging somewhere in the depths of the house. Presently the door was opened by a stout man, and Daisy handed over the letter Mijnheer van der Breek had given her in England.

Invited to step inside, she did so, prudently asking the driver to stay with the van, and was led down a long, gloomy hall to big double doors at its end. The stout man flung them open and crossed the large and equally gloomy apartment to where Mijnheer van der Breek sat. He handed him the letter and waved Daisy forward.

Mijnheer van der Breek got up, shook hands with her and asked, ‘You have the screen? Splendid. It is unfortunate that my brother is indisposed, otherwise he would have shared my pleasure at your arrival.’

‘It’s outside in the van,’said Daisy. ‘If you would tell me where you want it put the driver and I will see to it.’

‘No, no, young lady. Cor shall help the man. Although you must supervise its removal, of course. We have decided that we want it in the salon. When it has been brought there I will come personally and say where it is to go.’

Daisy would have liked five minutes’ leisure, preferably with a pot of tea, but it seemed that she wasn’t to get it. She went back to the van, this time with Cor, and watched while the men took the screen from the van and carried it carefully into the house. More double doors on one side of the hall had been opened, and she followed them into the room beyond. It was large and lofty, with tall narrow windows heavily swathed in crimson velvet curtains. The furniture was antique, but not of a period which Daisy cared for—dark and heavy and vaguely Teutonic. But, she had to admit, a good background for the screen.

Time was taken in getting the screen just so, and she finally heard Mijnheer van der Breek’s satisfied approval. What was more, he told her that she might postpone unwrapping it and examining it until after they had had luncheon. It was only after he had seen his treasure safely disposed that he sent for his housekeeper to show Daisy her room.

Daisy bade the driver goodbye, reminded him to drive carefully and to let her father know that they had arrived safely, and followed the imposing bulk of the housekeeper up the elaborately carved staircase.

She was led away from the gallery above and down a small passage, down a pair of steps, along another passage, and then finally into a room at the corner of the house with windows in two walls, a lofty ceiling and a canopied bed. The floor was polished wood, with thick rugs here and there. A small table with two chairs drawn up to it was in one corner of the room, and there was a pier table with a marble top holding a Dutch marquetry toilet mirror flanked by a pair of ugly but valuable Imari vases. The room was indeed a treasure house of antiques, although none to her liking. But the adjoining bathroom won her instant approval. She tidied her hair, did her face and found her way downstairs, hopeful of lunch.

It was eaten in yet another room, somewhat smaller than the others, but splendidly furnished, the table laid with damask cloth and a good deal of very beautiful silver and china. A pity that the meal didn’t live up to its opulent surroundings.

‘A light lunch at midday,’explained Mijnheer van der Breek, and indeed it was. A spoonful or two of clear soup, a dish of cold meats, another of cheeses, and a basket of rolls, partaken of so sparingly by her host that she felt unable to satisfy her appetite. But the coffee was delicious.

Probably dinner would be a more substantial meal, hoped Daisy, rising from the table with her host and, since he expected it of her, going to examine the screen.

She spent the afternoon carefully checking every inch of the screen; removing every speck of dust, making sure that the light wasn’t too strong for it, making sure that the gilt wasn’t damaged. She hardly noticed the time passing, and she stopped thankfully when the housekeeper brought her a small tray of tea. She worked on then, until she was warned that dinner would be at seven o’clock. She went to her room and changed into a plain brown jersey dress which did nothing to improve her appearance but which didn’t crease when packed…

Both elderly gentlemen were at dinner, so that she was kept busy answering their questions during the meal—a substantial one, she was glad to find; pork cutlets with cooked beetroot, braised chicory and large floury potatoes smothered in butter. Pudding was a kind of blancmange with a fruit sauce. Good solid fare. Either the gentlemen didn’t have a good cook or they had no fancy for more elaborate cooking. But once again the coffee was delicious. Over it they discussed her departure.

‘Perhaps tomorrow afternoon?’suggested Mijnheer van der Breek, and glanced at his brother, who nodded. ‘You will be driven to Amsterdam,’ she was told. ‘We understand that you have an errand there for your father. We are most grateful for your help in bringing the screen to us, but I am sure that you would wish to fulfil your commission and return home as soon as possible.’

Daisy smiled politely and reflected that, much as she loved her home, it was delightful to be on her own in a strange country. She would see as much of Amsterdam as possible while she was there. She would phone her father as soon as she could and ask him if she might stay another day there—there were museums she dearly wanted to see…

She was driven to Amsterdam the next day by the stout man in an elderly and beautifully maintained Daimler. The hotel her father had chosen for her was small and welcoming, down a small side-street crisscrossed by canals. The proprietor spoke English, and led her up a steep staircase to a small room overlooking the street. He reminded her that the evening meal was at six o’clock, then went back to his cubby-hole by the entrance.

It was a gloomy afternoon, already turned to dusk. Too late to visit Heer Friske’s shop, so Daisy contented herself with tidying her person, unpacking her few clothes and then sitting down in the overstuffed chair by the window to study a map of the city. Complicated, she decided, as she found the small square where Heer Friske had his shop. But she had all day before her on the morrow and, since her father had had no objection to her staying for a second day, she would have a whole further day sightseeing before going back on the night ferry.

She went downstairs presently, to the small dining room in the basement, and found a dozen other people there, all of them Dutch. They greeted her kindly and, being a friendly girl by nature, she enjoyed her meal. Soup, pork chops with ample potatoes and vegetables, and a custard for pudding. Simple, compared with the fare at Mijnheer van der Breek’s house, but much more sustaining…

She slept well, ate her breakfast of rolls and cheese and cold meat, drank several cups of coffee and, thus fortified, started off for Heer Friske’s shop. The hotel didn’t provide lunch, and in any case she didn’t intend to return before the late afternoon. As she started to pick her way through the various streets she saw plenty of small coffee shops where she would be able to get a midday snack.

She missed her way several times, but, being a sensible girl, she didn’t get flustered. All the same, she was glad when she reached the shop. It was small and old and the window was crammed with small antiques. She spent a minute or two studying them before she entered the shop. It was dark inside, lighted by rather feeble wall-lights, and extended back into even deeper gloom. The whole place was crowded with antiques. Daisy made her way carefully towards the old man sitting at a desk in the middle of it all.

She said, ‘Good morning,’ and offered a hand, guessing quite rightly that he wasn’t the kind of man who would waste time on unnecessary chat, for he barely glanced at her before resuming the polishing of a rather fine silver coffee pot.

‘Daisy Gillard,’ said Daisy clearly. ‘You told my father that you had a Georgian wine cooler. May I see it, please?’

Heer Friske found his voice and spoke in strongly accented English. ‘You are here to buy it? You are capable?’

‘My father thinks so.’

He got up slowly and led her further into the shop, where the wine cooler stood on top of a solid table. He didn’t say anything, but stood back while she examined it. It was a splendid specimen, in good condition and genuine. ‘How much?’ asked Daisy.

His price was too high, but she had expected that. It took half an hour’s bargaining over several cups of coffee before they reached an amount which pleased them both. Daisy made out a Eurocheque, said that she would return on the following day to make arrangements to convey the unwieldy cooler to the station, and took her leave, pleased with herself and happy to have the rest of the day in which to do exactly what she liked.

By the time she got back to the hotel in the late afternoon she was tired but content; she had crammed the Rijksmuseum, two churches, Anne Frank’s house and a canal trip into her time, stopping only for a brief while to consume a kaas broodje and a cup of coffee.

At dinner she told her companions where she had been and they nodded approval, pointing out that the evening was when she should take the opportunity of walking to the Leidesplein to get a glimpse of the brightly lighted square with its cafés and hotels and cheerful crowds.

Daisy, a cock-a-hoop over her successful day, decided that she would do just that. It was no distance, and although it was a chilly night, with a sparkling frost, there was a moon and plenty of people around. She found her way to the Leidesplein easily enough, had a cup of coffee at a street stall while she watched the evening crowds, and then started back to the hotel.

However, somehow she mistook her way, and, turning round to check where she had come from, took unguarded steps backwards and fell into a canal.

She came to the surface of the icy water and her first thought was thankfulness that she hadn’t had anything valuable about her person; the second was a flash of panic. The water wasn’t just cold, it smelled awful—and tasted worse.There were probably rats… She opened her mouth and bawled for help and swam, very hampered by her clothes, to the canal bank. Slippery stones, too steep for her to scramble up. She bawled again, and, miracle of miracles, a firm hand caught her shoulder while a second grabbed her other arm, almost wrenching it from its socket. She was heaved onto the street with no more ado.

‘Not hurt?’ asked her rescuer.

‘Ugh,’ said Daisy, and was thankfully sick, half kneeling on the cobbles.

‘Only very wet and—er, strong-smelling,’ added a voice she knew.

He bent and set her on her feet. ‘Come with me and we’ll get you cleaned up.’

‘Mr der Huizma,’ said Daisy. ‘Oh, it would be you, wouldn’t it?’ she added wildly. It was nice to have been rescued, but why couldn’t it have been by a stranger? Why did it have to be someone who, if he’d remembered her at all, would have thought of her as a quiet, well-mannered girl with a knowledge of antiques and a liking for walks by the sea. Now it would be as a silly, careless fool.

‘Indeed it is I.’ He had her by the arm. ‘Across this bridge is the hospital where I work. They will soon have you clean and dry again.You didn’t lose anything in the canal?’

‘No. I didn’t have more than a few gulden with me. I only turned round to see where I was…’

‘Of course,’ agreed Mr der Huizma gravely, ‘a perfectly natural thing to do. This way.’

The hospital was indeed close by. He led her, squelching and dripping, into the casualty entrance and handed her over to a large bony woman who clucked sympathetically and led Daisy away before she had time to utter a word of thanks to Mr der Huizma. Her clothes were taken from her, she was put under a hot shower, her hair was washed and she was given injections. The sister, who spoke good English, smiled at her. ‘Rats,’ she said, plunging in the needle. ‘A precaution.’

She was given hot coffee, wrapped in a hospital gown several sizes too large and a thick blanket, and sat on a chair in one of the cubicles. She felt quite restored in her person, but her mind was in a fine jumble. She had no clothes; her own had been taken away, but even if they were washed they would never be dry enough, and how was she to get back to the hotel? No one had asked her that yet. She rubbed her long mousy hair dry and began to worry.

The cubicle curtains were parted and Sister appeared; looming beside her was Mr der Huizma. Daisy stared up at them from the depths of her blanket.