Headlines

‘If it were up to me, Brouwer, we wouldn’t be mooring just yet.’

The captain shrugs and looks back. ‘Unfortunately, it’s not up to you.’

‘No,’ the Queen says. ‘You are absolutely right there.’

It’s a little colder than yesterday. There was a passing shower during the short crossing of the Marsdiep, but the sun is shining again now. The Piet Hein will arrive at ’t Horntje in plenty of time, wisps of brass-band music are already reaching them over the waves. Not a moment’s peace. Röell and Jezuolda Kwanten are sitting in the saloon, two deckhands are already standing on the fo’c’sle. Ten minutes ago, Röell was already huffing with today’s documentation on her knees. The others crossed on the ferry. Pappie didn’t come and Van der Hoeven spent the night somewhere else. If everything goes according to plan, he’ll be standing on the Ministry dock with Beelaerts van Blokland. Dierx will be joining them today too. She had a restless night, as she often does after eating in restaurants; she has the impression it’s caused by the butter or oil they use. She hadn’t had much of an appetite anyway, after visiting the fish market. Tossing and turning, she’d kept thinking about the square that bore her name, the one with the theatre on it. Rarely had she seen such an ugly, impersonal square, and lying awake in her bunk she couldn’t help but be annoyed about it. Surely it’s almost a snub, naming something like that after her?

The Queen excused herself from the greater part of the fireworks that followed the dinner at the Bellevue Hotel. Röell and Kwanten did the honours and only people with binoculars would have seen that she was no longer on deck.

The island looks like a photograph in a travel brochure, but those photographs never smell of fish. She turns and goes down into the saloon. One more day and things will be quiet again for a while. Rather than these work visits, she much prefers receiving people herself at Soestdijk.

‘Programme?’ Röell asks.

‘Go ahead,’ she says.

‘Arrival nine forty a.m.’

The Queen looks at the brass clock. ‘We have a little time then.’

‘Shall we go through the details now?’

‘What’s he called?’

‘Sprenger. Flowers will be presented by Janneke Harting, ten-year-old daughter of the district head of the Ministry of Waterways and Public Works.’

‘Yesterday I received flowers from the baker’s daughter and the butcher’s son.’

‘And?’

‘No, nothing.’

Röell starts huffing again.

No, thinks the Queen, this is the last time I’m putting myself through this. Next time, Van der Hoeven.

‘After that, we’ll drive to the mussel-seed farm.’

‘God Almighty,’ she mumbles. ‘On an almost empty stomach. With a whole day to go.’ She sees a few newspapers on the gleaming tabletop, sits down and pulls them over.

‘Are you going to read the paper?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the programme?’

‘We’ll be in the car the whole time. You can fill me in as we go.’ Ignoring Röell, who is angrily stuffing the papers into her handbag, she unfolds the newspaper.

Although the Piet Hein has a sharp bow, the swell is very noticeable. Jezuolda Kwanten holds the edge of the table tightly. The Schagen Courier and the North Holland Daily. Before she has a chance to study the pictures on the front pages, the headlines leap out at her. Spontaneous character plays havoc with schedule. Great enthusiasm in the Head of North Holland. And, as expected: Queen cuddles pygmy goats. Almost all of the photographs show her walking, one foot in front of the other. She races through column after column of newspaper prose. ‘Look,’ she tells the sister, ‘here’s a long piece about you.’

‘Oh,’ says Jezuolda Kwanten. ‘A journalist did ask me a few questions.’

‘“The high-spirited sister began as an art teacher, but retrained and now uses her creative talents as a sculptress. Proudly, she showed me a sketchbook in which she has already immortalised our monarch in pencil. Mr Samson of the Government Information Service commented, ‘With spectacles on, Her Majesty will be a sure hit. They add contrast to her face.’”’ The Queen sighs. ‘A bronze bust,’ she says. ‘A sure hit.’

‘Ah,’ says the sister. ‘Newspapers.’

‘Your name, by the way, is completely misspelled. It says Jeseualda.’

‘Humph.’

‘What was yesterday’s highlight as far as you were concerned?’

‘The barefoot skiing. I didn’t know that was even possible. I did some sketches of it.’ The sister reaches for the sketchbook, possibly to show her drawings of the waterskiing.

The demonstration itself made little impression on the Queen, she doesn’t need to see the drawings too. She was constantly distracted by unruly schoolboys, who were being held back from the dais by policemen. She’s finished with the North Holland Daily and picks up the Schagen Courier. Once again, the whole front page, as if nothing more important has happened in the world. One of the photographs shows her sitting on a wooden chair and leaning over a small fence to look into a plastic box full of fish. ‘Ugh,’ she says quietly, telling herself firmly that she must remember to think of her legs today. She searches the article for a comment about the elderly violinist. Merrily moving his bow up and down over the taut and slender strings, Van der Goes kept his old eyes open wide so as not miss one iota of the regal apparition. The editors have let their hair down in Schagen. She turns to the next page to find out what the real news was yesterday. Next to an article with the headline From 87 cents down to 40, bread war in Harderwijk, a small article stands out because of its brevity. Child run over, it says. She hears Jezuolda’s pencil softly scratching away, sees the jerking movement of her right arm out of the corner of her eye. Of course, she thinks, a bust of the Queen in a relaxed state. A fatal accident yesterday afternoon claimed the life of the two-year-old daughter of the Kaan family. While playing with the dog, the girl apparently found her way onto the road where she was hit by a delivery van. The child died on the spot. The muted scratching is suddenly no longer quiet; the snatches of brass-band music have merged into a cheerful march, dominated by the trumpets. The Piet Hein bumps against the dock; Röell slides along the leather bench. ‘Stop drawing,’ the Queen says, ‘now.’ She takes the packet of cigarettes out of her bag and lights one.

Jezuolda Kwanten looks shocked.

‘What’s got into you all of a sudden?’ asks Röell, who has slid back to her original position and is looking down her nose at her.

The Queen stares at her hands, feels an itching on the knuckles of her index finger. That child, she thinks. That mother and child. The beams of light shining in through the portholes disappear one after the other; it must be another passing shower. The mother’s smile breaking through, the story taking shape in that instant from all the little things that come together to form a greater whole – the kind of story that lasts a person’s whole life, that should last a person’s whole life. The falling bike, the photograph taken so close by it almost hurt her ear, her hat, her gloves.

‘We have to go,’ says Röell.

The Queen looks up. Just like yesterday, Jezuolda Kwanten is very close by; the woman who belongs to the Order of the Sisters of Charity has her eyes trained on her. For a moment she’s distracted and wonders what exactly the sister thinks of the description ‘high-spirited’. The brass band is irrepressible, they’ve probably been instructed to play as loudly as they can during disembarkation. Kwanten stares shamelessly, studying closely, counting the crow’s feet, registering lines, while out of nowhere ‘Blom’s Breadery’ pops into her head. She draws on her cigarette.

‘Have you read something unpleasant?’ Jezuolda Kwanten asks.

‘You must stay very close to me today,’ she says.

‘It would be my pleasure, ma’am,’ says Jezuolda Kwanten.

There’s a knocking on the saloon door and Van der Hoeven enters. ‘They’re waiting for you,’ he says in his warm young voice. ‘Dierx is very enthusiastic.’

‘Van der Hoeven,’ the Queen says, ‘could you take Röell’s place today?’

‘But . . .’ says Röell.

‘Of course, ma’am.’

‘Röell has the programme.’

‘I have it too,’ says Van der Hoeven.

‘And, Röell, could you please use the formal “you” when speaking to me from now on, and most definitely in company? Then I’ll use it when speaking to you too.’ She stubs out her cigarette and pulls on her leather gloves, trying to suppress thoughts of the little girl’s cheek. She is the first to leave the saloon. The island air is fresh; she takes a deep breath and braces herself for a whole day of music, pensioners, schoolchildren, the handicapped, fluttering tricolours and, above all, the stench of fish. Van der Hoeven puts up an umbrella and the Queen notices that he has beautiful hands, hands that match his voice. She feels like touching those hands. Not now, later perhaps, in the car. Jezuolda Kwanten hums softly. Did Röell stay behind in the saloon? The Queen thinks of the pygmy goats, and the mayor of Texel approaches her, glowing with delight. When he welcomes her warmly by taking her hand in both of his, the new day has officially begun.

Wednesday 18 June.