We elect to go see Anne Frank’s house first, as Owen and I are both fascinated with her life story. Owen tells me it’s only a twenty-six-minute walk to Prinsengracht from the hotel or we can grab a cab and be there in fifteen. I choose to walk. I want to see it all. Connect with the city physically. It’s cold but crisp and early Christmas shoppers rush past as we tourists gaze around in awe.
‘The museum is open on Christmas Day, that’s mad, isn’t it?’ Owen says as he reads and walks. His arm rubs against my shoulder. ‘Right, that’s not bad for a poor artist, nine euro in. You know the way the Anne Frank House is made up of the former business premises of Otto Frank, including the secret annex, together with the new building next door? We are gonna get to see that annex, Ali,’ he informs me in an amazed tone as he takes my elbow to manoeuvre me out of the way of a bicycle who’s rider is ringing his bell. I tremble at his touch.
‘The original building has as far as possible been kept in its original state; imagine that, Ali?’ Owen holds the book down and looks up at me. ‘It’s still hard to get your head around, isn’t it?’
I nod. It is.
‘How can a world so beautiful be such a revolting, dark, murderous place?’
We have often had these conversations about our world, about the war-torn twentieth century all the way up to the present. Murder. Genocide. Terrorism. High school shootings. It’s a scary place. To be sitting at your desk at 8.46 on a sunny September morning and have a commercial aircraft flown deliberately into your place of work. To be sitting in a cafe in central Paris, eating a warm pain au chocolat and a frothy cappuccino, only to be shot in the head. To be a child born in Syria. To be the parent of that child, trying to escape terrorism, knowing you face drowning in open waters. Wrong place, wrong time. We haven’t come as far from Anne Frank’s world as we might like to think.
‘The museum has quotations from the diary, photos, films and original artefacts illustrating the events that took place in the hiding place. You know I was telling the Steffi Street kids as much as I could about Anne before I left for Belfast. In a weird way they could relate to it. James Rafter hid under his bed for two days when his da’ was in hiding from the police for robbing the post office in Balbriggan. I must see if I can bring home something for him from the museum.’
We avoid another bell-ringing cyclist.
‘You’d have made a brilliant teacher,’ I tell him and I link his arm. It feels wonderful and I feel so completely free. His body heat immediately warms my cold hand. I’m free of all my responsibilities for two whole days. My responsibilities. It hits me. I can’t think of my children right now because if I do I will burst into tears.
‘I would have loved it but all I really want to do is paint, Ali, as shit as that is for me and anyone I may ever have to support or contribute financially to. I called Corina, did she tell you?’
My heart skips a beat.
‘No, why?’ Am I jealous?
‘The exhibition, I’m finally going to do one. Apart from the fact I have to have one to apply for France, I think I’m ready to put myself out there to be judged. I have about four pieces I need to finish, which I’m planning to do after Christmas, and then I’m good to go.’ He raises his eyebrows at me.
I nod.
Why didn’t she tell me he’d called?
‘And Corina’s going to do the event for you?’
‘Yup, and she said she won’t take a penny! I insisted, of course, so she said if I sell anything on the night she will take her fee out of that sale, otherwise the deal’s off. There’s something so familiar about her, like I’ve known her all my life. She’s deadly, isn’t she?’
‘She is.’ We stop at the lights and I unfurl my arms from his. I turn him towards me.
‘Why don’t you have a girlfriend?’
He does a double-take. ‘Where did that come out of?’
The crossing lights make a piercing beeping noise and we cross.
‘I … I have … well, I suppose I’d never met anyone I wanted to be with day in and day out. A girlfriend isn’t just for Christmas.’ He smacks his lips together.
‘Hmmm,’ I say. I don’t want to think about him leaving to go to work in France.
We walk along the river in silence until we reach the museum. Throngs of people are looking up, taking pictures on their cameras and iPhones. I get a chill immediately. This poor girl. This pretty average, middle-class Jewish family who tried to escape the horrors. This was the place it all happened. I cannot take it lightly. I stare at the plaque on the wall.
Anne Frank Huis.
My breath rises as the weather seems to turn colder. The secret annex was beyond incredible, I think as I look up. A true miracle. I know what Kitty Tead would say. The hand of God.
‘Shall we go in?’ Owen asks back with the tickets, waving them about in his right hand.
I nod. He is as emotional as I am. He takes my hand in his.
The warehouse is on the ground floor. We go up a short flight of stairs and into the office area. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise as we study the various pictures together. I wish I could explain the smell to you but I can’t. It’s so unfamiliar. We move down, and in front of us we see the office of Otto Frank, then we take a right up another flight of stairs and there in front of me is the bookcase that I had read so often about, the bookcase that hid the entrance to the secret annex. One steep staircase and I am in her world.
Anne Frank was here.
Anne Frank was here.
I am completely overwhelmed. I think I am overwhelmed for lots of different reasons. I know the story, of course I do, so does every living person on this planet I imagine. As I stare at a chart on the wall recording the children’s growth, a lump the size of a golf ball chokes into my throat and I find I can’t swallow.
Selfish. I don’t know who you are any more Ali. Selfish. The words hop around my brain.
I should be at Jade’s gymnastics.
Should I?
Am I selfish? Or am I just a working mother?
Slow tears drop and Owen sees me and quizzically looks but he just hands me a crumpled up tissue. Here were parents who did everything for their children to protect them, to give them life. I try to compose myself as we move into Anne’s bedroom, her pictures on her wall, her writing desk, her diary. It’s all too much for me and I turn to Owen with free-flowing tears and sobbing runny snot.
‘I have to get out of here.’ I turn and he follows.
He puts his arm around me. Protecting me.
We push past the tourists and out into the air. He cradles my sobbing head into the crook of his arm and we walk, straight down the road and into the Two Swans, a bar and cafe. Owen leans over the bar.
‘Toiletten alsjeblieft,’ he says.
The woman points to the back of the bar and I go. I can’t stop crying. I must look a complete mess. I enter the toilet and grab a roll of yellow toilet paper, tear some off and wet it in the sink. I dab my eyes. I miss my children so much. I’ve a physical ache in my tummy now. I want them to have a happy life and if that means me giving up my job and making my marriage work with Colin then so be it. Decision made. I take my phone out of my brown leather jacket’s inside pocket and I text Colin.
Colin, I don’t want to fight any more. I’ll hand in my notice at work.
I send the message and watch it go and I clean myself up a bit more. I feel better already.
At the back of the bar Owen has secured a free low table and two drinks.
‘You all right?’ He jumps up.
‘Sorry, yeah. I’m so sorry … I ruined Anne’s house for you.’ I pull out the small wooden three-legged stool and sit down.
‘No, you didn’t, I promise. Here, I got us a whiskey each, and there’s water in the jug if you like?’
‘I think I’m going to give up the job, Owen,’ I say as I sniff and sip my smoky whiskey. It burns my throat and the pain feels great.
‘What? Why?’ He slides off his motorbike jacket and I take in the tight black V-neck T-shirt he’s wearing underneath it. He tugs at the sleeves a bit.
‘Because I’m a shit mother and my children will have shit lives if I don’t.’ I take a sharp breath in through my nose to stop any more crying.
He reaches across and takes my cold hands.
‘You’re a brilliant mother, Ali. I’ve seen you with the kids, you talk so proudly about them all the time, why are you saying this?’ He runs his thumbs across my knuckles.
‘Because the main thing Colin and I flight over is this job: he doesn’t want me to work outside the home,’ I explain.
He doesn’t jump in, he just removes his hands from mine, sips his whiskey and swirls the golden liquid around his glass.
‘I won’t … I can’t comment on your marriage, Ali, I’m just not that type of guy. That’s your personal business, you and him, but you are my friend, and you are exceptional at your job, and like millions of mothers all over the world you do both jobs amazingly well. I think you are incredible.’
He raises his glass and I raise mine and we clink.
My phone beeps. I grab it out from the inside pocket. It’s not Colin, it’s Corina. The text is a reminder. I never heard it beep.
Hey. I’m going to go over early to Jade’s gymnastics competition so don’t fret I’ll send you some videos and loads of pics so you won’t miss a thing.
God, she’s wonderful.
‘OK?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, Corina’s going to go see Jade’s gymnastics rehearsals.’ I push the phone into the back pocket of my jeans now. It’s strange Colin hasn’t replied to that text.
Owen pushes the jug of water out of our way.
‘OK, this is a bit out there, but it’s still early and we have till six p.m. I propose we go to a coffee shop, have a little smokey joe and then take our raging appetite for a slap-up lunch of tagliatelle and linguine, or seafood, whatever, with some great red wine.’
I make a face.
‘Oh, I dunno, it’s been years since I smoked a joint … and even then I only tried it once at Croke Park seeing U2 because someone handed it to me. I’d nearly be afraid. It is a work trip, after all?’ I wince. I’m not good at being out of control.
‘Tell you what, you eat a little brownie and I’ll have a little joint. We will ask for something really light and mild and fun, because you know what, Ali, you really do need a laugh.’ He finishes his whiskey and places it dead centre of the square beer mat.
‘I really want to go and see the Teylers Museum today too though, I don’t want to waste a minute of this city.’ I bend over to the floor and pull my travel book out of my bag and flick through the thin pages.
‘Promise we will do both. Have you ever been to a museum stoned?’ He reaches out and takes the book from me just as I locate the marked page.
‘No!’ I shake my head wildly, my ponytail coming loose so I shake my hair out. I run my fingers through it, its gathering some length and I like this grown-out crop. It makes me feel younger. I’m not sure what it looks like, but I don’t care. I push my fringe to the side.
‘It’s amazing, trust me, Ali.’ He reads the page in front of him on the Teylers Museum.
I pinch the bridge of my nose lightly. I feel a bit weak at the knees again. It’s the way he says the words Trust me, Ali. Like, I hear in them a romantic intent.
I stare at him holding my travel guide, his amazing big brown eyes darting over the pages and I’d still love to strip him naked and ride him like Seabiscuit, but I can’t and that’s just the way it is. This might be the very last day I ever spend alone with Owen O’Neill. I knock back my whiskey. I am only thirty-five. Can you prefix thirty-five with the word only? I don’t know. I don’t know how old I’m supposed to feel. I still feel young, and today I’m going to have some fun. I’ve made my decision: on Monday I will hand in my notice to Colette and as soon as she can replace me I will be a full-time stay-at-home mum. This is somehow feeling like my ‘hens’ weekend: after this weekend I’m no longer a working mother.
‘Shall we?’ I stand, determined to enjoy these next two days, and outstretch my hand. He stands and takes it. Skin on skin.
‘Yes! Come on, let’s have a bit of craic!’ He lets go and hands me back my guidebook and I stuff it down deep into my bag as he shoves his arms back into his biker jacket.
We stroll outside and hail a cab.
‘Smokey coffee shop alsjeblieft?’ He tries his best with the accent, in fairness.
The car speeds off and we knock our heads together as we roar laughing.