At the end of October, Angelika goes into labor. Her cries wake me a little after midnight and increase in volume and intensity with the passing of the hours. There’s a buzz of excitement in the house. Quentin is up, Truda isn’t leaving Angelika’s side, Katherine and Gertrude wake up and come down in their nightdresses and sleeping caps to find me. I let them clamber into my bed and distract them with stories.
“Why haven’t you got a baby, Catrin?” asks Gertrude.
“I nearly had a baby, but it passed away.”
“Was it a girl?”
“No, a little boy.”
“We had a little brother. He died too,” says Katherine. “And mothers die as well.”
“No they don’t!” says Gertrude in fright.
“Yes they do. You don’t know, you’re still a baby.”
These words make Gertrude huddle closer to me. “Mama isn’t going to die, is she, Catrin?”
“Of course not,” I say soothingly. Angelika’s previous births went without complications, so I feel I can promise them that.
This time it ends up taking a bit longer. The midwife comes, Angelika’s screams get weaker and weaker, it is light outside and there’s still no baby. I curse my leg for keeping me so powerless and rooted to the spot, unable to support my friend. Finally, as the daylight streams into the house, I hear the shrill cry of a newborn. I watch the door tensely until Quentin appears.
“It’s a little boy!”
“Congratulations! And Angelika? Is she all right?”
“Fine. Exhausted but very happy.” And with that he’s away again.
In the isolation of the box bed, I listen to the activity in the living room and am overcome with emotion. I’m glad when the girls come storming back in.
“We’ve got a little brother!”
“So I hear, how nice for you both.”
“And he isn’t dead,” says Gertrude smugly. “And neither is Mama.”
“What’s his name?”
She has to think about it, her fine little brows knit together. “It’s a difficult name . . .”
“He’s called Allardusin,” says Katherine.
“What a magnificent name.”
“What was your baby called, Catrin?” asks Gertrude.
“He didn’t have a name,” I say. “He died before I’d thought of one.”
They nod and run off to play outside.
Angelika is up and about surprisingly quickly. The very same day she comes shuffling her way through the house to sit with me. She has Truda bring her son and lay him in my arms. I look at his little face, the balled-up hands and tiny nails, smell that peculiar, sweet baby smell and pass him back to Angelika with a smile. “He’s beautiful.”
“He is, isn’t he? Quentin is so happy.” Angelika beams down at her baby, full of pride and then looks at me. “You never told me what happened with your little boy. Was he still alive after the birth? Or would you rather not talk about it?”
“No, I’d rather not talk about it.”
Angelika looks downcast. “I should never have brought it up, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
But of course it isn’t fine. Once she’s left the kitchen with Allardusin and Truda has gone outside to hang the washing, I close the doors of the box bed and, for the first time in ages, I cry for my son.
After three more weeks, the day finally arrives for me to be allowed out of bed. With Angelika and her family around me, I’ve had enough company and distractions, but I long to be able to move around again. I wait impatiently for Evert, who’s got hold of some crutches for me. My legs dangle over the edge of the bed. Smiling broadly, Evert comes in and hands me the wooden props. “These will have you back on your feet in no time. Well, foot anyway.”
He lifts me up and the parts of my body he touches suddenly seem to glow. A few seconds later I’m standing on my good leg, leaning on the bed while Evert keeps hold of me. His breathing sounds labored above my head, I hardly dare look up at him. Evert puts the crutches under my arms and takes a step back. “Give it a try.”
As I take my first faltering steps, he stays close, one hand held out protectively. I soon get the hang of it and hobble up and down the hall.
“Finally,” I say to Evert, who’s watching with his arms folded. “I’m coming straight to the workshop with you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, of course I’m sure. I’ve been doing nothing for long enough. Painting won’t do my leg any harm, so there’s no reason not to get back to work.”
“As long as you promise not to go gallivanting around the workshop for no reason. There’s rubbish all over the floor.”
“I’ll stay at my bench like a good girl.”
He nods at me approvingly. “Fine, I could certainly do with your help.”
I say goodbye to Angelika in the living room. We hug and I give little Allard, as he’s now known, a kiss.
“I’ll miss you,” Angelika says sadly. “It was nice having someone to talk to. You’ll still be sleeping here for a while, won’t you? You won’t be able to go shopping or cook for yourself yet.”
As much as I’d prefer to go back to my own house, and probably would manage with a bit of help, I must admit it’s a relief to be freed from household tasks, so I agree.
“Then I’ll see you tonight. Go and enjoy your painting. I think Evert is delighted to have you back,” says my friend.
That sounds a bit ambiguous, but I decide to assume she means as an employee. Which seems plausible when I enter the workshop. By the look of it, production has doubled during my absence. The walls of the painters’ studio, which had once been bare, are now lined with shelves groaning with unfired earthenware and both ovens are in use. There are crates of firewood, sacks of minerals and baskets of finished pieces ready for delivery. In one corner of the studio, a couple of lads are grinding pigment nonstop and every single seat at the workbench is occupied by a painter.
“We’ll find a place for you,” says Evert when he sees my face. “If the others squeeze together a little, you can sit at the corner. That’ll be easier with your leg.”
There’s a racket coming from the courtyard and I shuffle over to the window on my crutches. The spot previously used by the cat for sunbathing is now rammed with handcarts, barrels and crates of clay and men are rushing to and fro.
“So busy,” I remark to Evert, who comes to stand beside me.
“It’s as much as I can do to keep up with the number of orders. They’re coming in from all over the country, recently even from England.”
“So it’s a success.”
“It’s a huge success. And it was your idea, so you’ve definitely earned a raise. From now on you’ll receive the same as I’d pay a man doing your job.”
“In that case, I’m getting straight to work, before you think better of it.” I’ve almost turned my back when someone else in the courtyard catches my eye. Jacob! At first I’m speechless, then I splutter, “What’s he doing here?”
“He was looking for a job and I needed clay treaders,” says Evert. “Why, is that a problem?”
At that moment, Jacob looks straight at me, as if he senses my presence. We’re yards apart and there’s a window between us, but I can feel the threat radiating from him. For a few seconds we maintain eye contact, and then he turns and continues on his way.
“No,” I tell Evert, who’s watching me expectantly. “It’s no problem at all.”