old friends..

I come home with a speculaas in my hand. The small, flat Dutch biscuit that tastes of cinnamon and sugar. I put it on the table. I cannot eat when I’m sitting there with the two of them. Feels like the end of something good. She’s so dependent on him.

Thin. Hair's cut short. Like a young boy who’s been clipped by his dad. Hollow cheekbones. Can’t focus. Bony. Maroon cardigan. Pale blue blouse. Tan woollen skirt. Short socks. Slippers.
I hold her hand and stroke her arm. Skin is warm and shiny. Like old satin. Now and then she takes her hand away and fiddles with her hanky. Rubs it across her mouth and then feels for the pocket in her cardigan to put it back into. Takes her a few goes before she finds the hole.
Her English is going. I speak louder than normal. As clearly as I can. Tell her about the kids and hope there’ll be something familiar in what I say that she can hold on to and remember.


I wrote that note to myself a year ago. At the time Nan and Bob were living across the road and most weeks I saw them. Either walking past on their daily circuit of the block or on my days off when I'd pop over for a coffee in the afternoon. Nan had been gradually losing her sight - macular degeneration- and her confidence. Bob did everything. In a matter of weeks he had to learn to shop, cook and clean the house. Then as time went on, she needed more care and Bob took over the task of washing and bathing her. He shrugged when I told him it was hard on him. "No matter" he said. "She's been good to me. Now it's my turn."

But after a few months like this it became too difficult to manage so they left their house and moved into their daughter's unit in the next street. A temporary thing. Ellen put up a few of their pictures and brought around some furniture. The coffee table with the fretwork legs that looked like tiny musical clefs, made by Bob when he was a young man, was now in a small sunroom. Up in the corner above the main window was the heavy wooden wall hanging that looked like the front of a pedlar’s cart. Bob had told me it once belonged to his parents and that he and Nan brought it out on the ship with them when they migrated to Australia in 1952.

The flat was crowded and the kitchen where Ellen and her husband might be talking was only a few feet away from the room where we sat. . When I went to see Nan and Bob I felt more like guest than a friend. Much as I wanted to keep up the connection, going to the unit wasn't the same as being able to just pop across the street. Gradually the frequency of the visits dropped away.
Last week, after a long break I called to see them.. Ellen and her husband were about to go out and Nan and Bob were sitting in the sunroom. Nan in a long white skirt and blue blouse (a peasant woman from an old painting) and Bob in his trademark flannel shirt and light trousers(he's a man who's used to being busy). Before they left Ellen took her mother for a walk around the room, a slow shuffling exercise holding onto her arms. "Don't lift her up while we're out Dad. It's not good for your back" Nan was shaky when Ellen lowered her into the chair. Her blindness is almost total. She's put on weight, looks puffy now. Bob didn't move while this was going on.
I thought of those lovely afternoons when we'd sit together and chat. Nan would make coffee and put out the speculaas. She had a way of saying his name with an upward note in her voice that sounded girlish and happy, as though no matter how many years they'd been together, she was still so proud of her catch.

"Bor-b.." she'd say and he'd pull out the table for her to put down the cups and saucers and just go on talking. He was interested in language. There were Dutch and English dictionaries on the bookshelf and when words came up that we were unsure of, he'd take those books down and we'd look things up and try to find a common thread. Dutch vowels were "so simple" he told me and I'd repeat words after him to prove it. One day, not long after I first visited them, I said that I felt at home in their house. It was more than feeling comfortable though, it just seemed as if there was a particular spirit in the room itself that made our time together so enjoyable. Bob nodded and told me there was a Dutch word for this feeling kuzzella. He wondered if I knew of an equivalent in English but I couldn't come up with one so we settled on the Dutch to describe the secret of the afternoon. After this, so many visits would end with that word. Kuzzella. Thanks for the kuzzella I'd say.

One morning they had a clean-out and in the afternoon when I answered the door they were standing there with a small print of Amsterdam that had come from the mantelpiece in their lounge room. In the corner of the picture was a dark brick building and at the entrance way a woman was bent on her knees scrubbing the flagstones. .In a cobbled lane beside the building another woman leaned over a wash trough. In the early years of their marriage, I knew Bob and Nan had actually lived down that lane. "We thought you'd like this. You know all about it.” I made room for it on my mantelpiece. Later when they'd left I looked to see if there was a hook on the back. Instead I found a slip of paper pasted onto the board. Het Straatje. Johannes Vermeer Van Delft. (The Little Street) I felt so honoured.

Last week, when I visited them, Nan didn't know me. I kissed her on the cheek but I could have been anyone. Her eyes were frightened and she spoke in Dutch to Bob. "She's saying she doesn't remember you. It's okay; she's not sure about anything anymore."

So Bob and I just chatted. He'd had a recent trip to hospital, a little trouble with his heart and he told me he had to take things easy. That explained why he'd hardly moved from his sunroom chair.

Then when it was time for them to have lunch, we said goodbye. Bob followed me to the door. As we were saying goodbye he held my hand tightly in his. I kissed him on the cheek and he told me he'd never forget me.  When I reached the footpath I looked back and saw that he'd stepped out from the warmth of the room and was standing on the porch waving me off. The little spark was still there. It was only when I got home that I realized I'd forgotten to thank him for the kuzzella.