*
“They’ve papered the walls,” the grandfather observed.
The hotel restaurant was chock full. Waiters bearing trays picked their way among the crowded tables. The glassed terrace overlooking the square was occupied by balding gentlemen and ladies in two-piece suits having lunch. We took a table by the window. On the glass it said Hotel-Restaurant-Brasserie in mirror writing. Brasserie.
“This place is for the top brass,” the grandfather joked.
“He’s having you on,” said the grandmother. “Don’t you listen to him … One coffee, a pint and an apple juice please.”
The waiter scribbled on his pad and vanished as abruptly as he had appeared.
The grandparents glanced round.
“Look,” the grandmother said, pointing to a blackboard over the bar indicating the day’s specials. “They still do a Soufflé Grand Marnier.”
“Mariner Puff,” the grandfather said. They chuckled.
The espresso machine behind the bar squirted coffee into a jug. The grandfather laid his arms on the edge of the table and leaned forward to the grandmother.
“I can still see you sitting there.”
Her eyes swept past him. “They’ve got new benches.”
“You didn’t notice me at first. Remember?”
She did not reply, but turned to me instead.
“How’s your apple juice? It certainly looks good … This is where your grandfather and I first met.”
The grandfather beamed.
“It was after the annual choir festival, 1939 as I recall. There was a big crowd, a lot of young people, everybody talking at the tops of their voices. And singing.”
He sipped his pint.
“The whole square,” the grandmother continued, “was decorated with flags. And the songs! Everyone joined in, didn’t they? It was lovely. People used to sing real music then, there was none of that screaming and shouting you have nowadays.”
“Such as the Beatles, or whatever they’re called,’ he said gruffly. ‘How about you, lad, d’you like that kind of racket? They’re not human, more like a bunch of apes if you ask me.”
The grandmother began to rock gently from side to side, half humming and half singing. “When blossoming broom sets the heath ablaze.”
The grandfather did not join in, which was a relief, as I had noticed the waiter giving us odd looks every time he came past.
“And gold and azure light up the days.”
“They used to give us the sheet music to take home,” the grandfather said. “So we could practice the songs.”
“For four voices, some of them,” the grandmother said, “and at the top it said how they should be sung.”
She raised her forefinger. The waiter thought she was beckoning him. “With Pride and Valour, that’s what it said.”
The grandfather gazed dreamily out of the window at the square. “Soufflé Grand Marnier, I told the landlord, what’s all this about Soufflé Grand Marnier? Have we stopped being Flemings, all of a sudden? So what do you want me to call it, he said. Simple, I said, Grand Mariner Puff, what else?”
Their shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.
“And he did change the name, too! He really did!” the grandmother said. “Once a year for the choir festival. Mariner Puff. I expect the place has changed hands by now. The old landlord probably died years ago.”
“Your grandmother was sitting over there, in that corner,” the grandfather said, “surrounded by young folk. Drinking a pot of Trappist. Yes, she liked her beer all right. They called her the Flower of Stuyvenerghe.” He winked broadly.
“That’ll do,” she said. A pink flush spread over her cheeks, which was unusual.
“And that flower,” the grandfather said, “was picked by me. Not that there weren’t plenty of bees about. But I dare say their stings weren’t as good as mine.”
The grandmother set her handbag down on the table with a thump.
“I’m going to pay the bill, or we’ll miss our tram.”
*
The tram stopped at a crossroads on the outskirts of town. A gentle breeze ruffled the blue and white awning on a kiosk with an onion-shaped dome. The streets in this neighbourhood had a countrified air. Some of the houses were separated by yards with sheds and outbuildings that were barely visible behind tall hedges. Cherry trees poked their branches over the fence along the pavement.
Anna’s shop was on the edge of the square opposite the tram shelter. A painted wooden sign over the door said “Haevermans Stationery”. A display of old magazines languished alongside dusty calling cards and inkwells in the sun-drenched window. Singers with long bleached hair smiled toothily from record sleeves, which were so faded that their lips had turned green.
The grandmother gave the glass-panelled door a push. Somewhere at the back of the shop a bell shrieked, like a cat being trod on its tail. The shop was deserted, and smelt of tobacco.
The grandfather sniffed the air.
“They’ve got some fine little cigars here. The slender ones, good quality. Cigarillas or something. Cyriel always used to bring me some when he came to visit.”
The counter on the far side of the shop was more like a cave stacked with snuff boxes, pipe heads and cigars around a cash register.
The grandmother paced the floor, took a fashion magazine from one of the shelves, glanced at the pages, replaced it and picked a few postcards out of the rack to inspect them closely.
“They’re certainly taking their time,” she hissed.
“This place could do with a good clean,” the grandfather said.
“I’m sure Anna’s got enough on her mind as it is, poor soul.” The grandmother ran her fingertips over the different types of notepaper. “Mmm, paper …” she said, “it has such a lovely smell sometimes.”
*
It was a long wait. The only sound came from the clock over the counter, crunching wearily as it struggled to make the second hand move, without success.
At long last someone could be heard thumping down a staircase in the depths of the house. A door flew open, and a gangly boy of about sixteen with a dark shadow on his upper lip and a shock of pitch-black hair appeared in the cavernous shop. He stood there looking at us blankly until his eyes widened suddenly, as if had just remembered something.
“Ah yes, of course,” he muttered, tossing his head to flick the hair from his eyes and rushing out again before the grandmother had time to greet him.
“Odd chap, that,” the grandfather said.
The grandmother looked down at me.
“Their youngest,” she said, and then, in a low voice. “He was an afterthought, really …”
“Un accident de parcours,” the grandfather said, grinning.
“Mind you, he gets good marks at school. It wouldn’t hurt to follow his example.”
More thumping. A woman’s voice could be heard asking: “So where are they now?”
The boy growled unintelligibly.
“What’s that?” cried the woman’s voice. “Why didn’t you ask them to come through …”
The door opened again and this time it was Anna who stepped into the cave.
“Fancy making Henri and Andrea wait all this time,” she said with an apologetic smile. “Whatever would Cyriel say if he knew … Welcome. I see you’ve brought your grandson along.”
Around her eyes lay deeply etched lines, which weren’t there when she had last visited, six months earlier. The dull blond hair which had been fluffed out in a formidable perm on that occasion was now secured with old-fashioned bone combs behind her ears. She wore a grey blouse and a small pendant, which was nothing at all compared to the shiny bangles and glittery necklaces she had always worn when she came to visit. The pores of her naked skin, which would usually have been thick with makeup, now gave her features a grainy cast. When she shook my hand I saw there were tobacco stains on the tips of her index and middle finger.