It’s only when he tries to undo the laces of my bodice that I push him away, gently but firmly. He smiles regretfully.
‘I like you, Catrin.’ His mouth is by my ear. ‘A lot. I’m glad I met you. Hopefully we’ll meet again in Amsterdam.’
‘Yes, I hope so too.’
‘If my brother is so stupid as to decide not take you on, be sure to tell the maid where I can find you.’
I nod and promise that I will. We kiss again, at first softly and then with more and more feeling. I feel my body respond again, so much so that I put an end to it by stepping smartly back and opening my door. I smile at Matthias and go inside. Before I shut the door he blows me a kiss.
‘See you in Amsterdam,’ he says.
The next morning, I go down to the taproom, but to my disappointment, Matthias has already left.
‘He had an early appointment in Den Helder. Asked me to give you this.’ Emil hands me a roll of paper.
The letter of recommendation. I turn it over in my hands a couple of times. ‘Did he say anything else?’
‘That the house is on the first part of Keizersgracht and he hopes he’ll see you soon.’
I can read a bit, the pastor in De Rijp set up a class when I was little. He thought it was important to teach girls to read so they could give their children Bible lessons. I can remember enough of it that I’d be able to tell what is in the letter, but the roll is sealed.
‘You two got on well last night.’ There’s a note of enquiry in Emil’s voice.
‘Yes,’ I say with a smile. ‘Very well.’ I pretend not to notice Emil’s curiosity and choose a table at the window.
After a light breakfast of bread and cheese, I take leave of my friends.
‘My family will be shocked when they hear I’m not in Alkmaar any more,’ I say as I give Bertha a hug.
‘We’ll explain. Send word when you’ve found a job, won’t you?’
I promise I will, say goodbye to Emil and set off. I walk along Lang Street to Mient Canal and past the fishmongers’ stalls, where everything is busy and messy. Taking pains not to slip on the fish guts, I buy myself a couple of herrings. After that I head up River Street and it comes as a relief when at last I reach the River Zeglis. Much as I love the city’s liveliness, it takes some getting used to.
After asking around, I find a boat I can travel on.
‘I don’t go any further than Haarlem, mistress,’ says the captain. ‘But getting to Amsterdam from Haarlem isn’t difficult, you can just take the water coach.’
I’ve heard of water coaches, though I’ve never been on one because they don’t run as far as Alkmaar. According to the captain, they work perfectly. From Midway they’ve dug a long, straight ditch alongside the water for the horses pulling the barges. ‘All the way to Amsterdam,’ he says.
I pay him the required coins, allow my bag to be carried on board and climb aboard myself. I find a spot among the baskets and crates and settle down on the blanket laid out by the captain for passengers to sit on.
Wrapped in my cloak with the hood up over my head, I watch as the city gets smaller. I’ve never been further than Alkmaar before and have no idea what awaits me in Amsterdam. The only thing I do know is that I will have to face whatever it is entirely alone.
The journey to Haarlem takes all day. It’s only once we pass Beverwyck and are on Wyck Lake that we start making decent headway. Once we get to Spaarndam we rely on locks and canals again, but by then Haarlem is in sight. It’s almost dark and I’m exhausted. When the boat moors at Gravestone Bridge I get up stiffly and clamber onto the quay. I’m so tired I stagger into the first inn I see. Fortunately, there’s still a bed free. I don’t care that I have to share a room.
In the taproom, sitting beside the fire and with a hot meal in front of me, I come round a little. Out of the corner of my eye I see men staring at me. I make sure I avoid eye contact and appear as unapproachable as possible, which isn’t difficult, given how tired I am. To my relief, they leave me in peace. As the evening wears on, the mood gets rowdy, but by then I’m already in bed. Despite the long day I’ve had, it takes a while to fall asleep. I lie with my eyes closed and listen to the snores and breathing of my roommates and the racket from the taproom. My thoughts turn to my family and suddenly I find myself thinking back to when I was little.
I nearly drowned once as a child. During a violent winter storm, the dykes protecting Waterland from the sea burst, followed by the ring of canals protecting the Beemster. Many people and animals died, and mud-built farms with thatched roofs were washed away. The somewhat higher centre of De Rijp was spared, even if the well-to-do people there didn’t manage to keep their respectable feet entirely dry.
I was five when the flood came. I only know the details of the disaster from stories. But I still remember the feeling of powerlessness as the roof my family and I were sitting on collapsed and the water carried me away. I couldn’t swim, but it wouldn’t have made much difference anyway. As soon as the sea began to ebb, the flood carried everyone with it. Anyone who couldn’t manage to hold onto something was lost. I was fished from the waves by one of our neighbours and pulled into a boat. My parents and brothers managed to save themselves. Allie and Johanna, my two older sisters, drowned.
In the grey light of dawn, I lie and think about my family. Meanwhile, the other guests start to emerge from their beds. People yawn and mumble good mornings. Some begin chatting quietly. I get up too but don’t make the effort to talk to anyone.
I take my time getting dressed, putting on a linen blouse, skirt, apron, fichu, bodice, jerkin and cap. Now and then I glance out of the window. Outside, the quay is busy, despite the hour. Freight and passenger ships both set out at first light.
I pack my things. The letter from Matthias is among my clothes and I smile. If I get this job, I’ll see him again. A little more certain now about my decision to go to Amsterdam, I square my shoulders. If I hurry, I can still make the first barge.
Compared to yesterday’s voyage, the journey to Amsterdam is as nothing. The pleasingly short distance remaining is encouraging, and the comfort of the horse-drawn barge couldn’t be more different from the open boat that brought me from Alkmaar. There’s a deck house complete with benches where passengers can take shelter from the elements. Since we’re not dependent on the wind, we travel at an even pace. There are inns along the route where passengers can get off for a meal and the barge can take on fresh horses. The Haarlem Ship Canal stretches in a straight line through the polders past windmills and farms to Amsterdam.
From time to time, I leave the deck house to feel the wind and sun on my face and admire the beauty of the wide, cloudy skies and green meadows. Milkmaids, pedlars and travellers on horses or in carts pass by on the dyke along the canal. Occasionally, someone waves. I smile and wave back.
My nervousness only resurfaces when we reach Amsterdam. I’ve heard a lot about the city, about its size, how busy it is, and with a touch of trepidation I ask myself whether a country mouse like me belongs in such a place.
My uncertainty gives way to excitement when I see the high walls looming ahead. I gaze in awe at the windmills atop the bastions, their sails spinning at top speed.
It’s busy at the entryways and on the water, as if the whole world is on its way to Amsterdam. The mighty IJ bay, an arm of the sea reaching far inland, is clogged with cranes, flat-bottomed barges, market