Even the kitchen comes as a surprise. It’s much larger than anything I’m used to and has a scullery. There are cupboards for crockery and pans rather than shelves along the walls. The hearth takes up much of the wall and there’s a long table down the middle of the room. A door with the top half propped open leads to a small courtyard.
Adriaan goes outside and I follow him. A girl is hanging out washing and turns to face us.
‘Greta, this is Catrin, the new housekeeper. She’s starting today. I trust you will show her the ropes.’
The girl nods shyly.
Without saying another word, Adriaan walks off, leaving me and Greta to stand in silence.
‘Right then, let’s get to work,’ I say. ‘When you’ve finished hanging out the washing, Greta, come and help me in the kitchen. Then we can get to know each other.’
I smile encouragingly at the girl, turn around and go inside.
Greta has not long turned fifteen. She had to make do without a housekeeper for a while and is thus used to a lot of freedom, but also had double the amount of work.
‘Hester got sick and a couple of days later she was dead. She was getting on a bit, forty or so,’ Greta tells me as she accompanies me to the produce market on Prinsengracht that afternoon. ‘I’m happy you’re here, though. It was much too much work for me on my own.’
‘If there’s a problem, do you go to the master or the mistress?’ I ask.
‘To the master, even though he’s not home much. The mistress gets angry if I disturb her while she’s painting.’
‘She can’t paint all day, surely?’
‘No, but even when she’s finished, she doesn’t want to listen. She’s not interested in housekeeping. It always seems as if she’s only half there.’
I think about the absent way Brigitta looked at me and understand what Greta means. ‘But the master has a brother too, doesn’t he? Do you see much of him?’
‘Yes. When he’s not travelling, he stays with us. The bedroom at the back of the house is his. Master Matthias is ever so kind. He brought me a comb once. I don’t know where from, but it was far away.’
‘How nice. When is Master Matthias coming back?’
‘I think he should be back next week.’
‘Oh. And where are you from, Greta?’
‘From Sloterdijk. It’s a little village near here.’
‘Do you go home often?’
‘When I can. But since Hester passed away, I’ve not been home at all.’
I sneak a sidelong glance and see the girl’s sad face. ‘You’ll be able to go again soon. I’ll arrange it with the master.’
At once Greta cheers up. ‘That would be good! Look, there’s the market on the bridge. I always get vegetables there. And fish on the Dam, but the herring is better at Herring Merchants’ Gate. The dairy market is next to Droogbak. I get beer around the corner on Brewersgracht at Hasselar Brewery.’ There’s no trace left of her shyness; she talks and talks, telling me all about the crooked and reliable traders she knows.
When we return home with our heavy baskets, I pour two small glasses of beer and put them on the table. ‘Sit down for a minute, Greta, let’s have a drink.’
Surprised, the girl sits down.
’You see,’ I say. ‘There’s a time to work and a time to have a sit down. I reckon you’ve had a lot of work over the last few weeks.’
‘Hester gave me an earful if she caught me sitting down.’
‘I have no intention of giving you an earful,’ I say. ‘Not as long as the work gets done. And with the two of us that should be easy enough.’
We don’t sit for long. From the studio comes the sound of things being thrown, followed by hysterical crying. I look up in alarm.
‘That’s the mistress,’ says Greta. ‘She often has outbursts like that.’
‘I’ll go to her.’ I shove my chair back.
‘Take this.’ Greta stands up, grabs a tiny crockery jug and pours a goblet of wine from it. ‘Her medicine.’
‘What kind of medicine?’
‘I can never remember what it’s called. You put it in the wine.’
I nod, take the cup and walk to the hall. Noises are coming from Brigitta’s studio again. I quicken my pace and open the door without knocking.
Brigitta is standing at the window, her gown covered in paint and her hair a mess. She has torn off her cap and thrown it among the pots of paint and paintbrushes on the floor.
Her easel lies face down on the painting she was working on.
A couple of paint pots have been smashed against the wall, leaving a rather interesting still life on the wainscoting.
I take everything in at a glance. Deciding the mess isn’t important, I help Brigitta into a chair and give her the wine. ‘Here, drink this, madam. It’ll make you feel much better.’
As if suddenly robbed of all her energy, Brigitta slumps into the chair. She accepts the cup without enthusiasm. ‘It was going so well. I haven’t needed this for two days.’
‘Do you normally take it every day?’
‘My husband thinks it’s best. I would rather I didn’t, but if I don’t take it …’ Brigitta looks around as if she has only now realised what she’s done and bursts into tears.
Cautiously – I don’t know whether the gesture will be appreciated – I put my hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll have this cleared up in a jiffy. And your painting doesn’t seem to be damaged.’
Brigitta snorts contemptuously. ‘What does it matter? It’s rubbish. Everything I make is rubbish.’
‘Well, what I’ve seen was very pretty.’
‘You’re a servant – you have no grasp of art. You can’t come up with shoddy trash like this in the circles I move in.’
I don’t say anything more. I only caught a glimpse of the painting when I was introduced to Brigitta; I praised it because it seemed like the right thing to do. As Brigitta drinks her wine in tiny sips, I stand the easel back up. I put the painting on it and take a couple of steps back to have a proper look.
It’s nothing special. The flowers of the still life lack depth and the colours are unnatural.
‘See, you don’t like it either. I can see it on your face.’ Brigitta slams her goblet down on the table. She stares into space for a moment and begins weeping softly. ‘I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I didn’t paint. Sit inside all day, go to market now and again, play a bit of harpsichord and hope my husband won’t come home too late … What kind of life is that? I would be bored to tears.’
‘You don’t have to stop painting, madam. It’s not about the result, it’s about the enjoyment of doing it.’
‘Of course it’s about the result. You can’t think I’d want to spend days producing something worthless. It may be difficult for someone like you to understand, but I have ambition. It’s normal for me to be critical. Did you know artists are highly sensitive, emotional people?’
‘I have heard that, madam.’
‘Then