A night hut in the cucumber court
In winter, Sundays are over the fastest. When the pastor concludes the afternoon service at four with the blessing for another whole week, all seven fly to the bike shed. ''To break legs,'' the father says. 'There will be accidents from that.' That's what he always says: 'There will be accidents.' Just like, " If you break something, I won't pay for it.'
It's all about who gets home first on the cobblestone path. The first note of the organ's introductory melody serves as the starting shot. For the sake of decency, the stage from the pew to the bike shed is walked quickly, but once on the bike there are no more restrictions. Then they slalom through the church crowd, past men in suits and women with pious thoughts, past little girls who jump aside in fear of their wheels, past young boys who don't mind throwing them off balance.
Past the bend, they can finally get into top gear past the flood mound and straight into the blond dune ridges. When they are overtaken by the first motorized churchgoer, they must be at least past the pest grove. This is a group of trees where they are never allowed to play, because there are old cows buried under it that died of something infectious.
On the road where they live it is always windy. A salty sea breeze that rubs against their foreheads and turns their hair into greasy little strands. Close to the courtyard gate of their farm, the one in the lead, who can no longer be overtaken, sits up carelessly, one hand loosely in the jacket pocket. La-la-la.
Katelijne complains that she can never win because she catches more wind than the boys due to the plastic bag with her hat on the handlebars, which sometimes rattles around frantically. And by her flapping skirt, which then bulges like agricultural plastic stretched over silage grass. 'Then you can benefit from it, too,' the brothers say, but when the wind pushes her in the back and passes under her, she needs two hands to make sure no one sees her white underpants.
Seven children are panting, with sandy hair and in the corner of their eyes the beginnings of a tear from the strong wind. Three boys, Katelijne and three more boys. The Minderhoud family. They crowd together at the back door, to go in first after father, who is the only one with the key.
They also have names, of course, but in the village they say 'the boys of Arjaon and Rina' and Arjaon and Rina themselves just say 'the boys' for convenience. 'Remember, boys, to the dentist this afternoon, so brush your teeth well.' 'Boys, put on your good clothes; church will start in half an hour.'
Only when the father says, "Boys, will you feed the cows?" does Katelijne know - well, everyone knows without it ever being spoken, that Katelijne can leave her overalls and clogs untouched. Katelijne receives work orders from mother and gets compliments when the work orders have not been necessary, when mother comes upstairs and finds all the beds already made and when the toilet shines before she can point out the soda can. The mother does not like to waste words on household matters.
When she hears: 'Boys, come to the table', Katelijne is the last one to sit down and quickly checks whether there is cutlery for everyone. During the brief meal, the discussion soon turns to agriculture minister Braks, percentages of fat and protein, five hundred guilders for a calf, harnessing the wagons to go to the country with or without cage wheels on the tractor and not too much gas oil in the tank. To Katelijne, who is never included in these kinds of conversations, they largely pass by, while in her mind she has her own world, highly dependent on which library book she is reading. The boys learn not to listen to her, for the simple reason that by their standards she never has anything interesting to say.