Celebrations & Recriminations, a short story from The Netherlands.

Celebrations & Recriminations, a short story from The Netherlands.

In June 2010 S and I arrived in The Netherlands with the notion of finally ‘settling down’. Yes, it was time to get ‘proper’ jobs. To buy an apartment, maybe have kids and all that malarkey. What could possibly go wrong?

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“Leighton… you are on de computer again, your eyes will become like squares!” said Papa S with a sly chuckle. Looking up briefly from my CV, I shot him a polite smile through gritted teeth and tried to keep my reply as cheerful as possible.  “Yes, I’m looking for a job… remember?” 

S and I had just arrived in The Netherlands after a year living in Beijing and travelling around China. I knew life with Mama and Papa S was going to be challenging, I hadn’t been under any illusions. However, with no jobs, no place to live and just a modest pot of joint savings to draw from, S and I had to bite the bullet.

Nevertheless, I’d spectacularly underestimated just how testing life at the family home would be. Indeed I found myself chastised on a daily basis for my many failings. Mama S was into etiquette, which I admittedly hadn’t recognised as an actual hobby.

As a result, she’d often pull me up at the dinner table for a misplaced elbow. Other times, it was due to an offending knife that I’d placed in the wrong position. Knives have to face towards one’s plate apparently. Place it the other way and a family member could get the wrong idea about your intentions. Mm. 

Celebrations & Recriminations, a short story from The Netherlands.

My crappy Dutch meanwhile was an ever-present issue. With minimal English on offer (they could, but mostly wouldn’t), I invariably misinterpreted the general flow of the conversation. Furthermore, I made such a mess of my own contributions that things soon descended into total confusion.

Not that a sudden injection of linguistic ability would have made much difference. More often than not I had no interest in the latest news on Auntie Boring. Similarly, I didn’t need any more details on Uncle Dull’s new leather sofa. Anything directed purely at me was mere small talk. It could be the weather… my static job search… household practicalities.

It’s not that Mama and Papa hadn’t been welcoming. Meal times were always a culinary treat and my hosts were forever asking me if there was anything I needed. But somehow this just managed to make me more anxious. Especially as such questions were usually accompanied by a searching, narrow-eyed look from Mama. It was clear to me that she still didn’t know what to make of this strange Englishman her daughter had married.

We all lived in a quiet, well-to-do Edward Scissorhandsy suburban road in the sleepy town of Goirle. With no friends in the area and little on offer in the way of entertainment, it took about a week for an acute sense of claustrophobia to set in.

Goirle, Brabant province, The Netherlands.

It was a sunny June morning and I was on “de computer” again applying for jobs I didn’t give a shit about. Desperately trying to get something… anything that could move S and I into a place of our own.

“Leighton, can you stand up a moment please!” Papa S was hovering over me and I could see he was in one of his restless moods. He’d been pacing up and down the living room looking for something to keep him occupied and now he’d finally found it. Slightly baffled, I stood up and watched as Papa proceeded to pull the chair I’d been sitting in one centimetre from the wall. “The chair should not be against the wall” he tutted.

“Leighton, you changed the settings on my computer!”

he huffed, one evening, his cheeks rapidly reddening. I groaned to myself, wishing I’d never gone up to his study. I’d needed his scanner for one of my job applications, a quick task that S assured me wouldn’t be any bother. But I just knew it would cause trouble.

Of course I hadn’t done anything to his computer. The poor guy just didn’t have a clue how to use it. Without wishing to sound overly unkind, the man knew as much about IT as an eagle knows about macroeconomics. But alas my proclamations of innocence fell on deaf ears.

One afternoon tensions reached boiling point in the kitchen. It was my turn to do the washing up and Papa S had taken it upon himself to micromanage me. “The water is not hot enough” he said, flicking the red tap as far to the right as it would go.

“It’s fine,” I replied, pushing it back a little, the temperature beginning to physically burn my hands. But he just swished it right again, explaining that if the water didn’t get hot enough the plates wouldn’t be clean.

Celebrations & Recriminations, a short story from The Netherlands.

Reaching the end of my tether, I suddenly found myself walking out of the kitchen. An involuntary snort slipping out of my mouth as I went. Suddenly, Papa was rushing after me. “Leighton, I don’t like it that you are laughing at me! This is very rude and…”

Instinctively I quickened my pace and strode through the living room into the hallway. Grabbing my coat, I headed out the front door and ducked into the garage. From there I took one of the family bicycles and pedalled off into the warm afternoon. I had absolutely no idea where I was heading. 

I’d been cycling without purpose for about fifteen minutes when I stumbled upon an amazing residential street decked out in orange flags, posters and streamers. The 2010 World Cup in South Africa was well into its final stages and the Dutch national football team had reached the semi-finals. What’s more, the match was taking place that very evening, a crunch tie against Uruguay.

Dismounting my bike, I walked down the road to take a closer look. The locals had really gone all-out, with almost every single house covered in orange netting. “Hup hup Holland!” cried one massive banner, while another warned the South Africans to “Watch out, the Dutch Lions are coming!”

Orange Street, Goirle.

Strolling down the street, I caught sight of a balding, middle-aged man watering his plants in the front garden. He was wearing a Dutch football shirt from the 70s with Cruyff emblazoned on the back in chunky black letters. Glancing up, he saw me passing and shot me an aggressive fist pump.

He certainly wouldn’t be missing tonight’s game and neither would I. In fact, a party atmosphere was just what the doctor ordered. All I had to do now was convince S to head into the nearby city of Tilburg with me to catch the game in Pub Street (Korte Heuvel).

S couldn’t have cared less about football. Nevertheless, she was happy enough to head into the city for the evening’s festivities. With England long ago knocked out and having performed so miserably, I’d decided to throw my support behind my adopted homeland. Heck, I even bought myself a Dutch jersey. 

An uncomfortable silence wedged itself between us on the bus into Tilburg. She’d heard her father’s skewed version of the day’s events and unfortunately seemed convinced that I’d been the villain of the piece. “Papa’s getting old, stuck in his ways, can’t you just do what he asks?”

Celebrations & Recriminations, a short story from The Netherlands.

Photo courtesy of Gijs Franken.

Tilburg was an amazing sight that evening. Jumping off the bus, we quickly found ourselves swallowed up in a stream of people swarming towards Pub Street. Everyone was dressed in orange from head to toe, while you could hardly take a step without knocking into a bicycle.

Moreover, there were bikes chained to fences and squashed up in batches against trees. Others rested against the backs of the tables and chairs that lined the pavement. A few were even strewn across the ground, seemingly abandoned by their already drunken owners. Pub street itself meanwhile was rammed, a dense wall of people that made me wonder how the hell we were going to get into a bar to see the match.

Somehow we succeeded. Squeezing ourselves into the corner of an overflowing pub, I found a position where, if I craned my head at just the right angle, I could follow the action. I’ll never forget the almighty roar that seemingly shook the city as Arjen Robben’s bullet header gave The Dutch a decisive 3-1 lead. It was an amazing moment and one that ultimately saw The Netherlands secure a place in the World Cup Final.

The Netherlands 3 Uruguay 1.

Everyone around me was so jubilant… so proud… so damn drunk. There was hugging and cheering, in addition to kissing and random beer glasses smashing to the floor. Loud guttural Dutch dialogue rattling through the airwaves from all directions. As much as I was enjoying myself, this unified jubilation only served to remind me how isolated and anxious I was feeling.

What was I doing in this foreign land? Was I going to get a job soon? Would I be able to settle in this country? Were S and I really gonna live happily ever after? “Let’s head back” she said, tugging on my arm. And so we left the delirious masses to their celebrations, setting off back to Goirle where recriminations lay in wait.

The atmosphere in the house over the following days was awful. Papa S wasn’t talking to me, Mama S wasn’t talking to Papa S (not sure why) and there was a growing unease between S and I.

By this point I had become so withdrawn I wasn’t talking to anybody. Then, to cap it all off, Mama slipped in the garden and cut her knee. Consequently, she called an emergency family meeting where I was pretty much hung out to dry.

“This happened because of  YOU!” she spat.

It was the beginning of a lengthy tirade that painted me as the houseguest from hell. I was so confused and angry that I made the mistake of shouting back at her. Thus a full-on row erupted where things were said that should have… um… not been said. 

Retreating upstairs to the tiny bedroom S and I shared, I knew I’d fucked up by letting my frustrations get the better of me. Now I was gonna have to repair this. At a complete loss as to what I should do with myself, I began scouring job sites for the umpteenth time that day.

In truth it had only been an hour since I’d last looked, so I wasn’t expecting anything. However, much to my surprise there was a new listing that immediately caught my eye. A position that was so ridiculously up my street I initially thought it might be a joke advert.

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Writer/editor/voiceover needed for media production company in Amsterdam North. Applicant must speak excellent English and be passionate about movies/have strong knowledge of all things Hollywood.

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“Whoa”, I whispered to myself I . While on the face of it I seemed to tick all the boxes, surely this was a job I had no chance of getting. Right? I sat there for a minute chewing it over. What did I actually have to lose?

Without even consciously making a decision, I began tinkering with my CV. Digging up one of my old movie reviews, constructing a cover letter. An hour or so later I was ready, my finger hovering nervously over the mouse. Checking everything one last time, I returned to my Hotmail screen, took a deep breath and pressed send.

‘Celebrations and Recriminations’ is the first chapter of my short story collection Notes From The Netherlands.

I’ve been living, working and traveling all over the world since 2001. So why not check out my huge library of travel reports from over 40 countries.

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