Bluebird by Eline Tuijn, creamy. comforting eggnog

 

Celebrating 80 years of liberation – originally written by me in Dutch for a Dutch writing competition and translated by me into English

Lieke walked down the corridor with a heavy heart, the sound of her heels muffled against the sea-green linoleum. The warm air was thick with the scent of old people and soup. Gently, she opened the door to room 5-25.

‘Gran?’ she whispered.

No response.

Afraid that she was too late, Lieke hurried into the room and over to the bed. Her grandmother lay calmly, her face turned towards the window. The sun cast a cruel light across her wrinkles. The corners of her mouth were etched downwards, her lips slightly parted. Her eyes were closed, sunk deep into their sockets. The once-striking cheekbones—that had made men weak at the knees—now jutted sharply from beneath the sagging folds of grey skin. Her skin looked as thin and fragile as paper.

Lieke sat down beside the bed and gently stroked the fine grey hair. The old woman turned her head, opened her eyes, and looked straight at Lieke.

‘Lieke, darling,’ her voice was hoarse. Lieke reached over to the bedside table for the glass of water, and carefully held it to her grandmother’s lips. Gratefully, she took two small sips.

‘How was Canada?’ she asked. Her nan never ceased to surprise Lieke. Her sharp mind, how engaged she still was. Lieke was so glad she was able to talk with her and share her news.

‘It was amazing.’

‘You’re glowing, sweetheart. Have you found yourself a beau?’ 

Lieke chuckled, partly at the old-fashioned word, and partly because her nan was right. ‘Yes, he’s called Brian. And you know, Gran, I even met Brian’s grandfather. He told me he’d been to the Netherlands during the war.’

Her grandmother nodded. ‘Ah, in 1945, I expect?’

‘That’s right,’ Lieke replied. ‘Do you still have many memories from back then, Gran?’

‘Oh yes, I remember a lot from that time. Not all of it pleasant…’ She paused. ‘But Liberation Day—yes.’

She made a move to sit up. Lieke got up to get a pillow from the cupboard and slipped her arm under her gran’s shoulders to gently lift her. It barely took any effort—she was as light and delicate as a bird. Lieke placed the pillow behind her and eased her back down.

Her gran smiled in thanks and continued,
‘We still lived in Apeldoorn then, you know. I can still picture it so clearly—those Canadian troops driving into the streets.’ Her eyes drifted, focused on distant memories.

‘There was barely room for them to pass. We were overjoyed. So happy to finally be free… And weren’t those Canadians a handsome bunch.’ A smile spread across her face.

‘I was still young, just fifteen, but I was quite a sight…’ With a slight tremor, she raised her arm and made to fix her hair. In her mind, she was that girl again—with thick blond locks she used to run her hands through. Her mother would scold her: Stop fiddling with your hair, it’ll get greasy.

‘Gran! Did you have a fling with a Canadian?’ Lieke asked in mock outrage.

Her gran chuckled quietly. ‘No, nothing like that.’ She gazed into the distance, her dull eyes brightening at the memories. ‘But it was my first kiss.’

Lieke beamed.

‘I only remember his first name — Jack. Dark hair, good-looking, the picture of health…’

Lieke giggled at the thought of her elderly gran kissing a stranger.

‘What happened afterwards? Did you stay in touch?’

‘No, my dear, they all moved on. It was just a special moment.’ Her voice was hoarse—whether from emotion or from talking so much, Lieke wasn’t sure.

Her gran closed her eyes for a moment. Concerned she might be tiring her out, Lieke began to gather her things to leave.

‘I gave him my embroidered handkerchief as a keepsake,’ her gran said softly, eyes still closed, sunk deep into the pillow.

Lieke looked up. ‘Not by any chance one with a little blue bird embroidered on it?’ she asked, half-joking.

Her gran opened her eyes and looked directly at her. ‘How do you know that?’

Lieke stared back. Without saying a word, she reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope. She handed it to her gran.

‘Brian’s grandfather gave me this just before he passed away. He said I reminded him of someone he’d once known.’

Three days later, the nurse found the old woman just passed away. The ghost of a smile still on her face, she was clutching a handkerchief yellowed with age showing a blue bird perched on a green branch, carefully stitched by the same loving hands.

About the author

 Eline is Dutch but lived in the UK until her early teens. She began writing later in life after a pivotal event that sparked her creative writing journey. She writes columns, short stories and poetry in Dutch and English, often with a wry sense of humour. 

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Last Date by Eline Tuijn a glass of chilled Chardonnay

 I almost died.
Laughing, I mean. I feel the need to add that, because another cause of death does seem more likely. Self-inflicted harm for example, given the fairly recent demise of my marriage.

But I had shrugged off my marriage like a warm winter coat in a heat wave: what had once felt warm and comfortable had become stifling and, despite the initial shock and chill from the loss of its bulky cover, I felt lighter, freer and more beautiful than ever in my summer frock.

And that was how I came to be sitting on the terrace of a trendy restaurant, wearing a snugly fitting, light-blue short-sleeved dress and strappy silver sandals, waiting for a blind date.

Yes I know. It had come to that. Blind dates arranged by helpful friends. I had breezed onto  the 50+ dating scene with gusto and it was cracking me up, although Claire thought I should really take things more seriously. But honestly, take dating apps. I’d swiped through countless profiles of balding men, almost everyone holding a drink, in sunglasses, or on mountain bikes trying not to reveal too much beer belly. The truly desperate upload pictures of themselves in a sports car. Others are so slick they would skid and trip over their own ego. One man actually described himself as ‘a communicator, an inspirator and a mirror’. A mirror, really? Rear view mirror as far as I’m concerned.

Christian men are a problem, they should be banned from mainstream dating apps. Drop dead gorgeous. Pure heart throb material, with similar interests as I have and living nearby. That’s just God messing with me. There I was swooning over the photos, thinking I’d struck gold when I catch the words ‘looking for a devout Christian woman’. Seriously, what are the odds? I’ve been called a lot of things, but devout is not one of them. Swipe left it is then.

After three consecutive dates had bailed on me because of a particularly nasty bout of the flu – you know the sort that affects the guts and prevents grown men from telling you to your face they’ve changed their mind  – my best friend Claire decided to take matters into her own hands.

I glanced at my phone to check the time. He was running late. Great first impression, I thought.

‘Can I take your drink order or would you like to wait for the rest of your party?’ asked the waitress, pen poised.

‘Glass of Chardonnay, please.’ Well, if he couldn’t make it on time, I might as well start this party on my own.

A few minutes later, I sipped my chilled wine and stretched luxuriously in my chair. It felt wonderful to sit there, soaking up the warm rays of evening sunshine, watching the world go by. I felt calm and at peace with the world, a sensation helped along by the relaxing effect of the wine. Idly, I watched a couple taking their seats a few tables across from me. They must have been in their mid-sixties, he tall and skinny, she rotund to put it mildly. Both had grey hair and wore matching red sweaters above dark blue jeans and sturdy brown walking boots. The man pulled off his jumper, accidentally knocking into his wife. At least, I thought she was his wife.

‘Watch what you’re doing!’ the woman’s shrill voice floated towards me.

‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there…’

‘No well that’s the problem with you, isn’t it? You never look what you’re … oh I’ll have a glass of ice tea and George will have an alcohol-free lager,’ she said to the waitress who had just walked up to their table.

The man attempted to hold her chair for her, but she slapped his hand away and hissed, ‘Stop fussing, George!’

George sat down unperturbed, apparently used to being treated this way. When the woman had installed herself in the chair, after much shifting around, she suddenly muttered

‘Darn, we’ve left the backpack in the car!’

‘I’ll get it for you, shall I, Prue?’ George was already getting up from his seat, clumsily just avoiding the waitress bringing their drinks on a small tray.

‘Well yes, if it’s not too much bother.’ Prue’s response was heavy with sarcasm as she rolled her eyes at his attempt to bypass the waitress. She muttered inaudibly under her breath as George exited the terrace towards the car park.

I had put on my sunglasses against the low evening light and to continue watching this scene of domestic bliss unobtrusively.

‘Fascinating, aren’t they?’ came a warm, male voice from my right. I shot him a look and saw that a man had taken a seat at the table next to me. About my age, similarly wearing sunglasses and facing the couple.

‘Eh, yes…’

‘How long do you think they’ve been married?’ he asked conversationally.

We watched George hurry back to the table, carrying a small dark-green backpack, which he dangled tentatively in front of Prue, as if trying to tempt a morose carp out of the water. She snatched the backpack from him and placed it on her lap.

‘What makes you think they’re married?’

He gave a small snort of laughter and replied, ‘Ah, so, first-time lovers on a tryst?’

Now it was my turn to giggle. George was scratching his head, gazing absentmindedly across the terrace while Prue was rummaging around in her bag, taking out a lunchbox and some apples and placing them on the table in front of her. We heard her telling George in an impatient voice if he could be trusted to unpack the sandwiches without dropping anything this time.

‘Well, only if they’re into SM.’ I turned to look at him and saw him grinning.

He was still facing the couple. A good profile, dark wavy hair. He was quite handsome, I realised. He was wearing a white cotton shirt and classic camel trousers. Holding a drink in his left hand, he held his right dangled down the side of his chair, where I could just make out the rump of a black dog on the ground.

‘Entertaining,’ he remarked.

‘Well it certainly makes the time go faster,’ I said, glancing down at my phone to see that my date was now very late indeed.

‘Waiting for someone as well?’ His eyes were still on the table across from us. The waitress had just descended on the couple, gesticulating that home-brought food was not permitted. Prue appeared not amused.

‘A no-show it would seem, and you?’

‘Well, I was asked to meet a girl in a bar…’

‘.. but you were irresistibly drawn to the warm and friendly atmosphere of this place, instead?’ I finished for him, watching with fascination as a red-faced Prue had stood up to tell the waitress, who herself had turned a dark shade of purple, in no uncertain terms what she thought of her, all the while George was making ineffectual calming gestures.

A loud guffaw made me look across at him, laughing so hard it that set his dog’s tail wagging.

‘Well, my co-worker thought I might get along with a friend of hers. Recently divorced apparently and not taking dating life very seriously.’

‘Do you take dating life very seriously?’ I asked, leaning over to him interestedly.

He finally turned his head to face mine, his eyes impossible to see behind the dark sunglasses.

‘I try not to take life too seriously.’

‘Amen to that,’ I replied, turning back and fumbling around in my handbag for my wallet. His hand closed on mine, resting lightly on my wrist with his fingers outstretched as if to feel what I was doing. His hand felt warm and pleasant.

‘Who are you waiting for?’ he asked, suddenly grave.

I was taken aback by his serious tone and answered in the same way,

‘My friend Claire set me up with a blind date but… what’s so funny?’ as he burst out laughing.

‘Never a truer word was spoken, my dear,’ he said.

I watched open-mouthed as he stood up, shifting his chair back a little awkwardly while holding onto the table in front of him. Without a word from him, his black dog, a labrador, got up and stood beside him. He bent down to feel for the handle of the dog’s harness, then stood up and crooked his left arm at me.

‘Time for dinner, don’t you think? But you’ll have to lead the way.’

I stared at him for another second, then grinned and slipped my arm into his. 

About the author

 

Dutch by birth, Eline lived in the UK until her early teens. She has always wanted to write but it took a traumatic event later in life to actually find the guts to create short stories and poems. Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)