Open Writing

I first spoke to Giel when Leon and I were planning a complicated European tour with our friend and my ‘Musical Mother’, Alice. Giel was Alice's sister-in-law. Early in the planning stages, Alice decided that at eighty years of age and recovering from major surgery, Giel was too frail to accommodate three guests in her Amsterdam home. Giel had other ideas. Though we had never met, Giel phoned me for help.

“Hallo – Isabel?” she said in heavily-accented English, “I’ll be so unhappy if you stay somewhere else, which will be very bad for my health! All I have to do is make breakfast and supper for you – I’d love to have the three of you with me! Please talk to Alice, persuade her? She’s so stubborn!” said this equally stubborn lady.

Giel got her way: Alice, Leon and I spent several comfortable nights in Giel’s home where she welcomed us warmly; a tall, elegant figure with a grace of bearing that would be envied by many women half her age.

Her house was the width of one large room and a staircase, four tall stories high and up to five rooms deep. Its staircases were so steep I wished for mountaineering equipment each time I climbed them; there was a cupboard-transformed-into-a-shower with ancient plumbing; the rooms had high ceilings and huge, picture windows.

The walls, where there weren’t display cupboards, were hung with hundreds of paintings, many painted by Giel. During her husband’s long illness, she took an hour a day to escape into her ‘painting cloud’, creating wonderful ‘naïve’ works of art. We were honoured to be presented with a print of her painting "The Family Carré" (The Square Family).

Three large display cupboards in her lounge were crowded with dolls – many were old, beautiful and obviously valuable: there were babushkas; much-loved, tattered babies; stiffly-dressed Victorians and delicate miniatures. On a bottom shelf was a collection of dolls’ body parts: heads, arms, legs and bodies tumbled together in mockery of a mass grave.

Giel was a collector of anything and everything. Her thimbles, housed in several large printer’s trays, came from all parts of the world; many were antiques, while others were cheap souvenirs from holiday destinations. In the kitchen was a breathtaking collection of Cologne blue china. Everywhere, cupboard tops and tables were laden with decorative boxes, papier-mâché torsos and busts, crystal and china. Along the passages, blank and half-painted canvasses leaned against the walls. Somewhere was a painting done on a pair of jeans.

Giel proudly showed us each member of her Father Christmas collection, which ranged from ceramic models to squeaking plastic toys and albums filled with cards. One set of shelves was filled with dice-jars. Everywhere were statues, three-dimensional art works and exquisite religious icons. Our bedroom was cluttered with children's furniture: miniature chairs balanced on top of the wardrobe, while scattered on the floor stood doll’s prams, cots and tables to be tripped over in the dark. Soft toys lined the staircase. Giel knew the story of each item - like that of the papier-mâché apple:

"What," she asked, handing it to Leon, "do you think this is worth?" She looked at us with her head on one side, like a mischievous bird.

"Many thousands of Guilders!” he suggested, joking.

She nodded. ”Ja, you are right! When Holland changed to Euros, I went to the Bank and asked what they were doing with the old paper Guilders. When they said they were shredding them, I asked if they could let me have some, they said, 'How much?' So I said, “Oh, ten kilos please”! and they gave it to me!" She showed us a cylinder of the compressed, shredded money. "I couldn’t carry it all home on my bike, I had to take a taxi. When I need papier-mâché, I use the Guilders – I made these apples, each from thousands of Guilders!"

While we explored Amsterdam and its art museums, Giel prepared a traditional Dutch treat for us. When we got home, the table was laden. The first course was a tasty, clear chicken soup. This was followed by asparagus - long, pale stems carefully steamed, served with boiled potatoes, boiled eggs and ham. Over the asparagus, nutmeg was sprinkled and melted butter poured. The butter was kept hot and liquid in a pot over a lit candle. Each stalk of asparagus was balanced between fork and spoon and guided, bite by bite, into the mouth. We all thoroughly enjoyed this traditional spring treat.

One morning, while discussing how one identifies people met ‘out of context’, Giel said, "I know so many people, they have to be addressed appropriately: there are my husband's patients – he was a Neurosurgeon; there is our large musical circle and my artist friends; and then there are the nudists – they’re so hard to recognise with their clothes on!"

Later, I eavesdropped while Giel and Alice chatted in Dutch. If I concentrated, I could follow the gist of the conversation. Giel said, "Dutch dialects have more than seven hundred words for ‘penis’ - and more than six hundred and fifty for ‘vagina’! We know a thing or two!" Hurriedly, I returned to the book lying open on my lap.

Giel no longer drove a car - "I tend to climb the trees and that's not good for the trees or the car!" Her family didn’t approve of her walking, as she was inclined to lose her balance and fall on the pavements of Amsterdam. A true inhabitant of her city, she did however, regularly ride her bicycle. Using this mode of transport her balance was perfect.

Giel was a superb hostess: she made us welcome with fine food and charming company morning and evening. During the days we discovered Amsterdam: We took a marvellous tour of the canals, enthralled by the contrasting ancient and ultra-modern architecture we saw; fascinated with the Dutch nation’s ability to build bridges and to keep the sea under control. At the Rijks Museum we were awed by the glowing colours, rich textures and life that leapt from the paintings. We grieved at the sad life of Vincent Van Gogh revealed in the museum dedicated to his art.

In Amsterdam there seems to be a museum to cater for any subject, interest or fetish: we passed by the Sex Museum. As we walked the streets, the smell of marijuana wafted from the cafés. Caught up in a good-natured crowd, we watched the Queen lay a wreath at the war memorial, surrounded by all the pomp and ceremony of glorious marching bands. From Brookman and Van Poppel’s world-renowned music store we bought bundles of sheet music. That evening, we enjoyed a world-class symphony concert in the famous and exquisite Concert Gebauw.

On our last evening, Alice and I played a little music for Giel and Leon. When we retired, it was to find lovely gifts on our pillow which still remind us of Giel and of Amsterdam.

When ordering a taxi to take us to the station, she declared that we had "more luggage than people!" She stood in her open doorway, lit by the spring sunshine, and waved until we turned the corner.

Three weeks ago, Giel suffered a massive stroke and died instantly.

In the few days that we knew her, Giel enriched our lives enormously. We were not the only tourists she entertained so warmly in her home; there were many, over many years.

Thank you, Giel. We will always remember your warmth, vitality, laughter and the fascination you felt for all around you.

Until next time, “here comes Treble!”

By Isabel Bradley Copyright Reserved ©