Authors: Debbie Rix
In 1568 the people of the Netherlands rose up in revolt against Spanish control under the banner of William I of Orange. This was the start of the Eighty Years War, which ultimately would lead to the complete transformation of the Netherlands and the demise of its most important city, Antwerp.
The following fifteen years were challenging for the population of Antwerp. As the angry citizens demonstrated their anger at the Spanish, mob rule often broke out. Beatrice in particular was fearful as she did her best to bring their children up in this divided city. It seemed far removed from the city of her youth. She often thought back to the peaceful times she spent in the garden of her parent’s home on Kammenstraat.
But now Beatrice often woke in the night to see flaming torches flickering through the latticed windows of their home as unruly gangs rampaged around the city. At such times, she would pace the bedroom, praying that God would save the family from harm. She even brought the Ming vase up to their bedchamber for safekeeping in case the mob broke into their home; she hid it in a cupboard in the corner of her bedroom. When at night her fear became overwhelming, she would get out of bed and take the vase out of the cupboard, stroking its cool porcelain exterior, as if by touching it she could invoke its magical powers.
One night Thomas was woken by shouts and screams in the road below. He sat up in bed and watched his wife tenderly touching the vase, beseeching the dragon for help.
‘To whom do you pray, Beatrice?’ he asked, startling her.
‘Thomas, I had no idea you were awake.’
‘I imagine I was woken, as you were, by that unruly mob outside. To whom do you pray? To God – or some magical, mythical figure?’
‘I know you disapprove; I know to you it is heresy. But allow me a little belief. This vase has kept our family safe for many years. I simply seek a little comfort. I am fearful, Thomas, of what may become of us. How can we bring the children up in this dangerous place?’
‘Come back to bed, Beatrice. All will be well. I have a plan for how we will escape Antwerp. You will see. You will not need to seek help from the vase.’
T
homas supported
the rebellion of the Prince of Orange. Over many years he and other merchants donated huge sums of money to the cause. But when Philip II of Spain threatened to blockade the port of Antwerp, Thomas made an important decision. He sold his house and moved the entire family to Amsterdam. If Spain was intent on destroying their independence and ability to trade, merchants like him would establish themselves in a city where they would be at liberty to continue with their business and free of religious persecution. Over sixty thousand people fled north to the fishing port of Amsterdam.
The wealth of Amsterdam in the 1580s was centred on two main imports: beer from Germany and fish caught in the North Sea. The fishermen of Amsterdam had discovered how to salt fish on board their ships and this had enabled them to travel farther and catch more fish than ever before. Now also firmly Protestant, they nevertheless were tolerant of residents who refused to abandon their Catholic faith as long as they were discreet. A few Catholic churches survived the Calvinist takeover, hidden away in private houses in the city. The philosophy of the Amsterdam elite was, ‘If it’s good for business, and is discreet, it should be tolerated.’ People of all faiths were welcomed and the city had a flourishing Jewish quarter living peacefully alongside its Calvinist neighbours. Amsterdam’s enthusiasm for trade finally helped to destroy the Spanish, who were now in firm control of Antwerp and the other southern cities of the Netherlands. Merchants in Amsterdam manufactured and sold warships to their enemy – the Spanish. Then, as the Dutch forces of William destroyed them in battles at sea, the Spanish saw their naval investment literally going up in smoke. Over time, this drain on Spanish funds enabled the people of the Netherlands to finally overthrow their oppressors whilst making them a huge profit in the meantime. In 1581 the northern states of the Netherlands formed an assembly called the States General. They became the only republic in Europe, and at its heart was Amsterdam, an economic powerhouse.
Within a few years, the city had grown beyond all recognition. Thomas initially moved his family into a wooden house, common at that time. It was not as substantial as the splendid brick house he had left behind in Antwerp, but it was serviceable as a temporary residence and he and Beatrice were just grateful to have escaped the dangers of Antwerp and have an opportunity to build up their business once again. They thanked God each day that their children, Heinrich, Friedrich and Clara, had all survived the war and the inevitable dangers of childhood.
Thomas was determined that the family would become one of the most important in Amsterdam. He spent the next decade establishing his business, developing a network of agents for his goods in Germany, France and England. He formed strong relationships with fellow merchants and became an important figure in the city’s council. In 1590, Thomas purchased a new brick-built house – the first to be built on the Herengracht, one of the four main canals that curved their way through the city. Beatrice was delighted with the new house, where the only disturbance at night was the odd drunken sailor trying to find his way back to the docks. She often gazed up at the Ming vase, which had pride of place on the fireplace in the drawing room, and gave thanks for ‘our safe deliverance from harm, and our success.’ The fireplace was tiled with blue and white Delft tiles manufactured by her elder brother Joseph. He had fled from Antwerp with his own family and joined his brother Andries when Thomas and Beatrice had moved to Amsterdam. Between them the brothers developed a successful business in Delft, creating maiolica for the mass market.
There was talk amongst the leading merchants of Amsterdam of opening up direct trade routes with the Far East, which would cut out the Portuguese and Spanish. Thomas attended a meeting one evening held in a tavern in the centre of the city. He came back late. Beatrice had waited up for him and sat by the fire in the small parlour at the back of the house, sewing by the light of an oil lamp.
‘Beatrice, my dear. You have waited up for me. I have some exciting news.’
‘Well, sit, Thomas, and tell me all about it.’
‘I have been shown, this evening, a document called the
Itinerario
. It was written by an explorer named Jan Huygen van Linschoten. It seems he sailed to the East Indies. His paper is full of the details. It made fascinating reading.’
‘And what has this to do with us, Thomas?’ his wife asked nervously.
‘Well, I should have thought it obvious, Beatrice, my dear. It means that we are no longer to be bound by the monopoly the Portuguese have on the trade from Asia. Our time has come. We will soon be able to trade direct.’
The group had discussed that evening the relative merits of this sea route versus a new northern route that had recently been demonstrated by an explorer named Plancius. He had travelled to Asia across the top of Russia. This route had two distinct advantages over the sea routes of the past: it was shorter, and avoided the pirates who lurked in the Atlantic as well as any confrontation with the Portuguese who still dominated the southerly Asian trade route.
‘We are to make some expeditions exploring this northern route, Beatrice. I have invested.’
‘Will you have to go?’ asked Beatrice anxiously.
‘No. It is a young man’s game. Michael Kaerel’s son Johan is to go though. I met him this evening. He is a sharp and clever young man. I think he would be a good match for our little Clara.’
‘You think so?’
‘I do. Let’s see how he gets on during the expedition. It will be hard, and one never knows if he will return. But if he does, I would like to introduce him to our daughter.’
The expedition went well and clearly demonstrated the possibilities of the northern route. But in the end it was agreed that the sea route around the Cape was still the most effective way of bringing goods back to Europe from Asia. Young Johan returned and a dinner was given by members of the VOC to celebrate the expedition. It was at this event that Johan Kaerel was introduced to Clara van Vaerwye.
The two young people understood from the outset what was expected of them. They were both dutiful and obedient. Johan was not especially tall, but he had a strong, sturdy build. He had light brown hair and attractive green eyes. Clara, who was dark and diminutive, liked him immediately. She was aware that at twenty-five it was high time that she was married, and was grateful that her father had selected a man with a good mind and a kind heart. Their wedding took place four months later and a house was purchased for the couple near Clara’s parents’ home on Herengracht. The night before the wedding, Beatrice took Clara aside into the drawing room. She took the vase down from the fireplace.
‘This is for you Clara. It has been in the family for so long, as you know. I often felt its power in those dark days in Antwerp; I would ask the vase for help as the mob rampaged around our house. Your father disapproves, of course. His faith does not allow the worship of anything so idolatrous. And I do not really worship it, I promise you. But it has helped me from time to time. Given me courage. I hope it does the same for you.’
Clara took the vase and placed it in a cabinet in her husband’s new study. She explained to him its significance.
‘Well, if nothing else,’ he said pragmatically, ‘it is a lovely and valuable thing. I do not believe in magic, but I can see that it has proved an inspiration to your family over the years, with their trade in porcelain and the manufacture of maiolica. So I am grateful to your parents and proud to be its keeper. Thank your mother for me, will you? We shall keep it safe in the cabinet here. Let’s hope it brings me luck next year when I go to Maluku. I shall be bringing spices back with me on that voyage, but there will be other subsequent journeys and I hope to develop our porcelain trade. Now the Portuguese hold on trade has been breached, there is no end to the wonderful things I shall be bringing you, dear Clara.’
The second element in the making of porcelain is feldspar. This is gathered up, broken into pieces and washed before being pressed into rectangular bricks. The kao lin (pai tun) and feldspar (pet un tse) bricks are then sold and taken down river to Ching-te-Chen. When the bricks are unloaded they are stored in dark caves. The pai tun and pet un tse are then mixed in equal quantities to produce the finest-quality porcelain. For lesser-quality porcelain, four parts pai tun are used with six parts of pet un tse. The mixing is done in a large basin and beaten with wooden spatulas; it is then kneaded. The work must continue day and night.
M
iranda and Georgie
spent Christmas each year with her parents and Jeremy. With no parents of his own, he had effectively become part of their family and normally it was a jolly time, filled with games and crackers and food and fun. The routine was now well established. Jeremy would take tea with Miranda and Georgie at her house on Christmas Eve. They would eat Christmas cake and mince pies before loading up Miranda’s old Volvo with the presents and suitcases. With luck they would miss the worst of the traffic and arrive in Surrey in good time for a restorative gin and tonic and a good dinner. Her parents were creatures of habit and so dinner was always fish pie followed by a trip to church for midnight mass, the only part of the ritual that Georgie had begun to rail against.
Christmas Day itself started in the kitchen with Miranda helping her mother prepare stuffing and a huge array of vegetables whilst Jeremy entertained Georgie with whatever board games could be found in the old games cupboard in the drawing room. Presents were over by eleven, ancient aunts arrived before twelve, and neighbours dropped in for drinks shortly after. The family would ‘watch the Queen’ before settling down in the large dining room, where they would tuck into turkey and Christmas pudding. The evening was spent in the drawing room playing charades and other games until bedtime. Boxing Day invariably involved a long walk, the eating of left-overs and an opportunity for Miranda and her mother to both put their feet up and relax.
Jeremy arrived as planned at three forty-five.
‘Dear girl,’ he said, embracing her as she opened the door. ‘Here I am. Let’s get this party started; where is my cake and where is my favourite girl?’
Georgie thundered downstairs and threw herself into his arms.
They sat at the kitchen table and Miranda took off the red-checked ribbon that she and Georgie had tied so carefully round the cake only a few days before. She had hoped to show the cake to Charlie in its pristine untouched state but he had left so suddenly.
‘The cake appears to be up to your usual high standard,’ said Jeremy, shovelling a large piece into his mouth. ‘Delicious, Miranda. You really should go into business doing this. And the decorations are, as usual, fabulous. I presume your talented daughter created the stunning, if slightly psychotic, fantasy arrangement of woodland animals, ballerinas and footballers that I see before me?’
Georgie laughed and cake flew across the table from her over-stuffed mouth.
‘Georgie!’ Miranda snapped. ‘Manners – please.’
Georgie covered her mouth. ‘Sorry, Ma,’ she said. ‘Yes, the decorations are all mine. I took everything out of the decorations box and just shoved them all on top. I had the animals on my cake for my third birthday, the ballerinas when I was four and the footballers I think came from my football-crazed years – age seven, from memory. Is that right, Mum?’
Miranda was staring out of the kitchen window into the dark garden beyond.
‘Mum!’ exclaimed Georgie.
‘Sorry. I was miles away,’ said Miranda.
Jeremy helped himself to another cup of tea and a mince pie. ‘Georgina,’ he said dramatically. ‘I would like you to go upstairs and bring your suitcase down here, please. Can you do that for me? We ought to be getting off soon; don’t want to be stuck in traffic all the way to Granny’s.’
Georgie happily complied.
‘Now, Manda,’ he said gently as soon as heard Georgie’s tread on the stairs, ‘what on earth is the matter?’
‘I’m just feeling a bit down. That’s all.’
‘Why?’ asked Jeremy. ‘You’ve got a wonderful daughter, a great best friend, we’re off to have a lovely Christmassy time with your parents. Oh – and you’ve just got a fabulous new boyfriend.’
‘Yes, you’re right. I’m just missing him I suppose.’
‘But you’re seeing him on Boxing Day, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s the plan.’
‘Well then, stop moping and go and get your bags, honey. Where are the presents for all those hideous aunts of yours?’
‘They’re already in the car. And they are
not
hideous aunts.’ Miranda smiled.
C
hristmas passed much as usual
. Miranda hoped for a phone call or at least a text from Charlie, but none came. She rang him on Christmas Eve but he didn’t pick up. He was probably driving, she thought. She left him a voicemail message. ‘
Hi Charlie – hope Devon is fun. Really looking forward to seeing you on Boxing Day. Miss you. Bye.
’
On Christmas Day there was still no word. As the family opened their presents around the tree, their normally happy atmosphere was infiltrated by Miranda’s growing sense of anxiety.
‘Good heavens, Miranda,’ thundered her father, ‘do put that wretched phone thing down. You look as if you expect it to implode or something.’
‘Sorry, Dad. I’m just expecting a call.’ Miranda put her mobile down on a side table. Jeremy and Georgie exchanged worried glances.
But as another present was handed out – a boxed set of Hitchcock movies from Jeremy to Georgie – Miranda retrieved her phone and texted Charlie: ‘
Happy Christmas. Hope you’re having a great time. We’re all fine here. See you tomorrow! Xxx.’
It came back ‘
undelivered
’.
‘Oh Miranda,’ said Jeremy when she expressed concern over pre-lunch drinks. ‘He probably has no signal. Have you ever been to Devon? It’s in the dark ages down there darling.’
But Miranda couldn’t relax. Christmas day came and went and she was increasingly irritable with everyone. Finally, Boxing Day arrived. She woke early, and reached for her phone. Was it too early to text? It was seven-thirty. She got out of bed and went next door to the bathroom. She checked her phone when she returned to her room. There was still no word from Charlie. Was he deliberately ignoring her? Perhaps he was ill or had had an accident. Her mind raced with possibilities. She knew she shouldn’t text again. But she was unable to stop herself:
‘Looking forward to seeing you later… what time?’
After all, it was not unreasonable to need to know what time he was intending to arrive.
She pulled on her dressing gown and went downstairs for breakfast. She put the kettle onto the old Aga and leant against it. Over breakfast, as the family began to drift into the kitchen, she announced that she was taking Georgie back to London before lunch.
‘Oh Miranda,’ said her mother, ‘we get to see so little of you these days. And particularly of Georgie. Can’t you go back tomorrow?’
‘No, sorry, Mum. I’ve got something I’ve got to do this evening.’
They had planned to go for a walk before lunch, but Miranda was concerned it would delay their departure. ‘The last thing I need is to get caught in traffic and be late,’ she said exasperatedly.
In the end they left her parents’ house at twelve o’clock and Miranda drove furiously back to London. She dropped Jeremy at the bookshop around two thirty. ‘Thanks for a wonderful crimble,’ he said, kissing Miranda on both cheeks. ‘Have a good time tonight both of you… And give me a call tomorrow?’
‘Sure, will do. Take care.’
As they brought their bags in from the car, Georgie said to Miranda. ‘Where’s the vase, Mum?’
‘Oh, Charlie took it. Well, he bought it from me; he’s going to put in a sale.’
‘Oh,’ said Georgie.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ said Miranda. ‘You always said you hated it so much…’
‘Yes, but it’s funny isn’t it? The place doesn’t feel quite the same without it.’
‘No,’ said Miranda. ‘Now go and unpack and could you take my bag upstairs too, darling? I ought to get on with cooking supper.’
‘Sure,’ said Georgie. ‘What are we having?’
‘I bought a bit of venison on Christmas Eve from that nice butcher that’s just opened in the High Street. He was selling it cheap, as they were about to close for the holidays. I thought I’d make a nice casserole.’
‘Hmm,’ said Georgie uncertainly.
Miranda fried the pieces of venison with onions. She assembled the casserole and filled the pot with a bottle of cheap red wine and placed it on a low heat in the oven. She wandered into the sitting room and turned on the Christmas lights and the television to keep her company as she tidied up.
Dial M for Murder
had just started. She checked her watch. It was half past four and already getting dark. She pulled the curtains in the sitting room, half expecting to see Charlie’s car pulling up outside the house. But there was no car. She wandered back into the kitchen and checked her phone. No messages.
She dialled his number. It went straight to voicemail. She hung up. Half an hour later, she dialled again. This time she left a message: ‘
Hi Charlie, it’s Miranda. I just wondered what time you were planning on getting here?
’
At five o’clock, Georgie came back downstairs. ‘Hi Mum, what are you doing sitting in the dark?’
Miranda sat in the gloom at the table, her head in her hands. The smell of venison casserole filled the kitchen.
‘He’s not coming, is he?’ said Miranda dispiritedly.
‘What time was he supposed to be here?’ asked Georgie anxiously.
‘He never said. He just said he’d come up on Boxing Day evening.’
‘Well, it’s not the evening yet. Come on, let’s go and watch the telly.’
The two lay together on the sofa and watched the Hitchcock classic. As it finished, Georgie said to her mother, ‘God, you can’t believe people can be so cunning, can you? Do you think real people are ever that bad? Fancy planning all that.’
‘Yes,’ said Miranda, ‘I do think some people are capable of that sort of thing. I think they call it psychopathic behaviour these days, don’t they? Or sociopathic – people who have no scruples about getting what they want.’
Suppertime came and went. At eight thirty, Georgie reappeared in the sitting room. Miranda sat watching the television dazed and unblinking.
‘Mum, do you think
we
could eat? I’m a bit hungry.’
‘Sure, of course, darling,’ said Miranda, leaping to her feet. As she served up the overdone casserole, she began to cry.
‘Mum,’ said Georgie, standing up and putting her arms around her mother, ‘I’m sure there’s some explanation.’
‘Are you?’ said Miranda. ‘I think the explanation is that he has dumped me. I just don’t think he’s bothered to tell me yet.’ And Miranda ran out of the kitchen in tears, leaving Georgie alone with a venison casserole.