Get Into The Light: Chapter Two- Amsterdam is Not Made of Cheese

People have a mental picture of Amsterdam and even though it’s changed nowadays, back then many of the clichés were still true. An alien would have believed that Bob Marley was an important figure in this town – the Mayor perhaps - his portrait hung in that many windows. And it was true that the younger population enjoyed smoking the odd joint but the important fact was they were always in control of themselves unlike the English who only ever got as far as the inside of the Pink Floyd Coffee Shop and then became dizzy and stupid, stewing their bodies in hash, always going for the strongest on the menu, never bothering to talk to anyone, only really speaking to the locals, to ask where the nearest Strip Club was or later for help when they’d lost their backpack and woken up spewing into the canal. The residents of Amsterdam knew that if they wanted to go and watch a fat lady blow a banana out of her fanny they could. Equally they were just as happy drinking a nice coffee and reading the paper. It was not a culture of excess.

Except of course that changed - it changed for me anyway but I’m jumping ahead.

The flat was not in the shape of a clog. It was not made of cheese and there were no prostitutes living in the loft. Carl lived in one of the oldest streets of Amsterdam. The houses were tall and wonky - some leaning off to one side. The only way to get furniture up the stairs was to attach a rope to a huge metal hook hanging from under the roof and hoist it up. It wasn’t unusual to walk underneath a piano suspended in the sky. But Amsterdam was changing; it was becoming more modern, more business friendly and the old houses were slowly being replaced. Some of the area next to the docks, previously populated by squatters was now changing into a Yuppie-family heartland, with concreted, modernist lines and glass fronted windows that revealed enormous televisions and luxury coffee machines. They have no character, Carl used to say. I tended to agree. They all looked the same. Very organised. Straight. Yet painted in bright colours to give the illusion of exuberance and experimentation.

Carl’s flat had plenty of character. The staircase leading up to the third floor twisted round on itself, each step measuring two cm deep. Ballerinas would have welcomed the opportunity to practice ‘en pointe’ whilst ascending these tiny steps. Normal people with normal sized feet found it difficult to ascend unless they hung onto the impressively thick rope, which served as a banister and remote door opener if you couldn’t be bothered to come down and risk breaking your neck. It was fine to ascend if you were carrying nothing but a teenage head full of white space but it was impossible to get furniture up those stairs, which was one of the reasons why the flat was minimalist (and besides furniture isn’t a priority when your stomach is rumbling). The walls pretty much bare, aside from the crucifixes, a copy of a Da Vinci Madonna with Child and a Pixies poster. To the left a small kitchenette with hob, fridge and sink. The previous occupant had been quick tempered and/or mad and had left a legacy of dried Bolognese sauce and spaghetti stuck to the wall. To the right stood a sofa bed, a TV and stereo system. The rest of the space was taken over with Carl’s music equipment; his keyboard, bass guitar, drum machines and computer. It isn’t just food that doesn’t matter when you’re in love.

The neighbourhood was home to a mix of students, bohemians and artists. Our neighbours were Hells Angels who passed the day sitting on the street corner and hurling abuse at cyclists and pedestrians. A scarecrow lady lived with them, her body so thin and ragged looking that she took your breath away. I spent the first few days wondering about her story, how she ended up living with these guys, why her head was so big and her body so small, why she enjoyed going right up to people and screaming in their faces. But I also picked up some useful phrases and if you’re going to ride a bicycle in Amsterdam then you need to be up to speed with your swearing.

After ten days of daily phone calls to my parents- There was a fire on the coach. The coach doesn’t stop in Amsterdam. I’ve broken my ankle. I’ll come back when I’m better. I’ve developed a fear of boats, and with each call Mum grew quieter as it became clear I wasn’t getting straight on the next coach back home. Eventually she seemed to give up. It was for her own good. Home hadn’t been fun. My worldview became severely limited once I found my candy- floss bird. My white dressing gown encrusted with boiled egg, coffee stains and chicken soup – trailing it round the floor and rolling into bed and out again but rarely getting into a vertical position unless it was to blow my nose or change the classical music tape Carl had made specially to keep me company. The crease between Mum’s eyes deepening each day.

‘I’ll have to talk to your father,’ Mum said during the fifteenth phone call, ‘He won’t be happy. Why do you want to make us so unhappy?’
I was doing the teenage thing of turning off the ears. I was watching the scarecrow lady out the window. She was just about to scream in someone’s face and I wanted to tap the window to warn them.
‘You’re not involved in prostitution are you?’
‘No.’
‘You would tell me if you were.’
‘I’m sorry. I know this looks really bad.’
‘Don’t be silly. It doesn’t matter what it looks like. Just finish your exams. I’m sure Carl is a lovely man. But please finish your exams.’

‘Are you sure this is what you want?’ Carl said, ten minutes later, ‘We won’t have much money and you haven’t really got any friends that live here apart from me.’
I snuggled into his armpit.
‘Well that doesn’t matter,’ I said, ‘ And besides I’ve got Lynette’.
Lynette was one of Carl’s old friends. I’d only met her and her boyfriend a couple of times but she seemed to be everything I wasn’t - confident, ballsy, never regretted anything - didn’t worry about the shape of her nose. She wasn’t really a proper friend yet but there was potential.
Carl finished off his croissant and lit a cigarette. The television sound was turned low and Oprah was talking direct to camera, tears in her eyes.
‘What kinds of jobs are you going to look for?’
Carl was keen to stress that I would not be a lady of leisure. Of course I was prepared to find work. I wasn’t expecting to just loll about watching Scarecrows scream at people but right away?
‘I’d make a good actress.’
Carl sighed. As well as the voice that verged on annoyance, there was more sighing coming into play.
‘I worked at Wembley Arena once as a steward.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I could show people to their seats if they get lost.’
‘It’s not realistic. We don’t have a Wembley Arena here and your Dutch isn’t up to scratch.’
‘I learn new things every day. I’m like a sponge. I just suck up all the words.’
‘Well, we’ll have to sign on till we figure out what to do next.’
Apparently the Dutch benefit system was one of the most generous in the world. It offered a reasonable bounty to all those who chose to live on its flat, tulip - filled plains.
‘Just for a while,’ I said. ‘I want to find something proper. I want to be useful. I want to get involved in something.’
Carl left for the studio and for the first time I was on my own.

I started cleaning. I wanted to earn my keep, never be a burden or give Carl a reason to ship me back. I dragged the stinky, antique Hoover out from the attic and vacuumed and then broke up the routine by smoking and then took the attachment and sucked up all the cobwebs in the corners and ran the attachment across Carl’s extensive CD collection. I realised I’d never cleaned anything before. Previously I’d only created mess. But here I was, an adult and I was smoking and cleaning and nothing had caught fire and there was no broken glass. But then after another half hour or so I felt bored and packed the Hoover away and dragged it back upstairs. I looked out the window and counted how many cyclists went past. I thought about how many eggs I’d eaten since I’d been born. Then I tried on a long velvet dress that was lying on top of a cardboard box in the attic. I came back downstairs and put some music on and smoked. I thought about my face and the way in some photographs it looked okay and in others really bad like I was the ugly sister of the good one. I spotted Scarecrow Lady dressed up as a seventies Rod Stewart with a lime green feather cut wig and leopard skin leggings. Where was she going? How would she look in a photograph? Her mouth was scary. Was she English? The thoughts flew through my mind, jumping from one tangent to the next - like an owl flapping its wings against the walls of a barn, trying to escape. The damned bird would never rest up and roost a while. Things only really changed if Carl was around and then the white wall came up and I didn’t need to churn everything over. I needed a job that involved being with Carl. I needed a purpose that went beyond staring out of the window. I applied more green liner and biked to the supermarket.

Once inside Albert Heijn, panic took over. I became paranoid and avoided eye contact, quietly filling my basket with seeded bread, potatoes and yoghurt; the staples of the Dutch diet- the reason you will rarely see a fat, greasy Dutch person unless they’ve just come back from England. And back on the bicycle I felt better. I even took a detour and went up to the Windmill (yes there was really a windmill) and back again. The wind whistled round my ears. I was accomplished enough to ride a bicycle without sticking my tongue out because I was having to concentrate too hard. I belonged here. This was the dawn of a new age. Perhaps I’d never go back to England. Then as I pulled the bicycle up onto the curb and struggled with the lock, the scary growl of the Hells Angel neighbour cut through my reverie.
‘KUT WIJF!’
It is frightening how quickly your mood can plummet. I knew enough Dutch to realise he’d just shouted - CUNT WIFE - at the back of my head. I didn’t even bother checking to see if the bike was properly locked. My hands shook as I pulled myself up the stairs with one arm, the bag trailing behind. The bread, potatoes and yoghurt were stupid choices. I should have bought ingredients to make a proper dinner. I couldn’t even make a stew. I was unemployed. Hadn’t finished my A levels. I was the crease in Mum’s forehead. The fright that woke Dad in the middle of the night.

The man was right.
I was cunt wife.