An hour later, Jeroen, with a large suitcase in one hand and two full shopping bags in the other, stood at the door of his neighbour Hidde de Jonge.

‘Morning, Jeroen,’ the latter opened the door and looked at the suitcase and bags with curiosity. ‘How is your open doors day going? I just wanted to come along.’

‘I sold my house,’ Jeroen replied helplessly and threw the bags on the ground. ‘Can I stay with you for a few days?’

‘Ehhh...?’ said Hidde.

‘Yes, really,’ confirmed Jeroen.

‘What...?’

‘So just now.’

‘Ah, well come in,’ Hidde moved aside with a puzzled look on his broad, always, even in winter, tanned face.

This amazed expression by the way, more befitting a child, was often seen on Hidde's face. Despite already being a grown man with family and kids, he managed to keep a pure childlike curiosity and openness to everything that happened in the world. Anyone who needed help or understanding could count on Hidde with confidence. Jeroen considered himself lucky to have such a friend. And a neighbour. Ex-neighbour, heh... Jeroen suddenly felt sad and rushed into the house as if fleeing an unexpected cold autumn rain.

Fifteen minutes later, Jeroen, Hidde and his two giant rabbits were sitting in the small garden behind the house. They stared thoughtfully at the wall with its green carpet of ivy that separated Hidde's garden from Jeroen's. Several strange sounds came from behind it, indicating the frantic activity that had begun just after the door slammed behind Jeroen.

‘Ahem,’ Hidde cleared his throat, ’coffee?’

‘Yes, please,’ both startled at the sound of something metallic, which fell on something stony.

‘What have you got there, a chain or something?’ asked Hidde, reaching across the tiled garden table to the coffee pot.

‘No, not that I know of.’

‘Whatever,’ Hidde leaned back in his chair with a tiny cup of hot black coffee in his hands.

Everything in his house seemed too small for him: he bent forward to get through doorways, in the kitchen he had to make his way sideways, the chairs squeaked pitifully when he sat on them and all the cups, plates and glasses seemed made for dolls rather than for this very large man, over two metres tall and only slightly less wide.

Besides these proportions, Hidde had just as big a warm heart, red curly hair, miniature wife and two daughters aged nine and thirteen, who were visiting their grandma at the moment. Also there lived two rabbits and three canaries, whom Hidde took care of with great affection. Jeroen had known him all his life. For the last ten years they had been best neighbours. And now? Now everything had suddenly and irreversibly changed. Jeroen sighed…

‘Your new neighbour, is a very eccentric lady,’ he began, choosing his words. ‘One you won't forget for the rest of your life. All in all, it's a quite strange story.’

He slowly began to recount, word by word, what had happened in his life in the last few hours. Hidde listened intently, from time to time adding a few words. Something along the lines of ‘Wow! You're kidding me! Seriously?’ and shook his head.

They were sitting in the rays of the unreliable autumn sunshine, drinking their coffee. Combined with the constant enigmatic noise from behind the wall, Jeroen's extraordinary story sounded like some mysterious fairy tale. That happened to someone else long ago.

At the end, Jeroen even lowered his voice and they both got goosebumps. Enchanted by the feeling of the untold secret, which filled the air around them, they sat in silence for a while with cold coffee in their hands. Then they heard an ominous roar that made their blood curdle.

‘It's coming from somewhere in your house,’ Hidde whispered, ducking. ‘You said they have a dog?’

‘Yes. A dog...gy, and it's not my house anymore.’

‘Ah, yes, sorry.’

At that moment, the clocks in both the churches on the square and in the old town hall started ringing noon almost without deviating from each other. In a surprising way, they did not interfere with each other, but created a very pleasant melodic harmony, tuned together over the last hundred years. Hidde jumped up from his chair.

‘Boy oh boy! I actually had to do some work! The girls are almost back.’

‘I'll help!’ exclaimed Jeroen, who did not want to be left alone in the garden and walked with relief behind his ex-neighbour's wide back.

Halfway through, Hidde slowed his step.

‘It was definitely a dog, wasn't it?’ he asked without looking at Jeroen. ’Because.... you know, I have kids and rabbits and stuff...’

‘It was a dog,’ Jeroen reassured him. ’They can make crazy noises.’

‘Right. A dog. Good to know, yes,’ Hidde said, still in a soft voice. ’Good to know.’

Through the front door into the street, they looked towards number thirteen, where there had been complete silence since the last event.

‘I shed. You can, if you like, prune away those hollyhocks, they've bloomed out anyway.’

‘Will do!’ replied Jeroen with somewhat exaggerated enthusiasm.

With garden shears in his hand, which Hidde retrieved from one of the many pockets of his blue overalls, he turned to the two glazed coloured pots from which bare yellow stalks protruded. They had been engrossed in their work just long enough for the memory of the strange growling to fade a little, when they saw Lisette, Hidde's wife, approaching.

‘The girls are at grandma's for a while,’ she began from afar. ’Hey dear! Hello, Jeroen!’

Her eyes looked sassy, her shoulder-length dark hair dishevelled and a blush blossomed on her cheeks from walking fast. Lisette always walked fast. She also talked fast, cycled fast, laughed fast, cooked fast, - everything she did, she did quickly and briskly. All this, together with her subtle shapes and high-pitched voice, made her look very much like a finch. Always busy and always somehow there. She flew over the threshold, gave Hidde a kiss and looked at the not very impressive fruits of their effort.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

‘Jeroen sold the house!’ blurted out Hidde before she could say anything and turned her to Jeroen.

At that moment, Mr Arno Bouwman jogged by, the former esteemed vicar of the Big of Tholen, where Hidde and Lisette were also good parishioners. In the years after Mr Bouwman passed on his post, people did not often see him around town and certainly not running across the streets. If this word could be applied to an aged and slightly overweight man's attempt to gallop with a cane like a panicking limping mule.

Jeroen, Lisette, Hidde and a few other neighbours, who were also more or less by chance outside at the time, gazed at him until, after tapping a mysterious tune on the door of number thirteen, he disappeared inside.

‘Well yes, the house has been sold,’ Jeroen confirmed with some doubt in his voice.

‘To whom? To Mr vicar?’ whispered Lisette, still impressed by that extraordinary scene.

‘No, of course not,’ said Hidde. ’To an old lady with a little dog.’

‘Oh, thank God! No strange neighbours, or young people or musicians. Remember Anita's new neighbour? The one with a trumpet? Old lady - you can't hit a better one. Thank goodness!’

‘Well,’ Jeroen hesitated. ‘Let’s see first. Not everything seems to be what it seems.’

‘More coffee?’ Hidde turned to Jeroen with a warning look.

‘Yes, dear, thank you, but what's the matter? What's wrong with this old lady? Is she playing trumpet or something?’

Before Jeroen could think of an appropriate explanation, the doors of number thirteen opened again and Kobe the Owl appeared. He smiled beamingly at them.

‘Congratulations again!’ he shouted and waved.

Following him, two tall fellows came out, looking very much alike. Both blond, sombre, wearing baggy overalls of an indefinable colour, wet to their waists. On their feet were worn clogs, which probably once had a pattern on them.

There was something else about them that seemed very odd, but Jeroen couldn't quite place it. Their eyes perhaps?

Jeroen got a strange feeling that he had seen these eyes before. Pale grey, or blue, almost colourless, with an unpleasant cold wateriness - no, they would not be easily forgotten. When the two looked in their direction, it was as if they were staring through them, without noticing them. Jeroen, Hidde and Lisette startled.

The twins gave them a casual nod and followed Kobe to his car. An old but perfectly maintained Mercedes that, despite its venerable age, had all the luxuries a person could wish for.

‘Family,’ was all Kobe said, pointing at the strange pair. ‘Family!’

With this dubious explanation, all three got into the car and disappeared quickly, as if they were in a huge hurry down the side street.

‘Did you see that shirt?’ asked Hidde, whose face showed surprise. ‘Exactly the kind my granda wore in the 1950s, when he used to go mussel fishing. Those pieces of leather on the shoulders? In his case, those were always as stiff as a board and stank of salt. I didn't know it was still made like that. For what? And that fisherman sweater by the other one? Is it back in fashion?’

‘Strange,’ Jeroen said, almost not listening. ’Did you see them go into the house?’

‘Um, no. But we weren't looking the whole time.’

‘It's still strange... I think I know them from somewhere.’

‘In my opinion, there's nothing wrong with them. The boys just have style. They maybe looked a bit weird, but that's probably because of their eyes,’ Lisette stuck her nose in. ’But I didn't know, the Owl has a family.’

‘And that's strange too,’ Jeroen replied gruffly. ’I've never heard the Owl call anyone family.’

‘No one in the world is alone, Jeroen. You're too suspicious today,’ Lisette snorted. ’Let's go inside, I want some coffee.’

But getting inside was not an option. From the right, from around the corner and from directly opposite, worried and curious neighbours turned to them.

‘I think the coffee would rather go outside,’ muttered Hidde, uncomfortable with the crowds and the small talk. ’I'll get it.’

After another fifteen minutes, the crowd in front of his door had doubled in size. In some mysterious way, as is usually the case, everyone had heard that Jeroen had finally got rid of the house and everyone wanted to know the details. Hidde and Lisette handed out cups of coffee, biscuits and extra rumours, while Jeroen searched for the appropriate words to describe the situation not too loud or too confusing. Not too loud he failed anyway.

The Tholen people, as the true descendants of the ‘free boys’ living at sea, were not used to soft talk. The reactions and comments filled the whole street, like the shouting of schoolchildren during summer holidays. Not too confusing words did not seem to exist either, as everyone had seen Arno Bouman with his triumphant gallop. That brought even more scandal, than the simple fact, that Jeroen was kicked out the same morning.

‘I didn't know he could walk at all.’

‘He mainly came only for the Christmas service, last time last year!’

‘Bizarre! ’

‘What's the new neighbour's name again, Jeroen?’ twittered and cackled the neighbours, making it seem, that the situation suddenly took on more odd and untrue details, which had initially passed Jeroen by.

‘Gertrude,’ he said helplessly and looked at the closed door of his ex's house, ’Gertrude Jansen.’