At Hoogstraat thirteen in Tholen, everything went wrong from early in the morning. The front door squeaked. The windows stayed shut. A big, ugly crack emerged in the just-painted wall. And all this right on the open doors day! The first viewers were about to arrive. But Jeroen was still standing with a screwdriver in one hand and the doorbell in the other. The latter would not ring and Jeroen could not find a reason.

‘Damn it!’ he exclaimed and scratched his head. ‘What is going on with this house today?'

In response, he heard a sound that made his hair stand on end. In particular, a cheerful dripping of water. That exact sound came from somewhere inside the house.

"You're not serious, are you?" Jeroen threw the screwdriver and the broken doorbell onto the old, crummy table by the door. Then he hurried inside. Yes, the house is certainly old, and it might need some work, but what house in Tholen centre is different? That's not yet a reason for... but Jeroen failed to bring that comforting thought to an end.

At this point, the dripping sound turned into flowing murmurs. Jeroen, eyes bulging, ran towards the basement where the sound was strongest.

That was why he had missed the arrival of the first visitors. An old lady, a girl in her mid-twenties, and a fluffy white dog, which looked like a mix of a white terrier and a guinea pig. They entered without ringing or knocking. That alone was unusual but that was only where the strangeness began.

The lady's appearance was also anything but ordinary. Most women her age are not very fashion-conscious. But she went even further in ignoring modern taste. She wore a magnificent old Zeeland traditional costume. It was a sombre black with a snow-white shot and a hood. The hood stood so straight on the old lady's head, it resembled a sail, blown rounded by the wind. With the sharp edge of that remarkable hood, one could cut the buttercream. Her face seemed stern, but the remarkable rosy hue betrayed a lively and restless nature.

Unlike her, there was nothing at all striking about the girl. She was a typical Zeeland girl with a long blonde braid, light-coloured eyebrows and blue eyes. She looked like hundreds of other girls from the province with her dark grey skirt, blue blouse with small flowers and a fine long silver scarf hanging casually around her neck. She could easily be the daughter of one of Jeroen's neighbours, with whom he sometimes went to church on Sundays. Not that he was particularly religious, rather forward-thinking and conservative.

‘There's no harm in supporting some traditions,’ he sometimes said. ’I do it for the cultural and social side, plus it's not bad for business. After all, it is a part of our history.’

But at the moment church worship, useful clients and the Dutch history were just about the last things he was interested in. He stood with both his feet in a large puddle of water on the centuries-old floor of the basement, which he used for storing unnecessary stuff. Fortunately for the aforementioned stuff, because of Jeroen's possible moving, the basement was already almost empty, which made the disaster look more frightening.

Straight out of the wall, on which the prints of the shelves could still be seen, a brook was running. A huge wet stain spread at breakneck speed and it smelt strongly of sea.

Jeroen watched it helplessly and counted to ten in his head. After the third failed attempt, he turned and silently left the basement. He walked to the living room and was about to sit down on the hard uncomfortable but incredibly stylish sofa by the window, which had cost him a fabulous amount of money. He intended to think quietly about what to do next and what it would cost him to get that bizarre leakage fixed, when he finally saw the guests.

‘Gertrude,’ the old lady said to the startled Jeroen, ‘Gertrude Jansen.’

She looked intently at Jeroen, then at his wet shoes and, finally, her gaze focused on the long wet trail that ran across the entire room floor.

‘Is there a leak somewhere?’ she asked worryingly.

‘Ehh, no.’ Jeroen replied. ’Not quite. I mean it's not really a leak. It's just a very small thing and ehhh...’

‘We are on time,’ the lady said to the girl and nodded her head twice.

‘This is Anna,’ she told Jeroen, ’my granddaughter. And his name is Richard.’ she pointed to the little dog, who was sniffing cosily in the room. “He is English,” she added.

‘Jeroen Baaij, pleasant. The owner of this beautiful old house in the heart of picturesque Tholen, with the great view of ... ehhh...‘ he hovered for a moment in the middle of this exemplary sentence from the estate agents’ brochures, trying to think of what exactly that great view was of.

‘With a great view of one of the city's oldest streets! Here, look!' he tried to open one of the old, neatly painted windows that still had at least two original panes.

Unfortunately, the windows refused to open. Jeroen's face gradually turned as reddish as the face of the lady.

‘Closed for the sake of safety. But that can easily be adjusted. Won't he do anything here?’ Jeroen changed the subject and looked at the doggy who was studying him with equal interest.

‘He is English,’ Gertrude Jansen repeated.

‘Well that relieves,’ Jeroen chuckled nervously and wanted to comment, but there was something very serious about the way the old lady was looking at him and he did not dare.

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‘Let's sit down, Mr Baaij,’ she said. ’We have something to discuss.’

Jeroen took a seat intrigued on the sofa, while both women and the little dog lowered themselves onto three of the four chairs arranged around the large Oisterwijk table in the centre of the room.

The beautiful old house in the centre of picturesque Tholen had been up for sale for over a year. There was plenty of interest, but every time something went wrong at the very last minute. The neighbours joked about the ‘lucky thirteen’, and Jeroen himself was already beginning to believe that he would have to live in his parents' house forever. Now, looking at the serious faces of the women sitting in front of him, he suddenly felt a glimmer of hope. Yet, what he heard next sounded like thunder.

‘Mr Baaij,’ said Gertrude Jansen, ’I want to buy this house.’

After these words, there was a silence in the room, making the ominous sound of water still running in the basement all the more noticeable, which brought Jeroen back to consciousness.

‘Yes,’ he said loudly and slapped his knees, ’it's a good decision, Mrs Jansen. You will never regret it! It's a beautiful house. And the town is picturesque. Shall we see the rest of it?’ he jumped up from the sofa.

‘That won't be necessary. Sit down, Mr Baaij,’ the old lady waved her hand impatiently and pointed to the only empty chair at the table.

‘You should know, I already know this house,’ she continued when Jeroen finally settled down. ’My family owned it for years. My grandmother still lived here when I was young. But that was, of course, a long time ago. Anyway, I want to bring this house back to the family and I see it as a fine place for my own old age.’

The more Jeroen listened to her, the more it gave him an odd feeling. For one thing, his counting ability jammed almost immediately when he tried to determine his guest's age. As far as he had ever heard from his parents, they had inherited the house from his mother's parents, and she in turn had gotten it after the death of her single and childless uncle, who had reached a very old age. If Gertrude Jansen once visited her grandmother here as a child, how old must she be now?

As he tried to process these difficult calculations, it suddenly struck him that the Englishman Richard had not only been studying him closely all this time, but had also drawn some conclusions. At one point, he threw Jeroen a disapproving glance, turned his head towards his mistress and barked.

‘Thank you, Richard,’ Gertrude Jansen responded .’That was a valuable comment.’

‘Ehh,’ Jeroen said uneasily. ’Are you sure you don't want to see the rest of the house?’

Deep inside, he really hoped he wouldn't have to explain the leak's in the basement, and that by the time the deal was finalised, the problem would be solved.

‘Absolutely sure, Mr Baaij, don't worry. And more to the point. I want to buy this house and I am willing to offer you thirty per cent more than the asking price,’ at this point she paused until she got all of Jeroen’s attention. ’But on one condition...’

‘And that is?’ asked Jeroen very curiously, shuffling on his chair.

‘That we can move in today,’ finished Gertrude Jansen.

For a few minutes, they sat at the table and looked at each other. She - perfectly calm, as if her suggestion was a dead normal and even routine thing, Jeroen - dumbfounded, not believing his ears.

‘But it's not so easy to arrange,’ he began cautiously, ’I don't have a place to move to yet, and the paperwork will take time.’

‘Mr Baaij,’ said the old lady very patiently, as if she were talking to a child, ’I am already very old, as I assume you have already understood...’

At these words it seemed to Jeroen that the girl and the little dog jumped up with laughter, but in the next moment nothing disturbed their seriousness.

‘Every day, I get is a gift,’ continued Gertrude. ‘Waiting is not what anyone of my age can grant themselves. I understand, it probably sounds a bit eccentric, but I am an old woman and I have my oddities. Thirty-five per cent above the asking price and don't worry about the papers, I'll get it done.’

Jeroen thought feverishly. ‘A little eccentric’ was not enough to describe what was happening now. But on the other hand, the house had been for sale for over a year and that felt like a very long time. It was as if he unexpectedly had the winning lot in the lottery. The lady was surely not well in the head, but who cares, as long as she pays.

‘Forty per cent above the price,’ Jeroen said decisively, ’and you can move in straight away.’

‘You are a real Zeeuw,’ Gertrude Jansen resulted and laughed, for the first time during this visit. ’But good. Forty per cent above the price and once we have the paperwork in order, we will stay and you, Mr Baaij, will leave. You can pick up your things in the next few days.’

‘Fine!’ Jeroen felt himself as if in some movie. ’Now just the paperwork?’

‘That's the easy part. Anna, please open the door. I think Mr Owl has been pressing the doorbell for about ten minutes now.’

The old lady put her heavy old-fashioned bag with brass buttons on the table.