By Arnold Jansen op de Haar

I’ve always said that I would never go to a reunion, but there I was, in a restaurant on a foggy December evening in Nijmegen. I had travelled from the West of England to my birthplace in the Netherlands to be among my classmates from primary school. The boys (and two girls) of more than forty years ago.

So that’s what men of my own age (54) look like. ‘We were boys – though friendly boys,’ C would later remark, quoting the Dutch author Nescio. One of us had died: A, who cried if he scored a 9 instead of a 10. ‘He led a tragic life,’ someone said.

It was one of those old-fashioned primary schools, where you learned to write with pen and ink and sat with your arms folded. One of those schools at the end of the sixties, early seventies, from before everything would change. Not only in my private life but in the whole world. Everything was still innocent, and all our neighbours still wore hats.

The boys entered one by one. Everyone recognised G, because of his short stature. It had to be G, hadn’t it? G himself didn’t recognise anyone. ‘No,’ he said each time, tilting his head, ‘I don’t recognise the face.’ Followed by shaking his head and saying in the local accent: ‘No, the name doesn’t ring any bells either.’

‘Are you sure you are at the right reunion?’ I asked him.

It had been ‘difficult’ to find him. Actually, it was a miracle that they had located him. He didn’t use social media because the Inland Revenue was looking for him as well. As he put it, he ‘dabbled in property’.

I recognised quite a few of my classmates, mostly through a gesture or a smile. Take for example Rop, with a p. In the old days, he was still called Rob, but there were already two Robs in his volleyball team, so he became Rop. I’m glad I was never a member of a volleyball team with three Arnolds, otherwise my name would have been Arnold with a t. You can’t hear the difference but it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?

Apart from his name, Rop with a p hadn’t changed much. He was the same friendly Rob (with a b). Just like W, who sat next to me; we’ve been friends since we were nine. He is the only member of my class I have stayed in touch with.

During dinner, G started a story about ‘those rotten judges’. ‘Well, occasionally there is a half decent one.’ He’d had quite a few dealings with them because of his houses. I mentioned that my neighbour on the right, W, had become a judge. G eyeballed W behind my back, but apart from that things went smoothly that evening.

The same W told C later that we had been educated at an elite school. I looked around me. Elite school? Everyone around me spoke with the local accent. Ordinary boys who had found their way in life. ‘No, I don’t think so, W,’ I answered, ‘we got an excellent education, but that’s not the same thing.’

J, with whom I shared guitar lessons, had made it his profession. My guitar-playing career lasted only one year. All that remains is one picture of me in a cowboy outfit holding a guitar.

Someone else’s childhood wish was to become a policeman and he ended up as one. His career had ‘helped him enormously with his fiery temper’, because there had been ‘quite a few riots in town’. And apparently it had worked wonders. He, too, seemed to be a very nice boy.

Suddenly I thought: death reigns at reunions. All the grown-ups from my childhood have gone. I’ve been under fire, I’ve published books, and I work for an English publisher. I’m a poet, and now I find myself here, thinking about the dead.

But, for the other boys, Nijmegen still remained full of life.

Further along sat M. Even now they still mentioned that he was quite a ‘bruiser’. I would have liked to speak a bit more to him. He was a good boy, who fought for me because I was one of the youngest. I think he would still come to the rescue. ‘I can’t stand injustice,’ he mentioned several times.

Rop with a p pointed out that there was another reunion of the youth choir next year, which ‘had produced many a marriage’. ‘I’ll have a think about that one,’ I replied.

© Arnold Jansen op de Haar
© Translation Holland Park Press

Visit Arnold’s home page to find out more about his other publications.

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