Cindy-Lou Dale

A year ago Jonathan and I decided it would be best for all concerned if we relocated to Belgium, where his European head quarters are located – after all, that was where he spent most of his working week. The stresses related to constantly being on the move was wearing him down. Now the kids and I live in a grand house in a semi-rural region in Belgium, in a sleepy hamlet named Bertem. Sometimes, should he be in the country, Jonathan joins us. It all worked out so well initially. Jonathan no longer needed to live out of a suitcase or use the departures lounge of any given airport as his office. He spent more time at home, relaxed into life in Belgium and as such, became more effective in his job and as a reward, his company promoted him and now he travels even more extensively.

The street that we live in can best be described as neat - the homes are clean and well kept, the gardens manicured and clipped and the cars in the driveways shiny and new. Walking through this neighbourhood makes me feel that all is well with the world. Our neighbours, who smile and politely wave in greeting, are mostly genteel retired Flemish speaking folk that spend hours tending their equally immaculate vegetable gardens out back. Many have town council supplied free-range laying hens that assist in garden maintenance by seeking out pests and receive board and lodgings as recompense.

On route to the local deli with our cat, Rusty, who insists on following me wherever I walk, I passed an elderly gentleman stooped over a freshly dug mount of earth, poking at it with his walking stick. Numerous clucking hens were at his feet, scratching at the soil, ferreting for worms and grubs. One let out of whooping squawk and attacked something only she could see in the dirt, which caused the other hens to rush across in excited anticipation. Standing aside, regally surveying his kingdom from a rock beside an ornamental fish pond was the Rooster that insisted sunrise was at 3a.m. each day. However, his announcement to the world that the sun had risen was immediately followed by what sounded to be 500 baying dogs telling him he got it wrong again.

A little further down the road I strolled past a row of uniform semi-detached double-storey stone cottages. The date inscribed above the main archway told they had been built in 1820. Faded red front doors and peeling shutters opened onto the curb and to the rear, a high brick wall made it impossible to see the homes beyond. I wondered after the interior of the faceless buildings and imagined dank and oppressively gloomy rooms, filled with ghostly memories of the past. I could not recall ever seeing any activity at these properties and decided they were probably vacant. Whilst still pondering over this, the whir of an electric motor sounded, bringing my attention to a peeling red shuttered garage door which grinded and shuddered into life, lifting to reveal a convertible reversing out. Now, with what I thought to be the garage door standing open, I allowed myself a quick look inside.

The garage door guarded the entrance to an immense cobbled courtyard with a bronze four-tier fountain in the middle. The quiet within allowed the light trickle of water to resound off the high walls. Stained glass windows, depicting biblical scenes, overlooked the courtyard on three sides. Several faded red stable doors, standing open, revealed the rooms beyond. The one that caught my eye, I presumed was the entrance hall with a crystal chandelier of such immense proportions it extended way beyond the door frame. Behind the chandelier was an ornately carved grand staircase which divided on the landing, beneath a stained glass image of ‘Madonna and Child’ and then spiralled in opposite directions to the floor above. The roof above the staircase was a massive dome constructed of elaborate wrought iron and glass, illuminating the sumptuous room below. The garage door jumped and wobbled back down, closing off the secret world that lay beyond.

Rusty and I shared an ice cream outside the deli whilst I quietly contemplated the unconventional lives of my neighbours and started to mull over our lives, thinking how transparent us foreigners must appear to them. I wandered back home with Rusty trotting next to me. What an eccentric neighbourhood we lived in.

Word Count: 740

© Cindy-Lou Dale 2004