Where do you find a diamond in Belgium? In Antwerp, of course; the diamond capital of the world.

After putting my violin and bow into the case, I helped to tidy the rehearsal room. I said goodbye to the other members of the orchestra. As usual, some acknowledged; most didn’t. All kept a discreet distance. I sighed, then smiled inwardly; I was looking forward to two weeks holiday away from the tension and the lonely life I led in England.

Tick tock.

I’ve stood on the platform at lots of railway stations and shivered. Many don’t have a toilet, some don’t have a waiting room or even a shelter; if it rains, you get drowned. Even in the spring and autumn there’s often still a chill in the air. I can’t be the only person who has wondered why these places seem to attract freezing winds, usually when there’s a delay due to “leaves on the line“ or “the wrong kind of snow”. New England has leaves a-plenty and Switzerland has enough snow to hide a battleship; I don’t hear those excuses.

In the winter, you wish for something like Belgian Railways precision. The high-speed Eurostar started its journey in London St. Pancras and delivered me on time to Brussels about two hours later, where the train for the onward journey was due to depart at 15:30.

It did.

Grand Central Terminal in New York is world-famous, cavernous, classic, stunning and has that ‘WOW’ factor as soon as you see it. With forty four platforms and sixty-seven tracks, it’s the largest rail station in the world. Antwerp Central Station vies with St Pancras in London as the most beautiful architectural gem on the European rail network. It looks more like a large town hall, nothing like a railway terminus at all from the outside, but still had that ‘WOW’ factor when I first saw it.

I expected to be in Antwerp for a few days, after which I’d planned to explore the lovely cities of Bruges and Ghent.

Tick tock.

The antique clock had always hung on the wall of my grandparent’s living-room and I wrongly assumed that it had been a gift to them. In my grandfather’s will, he requested that it be returned to its rightful owner in Belgium. That was a surprise, and easier said than done; still, as executrix of his will — my grandmother had passed on and my parents had died in a car accident a few years before - I felt it my duty to try. During the Second World War, grandfather had driven a Sherman Crab flail tank through northern Europe and ended up in Antwerp, a site then of horrendous devastation as a result of hostilities. He found the clock, not working but otherwise surprisingly relatively unscathed, in a pile of rubble that used to be a large house on the corner of Rembrandtstraat. My grandfather had ‘rescued’ it as a war souvenir, arranged for its restoration and fully intended to return it, but long-term illness, in the form of frequent bronchitis and emphysema from sleeping under a Sherman tank for months on end, prevented that from happening.

Tick tock.

I’d spent hours on the Internet and in correspondence with various people and eventually made arrangements to visit in person. I wanted the clock to be a surprise, as I hoped it would lead to new friendships; God knows how hard I’d tried over the years. It did no good, though; I was always an outsider.

Tick tock.

I hid the clock as best I could on the journey, partly because I didn’t want to have to explain it to various officials along the way and, partly, because the said officials might misconstrue my intentions. They might order its destruction, assuming that it was something other than what it purported to be.

We recognised each other from our descriptions and photographs when Jacob Beckers and I met the next morning at the bottom of the main staircase at Antwerp Central Station. His photo didn’t do him justice (think Matt Damon) and my heart started beating wildly as he took my hand and led me to a coffee shop. As with many people from that area, his English was impeccable. My heart eventually returned to something approximating a normal rhythm but, every time we glanced at each other, or he spoke to me, I was distracted. We were so at ease with one another that it almost seemed like we’d been best friends for years. I could almost feel tension lift from my shoulders.

Tick tock.

“What are your plans?” He eventually asked, once we were settled with drinks in front of us.

“I… I was planning to spend a few days here before going to explore Bruges and Ghent,” I hesitantly replied.

“Was?” he asked, perceptively.

“I don’t want to leave Antwerp now.”

“I don’t want you to go,” he replied, warmly.

“You feel it as well?”

“Indeed I do,” he said, gazing into my eyes. Then, after a few moments, he asked, “May I show you my city?”

“Yes please; that would be lovely, but I will need to extend my stay at the Hilton Hotel.”

“Stay with us.”

“Us?”

“My parents and I.”

“I couldn’t do that; it’s an imposition.”

“No; we’d be delighted. Perhaps you could play for us? My mother is a pianist.” He chuckled, produced a mobile phone and made a call. After a short conversation in fluent Flemish, he said, “It is done.”

I’d brought my violin; daily practice was essential if I was to maintain my position in the orchestra. I’d mentioned that I played; he’d told me that he was an architect.

We finished our coffees and walked out with my arm entwined in his. We found a taxi which took us to an apartment, in a building opposite the Stadspark, where I was welcomed like the Prodigal.

We spent the rest of my time in Antwerp visiting some of the main attractions; St Paul’s church, Het Steen medieval fortress, the Courts, the Zoo, Rubens House. We had lunch at a table outside a bistro not far from the extensive modern pedestrianised shopping area. We marvelled at the talents of the street entertainers, we walked hand in hand in the parks, we dined at street cafés.

Over lunch one day, towards the end of my stay, I hesitantly said, “Jacob, I…I’ve something to tell you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “About you being a talented musician who plays in a London Orchestra, or about you fulfilling your greatest dream despite what you went through in your childhood?”

“Y…You know about my childhood?” I stammered.

He held onto my hand, seemingly unwilling to let it go. “I’ve done some research of my own. I wanted to find out all I could about the squadron of tanks which liberated us from the German Army. I then decided to find out about the granddaughter of the tank driver whose photograph stands on the mantle-shelf in our living room. I discovered that she didn’t exist ten years ago, and wanted to find out why.”

“Oh. I suppose I’d better continue with my holiday, then.”

“Why?”

“Well, I….”

He still gripped my hand. “Must you go?”

“Well, I….”

“Please stay here. Perhaps we can get to know each other.”

“I’d like that, but what about...”

He smiled, and suddenly I hadn’t a care in the world.

The last couple of days in Antwerp seemed to fly by. Eventually, the time came for me to return to England and we exchanged contact details. I visited Jacob as often as I could over the next six months and he came to stay with me in England. I finally made the decision to wind up my affairs and move to Belgium.

Each time I saw the clock, I blessed my grandfather for rescuing it from that heap of rubble. I knew that it was a treasured family heirloom, which I would often see again, and that Jacob and I would eventually inherit it.

Fin

Once again my thanks go to Angela Rasch for her advice and encouragement.