— VINCENT TO ANTHON VAN RAPPARD, NUENEN, MARCH 1884I’M WOKEN AT SEVEN when the family starts their day. Helen chatters as she dresses for school but when she bounces off downstairs I doze a little longer. It’s procrastination as much as tiredness. Half of me’s relieved I’ll finally get to see Van’s grave, the other terrified I’ll crack. Already a lump the size of Pluto blocks my throat. My stomach is awash with nerves. By the time I’m up and dressed, Uncle Royan is shepherding the kids into the van. After the school drop he’ll do two of the cleaning jobs — that way Shanaye can spend the day with me.We set off on foot and everything’s far stranger than the pictures I’ve seen online. People aren’t happy here — are really struggling — you can feel it in the air. Shabby houses sprout small shops, sturdy roller doors in place instead of glass. Every second corner hosts a church, looming over squalid backyards like a hanging judge. There are more of the big murals too, each one with a story Shanaye relates to me as we walk past.
