Between Two Seas

by Marie-Louise Jensen

  ‘Yes! It’s … very good. It’s kunst. Art. Where did you learn drawing?’

  ‘From my mother. She said … ’ I hesitate, embarrassed. What she actually said was, ‘Every lady should be able to draw’, but I can’t very well repeat that, poor as I am. ‘She said drawing was important,’ I say instead. ‘Shall we go?’

  Mikkel takes another look at the picture and then shoulders his bag again. As we leave the house, we head in a completely different direction to usual.

  ‘Hvor skal vi hen?’ Where are we going? I ask him, and immediately blush. It’s a phrase he taught me the second time we met, and I practise it every time, but I still feel self-conscious speaking his language to him.

  ‘Nordstranden,’ Mikkel tells me, and I must look blank because he laughs and translates for me: the west coast.

  ‘But nordstranden sounds like north beach,’ I object, confused.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, you are learning Danish fast,’ says Mikkel with a smile.

  ‘But why is it called that if it’s on the west coast? It makes no sense.’

  ‘It does if you look at a map. The beach up here faces north,’ Mikkel explains. ‘And by the way, I have a picnic,’ he adds with a backward nod at his bag.

  I haven’t yet been across to the other coast, apart from the top of Denmark, but I assume it’s not much different.

  ‘Is it far?’ I ask.

  He laughs and shakes his head.

  ‘Much fishing is done over there,’ he tells me.

  We follow a track across the dunes, which turns into windswept heath land. The purple blossoms of the heather, beginning to brown in places now, are a startling contrast to the deep blue of the autumn sky.

  We pass a woman in a grey woollen dress pushing a heavy, flat wheelbarrow full of fish back towards Skagen. I recognize her as one of our neighbours, and we greet each other briefly as we pass.

  ‘That looks hard work,’ I observe to Mikkel as the woman pushes the barrow through the soft sand.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘So how is it that you don’t fish with your father?’ I ask. I’ve been wondering about this since I first met him. The other lads his age all seem to be out working, while Mikkel wanders the heath with collecting jars and binoculars.

  Instead of answering, he grabs my sleeve and pulls me down into the heather beside him.

  ‘Look!’ he whispers.

  At first I don’t know what he wants to show me, but then I see some water ahead of us with huge white birds swimming in it.

  ‘Sangsvane, song swans. They’ve come down from Iceland,’ he tells me. ‘Soon they’ll move further south. They stop here for the water. They have this year’s babies with them.’

  I look at Mikkel rather than at the birds. He’s completely absorbed.

  ‘You like birds?’ I ask.

  ‘Birds, flowers, all of it,’ he tells me. ‘The nature. It make my father very angry.’

  Mikkel stands up again, and pulls me to my feet. The swans take fright. With a huge splashing and flapping of their powerful wings, they rise into the air and fly over our heads. Each wing-beat whooshes in the air above us.

  Mikkel watches them until they’re out of sight. Then he looks at me. After a moment he holds out his hands.

  ‘You’ve seen my hands?’

  They are raw and red today, the skin flaking in patches.

  I run my fingertips along the dry skin of one hand for a moment, to show my sympathy, but Mikkel snatches it back. He turns away and walks on.

  ‘I can’t work with the other men,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘I can’t work in the water with the nets. It tear my skin and start infections.’ His voice sounds tight and angry and his English isn’t as good as usual, but it isn’t the right time to correct it.

  ‘I can row a little, but not strong enough to be any use. I sometimes can’t breathe too. I used to try and work but my father got angry at me. All the time, angry.’ Mikkel pauses, and clears his throat. I realize he’s fighting tears. I wish I’d never asked the question. ‘I’m lucky, my father don’t really need me. He has a boat, and make a lot of money. Anyway, I don’t want to fish.’

  He stops walking, looks at me directly again, and tells me:

  ‘I’m going to go to the university one day. In København. Copenhagen. I’m going to be a scientist.’

  There’s a faraway look in his eyes.

  But then he sighs, and his eyes snap back into focus.

  ‘It’s just a dream. That’s for rich people. Fishermen’s sons aren’t going to the university.’

  Mikkel looks so sad as he says this that I want to comfort him. Feeling very daring, I take his hand and give it a gentle squeeze. Then I let it go again, embarrassed.

  Mikkel seems to shake himself, and we walk on.

  ‘So what is your dream?’ he asks me.

  ‘My dream?’ I’m at a loss for what to say.

  ‘Yes. You must have one. Why did you come to Skagen?’

  It’s the first time I’ve been asked. Everyone has simply seemed to accept that I’m here, blown in like a seed on the wind. At first I didn’t have the language to tell them anything, and now that I do, they’ve lost interest.

  I scrabble frantically in my mind for something to tell him. Something that won’t make him turn away from me. He’s the first friend my own age I ever had. He’s just told me a deep secret. So it is hard now to tell him nothing in return. Even worse to lie to him.

  ‘It was a mistake really. My mother died in July,’ I tell him. ‘She sent me here, because I had no one in England. She knew someone here she thought might take me in.’

  ‘But they didn’t?’ Mikkel asks. ‘Who was it?’ He sends me a curious sideways glance as we walk.

  ‘No, it turned out they died, a long time ago.’

  I hope he isn’t going to ask me how my mother knew them or ask again who it is, but his mind has moved on:

  ‘What about your father? Couldn’t he look after you? Or other family?’

  ‘My father died before I was born,’ I tell him truthfully. ‘And I never met any of my grandparents.’ It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. It feels more real now I’ve spoken the words. The loneliness that it implies surrounds me, presses in on me.

  ‘That is very sad … ’ He pauses. ‘But still. You must have a dream,’ Mikkel urges.

  I can hear he feels I’ve cheated him. I’m not really telling him anything important. That’s what friends do, isn’t it? They tell each other secret, important things.

  But Mikkel has a proper family and a fine home. They go to church every Sunday and I gather his father is someone important in the town, besides his work as a fisherman. A magistrate or some such thing. I can’t bring myself to confide in him. To tell him I’m illegitimate. He might despise me. Worse, he might tell others. I couldn’t bear the children of Skagen throwing stones at me. Or dried fish perhaps.

  Then I think of something I can tell him. Something true.

  ‘I’ve always dreamed of having friends,’ I tell him. I’m out of breath by now because we’re scrambling up a steep sand dune. ‘My life in England was … very isolated. And, apart from my mother and an old lady, you’re my first friend.’

  There’s just time for Mikkel to smile at me. I see he’s surprised, but pleased, and then we reach the top of the sand dune. The view of the west coast bursts upon me, and wipes the conversation from my mind.

  This coast couldn’t be more completely different from the east. It is grander by far. I’ve grown used to a narrow strip of soft, pale sand, full of hardy plants, and a friendly sea with small rippling waves. But here the sand is a smooth, rich gold, with patches of pebbles; a vast flat expanse fading into the distance in both directions. It looks untouched. As if no one has ever set foot here.

  Beyond the sand, the blue-green sea heaves and roars, and sends big breakers curling and crashing onto the sand. It’s huge, open, and fierce. A mixture of awe and delight sends a shiver through me, makin
g my fingers and toes tingle, and the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

  I become aware that Mikkel is standing beside me, waiting for my reaction.

  ‘It’s beautiful … ’ I’m drinking in the size and scale of the beach, soaking up the blues, greens, and golds that are almost dazzling in the autumn sunshine.

  ‘It’s big, like the coast near Grimsby,’ I tell him. My mother took me to the beach, occasionally. ‘This is wilder somehow. More colourful. Is the tide in at the moment?’

  ‘Tide? There’s not really any tide here,’ Mikkel tells me, surprising me. ‘Is there in England?’

  ‘Yes, the sea goes out a long way. So far you can hardly see it.’

  ‘Shall we run down?’ asks Mikkel, pointing down the steep slope at our feet. As soon as I agree, he grabs my hand and pulls me over the edge. We half run, half slide, bringing an avalanche of sand down with us. After a few steps, I let go of Mikkel’s hand and throw myself down. I roll the rest of the way down, losing any sense of what is up and down, sky and beach merging into a tumbling rush of colours, sand spraying around me. I sit up at the foot of the dune. I’m exhilarated and giddy. Drunk on space and light and beauty.

  Mikkel slides down more carefully.

  ‘You’re a crazy girl,’ he says, shaking his head, but he’s smiling.

  I’ve got sand all over my clothes and in my hair, but I don’t care. I feel like running along the beach shouting. I only brush the worst of it off and then we race across the beach all the way to the sea. We meander along the water’s edge, speaking mainly English, but sometimes I try out Danish words or phrases I’ve learned.

  ‘Det er flot,’ I say experimentally. It’s beautiful.

  ‘Ja, det er det,’ Mikkel agrees.

  ‘So many of the sounds in Danish are so hard.’

  ‘You’ll get used to them. You’re doing very well,’ Mikkel praises me.

  After a while we’re both hungry. We sit in the dunes to eat the food Mikkel has brought. As he unpacks it and I see what it is, my mouth starts to water. Soft white bread, with cheese. Crisp, juicy apples. Fresh milk to drink. I eat the bread hungrily and savour the creamy taste of the milk.

  Mikkel watches, surprised, as I begin on my second piece of bread.

  ‘Don’t they feed you at Jakobsen’s?’ he asks.

  ‘No,’ I say with my mouth full. Once I’ve managed to swallow, I tell him, ‘I feed them. The woman who lives nearby, Hannah’s mother, has shown me what to cook, but … ’

  ‘But … ?’ Mikkel prompts.

  ‘Do you like fish pie with cods’ heads sticking out of it? Watching you while you eat?’ The words, held back all these days, tumble out of me. I’m being ungrateful, but I can’t stop myself.

  ‘It’s very good,’ says Mikkel solemnly, but his eyes quiz me from behind his spectacles.

  ‘Then what about baked seagull? Surely you don’t eat that?’ I demand, wrinkling my face in disgust.

  ‘It’s my favourite,’ Mikkel assures me. I must look appalled, because he bursts out laughing.

  ‘You don’t like our Skagen food?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Just fish, fish, fish all the time. Dried fish, salted fish, fish heads and fishy seagulls. And just for a treat that bitter bread. I know why it’s so bitter now. It’s made with sour dough instead of yeast. The smell makes me feel sick.’

  I stop, realizing I’m close to tears. The food is nearly the worst thing about being here. As bad as not speaking the language, as bad as the lice. Though not as dreadful as Søren coming home drunk at night and hitting Lene.

  ‘Så, så,’ says Mikkel soothingly, gripping my shoulder for a moment. ‘They are poor, the Jakobsens. They don’t have a cow like we do. We’re too far north to grow hvede … wheat? Most families here only get it when there’s a … What do you call it? A ship break?’

  ‘A wreck.’ Skibsbrud is one of the words I’ve learned already.

  ‘Yes. Then the strandfoged, he’s the man who is in charge of the wrecks, holds a big auction.’

  ‘People can’t just take things from the wrecks then?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh no. They do sometimes, of course, but they are punished if they are caught.’ Mikkel stares out to sea, a frown on his face. ‘My father says we should all be rich here. There is so much fish in the sea. But we got no harbour. So we can’t have big boats. And no train or road, so we can’t sell the fish we catch.’

  As we’ve been talking, two small boats have come into view. Some of the men on board are pulling on the oars, heading for the beach. Others are hauling at nets.

  ‘Shall we see who it is?’ suggests Mikkel, beginning to pack up the remains of our feast.

  ‘I’ll let you take the rest home,’ he adds with a grin. ‘You can have it for supper. Perhaps the little one— Lise—would like some too.’

  We’re quite close to the boats before Mikkel slows down and hesitates.

  ‘Oh no, it’s far—my father,’ he mutters under his breath. But it’s too late to turn back. A tall man with a severe face, intimidating behind his huge beard, has spotted Mikkel.

  ‘That’s your father?’ I recognize him at once and realize I should have made the connection before. It’s my father’s brother. I have so far successfully avoided him during the weeks since I arrived. But if he is Mikkel’s father … that makes Mikkel my cousin. My friend is my cousin, I think, and a twinge of excitement mingles with the fear I feel as the man approaches us.

  Mikkel’s father is splashing towards us through the waves, the water running off his thigh-length boots and oilskin jacket. When he speaks to Mikkel, it sounds more like a reprimand than a greeting, from the tone of his voice.

  Mikkel is suddenly a different person: younger. He stands red-faced and drooping before the tall sturdy man. His father is the epitome of health and strength, a vivid contrast with his studious, delicate-skinned son.

  I’m glad I didn’t go to him for help, I think, watching Christensen verbally flaying his son. There is no hint of kindness or humour about him, and he takes no account at all of my presence.

  Finally Mikkel speaks:

  ‘Far, det er Marianne,’ he says and I realize he’s introducing me. I wonder whether I have to shake hands or simply curtsy to this terrifying man, but then his father looks at me for the first time, and I forget all about greeting him.

  He freezes, and I watch, puzzled, as the colour slowly drains from his face. He’s rigid, motionless, and his eyes don’t waver from my face.

  ‘Far?’ asks Mikkel. It takes a moment for his father to respond. As though there’s a delay between Mikkel speaking and the sound reaching him. His father clutches at his chest, takes a deep, shuddering breath, and turns abruptly away. He doesn’t speak. With a final backward glance at me, he stomps off back towards his boat.

  I stand still, staring at him, until I feel Mikkel take my hand and tug me away.

  FIFTEEN

  November 1885

  The wind is shrieking around the house, whistling through every crack. It gives me no rest. The noise is in my head until I think I’ll go mad with it. The wind brings sand in with it, trickling through the gaps between the planks. Every day I sweep it up, every day more comes in. The last two days Søren and his sons had to climb out of a window in order to dig us out, so much sand had blown against the door in the night. I’m no longer surprised by the thought of a church buried in this sand.

  It is pitch dark in the house tonight. I lie shivering under the blankets, and for once I don’t mind Lise cuddling up beside me, her head against my shoulder, her hand tucked into mine. At least I’m sure she’s louse-free these days.

  I hear a cry in the night. At first I take no notice. It is faint and quickly carried away in the wind. But then I hear it again, closer. More voices take up the cry. I can hear the word they’re all calling:

  ‘Skibsbrud!’ Shipwreck!

  I sit up in my bed, my heart beating fast. Out there in the howling wind and huge waves, people are in danger on the
sea.

  Lise stirs, but puts her thumb in her mouth and goes back to sleep.

  There’s a hammering at the door.

  ‘Søren!’ calls a voice.

  Søren gives a loud, grunting snore and rolls over in bed. He has his head in his hands and he’s muttering curses under his breath.

  The knock at the door comes again, louder, more insistent.

  ‘Søren! Skibsbrud!’

  The house seems to come to life all at once. I sit still while Søren swings himself out of bed, snatching at his clothes as he stumbles towards the door. Jakob and Morten, his sons, jump out of bed at the same time. There’s a confused babble of voices, and the door bangs open, letting in a blast of cold night air. The baby wakes and begins to wail.

  Once the men have left the house, I get up myself. I tuck our blanket around Lise, and lift the crying baby out of his crib. He’s wet and I change him quickly before tucking him up with his mother. His cries fall silent as soon as he finds her milk. Lise and her sisters sleep on, undisturbed.

  Lighting a tallow candle from the banked-up fire in the kitchen, I pull on clothes and wrap myself in my shawl. I’m wide-awake now, and sit down on a chair by the window, tucking my feet up off the cold floor. I imagine the stranded ship, pounded by the sea, her crew terrified and helpless. I feel restless, wishing there was something I could do.

  A few moments later there’s another knock at the door.

  ‘Marianne,’ someone calls.

  It’s my neighbour, Hannah, standing out there in the wind.

  ‘Bring a couple of blankets and come with me,’ she urges me in Danish. I’ve learned enough by now that I can understand most everyday things.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask her.

  ‘To watch—and help if we can,’ she replies briefly.

  Despite the wind and the cold, I don’t hesitate for a moment. Eagerly, I pull several blankets from the bed and follow Hannah out into the darkness. The wind is fierce and the sand is stinging like the night I was on the beach. Hannah is heading towards the west coast, bent forward against the westerly wind, her shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders.