Between Two Seas

by Marie-Louise Jensen

  ‘Did my father write to you?’ I ask. ‘Did he tell you about my mother?’ There’s a long pause.

  ‘Yes,’ Christensen croaks at last. ‘That’s right. He wrote me a letter before he … died.’

  I nod, but I’m not satisfied. ‘But you seemed to recognize me, that day on the west coast.’

  ‘No. How could I have done?’ His voice is stronger now. ‘I did not know you existed. But I deduced from your name who you might be.’

  ‘Then why did you not speak to me about it?’

  ‘Why did you not come to me?’ Christensen counters. I stare at him perplexed, trying to fathom his behaviour. None of it quite adds up.

  ‘Perhaps I should have come sooner,’ I admit. ‘But I had seen you, and heard a little about you, and I was afraid.’

  ‘Afraid?’ Christensen looks shocked, but he can’t possibly be surprised.

  ‘Yes, afraid. You looked so stern. And the Anchers told me, you see, about your strict views. My childhood in England was … difficult. Because of my birth. I didn’t want the same thing to happen here.’ I’m aware my voice sounds constricted. I’m finding this subject really difficult to talk about. Especially to this man whom I dislike so intensely.

  Christensen makes a strangled sound in his throat and gets to his feet. Instinctively I take a step back, but he merely begins to pace the room, his face working soundlessly.

  ‘So why are you here now?’ he demands abruptly. ‘What is it that you want from me? Money?’

  ‘No!’ I cry indignantly. ‘I came because Mikkel is unhappy. You are being cruel to him. Because you’re angry that Perroy let you down.’ There are so many thoughts in my head and I struggle to put them into words. ‘You can’t punish me, so you punish him. It’s not fair.’

  Christensen turns on me: ‘Don’t tell me how to raise my son,’ he shouts furiously. ‘Don’t tell me … ’ his voice trails off unexpectedly. My heart is hammering with fright.

  I’m shaking now. My whole body is trembling. The man who is my uncle merely sits down heavily at the desk again, and stares into space. I don’t know what I expected from him. I certainly didn’t expect him to welcome me into his family with open arms. But this silence is dreadful.

  ‘Was my father anything like you?’ I ask. ‘Because if he was, I’m glad I never met him.’

  Exhausted, I turn towards the door. I’ve taken far more than five minutes of his time, but I’m not sure I’ve achieved anything. Then I hear his voice, ‘Marianne, wait … ’ Christensen is standing bowed over, one hand stretched out. He looks different all of a sudden. Older, more vulnerable. I pause. It’s the first time he’s used my name. But then he draws himself up again.

  ‘Nothing. Go. Just go,’ he mutters.

  I push the door open and leave, walking past Mikkel and his family who are sitting quietly together in the parlour. I send Mikkel an apologetic look as I pass. I let myself out. I’ve gained nothing except possibly to get Mikkel deeper into trouble.

  Instead of walking back to the hotel, I turn my steps towards the beach. The air is like soup, thick and heavy. My clothes and hair stick damply to me, and I feel as though I might suffocate any minute.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I glance behind me as I walk down to the beach. A huge storm cloud is gathering in the west. Out to sea it still looks like a warm summer’s day, the sun sparkling on the water. But as I turn and begin to walk south along the coast, I can see the cloud piling up, drawing closer. It’s inky black, tinged with yellow. Jagged bolts of lightning flash across it. The air is heavy and still.

  Only a part of my mind is interested in the storm. The rest is busy puzzling over Christensen’s behaviour. I feel there’s something that’s eluding me, like a piece of the jigsaw that’s gone missing. If I had it, if I could see the whole picture, I’d be able to make sense of it. As it is, I don’t understand. I’m also bitterly disappointed. I suppose despite everything, I hoped for a warmer reception from the only family I have.

  A small voice to my right disturbs my thoughts.

  ‘Marianne?’ A small, grubby child emerges from behind an upturned boat. She stands sucking her thumb, watching me. Her dress is a dirty rag, her hair a tangled mass.

  ‘Lise?’ I can hardly believe my eyes. Three months ago, I left her clean and tidy, with a ribbon in her hair. I can hardly see it’s the same child.

  ‘Lise, look at you, what’s the matter?’

  She shakes her head and doesn’t move. I can hear the first rumbles of thunder in the distance.

  ‘I miss you, Marianne. You promised to come and see me, but you never did.’

  A feeling of guilt creeps over me. She’s right, I haven’t been back once. I’ve been too busy, too selfish.

  ‘Come here, Lise. You’ve found me now.’ Taking her grubby hand, I lead her down to the water’s edge. The water is silted and sluggish today. I scoop some up and wash her hands and face. Close to, I can see her hair is crawling again, but there’s nothing I can do about that.

  ‘You’re not wearing your ribbon.’ I don’t know what else to say.

  ‘Mother took it away. A long time ago.’ Lise says this simply, accepting it. My own problems recede as I look at the lost little girl before me and grieve for her happy chatter and bright looks. They are gone now as though they had never been. I resolve not to neglect her again, but I don’t say it aloud this time. She might not believe me.

  ‘And how are your brothers and sisters?’ I ask her. She doesn’t understand the question, so I ask: ‘Do Jakob and Morten go fishing?’

  ‘Jakob does, he brings food home for us most days,’ she nods. ‘But Morten gets drunk, and gets mad at us all.’ She says this quite artlessly, but also sorrowfully.

  There’s a crack of thunder, and the heavy, hot air stirs languidly. I feel my hair move. The storm cloud reaches the sun and covers it, like a lamp being blown out. We both shiver.

  ‘Lise, there’s a storm coming. You should get home now.’

  Lise shakes her head. ‘No, I want to stay with you.’

  I don’t have the energy to argue. My limbs feel weighed down and my head hurts. I walk on along the beach and she follows me, slipping her hand in mine. Not surprisingly, the beach is almost deserted. A few children have been bathing, but are leaving now, with anxious glances at the storm clouds inland. One boy keeps looking out to sea as well, as though searching for something. I follow his gaze, but can’t see anything. No boats or ships.

  Further down, some men have been hauling their boats high up onto the beach, in case the storm stirs up the sea. They too are leaving. Only one man remains. He has his back to us, working on his boat. It’s unusual to see anyone breaking the Sabbath. As we come closer we can see he’s scraping at the upturned hull with a tool of some sort.

  A stronger gust of wind blows across the beach, and this time the air is colder. It also brings a few heavy drops of rain with it. I look up. The cloud is almost upon us. The day has darkened as though it were evening. The weather suits my mood. I’d like to stay on the beach throughout the storm, but I know I should take Lise home.

  We’re almost level with the man working on the boat. My stomach drops sickeningly as he turns and I see it’s Peter. It’s too late to turn away now, he’s seen us. A huge flash of lightning flickers, reflecting on his face.

  ‘Dav, Marianne,’ he says coldly. No doubt he thinks I’ve thrown myself in his way on purpose. I’m mortified. Peter turns away from me, but then hesitates and turns back. He looks at me more closely, and his face is no longer hostile.

  ‘So, you didn’t … you didn’t go away with them after all. The French people.’

  He seems to be struggling to find the words, but I’m delighted that he’s speaking to me at all.

  ‘No. I never had any intention of leaving with them. They invited me, but I preferred to stay in Skagen. Besides,’ I give a shaky laugh, ‘they don’t pay very well. Not at all in fact.’

  Peter nods gravely. ‘So I heard,’ he sa
ys, and I’m not surprised he already knows. Skagen is a small place.

  Another bright flash of lightning is followed by a loud crack of thunder right overhead. It makes us all jump. The rain begins to fall in earnest, and a squall of wind makes my skirts flap and whips some strands of my hair out of its bun. I feel Lise shiver again. Peter looks up at the sky.

  ‘You should both go home,’ he says. ‘It’s going to be a bad storm.’

  ‘You’re right.’ I tug on Lise’s hand. ‘Come on, Lise, I’ll take you.’ But she’s looking out to sea.

  ‘Why’s that boy still swimming?’ she asks, pointing.

  Peter and I both look out to sea, sure she must be mistaken. ‘No one’s swimming now, Lise,’ I tell her. ‘They’ve all gone home.’ But the words are scarcely out of my mouth before I spot a white arm flash some distance out. I screw up my eyes and can just make out a head. It looks like a child.

  ‘The fool!’ exclaims Peter. He glances up at the sky again. ‘What the devil is he doing right out there?’ He hesitates only a moment and then throws his tools aside and turns his boat back over. Throwing its small anchor and both oars in, he begins to drag it down to the water.

  ‘Let me go with you,’ I beg at once.

  ‘Of course not,’ Peter says firmly. ‘Get that child home. I’ll fetch the lad in.’

  But I help him push the boat down to the water, and then out some distance until she floats. Waves are rushing onto the beach. He grasps my hand briefly. ‘Thank you, Marianne. Now go.’

  I don’t answer him. I just stand there, knee deep in the water, watching him as he takes the oars and begins to row out.

  ‘Marianne?’ calls Lise from the beach. ‘I’m getting all wet.’ It’s raining hard now; the drops are landing on my head, running down my face and neck. My skirts are swirling unheeded about my ankles in the sea. I wade back to Lise and kneel down, putting my hand on her shoulder.

  ‘I’m going to stay here, to make sure Peter’s safe. But you must go home now.’

  Lise pouts. ‘I’m not going home, everyone’s cross there. I like being with you.’ Another crack of thunder, like an explosion, makes her shriek and throw her arms around me.

  I disengage myself, and stand up, my eyes seeking Peter’s boat. I can’t see the boy any longer. It’s raining in great sheets. The wind is buffeting us. Lines of waves are tearing inland, marking each of the sandbars. Water is streaming down me. My hair has come down but I don’t care. I feel a fierce exaltation in being out in the elements like this.

  We’re both watching the boat, now far out in the surf, when a huge jagged flash of lightning reaches down out of the sky towards it. There’s a huge bang, followed so immediately by a crack of thunder that it sounds almost like an echo. We both jump, and scream with fright. When I recover, and search for Peter’s boat, I can see only an upturned hull. I dash the rain out of my eyes and look again.

  ‘Oh, what’s happened? Did the lightning strike the boat?’ I stare through the rain and murky light, desperate to see some sign of Peter, but I can see nothing except the hull, bobbing in the swell.

  ‘We must get help.’ I begin to run up the beach, pulling Lise with me. ‘Come on!’ The wind is driving the raindrops straight into my face and tearing at my wet hair. I can hardly see where I’m going. I almost fall over another small rowing boat. The next flash lights it up, upturned on the sand, its oars neatly stowed beneath it. It’s clear to me at once what I must do.

  First I kneel down beside Lise again. Taking her by both shoulders, I shout to her urgently, fighting to be heard above the waves and wind.

  ‘Listen to me. I need your help. Peter’s in danger and I can’t leave him. Do you understand?’

  She nods.

  ‘Good. This is what I need you to do.’ I smooth back her hair that the rain has plastered to her face. ‘Run to the nearest house. Bang on the door until someone answers. You have to find grown-ups. Tell them Peter Hansen’s in trouble. And that Marianne is trying to help. Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lise nods bravely. ‘Will you be safe, Marianne?’

  ‘I will be,’ I promise. ‘As long as you fetch help.’

  But I’m not as sure as I try to sound. I’m shaking as I pull the small boat down to the sea and push it into the waves. The strong offshore wind helps me. With my usual inelegant scramble, I haul myself into the boat and fit the oars into the rowlocks. I’ve never rowed on the open sea before, and this is a really bad time to start.

  I fight with the waves as they try to push me off course, but the wind helps me onwards in uneven jumps. The water is slapping against the sides of the boat. The effort steadies my nerves. It’s better to be doing something than standing helplessly on the beach.

  Every few strokes, I look anxiously over my shoulder to check I’m on course for Peter’s upturned boat. It’s still there, rocking. Eventually I reach it. I hear a weak shout over the noise of the wind. A pale skinny arm waves to me from the far side of the upturned boat. As my own craft bumps into the hull, I ship my oars and grab hold of it. Hand over hand, I pull myself around.

  ‘Peter?’ I cry.

  ‘Her er han!’ Here he is, calls a faint voice. The two boats are bumping and knocking against one another in the turbulent sea. I hang on grimly, leaning over the side of my own boat, pulling it around Peter’s, until I see the boy. He’s clinging to the edge of the boat with one hand, trying to hold on to Peter’s limp body with the other arm. He’s not managing to keep Peter’s head out of the waves, which wash right over him from time to time. His eyes are closed, and he’s as pale as death.

  ‘Is he alive?’ I gasp, anguished.

  ‘I don’t know,’ splutters the boy. ‘Help!’

  I reach down into the water and take hold of Peter under his arms. I try to pull him up into the boat, but he’s far too heavy for me. I can’t do more than lift him a short way, rocking the boat precariously.

  ‘Help me!’ I order the boy. He tries to push Peter, but it doesn’t make any difference. He just disappears under the water himself.

  ‘I can’t,’ he gasps, coming up again. His skin has a bluish tinge, he looks exhausted.

  ‘Can you climb in?’ I ask. He pulls himself around to the opposite side and tries. He’s so weak it takes him two or three goes to get over the side. As the boat lurches, I cling desperately to Peter.

  The boy is skinny and small, he can’t be more than ten years old. He’s also completely naked. He sits in the boat, shivering in the wind and the rain. The lightning and thunder continue around us.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ I demand angrily.

  ‘It was a stupid bet,’ he says, shamefaced. ‘I went out further than I meant to. I didn’t see the storm coming up behind me. He came out to get me,’ he says, pointing at Peter. ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘I don’t know. Help me get him in.’ He leans over the side of the boat next to me and takes hold of Peter as well. Together we pull with all our strength. The boat tips, slopping water over the side. Even between us, we can’t pull Peter high enough to get him aboard. We just bang him against the edge of the boat.

  I can feel hot tears of fear and frustration running down my face, mingling with the rain and the salt seawater. ‘I’m sorry, Peter,’ I say, as I hold him tight. Every lurch bruises my ribs as I lean out over the edge of the boat, but I hang on. I slip one hand inside Peter’s shirt, to where I think his heart should be. His skin is cold and slippery like a corpse. But as I hold my hand against his chest, I think I can feel a faint heartbeat. It gives me hope.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I shout to the boy.

  ‘Jesper,’ he shouts back.

  ‘Look towards the beach, Jesper. Can you see anyone?’ He stares inland, shielding his eyes against the lashing rain.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he shouts at last.

  ‘Then you’ll have to row us in. I can’t let go of Peter.’

  Shivering, Jesper reaches for the oars and fits them into the rowlocks. He p
ulls feebly on them, but he’s rowing against the wind now and we don’t make any progress.

  ‘Row harder!’ I yell.

  ‘I’m too tired,’ he pleads.

  My arms are aching, I’m chilled and bruised and terrified for Peter. I’ve no patience left, and lose my temper completely.

  ‘None of us would be here if it wasn’t for your stupidity,’ I shout. ‘Do you want him to die for rescuing you? It’s up to you to get us back to the beach!’

  In reply, he sets his teeth and pulls with all his might, fighting the wind. The waves are with us at least. Now I can feel the boat moving. I hang on to Peter, my arms numb, and murmur words of encouragement that he can’t hear. ‘We’ll soon be safe, you’re going to be all right,’ I tell him. ‘Just don’t die, please don’t die. We’re nearly there.’

  The rain lessens gradually, and it’s no longer quite so dark. All of a sudden, Jesper ships the oars, and turns around.

  ‘Here! Over here!’ he yells, waving his arms.

  A boat emerges out of the rain, four men on board. Strong hands take Peter from me and haul him out of the waves. Jesper too, is lifted across and wrapped in a blanket and an oilskin. One of the men reaches out for me. With a shock, I recognize Christensen. Instinctively, I push him away.

  ‘Don’t you touch me!’ I shout at him furiously.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing out here?’ he cries in a hoarse voice. ‘You could have got yourself killed!’

  ‘What do you care if I drown?’ I yell.

  ‘Så så,’ says a soothing voice, and another man puts Christensen out of his way and helps me across into the bigger boat.

  ‘You’ve had a fright, but there’s no need for heated words or blame,’ he says kindly, wrapping me in a blanket. Christensen secures the small rowing boat so it can be towed ashore. A man is pouring snaps into Peter’s mouth. He chokes and stirs, but doesn’t recover consciousness. He’s so pale.

  ‘He’s alive,’ I hear someone say. They lay him down in the bottom of the boat. I can’t bear to see his head against the boards. I scramble across to him, lifting his heavy head and cradling it in my lap. As the men row with strong strokes towards the beach, I stroke Peter’s wet hair out of his face, and allow a small measure of relief to wash over me. He’s alive, surely that means he’ll be all right. The rain has almost stopped now, and the storm is heading out to sea. We reach the beach in no time.