The place the porter takes me to is neither clean nor friendly, but it is cheap. The name on the front of the building is Cimbria. It’s a huge, many-storeyed building on the harbour front, and stinks of fried fish, stale spirits, and pipe smoke.
I thank the porter, and impulsively press a fifty øre coin into his hand. That’s half a krone. I can’t afford so much, but he’s carried my trunk a long way. He touches his cap and smiles as he leaves. I’m glad I gave him the money.
A hard-featured woman with a dirty apron slaps some fried fish, bread, and ale on a dirty table for me in a busy public room, and then ignores me. There are shouts and bursts of raucous laughter from the men and women at the other tables around me. They too are drinking. My mother would not consider this place respectable. I feel conspicuous sitting alone.
I eat quickly and flee to my room. It’s right up on the attic floor under the eaves. The room is tiny, just space for a bed. By the sound of it there are whole families squeezed into the other rooms around me. I can hear the sounds of children crying and voices. I don’t recognize the sing-song language: it’s not Danish.
Even up here I can hear loud drunken voices. There’s a particularly loud shout and a bang, as though someone has overturned a table. I shiver with fear, and look for a key in the lock of my door. There isn’t one. I drag a small chest across the floorboards and push it against the door. It will have to do.
I climb between the grey, musty sheets and blow out my candle. I feel empty and numb with tiredness. Footsteps go back and forth along the corridor outside my room. I hold my breath each time until they pass. In the next room a baby wails. As I lie sinking into sleep, I push away the anxiety I have about tomorrow, and remind myself instead how far I’ve come. How well I have managed by myself.
The next thing I know, sunshine is pouring into my room and I can hear the familiar cry of gulls in the distance. A thrill goes through me, and I jump out of bed. Today I hope to reach Skagen.
EIGHT
‘I need to go to Skagen, not America!’ I say again. The landlady of this dreadful place seems to be taking it as a personal insult that I don’t wish to board the ferry to America. She repeats the word indignantly over and over again.
‘Ja, ja! Amerika!’ She points out to the harbour again, where a large ship lies at berth. Most of my fellow lodgers, who are from Sweden, I’ve discovered, are already heading down there. They lug suitcases, bundles, and in some cases, children.
They are like me, I think. They are seeking a new life.
‘No! Skagen,’ I insist.
I show her my piece of paper with ‘Skagen’ written on it.
She squints at it briefly, and looks back at me. I suspect she can’t read it.
She sighs however, and flounces out from behind the greasy counter, beckoning me to follow her.
The back door hangs crazily, half off its hinges. We go through it into a stinking backyard. Piles of refuse and horse droppings lie rotting on the cobbles. A man is unloading peat from a rickety cart. A scrawny-looking brown horse stands wearily in his harness, resting one foot.
The landlady speaks to the man and their conversation rapidly escalates into a heated argument. I never heard such a strident voice as this woman has. She stands, feet planted firmly apart in her wooden clogs, dirty apron flapping in the wind, her hands on her hips, except when she wags a finger in the unfortunate man’s face. Half the town must be able to hear her.
Whatever the argument is about, she clearly wins it. She turns to me with a triumphant smile, revealing two missing teeth.
‘En krone!’ she says, holding up one finger, the nail torn and filthy.
‘One krone?’ I have that much. Relief floods through me. I don’t know why she’s suddenly decided to help me, but I’m glad of it.
The man, muttering darkly, stomps into the inn and comes back out with my trunk. He slings it roughly into the cart, where it picks up a generous coating of peat. Seeing this, the landlady boxes him on the ear and tells him off loudly. I’d love to know what she’s saying.
She waves me enthusiastically towards the cart.
‘Skagen?’ I ask.
She shakes her head, takes a stick and draws a line in the dirt. She points to one end and says Frederikshavn. That’s where we are now. ‘Skagen,’ she says, pointing to the other end of the line. Then she draws a mark midway between the two and says, ‘Ålbæk!’
I nod my understanding. Halfway to Skagen. Well, that’s something.
‘Tak,’ I say to her, and she nods at me and disappears back into the building. I hand over the coin to the driver, wondering how he feels about having been forced into giving me a lift. He pockets my coin, without looking at me. Pulling his cap low over his forehead, he hoists himself up into the cart, leaving me to scramble up beside him as best I can.
He slaps his reins on the horse’s back. The cart, empty now, but for my trunk, rattles over the cobblestones and out into the road.
The land looks very flat as we take the road northwards out of the town. We’re following the coast, and I can see right down to the sea on my right-hand side, and in across farmland on my left. It is a patchwork of well-tended fields dotted with small farmhouses.
I wonder again what Skagen will look like. My mother repeated the tales my father had told her about it. Wooden houses, golden beaches, blue, blue skies, and the merry life everyone led there. He had described to her how the seas were so full of fish, one only needed to throw in a net to be sure of a good catch. Midsummer festivals, where fires were lit on the beach. In the confinement of our dark room in Grimsby, in the smoky streets where we saw the sky only in snatches, I dreamed of open blue skies and beaches and grasses waving on sand dunes.
I’m so nearly there now. I’m quite sure that Skagen will be beautiful. I can’t wait to be there. I seem to have been travelling for a lifetime.
We pass a low stone-built farm. It is built on a pattern I’ve seen many times on my journey: three sides of a rectangle. The central building is the house; the two side buildings are barns. The courtyard, enclosed on three sides, is orderly and well tended. The buildings are all whitewashed, and there are red flowers in window boxes. A dog basks in the sunshine in front of the door, too lazy to get up and bark at the cart as it passes. I wonder if my father lives in a house like this. I imagine myself in such pleasant surroundings, and my heart misses a beat.
We round a corner, and move out of a small stunted patch of trees all bent by the wind, onto a long, straight stretch of road. I catch my breath at the openness of the landscape. The sky seems endless, low above my head, like a vast blue roof. It’s breathtaking.
It’s not long before the road deteriorates. It becomes a deeply rutted track, swimming in muddy water. The cart slips and slides, often tilting at such steep angles that I have to cling to the seat in order not to be thrown out. It’s exhausting. My dress, already travel-stained, becomes splashed with mud. Every now and then we sink into a deeper patch and the horse strains in his harness. Then we lurch and splash forward again.
We meet other carts coming south. They are faring no better than us; the ones that are laden are struggling more. We come to one cart which is stuck, one wheel deep in a rut. Some men have already stopped to help push it out, and my driver halts too. Handing the reins to me without a word, he climbs down and wades through the mud to help. He and the other men push from behind while the owner encourages his horse forward.
My horse is easy to hold, though I’ve never done it before. I think he’s glad of the rest. On a better road, it would be fun to try and drive him.
There’s a lot of good-natured shouting and laughter among the men as they push, and when the cart eventually pulls free, a great cheer goes up. The horse stands sweating and blowing, his legs plastered with mud.
My driver returns, muddied, but in a visibly brighter mood. He even gives me a broad grin. Then we’re slipping and slithering from one puddle to the next, our progress painfully slow. I wish I could ask
how far it is. It’s frustrating not speaking Danish. I need to learn it as soon as I can.
I’ve met so many friendly people on my journey, and haven’t been able to speak to them. Perhaps they wouldn’t have been so friendly if they’d known my background. I wonder what the Danish word for bastard is. I hope I never find out.
The wind is strengthening. The weather is still clear and bright, but the temperature is dropping. The road is getting worse, if that’s possible. There are several deep streams with no bridges. The driver simply urges the horse straight into them, so that the cart plunges in, water splashing up on either side, spraying us both.
It’s well past noon when we pull up at a large thatched building with Ålbæk Kro in lettering on the front. The driver lifts my trunk down, more gently than he lifted it up. My lift is at an end. I get down; the driver nods to me, smiles, and departs.
My cloak flaps in the wind and my sunbonnet tugs on its strings. No one comes out to meet me, so after a moment’s hesitation I walk into the inn.
A severe-looking woman in neat, dark clothes, her hair scraped back tightly into a bun, is standing behind a spotless counter.
‘Do you speak English?’ I ask.
She shakes her head. I’m disappointed, but not surprised.
‘I need to go to Skagen,’ I say slowly. ‘With my trunk.’ I point at it through the open door.
I point at myself.
‘Skagen?’ I repeat.
I know I’m saying it right now: Skayen.
The woman nods, but seems at a loss for what to say.
‘I morgen,’ she says at last. I know that means tomorrow, but I don’t have the money for another night’s lodging. I shall be arriving in Skagen practically penniless as it is. Krone-less.
I carefully place my few remaining coins on the counter. I spread them out and look at her. There is a one krone coin, a fifty øre and a number of one and two øre pieces. I see understanding dawning on her face.
She calls a girl from the kitchen and sends her running across the yard. We wait in embarrassing silence until she returns with a formally dressed, grey-haired man in tow.
‘I am schoolteacher,’ he announces. ‘You are English?’
‘Yes!’ I’m overjoyed to have found someone who speaks my language. ‘I’m travelling to Skagen.’ My voice feels husky with lack of use.
He nods.
‘There’s no more road,’ he explains.
‘There’s no road?’ I echo, bewildered.
‘Carts … go … on the beach,’ he tells me, with pauses while he searches for words. ‘But by fine weather. Not today.’
‘The weather is fine today, surely?’ I ask.
‘No. Too much wind. The sand is blowing,’ he says. ‘Better … stay here.’
‘I have no money,’ I tell him, my voice low. I’m ashamed to admit it.
He looks at me for a moment.
‘Walk!’ he says, walking his fingers on the counter. ‘På stranden—on the beach. It take you less than one day. But not today.’
I could walk, of course. One day’s walk isn’t far, and it would cost me nothing. But there’s my trunk. I can just about lift it, but not carry it ten miles or so. The landlady has already anticipated this. She is talking to the man about it now.
‘The box go soon, maybe Friday. To the hotel in Skagen. Fifty øre,’ he relays the information to me.
Two days’ time.
‘Thank you. I accept. But I shall go now,’ I announce, wanting to make the most of the afternoon. I give the landlady my fifty øre coin from my pile.
‘Can you tell me the way? And I need to buy some food to take.’ When my request is translated, the landlady disappears to get food. The teacher accompanies me outside to explain my route.
First he pauses, frowning. He looks as though he’s searching for a word.
‘Today is farlig,’ he says at last. ‘I not knowing the word in English. But too much wind.’
‘Tell me the way,’ I beg him again.
‘That way to beach,’ he points east, ‘then … left to Skagen. Follow the beach.’
That sounds simple enough.
‘Thank you very much,’ I say. ‘Tak.’
He throws his chest out proudly and shakes my hand.
‘It was so little,’ he says, and strides off, presumably back to his classroom.
The landlady accepts only a few øre for the packet of food she brings. She also gives me a large glass of water, which I drink thirstily. Then I set out for the beach. As I leave the inn, I see a man carrying my trunk into an outhouse, and I fear for a moment that I’ll never see it again.
I have no reason not to trust them, I tell myself firmly.
It makes me feel free to be moving on, unburdened by my trunk and under my own steam. The wind is strong, but exhilarating. I need to walk on the edges of the track and to jump muddy patches. By the time I reach the coast, the bottom of my skirt and my boots are plastered with mud.
The sea, when I reach it, is blue and sparkling in the sun, the waves topped with white horses in the strong wind. A handful of fishing boats are pulled right up onto the beach, their sails furled neatly, their oars stowed. I stand for a moment and watch a large rowing boat being hauled out of the sea. There is a bustle around her as crates of fish are unloaded. A cloud of gulls circle the boat, screeching, hoping for scraps. The men call out a friendly greeting to me. I’ve learned to answer with God dag! It’s fun thinking that they don’t even know I’m not Danish. Almost reluctantly, I move on.
The sand is palest gold, and very soft. My feet sink down into it at every step. As I turn to walk north, the wind hits me full in the face.
NINE
Ålbæk Bay, September 1885
The wind tears at my clothes and my hair. I turn my back to it for a moment and pull my shawl out of my bag. For a few moments the wind fights to snatch it from me, before I succeed in wrapping it around my head and shoulders. I walk on, bent into the wind. It’s a shock to find it so much stronger on the beach.
The sand is soft and yielding underfoot. It’s pleasant at first. There are seashells everywhere. I stoop to look at them, picking up a few of the prettiest and putting them in my bag. I soon stop. There are so many of them, and each time I bend down, the wind blows sand in my face. It’s swirling in fierce clouds across the beach.
I can’t see many ships on the sea. The waves are white topped and I wonder whether the shipping has sought shelter.
I haven’t walked far before I come across a wreck. The rusting remains of an iron hull lies on its side, half in, half out of the water. The waves hush against the metal and the wind howls through the broken hull.
As I walk, I come across more and more wrecks. Some show above the waves, others are right up on the beach. The skeletons of wooden hulls lie exposed to the elements, their planking long since removed or rotted away. The beach gradually comes to feel as forlorn as a graveyard to me. All those journeys ended in terror and perhaps death. The thought lowers my spirits and makes walking harder.
My legs begin to ache, and the sand that has found its way inside my boots is rubbing my toes. I’m already growing tired, and there must still be a long way to go. I stop and empty my boots and try walking on the firmer sand right by the water’s edge. It’s easier, and this helps me summon up reserves of strength.
All at once, I come to a place where I can’t walk on. The sand is soggy and wet, and when I step out into it, I quickly sink up to my ankles. I hurriedly draw back. Shifting my bag into the other hand, and pulling my shawl over my face, I turn into the wind. It scours sand across my forehead and into my eyes and whips my hair in my face. I trudge towards the dunes. Every now and then, I venture too close to the patch of bog or whatever it is, and sink a little, before struggling out.
I claw my way up the dunes, gasping for breath under my shawl. They’re steep, and the sand keeps sliding away from under me. At the top, I’m up out of the drifting sand, but the wind is stronger than ev
er. It tugs at my clothes, screams in my ears and numbs my senses.
I’m exhausted now. I scan the land, desperately looking for some signs of human habitation. Perhaps a barn or a house I could shelter in. I’m ready to give up the journey for today.
But there’s nothing.
Just rolling dunes with waving grasses, patches of heath and pools of water as far as the eye can see.
Disappointed, I make my way slowly along the top of the dunes for some distance before I venture back down to the beach. The sand is normal again now, and I make my way to the water’s edge. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. The wind is like a solid wall, pushing against me.
Time crawls by while I struggle northwards. Eventually I sink down onto the sand, exhausted, my back to the wind. I hug my bag, and quickly begin to shiver. I wonder what the man at the inn meant when he described the beach today as farlig. At first I thought it might mean tiring. Now I’m beginning to wonder whether he meant dangerous.
I consider going back there and offering to work for a night’s lodging. But it would be as far to walk back as to go on. I have to reach Skagen.
I struggle to my feet and pick up my bag. It feels as though it’s filled with rocks. As I turn and try to walk, the wind slams into my chest, knocking the breath out of me for a second. I’m stiff and aching all over. I can feel tears of self-pity streaking my face. The wind chills them, so that they run cold and gritty down my face.
I force myself to take another step. And another. How far is it? I feel as though I simply can’t go on. Sobs make my chest heave, but I can’t hear myself crying over the gale. The daylight is beginning to fade.
A dark shape rears up in front of me, lessening the force of the wind. Another wreck. It gives me an idea. It would be shelter of sorts if I could climb inside it. But there is too little left of this wreck to offer decent shelter.
I push myself to keep going, perhaps to find a more complete wreck. I lose all sense of time. Perhaps five minutes or perhaps five hours later I come to a stream. The water flows, brown and peaty, from the dunes. I unlace my boots, my back to the gale, and sling them around my neck. Gathering my skirts tightly in my free hand, I step down into the water. The unexpected cold makes me gasp. The sand has a slightly slimy feel underfoot, and I wade across as quickly as I can. As I step out of the water on the far side, sand whips around my legs, burning them.
Between Two Seas Page 4
