Between Two Seas

by Marie-Louise Jensen

  But there’s always hope. While I have the strength to draw breath, there must be hope. I have to find it, no matter how well it is hidden. I push myself to resume walking and to think. There must be some good things about being here. At first I can’t think of anything at all.

  I try harder.

  At the most basic: I have a roof over my head; I won’t starve.

  I look around me, and I can see that it is beautiful here on the beach. I was so focused on the journey the last few days that I scarcely noticed the beauty of the coastline as I travelled.

  My father grew up here. That gives me a connection to this place that I wouldn’t have anywhere else. And nobody knows me here. They don’t know or care who my father was. It’s my secret, and I’ll keep it that way.

  Those are lots of reasons to be thankful. And then there’s Peter. I would like to meet him again. As I think this, I realize that, despite everything, he has been at the back of my mind since yesterday. His blue-grey eyes and the feel of his arms around me as he carried me across the stream. I was strongly drawn to him.

  I feel breathless and stop walking for a moment, my eyes closed, remembering. Then I give myself a shake and move on.

  Until I can learn some Danish and find some work, I have no choice but to remain here. So I need to find a way to make my situation better at once. The only thing I can think of that I can change here and now is the state of the house where I’m staying. I need to earn my keep in any case.

  As soon as I’ve had that thought, I begin to feel better. Now I’m clear about what I can do, I turn around and begin to walk back.

  I’ve emptied out all the stale bedding from my bed and gathered fresh dune grass and heather to stuff the covers with. I’ve drawn and heated water from the well and washed all the covers.

  I caught the youngest girl, Lise, and washed her too. She’s only about four, but she fought and scratched me while I washed her. I felt like slapping her, but I didn’t. I just held on and I scrubbed her face and hair and neck with a cake of soap. I finished by emptying a bucket of water over her and telling her to wash her own body. She understood me, though at first she pretended not to. Then I combed the tangles and the crawlers out of her hair. She stamped her foot and screamed while I combed, but I still didn’t let her go.

  The two older girls obviously guessed what was coming because they disappeared. I’ll get them tonight.

  Meanwhile I drew more water and scrubbed the wooden floor of the main room and washed the windows until my arms ached. The floor will take another couple of goes to get all the dirt off, but it’s a start. All the time the mother lay staring, unseeing, at the wall. When the baby awoke and started to cry, I had to shake her and pull her into a sitting position so that she could feed him. I am already becoming used to the sight of her breasts, swollen with milk.

  At last I had time to think about myself. I hung up a blanket to make the kitchen private. Standing on the sand floor, I washed my own hair, scrubbing at the roots with the soap. It always takes a long time to wash and brush my hair; it reaches almost to my waist. Then I scrubbed the dirt from the journey off my whole body. Unfortunately my clean dresses were all packed into my trunk, which hadn’t been sent from the hotel yet, so I had to put my old one back on.

  Feeling wonderfully fresh and clean nevertheless, I sit down to catch my breath on the doorstep, allowing the warm late afternoon sun to dry my hair. I’ve worked hard today, and I feel tired. But also very satisfied with what I’ve achieved.

  I’m still sitting on the doorstep when two lads come into view carrying something heavy between them. I squint into the sun, and then I can see it’s my trunk they are bringing. I jump to my feet and go to greet them. One boy is barefoot and dressed in ragged homespun clothes. The other is smartly dressed in trousers and a white shirt. He has new leather shoes on, and wears spectacles. I guess he’s a year or so younger than me.

  He looks at me curiously.

  ‘You are Marianne?’ he asks in English.

  ‘Yes!’ I cry in surprise. ‘Do you speak English?’

  ‘Yes, a little.’ They put down the trunk in the doorway and he smiles awkwardly and offers to shake hands. His hands are very rough and dry.

  ‘I’m Mikkel,’ he says, ‘and this is Jan.’ He indicates his companion. I shake his hand too, unsure whether that is the right thing to do.

  ‘Where do you want this?’ Mikkel asks, pointing at the trunk.

  I’ve already decided during my day’s cleaning that it will need to go up into the half-loft above the living room. There’s no room in the house itself. We all push and pull it up the ladder, getting hot and out of breath. They laugh as we struggle, and I feel a little less shy. Once the trunk is in place, we climb down and I ladle some cool well water into cups for us. We all find our way out into the sunshine to enjoy our drink.

  ‘Should I … ?’ I get my purse out of my pocket hesitantly, not knowing whether to offer to pay them.

  Mikkel saves me from my embarrassment.

  ‘Jan would be glad of a few øre,’ he tells me. I offer the boy one of my four remaining coins and he takes it gladly and runs off, calling to his friends who have been watching from some way off. Mikkel stands around awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other. I’m worried he might go too, so I start to talk to him.

  ‘Where did you learn to speak English?’ I ask.

  ‘I was studying wery hard at school, so the teacher give me extra lessons,’ he tells me. ‘Now I know more than he do, but it’s not enough.’

  ‘I could help you learn English!’ I offer eagerly. ‘If you’ll teach me Danish in return?’

  He looks very directly at me, a measuring look. I blush at the boldness of what I’ve just said.

  ‘That would be wery fine,’ Mikkel says, and we shake hands on our bargain, both secretly delighted, I think. I’m getting used to this Danish habit of shaking hands all the time. At first I found it very strange.

  I wonder if I should start my new duties straight away, by pointing out that it’s ‘very’, not ‘wery’, but decide it’s too soon.

  ‘You want to come for a walk?’ Mikkel asks. ‘I can show you around.’

  I’ve worked enough for one day and the temptation of a companion who speaks English is irresistible. I hesitate just for a moment, wondering about walking alone with a boy, even one who’s younger than me. I decide I don’t care, and feel a slightly reckless excitement in my decision.

  ‘I’ll just get changed.’ I go inside and climb the ladder to unlock my trunk. Quickly, I pull out my clean dress. As I do so, a small hard package falls out onto the boards. I’d forgotten my mother’s pearls. I lift them to the light that’s filtering through the gaps in the roof. They are so smooth and white. Something beautiful left over from my mother’s life before she had me. I’m not penniless after all. Feeling stronger, I fasten them around my neck. As I pull my clean dress on, I arrange it so the pearls are hidden. Leaving my hair loose, I climb back down to Mikkel.

  We weave our way between the houses, wading through the soft sand. Mikkel points some of them out and tells me a few words about the families.

  ‘That’s Brøndum’s Hotel and grocer’s, where you went yesterday,’ he tells me. ‘It burn down a few years ago, and they had to rebuild it. I can remember the fire. And that’s Hr Ancher’s house.’ He points to a low, stone-built cottage, painted yellow with roses growing all around it. It’s very pretty, and quite different to the wooden houses around. ‘He and his wife are both painters. They sent me to see you today. They thought you might be lonely.’

  ‘That was kind,’ I remark. So that’s why Ancher asked whether I was an artist. His own wife paints.

  ‘And see over there? That’s my house.’

  I can see another of the yellow stone houses, a low wooden fence around it. But Mikkel’s house has no roses, and looks grand rather than pretty. There’s a cow picketed in front, nosing among the poor grass for something to eat. Mikkel steers a path awa
y from his house and leads me down to the beach.

  ‘It looks nice, your house,’ I say. In truth, I didn’t see much of it, but I want to be polite.

  ‘Yes, much better than Jakobsen’s,’ is all Mikkel says.

  ‘What is wrong with her?’ I ask. ‘Lene Jakobsen, I mean.’

  Mikkel shrugs.

  ‘I don’t know. My mother say she get like that after every baby,’ he tells me.

  ‘Poor woman,’ I say. My sympathy is stirred, but not enough to want to stay in her bug-ridden house a day longer than I have to. ‘And by the way, it should be “my mother says”.’

  I look at him to see how he likes being corrected, but he takes it very calmly, repeating the right verb.

  ‘Where are we going now?’ I ask as we head north. We are past the last of the houses now.

  ‘I want to show you Grenen, the top of Denmark,’ he tells me, and at once I clap my hands in delight.

  ‘I should love to see it!’ I cry joyfully.

  Mikkel smiles at me. It’s the first time; he seems to be very serious. He has a nice smile.

  We walk down onto the beach. There are pebbles here as well as sand. We pass an old wooden construction that looks a bit like a catapult.

  ‘That’s the oldest lighthouse,’ Mikkel explains. ‘And over there is the newest: it’s called the grå fyr, the grey lighthouse.’

  I look up at the tall brick building towering above us. ‘It’s not grey,’ I object. ‘It’s brick.’ Mikkel shrugs.

  ‘It looks grey from a distance.’

  We walk until there is beach on both sides of us and the seas grow more and more choppy. Then we are on a narrow spit of sand, which finally vanishes into the water ahead. We stop, sea on three sides of us, watching the waves come from both directions, smacking into one another from time to time, sending spray flying up into the air and blowing with the wind. It’s better by far than I had imagined. I can’t help applauding the waves and laughing.

  Mikkel is watching me.

  ‘Now you must take off your shoes,’ he tells me.

  ‘Whatever for?’ I ask. I don’t want him to see my blisters.

  ‘Because it’s your first wisit, so you must stand, one foot in each sea,’ he explains.

  ‘Visit,’ I remind him. I start taking off my boots, feeling rather foolish. As soon as they are off, Mikkel grabs my hand and runs with me out into the shallow waves.

  ‘Stand here!’ he instructs, tugging me to the right.

  Holding my skirt out of the water with my free hand, I space out my feet to what I imagine must be one in each sea.

  ‘Like this?’

  This feels like a moment I shall remember all my life.

  ‘Good! Now you can say you have arrived in Skagen.’

  He’s still holding my hand, but I don’t mind. We laugh again, and suddenly Skagen doesn’t seem so bad.

  ‘You must never swim just here,’ Mikkel tells me, his face serious again. ‘It’s wery, no, I mean very dangerous. The sea.’

  ‘The currents in the water?’ I ask. ‘Are they very strong?’ He nods.

  ‘They can take you out. Into the sea.’ Mikkel waves his hand out at the vast expanse of water around us. ‘The nordstrand, the north beach, is also less safe than the east coast,’ he tells me. I shiver slightly. There’s no danger at all that I would come and swim here, or anywhere else, but I don’t mention that.

  ‘I won’t,’ I promise, and instinctively turn back towards the sand. ‘But now tell me what the seas are called in Danish,’ I ask.

  Mikkel points at the North Sea first.

  ‘Vesterhavet,’ he says slowly. Then he points the other way. ‘Kattegat. And straight ahead is the Skagerrak.’

  He keeps telling me Danish words as we pick up our shoes (sko) and walk barefoot back down the beach (strand). I repeat them and then forget them, but it’s fun. Some of the words are very hard to say. Discovering this, Mikkel persuades me to try and say ‘rød grød med fløde på’, which means something to do with fruit and cream. It’s all in the throat and the front of the mouth with impossible vowels. I can’t do it at all, and Mikkel laughs until he cries. I can feel myself stiffen and grow hot and angry. I don’t like being laughed at.

  ‘Don’t be cross,’ he says, removing his spectacles and wiping his streaming eyes. ‘We always ask foreign visitors to try it. When you can do it, you are speaking Danish properly.’

  I determine at once that I’ll learn to say it very soon.

  Further down the beach we pass a number of groups of fishermen, hauling in their nets. The light is failing now, fading to a luminous blue glow around us. It’s almost the end of my first day.

  One man detaches himself from the group and wades out of the sea towards us. He’s wearing long boots and a huge knitted jumper. I don’t recognize him until he’s quite close. Then I realize it’s Peter, and my heart leaps. I’m so pleased to see him, and I fear I show it too plainly.

  ‘Godaften,’ he says, shaking Mikkel’s hand and then mine. His hand is cold from working in the water. He speaks to Mikkel in Danish, and soon Mikkel turns to me:

  ‘He says he hopes you slept well and enjoyed your first day in Skagen.’

  I can answer that for myself.

  ‘Ja tak!’ I say, and if it isn’t entirely truthful, at least it’s polite. Peter gives me a broad smile. He shakes my hand again and returns to his work.

  After I’ve said goodbye to Mikkel as well, and I’m walking back in the gathering dusk, I can feel my spirits rise. I have a new friend already. Perhaps two.

  FOURTEEN

  October 1885

  I hush the crying baby in one arm while Lise tugs at my free hand.

  ‘Mal et billede!’ she whines.

  Draw a picture. I’ve learned that phrase and many others in the last two weeks. It’s hard work learning a language. And it feels like such a waste of time when I don’t intend to stay here. But for now, I’m trapped by my poverty.

  Lise’s holding her slate out insistently. She’s clean and tidy and I’ve mended her clothes. She looks so different now. Best of all, that dead look has gone from her eyes. I wish I could say the same for her mother.

  Lise trails around after me all day long, chattering to me in Danish:

  ‘Kom, Marianne!’ Come here, Marianne! ‘Prøv se, Marianne!’ Look, Marianne!

  She gets in the way, wants to help with the cooking and cleaning and never gives me a moment’s peace. But I’ve learned a lot of Danish from her chatter. Her older sisters go to school and her brothers go fishing with their father when he’s sober, so Lise must have been lonely before I came.

  I decided to try and help Lise’s mother today. I led her outside and washed her face, hands, and hair. Then I managed to dress her in some clean clothes and comb her fiery red hair to get the crawlers out. Lise watched with great interest, but didn’t offer to help.

  Lene submitted passively, but I got no response from her at all. She’s still sitting in the chair I put her in, staring blankly out of the window.

  ‘Marianne, mal et billede!’ begs Lise again.

  With a sigh, I put the baby down in his cradle. He’s just fallen asleep, and it’s a relief to be free of his weight in my arms. I ought to be drawing a picture for Mrs Forbes, but there’s no point when I can’t afford to post it. So Lise and I sit down at the table together. I take the slate and begin to draw.

  ‘Kat! Kat!’ she cries delightedly before I’ve got very far.

  I wipe out the unfinished cat and begin a new picture. I think a moment. I want to draw something new, but I’m running out of ideas.

  Then I begin to draw, more slowly this time, taking care. Lise watches, irritatingly close, hanging on the back of my chair, breathing on my neck. I repress the impulse to ask her to move a bit further away. It doesn’t take long before she guesses:

  ‘Et skib!’ A ship. I smile.

  ‘Ja, rigtig,’ I tell her. That’s right.

  I don’t stop this time thou
gh. I continue, adding sails and rigging and a figurehead at the prow. I become completely absorbed in my ship. Lise grows bored and wanders outside in search of playmates.

  After ten minutes or so a shadow darkens the door. I jump, hoping it’s not Lene’s husband. I prefer to see as little as possible of him and his evil temper. But it’s Mikkel, and I jump joyfully to my feet, holding out my hand to him. He puts a bag that was strapped to his shoulders down by the door, shakes my hand and then goes politely to Lene and greets her. She looks at him, but her eyes don’t really focus, and then she turns back to the window.

  Mikkel looks around in surprise. I’ve seen him several times since I came, but he hasn’t been inside the house since that first day.

  ‘This looks different.’

  I see his eyes rest briefly on the vase of wild flowers I put on the table this morning. It’s true. I’ve scrubbed the house and washed the bedding and curtains until my hands are raw and chapped. I’m sure I would make poor work of any fine embroidery with them at the moment.

  ‘It looks much better,’ he says. I feel proud for a moment, remembering the dark and dingy hovel I came to. The family doesn’t seem to even notice, but the neighbours, especially Hannah, have commented on the change. I feel I have earned the right to be here and eat their food. Fish, fish, and more fish.

  I wish someone could talk Søren into repairing the house instead of drinking every day after fishing. I can’t cure the leaky roof or the broken door.

  ‘I see she’s no better though,’ Mikkel says in a lower voice, nodding towards Lene. ‘She washed herself? No, of course not. You did it.’

  ‘Yes. Though she does respond to the baby crying sometimes now.’

  ‘That’s good. Do you have time for a walk?’ he asks. It’s what I’ve been hoping he’ll say, and in answer I unhook my shawl from the back of the living room door. The weather has grown colder now.

  Mikkel is looking at Lise’s slate.

  ‘Is this yours?’ His tone is admiring.

  ‘Do you like it?’ I ask, surprised. No one but my mother and Lise ever looked at my drawings before. It didn’t occur to me they might be good.