Between Two Seas

by Marie-Louise Jensen

‘Look!’ I say, grasping Hannah’s shoulder and pointing.

  The small boat vanishes for a few seconds and then reappears. Capsized. Others have noticed it now too. But this time no one hurries to push the lifeboat out.

  ‘Let them take their chance,’ growls one man nearby and I hear others agreeing. Everyone is turning away now, packing up. There is little hope of finding anyone else alive.

  Hannah and I are just leaving the beach some time later, when another body is washed up, limp and lifeless.

  It’s Søren. We approach fearfully. His lips are blue, his hair like wet seaweed. Worst of all are his eyes, open and sightless.

  ‘Ugh!’ I recoil.

  I feel no sympathy for this man I have shared a house with for nearly three months. He did no one any good while he was alive. He drank not only the money he earned, but most of what his two sons earned too. But the sight of him dead on the sand is shocking all the same.

  Two men are preparing to carry the body back to his widow. I notice they are less respectful of him than of the drowned Norwegians. I don’t blame them. We walk beside them all the way back to the house.

  ‘I wonder what Lene’s reaction will be?’ I say. She’s had nothing but harsh words and heavy knocks from him while I’ve been here, but they must have loved one another once.

  I part with Hannah near the Jakobsens’ house, and follow the body in.

  To my surprise, Lene is distraught. She sobs, apparently heartbroken, holding her dead husband’s lifeless hand in both of hers.

  Lise comes to me for comfort, climbing into my lap and twining her arms about me.

  ‘Why is he dead, Marianne?’ she whispers.

  I don’t know how to answer.

  The other girls stand shocked and silent, watching their mother grieve.

  Jakob returns safely, but we all wait anxiously for news of Morten who was in the boat with his father. He doesn’t return until much later. He comes creeping in under cover of darkness, hugging a sack of wheat guiltily in his arms. He and his brother quickly prise up a loose floorboard in the living room. There’s a fair-sized hole dug in the sand underneath. They drop the sack into it. I imagine the hiding place has been put to use before.

  Morten has tales to tell of his part in the looting of the ship. I listen, half interested, half disgusted. He’s lost a father and gained a sack of wheat. I wonder to see him so unmoved by the exchange.

  SIXTEEN

  December 1885

  It’s completely still on the beach.

  I stand awed before the vast expanse of sea, which is frozen into silence. There’s not even a breath of wind this morning. The sun is rising over the ice, streaking the sky with blues and oranges.

  The boats lie idle on the sand, upside down. Snow has drifted about them; their ropes are thick with frost. Ice crystals in the sand catch the first rays of sun and sparkle like diamonds all around me.

  This beauty has brought great hardship with it. The frozen sea yields no food. The poorer townsfolk are surviving solely on dried and salted fish, and in our house, even that is running low. There’s no fresh fish to trade for grain or fuel, and the Jakobsens had nothing stored ready for the winter. I’m so hungry my stomach hurts.

  The sack of wheat that Lene’s son Morten stole from the wreck last month has been the saving of us. The bread has kept the worst of the hunger at bay so far.

  It’s Christmas Eve today. I’ve escaped the house for an hour to be alone and to think about my mother. It will be my first Christmas without her. I miss her quiet cheerfulness, and the exchange of small gifts that we always made for each other. I usually push my sadness away, but today it overwhelms me with its intensity. Despite my friends, there are days when I’m so lonely.

  But this afternoon I’m invited to Hannah’s. In Denmark they celebrate Christmas today. It will be a spell of joy and relief away from my life in the Jakobsens’ house.

  Reluctantly, I turn away from the splendour of the sunrise and drag my feet back to a house which is empty of Christmas spirit. I have chores to do.

  ‘Hvor var du?’ Where’ve you been? demands Lene as soon as I re-enter the house. ‘You’re always disappearing when you’re wanted.’

  She has come out of her apathy since her husband died, and revealed a temper nearly as foul as his. I find her intolerable.

  I don’t answer her question, but take off my shawl, put on my apron and begin to cook one of our two meals of the day. There’s no longer enough food for three meals.

  I slice the dried plaice, which I’ve soaked, and throw the pieces into the pan, pushing them around angrily. I don’t mind working hard, but I’m not their slave to work tirelessly for no thanks. I call to the children to set the table. I had felt guilty about leaving them on Christmas Eve, but I don’t care any more.

  I scrape the fish onto plates, and try to stop myself from banging them onto the table as I would like to do. They wolf their meagre portions before I’ve even had a chance to take off my apron and join them.

  ‘Jeg er stadig sulten!’ I’m still hungry! Lise cries as soon as she finishes hers. ‘I want some bread!’

  ‘Shut your mouth, Lise,’ Lene snaps, slapping her roughly.

  Lise begins to cry. Her eldest sister puts her arm around her in an attempt to comfort her.

  ‘We’re saving the bread for supper,’ I say gently. ‘We’re all hungry, Lise, you’ll have to be brave.’ Guiltily, I think of the pearls hidden under my dress. My conscience tells me I should sell them to buy food, but I can’t bear to. They were my mother’s. If things get much worse, I will, I promise myself.

  To comfort her, and because I’m going out later, I give Lise half my own portion. I give the rest to Jakob. Then I look around at the family. Their shadowed eyes are over-large in their peaked white faces. I wonder if I look the same.

  I put on my best dress to go to Hannah’s. The daylight is already fading again, though it can only be three o’clock. I’m dizzy from lack of food, and my feet feel heavy.

  The younger Jakobsen children have been out begging from the wealthier families and have brought home potatoes, some fruit, and little round biscuits in twists of paper. At first I’m a little shocked, but they assure me it’s a tradition on Christmas Eve. Lise asks me to close my eyes and then pushes a biscuit into my mouth. It’s sweet and spicy. I give her a quick hug before I go, and she plants a sticky kiss on my cheek.

  Hannah pulls the door open and hugs me before I have a chance to knock.

  ‘Marianne! Come and see our decorations!’ she cries at once.

  ‘You’ve made it so pretty!’ I exclaim. The tiny house is bright and clean. There is an apple studded with cloves on the table. I smell the warm exotic scent at once. Red paper hearts are pinned to the walls. The table is set simply but prettily, with china and napkins. The soft candlelight completes the atmosphere.

  Hannah beams with delight.

  ‘The cloves came from the wreck,’ she tells me. ‘Mother bought them at the auction.’

  Hannah’s mother shakes my hand.

  ‘Welcome, Marianne! Come and warm yourself by the stove.’

  ‘I have a small gift for you first,’ I say a little nervously, laying two tiny parcels on the table. It has been a puzzle to know what to give them, as I still have absolutely no money. In the end I chose my two best handkerchiefs and embroidered them with the prettiest threads from my sewing box.

  The parcels are wrapped in the tissue paper that lined my trunk. I watch anxiously while Hannah and her mother unwrap them. To my relief they both seem pleased. On Hannah’s I’ve embroidered an intricate ‘H’ in one corner and tiny pink flowers in the others. For her mother, a blue ‘C’ (her name is Charlotte) and blue flowers.

  ‘Marianne, they’re beautiful,’ breathes Hannah.

  ‘That was too generous,’ her mother tells me, giving me a kiss on the cheek. ‘It must have taken you hours.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I assure her. ‘I learned to sew as soon as I could hold a needle.�
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  They lay the handkerchiefs on their bed, and Hannah’s mother puts on her apron and begins to fry fish.

  ‘We only have dried fish for our Christmas meal, I’m afraid,’ Hannah tells me apologetically. ‘And we need to eat much earlier than usual, as mother has to go back to the hotel to help prepare the Christmas meal there. They have lots of guests.’

  ‘That’s no problem at all, I promise.’ I am glad the supper will be early. Having not eaten yet today, I’m starting to feel faint.

  ‘But just wait until you see what we have for dessert,’ Hannah adds. She hugs herself in excitement, her eyes gleaming.

  ‘Dessert?’ I ask, surprised.

  I can’t remember the last time I had any kind of dessert.

  ‘You look as if you could do with some,’ Hannah’s mother tells me, coming back into the room. ‘Are you going very short of food at Jakobsens’?’

  I hesitate, unwilling to lie outright, but not keen to admit the truth either.

  ‘We’re managing,’ I tell her.

  ‘Well, there’ll be no fresh fish while the sea stays frozen,’ says Hannah’s mother seriously. ‘Have you thought of earning money with your sewing?’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ I reply. ‘But I don’t know how to go about it.’

  ‘I may be able to help you. But I won’t make any promises until I’m more sure.’

  ‘That would be very kind,’ I tell her, feeling hope bubbling up inside me again. I feel quite different all of a sudden. Lighter, more energetic.

  Hannah must have been teasing me when she said there was only dried fish for supper. There are also potatoes and carrots with melted butter. It’s the best meal I’ve had in months. I eat hungrily. Then Hannah proudly helps her mother lay two serving dishes of dessert on the table.

  ‘It’s ris à l’amande,’ she explains.

  I don’t realize for a moment that Hannah’s using a French name. Then I understand. Rice with almonds. It looks as though there’s a generous amount of cream stirred into it as well. The second dish has fruit in a sauce.

  ‘Does this have a French name too?’ I ask.

  ‘No, that’s kirsebœrsovs,’ she laughs. Cherry sauce. ‘They’ve made a huge portion for Christmas at the hotel. They gave mother some to bring home,’ Hannah explains, handing round bowls and spoons. ‘It’s what they’re eating later tonight, so we are as grand as they are!’

  I taste a spoonful of my portion. The rice is rich and creamy, and the pieces of almond crunch deliciously. The cherries burst on the tongue, adding sweetness.

  Hannah and her mother are watching me expectantly, waiting for my reaction.

  ‘It tastes so good,’ I assure them. ‘I love it.’

  I eat very, very slowly, tasting every spoonful, making it last as long as possible. I store up the memory of the taste. When we’ve eaten every last bit, we clear away, and Hannah’s mother brews some rosehip tea from the rosehips they picked in the autumn. Then she wraps herself in her shawl.

  ‘Nu må I hygge jer!’ she says just before she closes the door behind her.

  It’s a phrase I can’t translate into English. Mikkel told me it means something like ‘have a nice time’ and ‘be cosy’ all rolled into one. They say it a lot here, and it stands for companionship and hospitality in my mind, making me feel warm and content when I hear it.

  Hannah and I sit by the stove in the candlelight and wrap our hands around our mugs. I wonder how Peter is spending Christmas. I imagine him sitting by the fire with his family. I feel a fierce longing to see him. I wonder how long it will be until I do.

  Hannah begins to tell me about the Christmas church service tomorrow.

  ‘Why don’t you come, Marianne?’ she asks. ‘You never come to church.’

  ‘The Jakobsen family don’t go.’ It’s a poor excuse, and we both know it. Hannah pounces on it:

  ‘Come with mother and me then: we’d love to have your company.’

  I hesitate. I don’t go to church because of the shame of my birth. Because my mother never went to church after I was born. I haven’t forgotten the coldness of the minister in Grimsby who buried her. All because I have no father.

  ‘What happened to your father, Hannah? You never speak about him.’ The question pops out before I realize I was going to ask it. It’s been in my mind before. She reminds me of myself somehow. So close to her mother.

  ‘My father?’ Hannah gives a slightly embarrassed laugh. ‘I never knew him. He was a sailor. Shipwrecked off the coast just like the Norwegians who were here at the beginning of the winter. Except he was Swedish.’

  I still don’t fully understand, and it must show in my face.

  ‘He was here for a few months and then got a passage back to Sweden. Before he knew that my mother was expecting me.’

  Understanding crashes in on me, and I can’t believe I was so stupid. Hannah is like me. Exactly like me. She’s illegitimate too.

  It takes a few moments for this new idea to sink in. I feel a flush in my face. I’m ashamed that I made Hannah tell me this. I struggle to know what to say next:

  ‘So he … you … you’re … ’

  ‘Illegitimate. Yes.’

  ‘And no one minds?’ I’m reeling with shock.

  ‘Well,’ Hannah hesitates a moment. ‘Some people disapproved of my mother, of course. But her parents took care of her, and later the Brøndum family gave her seasonal work at the hotel. So we’ve always been able to manage. And I’m not responsible for my birth, of course.’

  She says this last sentence so calmly, in such a quiet, matter-of-fact way that it takes my breath away. I think of how open and confident Hannah is. Everyone welcomes her wherever she goes. I compare her life to my former life. Even now I carry that secret shame within me, afraid that someone will discover it, and the new life I have built will crumble at a touch.

  Hannah didn’t even really mind telling me. I would rather die than tell anyone the truth about my birth. Hannah can’t possibly realize the significance her story has for me. What a connection there is between us.

  ‘You don’t mind do you, Marianne?’ she asks and I think I hear a touch of anxiety in her voice.

  ‘Me? How could I?’ I hesitate slightly. ‘I never knew my father either,’ I begin in a rush. Hannah looks up, her attention caught. I hesitate again, wondering if I dare say it. ‘He died before I was born,’ I explain lamely. I know I should tell her the truth. It’s dishonest not to. A part of me longs to, but I can’t. I’ve learned the lesson of caution too well over the years.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Hannah seriously. A moment later she’s smiling at me again. Mischievously.

  ‘So, will you come to church tomorrow?’

  Church. She and her mother even go to church.

  A part of me thinks: if they can, I can. I watch the flickering candle flames for a few moments while I think.

  ‘All right,’ I agree. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Good,’ Hannah says, looking pleased. ‘I wanted to have my best friend with me tomorrow.’

  Best friend.

  I can hardly believe she said it. Despite my failure to trust her with my secret, I can feel a warm glow spreading through me. I smile, and she smiles back.

  * * *

  The walk down along Søndergade to the St Laurentii church is a long one, and it’s especially slow in this weather. The powdery snow has been trampled into ice. Either side of the road it lies loose, ready to drift again at the first hint of a wind. The sun is low in the pale winter sky, its beams glinting off the snow.

  Christmas morning. I had expected to feel unhappy today but I’m not. I’m with friends, and I’m also looking eagerly around for Peter, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, perhaps even shake his hand.

  Hannah walks beside me, her arm linked in mine so we can steady one another if we slip on the ice. Her mother walks and talks with her neighbours just behind us. We are quite a crowd. I can hardly believe I’m going to church like this with everyone
else. I feel nervous, as though the minister will take one look at me and I’ll stand revealed, my soul stained with sin, for him to see.

  Mikkel catches us up. He slaps me cheerfully on the back.

  ‘Marianne! You’re coming to church at last! That’s good.’

  He walks beside us, and I notice that Hannah has gone very quiet. I wonder if she doesn’t like him. Or perhaps, despite what she said to me yesterday, she’s worried that he won’t approve of her. Mikkel’s father, after all, is known for his rigid morals. He of all people must disapprove of her illegitimate birth.

  But Mikkel is talking to her in a perfectly friendly way. Then I see her cast her eyes down and blush slightly at something he says and a suspicion flashes into my mind. Of course. She does like him.

  I hope he won’t break her heart. I’m sure he’s still set on leaving Skagen.

  It’s bitterly cold inside the church. Breath rises in frosty clouds as people greet one another. They all know each other. I’m surprised how many people I myself know. Acquaintances and neighbours nod and smile at me and I return their greetings. Many greet me by name. I can see the Anchers with their little daughter at the front of the church. In the pew next to them sit the Brøndum family, with their stern, strong faces. At last I see Peter. He’s with his parents in their family pew. His mother and father both give me a friendly nod. My eyes meet Peter’s across the aisle and he smiles warmly.

  I realize that I’m part of this group of people. I’m known to all of them. And strangest of all, I’m welcome. It has happened so gradually that I’ve hardly been aware of it. Hannah and I take seats at the back of the church in the public pews.

  Mikkel’s family arrives, his parents and his younger brother and sisters whom I’ve never met. My relatives. Christensen looks as forbidding as ever. His wife looks as though she chews lemons.

  The church is full now, with some of the men standing at the back. The minister begins the service. He hasn’t been in Skagen long, Hannah has told me. His name is foreign: de Place. He’s wearing a long black cassock. The huge white ruff around his neck looks like a wedding cake with a head on top. It makes me want to giggle, but I don’t. We sing a hymn, and this is followed by prayers. Then the minister announces the lesson, and I see Mikkel’s father, Christensen, get up from among the congregation to read it. He walks slowly to the lectern at the front of the church, each step measured and deliberate, his carriage upright and rigid. Once he’s found his place in the Bible, he begins the reading, though it’s clear he barely needs to look at the page: he knows it by heart.