Between Two Seas

by Marie-Louise Jensen

  At about the fifth or sixth word Christensen’s eyes seek me out and hold me. His eyes glare angrily as he barks out the words of the lesson. It’s old-fashioned Danish and I can’t really understand it. I can’t concentrate. The fierce, unwavering gaze overwhelms me. I look away, upset, but when I look back he still has his eyes fixed on me.

  Christensen knows.

  I remember his strange reaction to me on the beach that time when I was with Mikkel and I’m suddenly afraid. He must know about my birth. But how could he?

  I cast my mind back. The Anchers knew I was looking for his brother. Did they tell him? Small town gossip. Stupid of me not to think of it before.

  Still, even if they told Christensen what they know, he can’t be sure. He must just be guessing. My father died on the way back from England, before he had a chance to tell anyone here anything. I shiver with fear. Unless … my father might have written a letter to his family. I shake my head. No, that doesn’t make sense either. What would he have told them? He did not even know my mother was with child.

  Perhaps Mikkel’s father just disapproves of my friendship with his son. Or perhaps he looks at everyone like that.

  Christensen finishes the reading and sits back down. I remain troubled by his behaviour. All through the long, incomprehensible sermon, my mind dwells on Christensen. Eventually I shake myself and tell myself I might have imagined the whole thing.

  On the way out of the church the minister shakes me by the hand.

  ‘Welcome to our church, Marianne,’ he says. I feel myself flush with pleasure that the minister knows me by name. A number of acquaintances stop and shake hands, exchanging greetings. Hannah introduces me to some of her friends. We stand in the cold for some time, our breath misting the air as we speak. Hannah becomes involved in a conversation in which I soon lose track and I drift away from her a little. Then Mikkel approaches me.

  ‘Marianne, I’d like you to meet my parents. Father, mother, this is my friend Marianne.’

  I can’t believe Mikkel’s trying to introduce me again, after what happened last time. But before I know it, I’m shaking Christensen’s hand. The shock of it makes my heart miss a beat. He doesn’t smile and releases my hand as quickly as is compatible with good manners. Mikkel’s mother is scarcely more friendly.

  ‘You are from England, I believe?’ she asks haughtily in Danish.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ I repress the impulse to curtsey to her.

  ‘And do you stay long in Skagen?’ she asks.

  ‘I hardly know,’ I falter, embarrassed. I’m aware of Christensen looking on in silence. I struggle to compose myself and be more natural.

  ‘Your son Mikkel speaks very good English,’ I tell her; summoning what I hope is a friendly smile. ‘He’s been a great help to me.’

  She smiles coldly, and then nods goodbye, summoning Mikkel to her side.

  As they walk away, Christensen leans towards me. I tense, not knowing what to expect.

  ‘Stay away from my son,’ he hisses. He doesn’t look at me as he whispers this. I jump as though I’ve been stung. Did I hear him right? He’s already marching away, catching up with his family. I glance around me, but there’s no one near enough to have overheard. I’m rigid with shock. I have a sudden urge to be by myself, and leave without a word to Hannah. As I hurry down the path outside the church, I run into Peter.

  ‘Marianne?’ he asks. He grasps my hand and holds it fast. ‘Is something wrong?’ Peter sounds so concerned, so gentle, that I feel tears coming to my eyes.

  ‘Jeg skal … være alene.’ I need to be alone, I try to explain. Peter looks at me a moment longer, and then releases me.

  I turn and make for the beach as quickly as I can on the slippery pathway, so that I can be alone. Alone to think.

  My thoughts are bleak indeed. All my pleasure in Christmas morning is spoiled. I feel an acute misery settling on me. I speculate pointlessly on what Christensen might know. The courageous thing to do would be to go and see him. To confront him with who I am. But even as I think this, I know I do not dare. The man terrifies me.

  Am I going to obey Christensen? I decide that would be ridiculous. What can he do to me? The worst he can do is to tell people about my birth, assuming he knows my secret. That would be bad. Very bad. But it would also shame him by association.

  No, I’m going to stay here and do as I please. I’m not going to creep away and hide like mother and I did in England. I’ve had enough of that. I shall be friends with whom I choose. I remember what Hannah said last night: I am not responsible for my birth. The words give me strength. I have done nothing to be ashamed of.

  The sun sparkles on the ice crystals in the sand and the beach glows faintly blue, reflecting the sky. Gradually my surroundings soothe me, walking steadies my ragged breathing. I’m calmer, but my resolve remains.

  I turn around and head back towards the town. In the distance, I see Hannah coming towards me.

  ‘Marianne!’ I hear her call, and she’s waving to me. ‘Are you all right?’

  I smile and wave back. My friend, I think, and I’m comforted.

  SEVENTEEN

  January 1886

  It’s the first day of the New Year, and I’m stuck indoors, with only Lise and her mother for company. The temperatures have dropped lower still. My fingers are numb with cold, and I have to stop sewing frequently to rub my hands together in an attempt to get the blood to flow.

  Just as I sigh and begin to think about putting the fish in to soak for supper, there is a firm knock at the door. With a quickness born of boredom, I run to open it, hoping to see Mikkel, or perhaps Hannah.

  I’m confused rather than disappointed. Peter is standing there.

  He has never come to call before. What can it mean?

  ‘Dav, Marianne,’ he says, as he briefly shakes my hand in greeting.

  ‘Dav, Peter,’ I respond. ‘Would you like to come in?’

  ‘Thank you, but no,’ he declines.

  I’m almost thankful. To have to sit and make conversation with him under Lene’s gaze would be a sore trial.

  ‘My mother has sent me to fetch you,’ he tells me.

  My confusion grows.

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘Yes. She’d like to meet you, if you are willing. She’s heard you are looking for sewing work.’

  Suddenly everything is clear.

  ‘Did Hannah’s mother speak to her?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ says Peter. ‘She’ll explain when she sees you. Can you come with me now, or should I call back another time?’

  ‘Ja, ja selvfølgelig,’ I stammer. Yes, indeed. ‘I can come now.’

  I fetch my shawl; wrap it around my head and shoulders as the local women do, and lace up my boots. Calling briefly to Lene that I’m going out, I close the door on her grumbling. She is sour about having to prepare the evening meal herself.

  The snow crunches underfoot as we walk. The air is so icy it hurts to breathe it in.

  ‘It’s very cold,’ I remark. I don’t know what else to say.

  ‘Yes, and likely to remain so for some time,’ Peter tells me. ‘Once the sea freezes, the cold spell can sometimes last the winter.’

  My heart sinks at the thought of months of hunger.

  ‘Have you walked on the sea yet?’ Peter asks.

  ‘Walked on it? No. Is it safe?’ I ask, surprised.

  ‘Yes, near the edge it’s safe. Why don’t we go down to the beach now?’

  I hesitate a moment.

  ‘Isn’t it too cold?’

  Peter is warmly dressed in a heavy overcoat, a fur hat with earflaps, a scarf and gloves. I have only my winter shawl. He looks at me for a moment.

  ‘There’s no wind today,’ he says. ‘So we should get warm walking. You’d better borrow my gloves and scarf at least.’

  He wraps his scarf around me and pulls off his fur gloves and hands them to me, still warm from his own hands. They are huge on me and I have trouble get
ting them to stay on. We both laugh and suddenly I’m not so shy any more.

  To my surprise there are lots of people on the sea, walking and even skating. Peter helps me scramble over the uneven ice at the edge of the sea and then draws my hand through his arm as we begin to walk out.

  ‘To make sure you don’t slip,’ he explains. But the ice isn’t as slippery as I expected, because it isn’t completely smooth. There’s also a covering of snow on top that crunches and squeaks underfoot. We walk a short way out to sea, and then turn and head northwards along the coast. At first I feel nervous that the ice might give way under my feet at any moment, but Peter laughs this fear away.

  ‘The ice is very thick here on this coast where the sea is so shallow,’ he assures me. He stamps down hard on the ice to show me it’s as solid as the ground. ‘You would have to go further out to be in any danger.’

  A skater swoops past us, spraying snow up behind him.

  ‘Do you skate?’ I ask Peter.

  ‘Yes, I do. When the sea is frozen, little work can be done. There’s time to have fun. And you?’

  ‘Oh, no. I never tried. There seem to be a lot of things everyone does here that I never tried,’ I add.

  Peter smiles down at me. ‘You’ll learn our ways in time. You are going to stay here, aren’t you? You seem to be settling in well. You’ve learned a lot of Danish in a short time.’

  ‘Yes. I mean no. Well … I haven’t really decided. I wasn’t planning to stay, but you’re right, I am settling in,’ I tell him. I fall silent, confused, thinking I’ve probably said the wrong thing.

  I do think about leaving sometimes, but I still don’t know where I’d go. I seem to be drifting, without any definite purpose. But almost to my surprise I’m happy here. I have friends.

  I’m just getting used to the idea of walking on the sea, when Peter turns and leads me back to the beach again.

  ‘We’re level with our house now,’ he tells me.

  With Peter’s help, I scramble back over the piles of ice that have blown onto the beach at the edge of the sea. Each time he turns to help me, he smiles at me, and holds my hands a little longer than strictly necessary. At first I blush, my heart beating fast. But then I find myself smiling happily back up at him.

  When we can find no more excuses to linger on the ice, we walk through the sand dunes to his house. As we approach it, I can see a lamp lighted in the window, though the curtains are not yet drawn. I feel very nervous at the thought of meeting his family. I’ve only ever seen them at a distance.

  We go through the front door into a hallway. The house seems very fine compared to the houses I’ve been in up to now. I wipe my boots nervously on the mat. Peter takes my shawl. I return his scarf and gloves to him with a smile.

  ‘They kept me very warm,’ I tell him. ‘Thank you.’

  In the living room, a woman is sitting at the table with an embroidery frame, needle, and silks in her hands. When she sees us, she puts them down at once and comes to greet us, hand held out in welcome.

  ‘Så du er Marianne!’ So you are Marianne! ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,’ she tells me with a friendly smile. I can see at once that she’s Peter’s mother. She has the same colouring, the same depth and indefinable colour in her eyes. Here in the house they appear grey, but I can imagine they would be blue or even green outdoors, as Peter’s are.

  ‘I’m Annette Hansen,’ she tells me, drawing me to the table. ‘Sæt dig.’ Sit down. I do so and at once notice the tablecloth. It’s beautifully embroidered with a scattering of wild flowers. Sewn with exquisite, tiny stitches, it awakens my admiration at once. Peter’s mother notices, and smiles.

  ‘Charlotte tells me you are looking for work, sewing and embroidering. She showed me the handkerchiefs that you embroidered for her and Hannah for Christmas. Can you work like this too?’ Annette asks, indicating the cloth.

  I hesitate, unsure of my own abilities.

  ‘Not exactly like this. I learned a different style in England … I’m not sure I can do anything as beautiful as this. But I would love to learn.’

  Annette smiles, and pours me a cup of coffee into a fine china cup, stirring in a generous amount of cream and sugar. It tastes quite delicious. She offers me a dish of elegant little home-baked biscuits. I accept one and it melts on my tongue, leaving a fragrant buttery, vanilla flavour behind.

  There are only two places set for coffee. Peter has withdrawn to the next room already. His mother sees me looking for him.

  ‘Peter knows better than to sit listening to women’s chat,’ she says. ‘He is the best son a mother could wish for,’ she continues, dropping her voice confidentially. ‘As soon as he heard I wished to speak to you, nothing was too much trouble. I was going to call on you at Jakobsens’, everyone knows where the English girl is staying. But Peter insisted on going to fetch you.’

  I flush with pleasure hearing this. I wonder if he’s listening.

  ‘Peter felt we would be more comfortable here,’ continued Annette. ‘How are you getting on staying at Jakobsens’? It is not what anyone would wish for, staying with that family.’

  ‘I’m very grateful that they took me in,’ I say, unwilling to criticize the family.

  ‘It is no doubt more comfortable for you all without Jakobsen?’ Annette says bluntly. I look at her amazed. ‘You’ll have to get used to my plain speaking,’ she says. ‘I can’t be doing with the notion of only speaking well of the dead. The man was a drunken wastrel, and his dying doesn’t alter it.’

  I decide it’s safest to say nothing.

  ‘No doubt you’ll wish to move on,’ Annette continues briskly. ‘And I may be able to help you on your way with a little work, if you are able to sew as well as I think you do.’

  I’m overwhelmed by her chatty manner, and her outspokenness. I can’t help liking her for it. I’ve never met anyone like this before. It’s as though she can read my thoughts. Not all of them though, I hope fervently.

  ‘You have work for me?’ I feel a great excitement at the prospect of earning my own money once more.

  ‘I have more work than I can manage by myself now, but it is seasonal,’ Annette explains. ‘We have a small shop on the main street, Søndergade, where we sell the items I make to the summer visitors. Handkerchiefs, tablecloths, aprons and suchlike. There seem to be more visitors coming every year, and last summer I sold out before the season was over. I shouldn’t like that to happen again this year.’

  She pauses to refill my cup and to sip her own coffee.

  ‘Would you like to help me? The only drawback is that I can only pay you a very little now. But I’ll provide you with materials, and you’ll be paid more when the items sell.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course … but … ’ I falter a moment, and then ask in a rush, ‘But why me? Is there no one else here in Skagen who embroiders?’

  Annette laughs and her laughter is merry, like bells.

  ‘Yes, but I require a very high standard. Do you know what we hear about the English?’ she asks. ‘They are too modest, too shy. I can see it’s true.’

  I’m not sure what I think of this. I sip my coffee again to cover up my confusion.

  Peter comes back into the room. He draws the curtains and lights some candles.

  ‘Don’t tease Marianne, mother,’ he says quietly.

  I was right. He has been listening.

  He catches my eye and smiles. My heart turns over. There’s a happy glow spreading through me. Sitting here in this warm, candlelit room, with the prospect of work before me, and of coming and going in this house, I feel a thrill of delight. I look around me, drinking in the prettiness and daintiness of everything. The house itself is not so very different to where I live. But it’s cared for. The walls are hung with shelves of china, instead of stinking fishing nets. The furniture is all freshly painted, with small white painted daisies adorning it. There’s a picture of King Christian on the wall. I’ve become used to everything being functional, damaged,
and shabby. The room feels spacious too, and I realize it’s because there are no beds in here: they have separate bedrooms.

  ‘Marianne?’ Annette recalls my attention gently. ‘Do you accept? Would you like to bring some of your work here tomorrow for me to look at?’

  ‘Ja. Ja, tak!’ Yes, thank you. I accept warmly, ashamed at my slowness. ‘I was looking at your room. It’s so pretty.’ I can see at once I’ve said the right thing. She looks pleased.

  ‘Good. That’s settled then. Can you find your own way here, do you think? If Peter takes you home now?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I assure her, delighted at the thought of coming here again tomorrow. Annette twists the rest of the biscuits in a small piece of paper and presses them into my hand as I leave. ‘For the Jakobsen children,’ she says. I thank her and tuck them into my pocket.

  Peter smiles as his mother tells him everything is settled. I shake her by the hand and take my leave. Peter wraps my shawl around me, and as we step out into the dark, he draws my hand through the crook of his arm again. I feel proud and happy to be walking through the town with Peter like this.

  The short winter day is already over. The snow gleams in the darkness, lighting our way, and the sky is full of glittering stars.

  ‘It gets dark so early here,’ I remark.

  ‘In the winter it does. But then in the summer it’s light almost all the time.’

  I take a deep breath of the clean pure air, and the cold is invigorating. The thought of summer is unimaginable at this moment.

  When we reach Jakobsens’, my heart sinks a little at the thought of going back into that noise and squalor. We stop, standing close to one another in the dark.