Between Two Seas

by Marie-Louise Jensen

  ‘I expect I’ll see you tomorrow when you come to see my mother,’ Peter says. ‘There’s no fishing to be done in this weather.’ He hesitates a moment, and then draws a small package from his pocket. ‘I have a small gift for you,’ he says. ‘It’s nothing much,’ he adds hurriedly. ‘I was going to give it to you on Christmas Day, but you seemed upset.’ He holds it out to me. My hands are clumsy with the cold as I unwrap it. There’s a length of very fine ribbon and a paper twist of liquorice sweets from Brøndum’s store.

  ‘The ribbon’s blue, to match your eyes,’ he tells me softly.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’ I’m surprised and touched by his thoughtfulness. I offer my hand. Peter takes it, but instead of shaking it, he just holds it in both his.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he says, but he doesn’t let go. I stand still, hardly daring to breathe. His hands are warm, despite the cold air. Our breath steams into the icy night, swirling and mingling. Peter moves a little closer, and my heart begins to hammer painfully in my chest.

  But Lise opens the door behind me and puts her head out.

  ‘Marianne!’ she cries joyfully, wrapping her arms around my legs, which is as high as she can reach.

  The spell is broken. Peter releases my hand, wishes me goodnight, and disappears into the darkness.

  EIGHTEEN

  March 1886

  I had hoped it might be Peter when I heard the knock on the door this afternoon. But I should have known better. Since the thaw came at the end of January he’s been out fishing every day. He’s rarely home now when I go to Annette’s. I only see him on Sundays, when he often walks me home from church. But having been trapped in the house for a week by heavy rain and flooding, I was pleased to have any visitor. The sight of Mikkel at the door was a welcome one.

  The floodwater’s up to my knees now and it’s bitterly cold. My feet are so numb that I can no longer feel whether it’s sand or grass underfoot.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ Mikkel encourages me. ‘The boat is just round here.’

  It’s all very well for him. He’s borrowed his father’s thigh-length fishing boots.

  ‘Will it get any deeper?’ I ask, struggling to keep my dress dry. I’m also carrying a parcel of finished embroidery for Annette.

  ‘Just a little. Why don’t you let me carry your parcel for you?’

  Reluctantly I hand it over, and hitch my skirt right up above my knees. It’s been raining non-stop for the last week. Not merely raining, either. Pouring out of the sky as though it will never stop, finding every leak in our ill-thatched roof, and splashing into the wooden pails I’ve set to catch the drips. I even have to get up in the night to empty them. Today is almost the first pause we’ve had, and the sky is threatening even now.

  ‘There’s the boat,’ says Mikkel pointing.

  But I’m looking at the flooded town, which I haven’t seen until now.

  ‘All the paths have been turned into waterways,’ I exclaim. ‘Does this happen often?’

  It seems to me everyone is taking it very calmly. They are merely getting out their small boats and rowing where they usually walk.

  ‘We often have a week or so under water each year,’ Mikkel tells me.

  Getting into a small boat is much harder than I expected. As soon as I try and put any weight on the side, it tips wildly towards me.

  Mikkel is laughing, and it’s catching.

  ‘Wait!’ he orders, and wades around the boat in order to hold down the far side.

  ‘You can climb in now—but remember: it’s a boat, not a tree!’

  As if I’ve ever climbed a tree.

  I try to get in elegantly, but end up in a mad scramble, getting my skirt wet after all and stubbing my toes.

  ‘Ouch!’ I hold my bruised, numb toes in one hand and cling to the side with the other, waiting for the rocking to stop.

  Mikkel hands me my precious parcel and unties the rope. He then hops neatly in.

  ‘How do you do that so easily?’ I ask, jealous.

  ‘I’ve had lots of practice, of course,’ Mikkel answers with a shrug. Boats are a part of his life.

  ‘I shall obviously have to try this a few more times,’ I remark ruefully.

  Sitting facing me, Mikkel pushes the oars into the water, fitting them into the rowlocks. With a few deft pulls, he steers us out into deeper water and towards the main street. I watch him rowing and decide it looks quite easy. He’s pulling strongly on the oars now.

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ I say. ‘I was so bored. Yesterday I even ran out of sewing to do. It’s kind of you to take me to Annette’s.’

  ‘You’re welcome. I thought you might be getting tired of Lene’s company by now.’

  We grin at each other, and then come round a half submerged sand dune into the main street.

  ‘Oh!’ I cry in surprise. ‘So that’s why so many of these houses have little bridges in front of them.’

  I had simply accepted the bridges as an architectural feature of Skagen, but now I can see that each house is built slightly raised, and the bridges link the submerged road with the houses. Many of the bridges have small craft tied to them, and a number of people are rowing up or down the street, or pushing their boats along with a long pole.

  ‘Our very own Venice!’ Mikkel tells me, and there’s a note of pride in his voice I’ve rarely heard there before.

  ‘God dag, Mikkel,’ calls a man I don’t know from another small craft.

  Mikkel merely nods to him and seems a little out of breath.

  ‘Would you like me to take a turn?’ I ask.

  He pauses and looks at me. There’s a smile lurking in his eyes.

  ‘Have you ever rowed?’

  ‘Well, no. But I’ve watched. And you can teach me how. I’m much stronger than when I first came here.’

  It’s true and Mikkel knows it, but the smile in his eyes has deepened.

  ‘Maybe on the way back,’ Mikkel says, and there’s a teasing note in his voice. ‘You wouldn’t like to get your sewing wet before you’ve delivered it.’

  I bite my lip and look away. I won’t give him the angry reaction he’s hoping for. No one ever teased me before I met Mikkel, and it hasn’t been easy to learn how to respond. I try to think of something to say to regain my dignity, but nothing comes to mind.

  We are passing Mikkel’s house now. It’s built on higher ground, and the floodwater hasn’t quite reached it.

  ‘Did your father build the house?’ I ask.

  Today, Mikkel is more communicative than usual.

  ‘No, my grandfather built it. My father’s father. But my mother is from a well-to-do farming family south of here. So when they were married, my father extended the house.’

  ‘And is your grandfather still alive?’

  ‘No, he died before I was born. In fact I think it was his death that brought my father back to Skagen.’

  ‘Back? From where?’

  I’m curious about my uncle, and even more curious to hear something about my father.

  ‘Father doesn’t talk about it,’ is Mikkel’s reply, as he pulls hard on the oars again to get out of the way of another boat.

  ‘Never? But surely you must know something of where he went? I mean, why did he leave Skagen? I didn’t think many people did.’

  Mikkel rests his oars a moment, and looks straight at me. He’s glowing with the exercise and his eyes are very bright.

  ‘You’re asking a lot of questions.’

  ‘I’m interested. You don’t talk much about your family.’

  ‘You don’t talk about yours at all,’ he retorts.

  I sit back and look down at my feet. ‘Sorry,’ I say.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he sighs. ‘My father had arguments with his father, I think. They didn’t get on. So he and his brother ran away together. They worked on various boats, and saw a bit of the world.’ Mikkel pauses, and then bursts into speech again. ‘So he can’t really tell me I must spend all my life here, can h
e? I mean, he didn’t. He went away.’

  I want to shake the information out of Mikkel. He just mentioned my father and now he’s off on a different tack.

  I’ve known Mikkel for half a year and I can see he doesn’t fit in here. He knows everyone, and is well liked, but nevertheless, he’s an outsider. His interests and his intellect divide him from those around him. He loves the place; the heath land, the wildlife, the coast, but there’s no suitable companionship here for him. I suppose he seeks my friendship because I, too, am different.

  ‘Are you sure it wouldn’t be worth speaking to him again?’ I ask.

  Mikkel shakes his head impatiently.

  ‘He’ll never listen. He doesn’t understand.’

  I nod sympathetically. We’ve talked about this before.

  ‘Perhaps he even went to Copenhagen himself,’ I suggest, and I feel like a louse, trying to extract information from my friend in this way.

  Mikkel is staring out at the water, his eyes unfocused, allowing the boat to drift. He doesn’t answer me.

  ‘So what happened to his brother?’ I ask.

  Mikkel looks at me blankly.

  ‘You said your father went away with his brother.’

  ‘Oh. He drowned. Crossing back from England, I think,’ Mikkel says vaguely. It’s obviously not a subject that interests him much.

  ‘Was your father with him in England?’

  ‘No idea. He’s never mentioned going to England. Why are you so interested in my family history all of a sudden?’

  We’re as close to Peter’s house as we can get now, and Mikkel is busy shipping his oars and climbing out.

  Because you’re my cousin, but I can’t tell you, I think silently. But I just smile and say, ‘Because you’re my friend, that’s why.’ And as I climb out into the icy water, I pause and give his shoulder a friendly squeeze.

  Mikkel grins, pleased, and puts his free arm around my shoulders and gives me a quick hug in return.

  Together we turn towards the house, and I see both Annette and Peter standing at the door. I’m slightly embarrassed when I realize they’ve been watching us. Annette smiles and calls out:

  ‘Come in, come in and warm yourselves!’ She throws the door wide open.

  Peter, on the other hand, stands stiff and unsmiling. His handshake is formal and cold. The shock goes right through me, leaving my hands tingling unpleasantly. What can be wrong? I’m so bad at reading and understanding people’s behaviour. I haven’t had enough practice.

  We’ve come in through the outer workroom today, so Annette leads us past the nets hanging partly mended and the salting vat, three quarters full of fish. There are chickens clucking softly in a pen in one corner. I hesitate before following Annette through into the kitchen but Peter has gone back to mending his nets and doesn’t even glance at me again. Reluctantly, I leave him.

  The kettle is singing over a bright fire. It’s a welcome and cheerful sight. A contrast to the greyness of the weather outside the house.

  ‘You’ll want some coffee to warm you up. Go through and take a seat by the stove.’

  Mikkel and I both go through into the living room and sit as close to the stove as we can get. It radiates heat, and I can hear the cheerful crackle of the flames inside.

  My toes are thawing, tingling painfully in the warmth, when Annette comes in with coffee for us. I can feel my cheeks beginning to glow.

  ‘I brought the aprons and handkerchiefs back,’ I tell Annette. ‘They’ve been ready for two days but I didn’t know how to get here to give them to you and fetch more work. Mikkel very kindly offered to bring me in his boat.’

  Annette smiles approvingly at Mikkel. ‘If I had known you’d have these done so quickly, I’d have sent Peter by with some more.’

  How I wish she had known.

  She’s unpacking the work I’ve done. As always, I’m nervous, holding my breath as she examines them.

  ‘Beautifully done, Marianne. You can be proud of yourself.’

  I let my breath go in a sigh of relief.

  ‘Thank you.’ A flush of pleasure adds to the colour in my cheeks.

  ‘Yes, very nice indeed,’ repeats Annette. ‘And do you have a little time, Mikkel, to wait while I show Marianne what I’d like her to do next?’

  ‘Of course,’ says Mikkel politely.

  Annette fetches more work for me, spreading it out on the dining table. I get up to look.

  Mikkel wanders out. I can hear him talking. I’m straining to hear if it’s Peter he’s talking to, and what they are saying, but I can’t make it out.

  ‘Now, Marianne. I’m giving you a tablecloth to do next, and I’d like you to put some of your blue flowers in each of the four corners. You do those so beautifully. And something in the middle. Do you have any ideas? I thought perhaps a wreath of flowers?’

  I force myself to focus on what she’s saying to me.

  ‘A wreath would be pretty,’ I respond absently. My mind is with Peter.

  Usually I enjoy my time with Annette, but today I’m longing to escape. I want to see Peter again before I leave, hoping to read something more friendly in his face.

  There’s a knock at the front door and Annette hurries to answer it. When I hear her ushering friends in, I slip out to the workroom to find Peter and Mikkel. They don’t see me at first. Peter is scowling at Mikkel. As I walk in, I hear him say, ‘Why don’t you just take your sweetheart and go, and stop bothering me with idle chatter.’ It sounds so unlike him. I pause in the doorway, astonished.

  ‘I told you, she’s not my sweetheart, we’re friends,’ says Mikkel, sounding taken aback.

  ‘So that’s why you were hugging her right under my nose, is it?’ demands Peter.

  I can’t believe it, he’s jealous. Jealous. He’s dropped the nets and is glaring at poor Mikkel. Mikkel sees me. His fair face is flushed red.

  ‘Marianne, Peter seems to think … ’

  I, too, am embarrassed by the situation. ‘It’s true,’ I stammer. ‘We’re just friends.’ Peter looks sceptical. I walk over to him and put my hand on his arm, forcing myself to look directly at him. ‘It’s true,’ I assure him. As we look at each other, I see the anger and jealousy fade from his face. His eyes soften, making me feel breathless. I hear Mikkel shift uncomfortably behind me, but he is spared by Annette bustling into the room, my parcel of work in her arms, and some coins in her hand.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Marianne,’ she says. ‘Here’s your next work and your payment.’

  Peter grins a little shamefacedly at me as we shake hands to leave. I also hear him muttering a brief word of apology to Mikkel.

  ‘Farvel, Peter,’ I say. Goodbye. And then I step outside and wade back to the boat.

  As Mikkel takes the oars and turns the boat to row away, I look back. Peter is at the door with his mother, and lifts his hand in a farewell gesture. I wave back and smile.

  ‘Can I have a turn rowing?’ I ask Mikkel as soon as we are out of sight of the house.

  ‘I wish you’d said before we started,’ complains Mikkel. ‘Now we’ll have to change places. Can you wait until we are out into the main street? There’ll be more people on hand to help when you overturn us.’

  This time I completely take his bait:

  ‘What do you mean, overturn us?’ I cry indignantly. ‘What makes you—’

  And then I stop myself abruptly. Mikkel is grinning broadly at me. Annoyed with myself, I dip my hand into the water, scoop up a handful, and throw it at him.

  It catches him in the face, leaving droplets of water on his spectacles. He takes up the challenge at once. Unfortunately for me, he has the oars. A great wave of water drenches me, leaving me gasping.

  ‘Please, don’t: it’s much too cold!’

  Then we’re both laughing. The awkwardness following the misunderstanding at the Hansens’ has been overcome.

  ‘All right, you can row. As long as you promise not to use the oars to splash me.’

  ‘That’s
hardly fair,’ I point out indignantly.

  ‘Promise, or you don’t have a turn,’ Mikkel insists.

  ‘Very well then, I promise.’ I’m keen to try rowing.

  It is harder to change places in a small boat than I had thought.

  ‘Keep your weight as low as possible. Whatever you do, don’t stand up,’ Mikkel instructs.

  I do try, but the boat rocks wildly as we get in one another’s way trying to swap seats. I end up banging my knee and stubbing my toes again. Unladylike words rise to my tongue, but I bite them back.

  ‘Take the oars,’ says Mikkel, holding them out towards me.

  I grasp them.

  ‘But they are so heavy!’ I can’t help exclaiming, as I struggle to hold the unwieldy shafts.

  ‘What did you expect?’

  Mikkel’s chuckling. He enjoys teaching me things he can do well. It gives him a sense of superiority. He needs that. His dreadful father despises him so much.

  ‘You need to make sure they are tilted right, with the blade vertical, before you try to pull with them,’ Mikkel explains. ‘Lean forward, push the oars back, lower them into the water. That’s right. Now pull on them.’

  One oar digs deep and gets stuck, the other flies up out of the water, spraying us both. The boat spins wildly and I almost fall off my seat.

  ‘No, not like that,’ Mikkel laughs. He leans towards me. Putting his hands on mine, he guides my next few strokes until I get a feel for how it should be.

  After a few minutes, Mikkel lets me try alone again. This time I do better, but I’m amazed at how much strength it takes. My strokes are ragged and uneven, and my arms quickly begin to ache. I’m weak after the two long months we had without enough food. I know I’ve lost weight, because my dress hangs loose on me still.

  Mikkel is a patient teacher, and I persevere. We make our way slowly back through the town, turning only the occasional circle. Mikkel takes the oars again the last stretch. I wouldn’t admit it to him, but my arms, my shoulders, and back are aching unbearably and my palms are sore.

  ‘Would you like to practise some more tomorrow?’ Mikkel asks.

  I hesitate a moment, thinking of Peter. But I’m not going to miss the chance to learn to row.