Between Two Seas

by Marie-Louise Jensen

  ‘Don’t worry, Marianne,’ says Hannah. ‘She’ll love you, we all do.’

  She stops in the middle of the main street and gives me a big hug.

  I feel a rush of affection for her, but she’s already walking on, talking again.

  ‘We are going to be so busy. They’re expecting lots more visitors. There will be parties and grand dinners and fun.’

  A most unwelcome thought strikes me, and I interrupt her in a panic:

  ‘Hannah, I’m not sure I can remember a single word of French! I’ve filled my head up completely with Danish!’

  ‘Won’t it come back to you?’ asks Hannah.

  ‘I can only hope so,’ I say, thinking frantically.

  ‘Bonjour, Madame,’ I say experimentally. ‘Je suis Marianne. Comment … har De det … Oh no, that’s Danish. This is no good. Danish words keep getting in the way.’

  Hannah points the French lady out to me in the garden and gives me a little push. ‘Go and tell her who you are,’ she says. ‘She’s expecting you. Her name is Madame Perroy.’

  Madame Perroy is reclining languidly in a deckchair in the shade, her eyes closed. Her embroidery is lying beside her on the grass. I address her tentatively.

  ‘Madame?’

  The lady opens her eyes. They are dark, with long dark lashes. She’s a petite brunette, and my first impression of her is that she’s young and pretty. She’s wearing a pink dress, cut low to reveal as much of her plump bosom as is decent, or perhaps a little more. Her hair is elaborately dressed, and rings flash on the hand she waves sleepily at me.

  ‘Ah, vous êtes la bonne?’ You’re the maid?

  ‘Oui, Madame.’

  I drop a curtsey, English style, and the lady nods approvingly.

  ‘Très bien!’ she exclaims. ‘Jean-Pierre!’ she calls imperatively and a man detaches himself from a group of guests and walks over to join us. He’s not particularly tall and is, like his wife, expensively dressed. I look at his handsome face; dark haired with an elegantly curled moustache, but no beard. He looks completely different to the men of Skagen.

  Husband and wife are chattering in French together, much too fast for me to follow. After a few minutes, the gentleman turns to me.

  ‘I am Monsieur Perroy,’ he tells me in French. ‘My wife will be very happy to employ you as her personal maid.’

  He takes me aside.

  ‘We can agree a wage, I think, no?’ he asks. He suggests a sum, and it’s more than I hoped for. I calculate the sum in my head quickly, wondering how long they will be staying here. My heart misses a beat with excitement.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say with a curtsey and a smile. ‘I accept.’

  ‘Très bien,’ he nods in satisfaction, and we return to his wife.

  ‘Marianne, you must come to me tout de suite.’ At once, Madame insists. ‘For I need someone to do my hair for dinner tonight.’

  Her hair looks beautifully dressed already to me, and I hesitate a moment. It seems ungrateful to the Jakobsen family to leave in such haste. They gave me food and shelter when I most desperately needed it. But I’ve worked hard for many months to repay them. I don’t want to offend my new employers.

  ‘At once? Mais bien sûr,’ I say at last, and curtsey again. ‘I just need to pack.’

  I find Hannah and tell her the good news. She has anticipated it by begging a couple of hours off to help me move.

  ‘But first you must come and see our room,’ Hannah tells me, and leads me up several flights of stairs to the hotel attics.

  We have a tiny room with a sloping ceiling and a bed to share.

  ‘Everything is so new and clean,’ I say, admiringly. ‘I’ve never lived anywhere this nice!’ I run my hand along the bed and the wall, hardly able to believe it’s all real.

  If I stand on tiptoe, there is a view from the small window down across the garden. Hannah hugs me again excitedly.

  ‘I’m so glad it’s you I’m to share with! It’s the first year I’ve lived in. Last summer I slept at home still. It’s going to be such fun, Marianne, just wait and see. Company and parties; all the grand visitors. And it’s still only May! We have the whole summer before us.’

  I smile at Hannah, enjoying her delight. I’m still in a bit of a daze. But my heart is beating faster and my hands are trembling. I think it must be excitement.

  Hannah and I walk back to the Jakobsens’ together. I stop at a store on the main street to purchase a few gifts for the family. A ribbon for Lise to wear in her hair and sugar and butter for the store cupboard.

  ‘Marianne, that must be all your money,’ Hannah whispers.

  ‘Most of it, but I’ll soon be earning more,’ I whisper back. ‘I have to show them my gratitude somehow.’

  Hannah sniffs. I know she doesn’t think I have anything to be grateful for.

  It doesn’t take long to pack my few possessions. Leaving my trunk to be collected later, I bid farewell to Lene, Lise, and the other children. Lise is very tearful, and hugs me for a long time.

  ‘I promise I’ll come back and see you,’ I reassure her. ‘Look, Lise, I’m going to tie this ribbon into your hair. This is to remember me by. Isn’t it pretty?’

  I worry for her. I don’t trust her mother to look after her as well as I’ve done.

  I pick up the baby for a goodbye kiss. The other children hug me too, and even Lene shakes me by the hand and says a gruff farewell.

  I leave as I came, my carpet bag in one hand, accompanied by Hannah. It occurs to me, as I walk, that this job might give me the means to leave Skagen altogether. I don’t ask myself if that’s still what I want. The answer is too confusing.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Madame is pouting at herself in the mirror again. She doesn’t like the way I’ve done her hair.

  ‘Non, non, Marianne!’ she announces at last with an emphatic shake of her head. ‘Encore une fois!’ Do it again.

  My heart sinks.

  For the third time this evening, I take out the pins and brush her long, glossy hair.

  I’ve only ever attempted simple hairstyles before. I’ve been here a week now, and I’m finding Madame very demanding.

  In fact she’s a lot like Lise. Only far more spoiled.

  She should be equally easy to manage. Once I’ve learned to do her hair.

  My fingers are aching by the time her hair is done. I’m becoming hot and bothered. I don’t think I’m cut out to be a maid; I feel like leaving the room and slamming the door behind me. Luckily, this time she’s satisfied. Suddenly she’s all smiles. I’m her chère Marianne. That will last until I do something else wrong, and then she’ll be throwing her hairbrush or her shoes at me again. I hope I can last the summer without throwing them back.

  Madame is powdering her face now, and spraying scent on her bosom. I fasten her sapphire necklace, and she contemplates her reflection in the mirror.

  ‘Bien!’ she announces at last. ‘I will go down now. I will send for you when I’m ready to go to bed.’

  ‘Oui, Madame.’

  I curtsey in mock humility as she sweeps out of the room, silken skirts rustling. With a sigh, I begin gathering up the discarded gowns that are lying higgledy-piggledy on the bed, and the several pairs of costly leather shoes that were rejected. There’s going to be a grand dinner party tonight, and dressing for it was a lengthy process. A large party of artists and other important visitors are coming to dine together at the hotel. I’ve been helping in the kitchen most of the day and must hurry back there as soon as I’ve finished tidying Madame’s room.

  I can’t wait to go back down. I’ve whipped cream and chopped vegetables and fruit. I’ve helped prepare foods so exotic I’d never seen them before.

  Last night the artist Carl Locher arrived from Copenhagen. He came by boat from Copenhagen to Frederikshavn, and his cart was pulled up the beach to Skagen by oxen. The whole town turned out to greet him, lining the main street, waving and cheering as he passed. Outside the hotel he was stopped and presented
with a huge wreath of flowers. It was a bit like a royal visit from Queen Victoria herself. Hr Locher’s not staying here at Brøndum’s. He prefers quieter lodgings. He’s coming to the party tonight though.

  Tying on a large apron I hurry to take a turn with the washing up. The kitchen is full of steam and delicious cooking smells. Over the clatter of saucepans and crackle of the fire there is the chatter of excited and flustered voices as everyone works to prepare the meal. Fru Brøndum works everyone hard, but no one harder than herself.

  ‘Hurry up with that sauce!’ she cries across the kitchen.

  ‘Where are the knives that were polished this morning?’ cries another voice in a panic.

  I still feel very new and I’m glad to have Hannah. I look over to where she is basting the leg of pork on the spit. Her face is shiny and red and her hair is sticking to her forehead. She sees me looking at her, and we exchange a smile.

  Finding an excuse to come across the kitchen, Hannah stops by me and murmurs, ‘And how did Madame look? Will she outshine the local beauties?’

  ‘I’m quite sure she thinks so,’ I answer, and we both laugh quietly. Her vanity has quickly become known in the hotel. So far I’ve only confided in Hannah about her terrible temper. But in fairness I have to add: ‘She did look very fine though. You can see she’s come straight from Paris.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see them all in their beautiful dresses,’ Hannah says wistfully.

  ‘You’ll have plenty of opportunity, waiting on them at table,’ I remind her.

  I haven’t been asked to do that. I’m glad of it. It would make me nervous. And perhaps it would not suit Madame’s vanity to have her personal maid waiting at tables. No one will see me in the kitchen.

  But later, after the first course has been set before the guests, Hannah appears beside me again. She tugs me away from the tabletop I’m scrubbing to come and look at the supper guests; I go willingly enough.

  Wiping my hands on my apron and removing it, I follow Hannah down a corridor to a side door into the dining room. The door is standing open and we peep through.

  The dining room is panelled with dark wood, and there are portraits and paintings of the sea hanging on the walls. I’ve been in here once or twice before, but it looks different tonight. The tables have all been set together in the middle of the room and brightly lit with candles and oil lamps. The light glitters on the glasses and the silver cutlery, and winks on the ladies’ jewels, giving an impression of grandeur and opulence.

  I gaze at it all in wonder. This must be how my mother lived until she was my age. I don’t think I realized before how hard it must have been for her to lose all that. I try to imagine her sitting at ease among all these fine people, in a beautiful dress herself, but it doesn’t quite work. That’s not how I knew her.

  ‘It’s strange to see all this wealth and luxury alongside such poverty,’ I remark to Hannah. ‘Do the local people not resent it?’

  I look at the bottles of French wines and the elegant dinner dishes and think of how we starved in the winter.

  ‘Of course not!’ Hannah exclaims in surprise. ‘Why would they?’

  ‘So many of the families here barely have enough food,’ I try to explain.

  Hannah looks thoughtful.

  ‘The artists didn’t make us poor,’ she says after a moment. ‘On the contrary, many of us have well-paid work in the summer because they come. And Hr Ancher sometimes gives parties for the whole town. They make the summer special. They’re making Skagen famous. Other tourists come here because of the paintings. Mother says if it continues we may get a railway and even a harbour here.’

  ‘It would be nice to be an artist,’ I say musingly. For a split second, I see myself sitting at the table among these people, laughing, lifting my glass.

  ‘What an idea!’ Hannah gives a small choke of laughter. ‘That’s Hr Drachman over there. He’s a poet. And look at your Madame.’ Hannah giggles.

  She’s talking to Hr Krøyer, obviously doing her best to please him. But all her smiles, hand waving, and fan fluttering are in vain. He sits unsmiling and brooding.

  ‘She’s not getting much response from him, is she?’ Hannah whispers. Sure enough, we watch as Madame abandons her attempt to charm Krøyer and turns to her other neighbour. I get a small shock as I see it’s Mikkel’s father, Hr Christensen. What is he doing here among the artists? I look around the room more closely and see a number of important townspeople at the table.

  I want to go back to the kitchen now. I don’t want to be seen peeping at the guests like this. But Hannah won’t let me go.

  ‘Wait,’ she says. ‘Have you seen the lady in the white dress? Isn’t she beautiful?’

  I glance briefly at her, but it’s her neighbour I notice. She’s sitting next to Monsieur Perroy, my employer, and he’s looking straight at us.

  I draw back immediately, pulling Hannah with me.

  ‘Come on, Hannah, Monsieur is watching us.’

  Back in the kitchen, carefully washing the first of the expensive china plates they are now clearing from the table, I think about Monsieur and his twinkling eyes. I’ve only met him a few times, but he always seems to have a smile lurking somewhere. I’m not sure whether he’s laughing at me or with me. I don’t dislike him exactly. It would be hard to: he’s very charming. But there’s something in the way that he looks at me that disturbs me.

  The noise from the dining room grows as the evening goes on and the guests relax and enjoy their wine. Bursts of laughter reach the kitchen at frequent intervals, and one of the girls serving at the table exclaims, between giggles, about having her bottom patted.

  When I’ve finished the next batch of dishes, I am sent down to check the water jug in the privy. It would never do to leave the guests unable to wash their hands.

  It’s a beautiful, cool night; the wind is hushing through the newly unfurled leaves. There’s a scattering of bright stars in the sky. The privy is right at the bottom of the garden, and though it is merely a simple earth closet, it’s a wonderful luxury after nine months of living without one altogether. It is clean and well maintained for the guests, and there are even scented soap and towels laid out.

  The jug is almost empty, so I exchange it with the one I have brought. I empty the bowl of used water behind the building.

  On the way back through the garden, I linger. The early flowers scent the evening air, mingling with the more distant smell of fish. I stop to touch the leaves of the bushes. The breeze on my overheated skin is refreshing. I’m in no hurry to return to washing up in the hot kitchen.

  As I pass the door to the studio, I pause. The studio is a small, separate building with a window in the roof, and Michael Ancher and some of the others paint in here, especially on rainy days. I was confused at first about the close connections the Anchers seem to have with the hotel, when they have their own house close by in Markvej. But Hannah told me that Anna Ancher is a daughter of the Brøndum family, and that they lived in the house at the end of the garden here when they were first married. They are the only artists to have their home in Skagen.

  I can’t resist trying the door handle, and it’s unlocked. Guiltily, I slip inside to take a look at the paintings. I shouldn’t be here.

  It’s almost dark now, but what light there is falls through the skylight onto the large easel in the centre of the room and the painting on it. I recognize the subject at once. It’s the lifeboat being pulled through the sand dunes by the horses. There are fishermen in oilskins and hats helping to push the boat. And in the distance—yes! The stranded sailing ship. I remember the whole scene, though I saw it from a different angle. Michael Ancher has painted the boat from behind, as though he was following it. I myself was already on the beach when the boat arrived.

  The painting looks almost finished. It’s so huge, and so real that it almost takes my breath away. As I stand gazing at it, there’s a soft click behind me. I jump and spin around. Someone has followed me into the studio.
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br />   ‘Bonsoir, Marianne!’ says a soft voice, and a slight figure steps forward into the light. It’s Monsieur Perroy.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say quickly. I make a move to leave, but he blocks my exit.

  ‘No, stay a moment,’ he says in French. ‘Most understandable that you were curious. You like the painting?’

  He comes to stand close, too close for comfort. His voice is in my ear, intimate, his breath tickling my cheek. I move away a little, trying not to do it too obviously.

  ‘Very much. I was there, and it brings it all to life again.’

  ‘Indeed? Yes, my friend Ancher has a fascination with painting the local people. I predict great success for him. I myself prefer something more refined and pleasing to the eye. Would you like to see my painting?’

  The situation is embarrassing, but I’m curious, so I nod. Perroy takes my hand and leads me across the studio to another canvas. His touch gives me a shock. It seems inappropriate. Not like when Mikkel or Hannah take my hand and it’s comfortable and friendly. Or when Peter does, and I wish he’d never let go. This is something else. As soon as I can, I snatch it back. Perroy seems not to notice. He lights a candle so that we can see his painting.

  I recognize her at once. She’s a guest at the hotel. The lady in the white dress he was sitting next to at dinner. I don’t know her name, but I’ve often seen them in conversation together in the garden. I didn’t know he was painting her.

  She’s fair haired, tall, and slender in a pale pink dress that falls in elegant folds to the ground. Very different from his wife. I wonder briefly what Madame thinks of this. Perhaps it could explain her temper.

  There’s no doubt Perroy is a talented painter. He’s certainly captured the elegance of his subject. I admire the folds of the dress and the smoothness of her hair. As I look, I think about how intently Monsieur Perroy must have studied the woman to paint her like this. Her face, her lips, the voluptuous curve of her breasts beneath her dress. I shiver, uncomfortably aware of the artist himself standing close to me in the semi darkness.