There’s an elderly lady sitting by me who wasn’t there before. She’s tapping her foot in time with the music, and humming a little. She catches my eye and smiles revealing gaps in her teeth.
‘Jeg elsker et bryllup,’ she announces. I love a wedding. ‘But at your age, I was always dancing, never sitting watching.’
‘I have been dancing!’ I say defensively.
‘Ha! I saw you. With Christensen’s son, too. Yes, I know all the families here, though I don’t live here any longer.’
‘Hvor bor du så?’ Where do you live? I ask.
‘When my first husband died, God rest his soul, I married again and moved down to Frederikshavn,’ she tells me. ‘That was a long time ago. I’ve buried him too. That’s the trouble with living to my age. I was ninety last birthday.’
‘Ninety?’ I ask, astonished. She looks old, but very robust. ‘It’s a long journey for a wedding at the age of ninety,’ I say admiringly.
‘It’s not too far. I walked up today, and shall walk back down again in the morning.’
I can’t have heard her right. My astonishment must show on my face because she cackles with delighted laughter.
‘Thought I was past it did you? No, no.’
I look at her with huge respect. She returns suddenly to my affairs, showing a mind as sharp as any young woman’s.
‘Take care you don’t lose your kæreste to that pretty girl,’ she says, nodding to where Mikkel and Hannah are dancing together. Hannah dances well, much better than me. She looks very happy.
My kæreste. She has that wrong.
‘He’s not my sweetheart,’ I say. ‘We’re good friends.’
‘Humph! There’s no such thing as friendship between a handsome young man and a pretty girl. He’d be a good catch, for all he’s not as strong as his father.’ She lifts her tiny glass to me with a smile. Drinking it down in one, she remarks brightly: ‘You may have lost Christensen’s son, but there’s another, even more handsome young man at your elbow, so you’d better take him and be quick about it!’
I look round quickly, and start with pleasure to find Peter standing behind me.
‘I see you’ve met my great-grandmother,’ he says, with a self-conscious smile.
‘Ask her to dance then, Peter,’ urges the old woman, and cackles with laughter again. She’s pouring herself another snaps.
‘I was just about to,’ says Peter.
He’s holding out his hand to me, his eyes on mine. I stand up shyly, feeling clumsy and awkward.
‘I can’t really dance,’ I admit. ‘I’ve only tried once.’
It is so much worse admitting this to Peter than to Mikkel.
‘I saw you dance with Mikkel,’ he says. ‘So surely you can dance with me?’
‘Of course,’ I say quickly. I scan his face for any sign of jealousy, but he’s smiling. ‘I just wanted to warn you, I’m not very good.’
Peter leads me out among the other couples and puts his arm around me. He’s taller than me and I’m on a level with his chin.
‘I like the way you’ve done your hair tonight,’ Peter remarks, touching one of the plaits Hannah did for me.
‘Thank you,’ I reply, pleased. ‘You are looking very smart too,’ I venture, wanting to return the compliment.
The music is slow and gentle. Peter’s arm is warm around my waist. I’m breathless and slightly dizzy. I try to concentrate on not treading on his feet, but soon forget about the steps, and enjoy the closeness.
‘You don’t come and see my mother as often now,’ he says softly. ‘We miss you. Life at the hotel must be very busy?’
‘It is,’ I agree. ‘And your mother said she had enough things to sell for this season now. She said not to worry if I couldn’t manage much more until the autumn.’
He can’t know how much I miss going to his home. Even when he’s not there, I feel his presence around me, knowing that he sits in the chairs and drinks from the cups.
‘I’m thinking of building my own house,’ Peter tells me unexpectedly.
I look up into his eyes for a moment and then away again. He’s so close.
‘Your own house?’ I ask. I don’t know how to react. ‘Your parents’ house is so lovely,’ I say lamely.
‘Yes, but I hope mine will be a good house too,’ he says. ‘Smaller than theirs at first, of course.’
Peter tightens his hold on my waist, drawing me still closer to him. I’m right against him now. My heart is jumping. Daringly, I slide my hand further up his arm to his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his body through the fabric of his sleeve. I’m trembling on the inside. I don’t want the dance to end.
But all too soon the music stops, and Hannah is beside me.
‘I’m really sorry, Marianne.’ She casts an apologetic look up at Peter, too.
‘We have to go back now. I’ve just asked the time, and we promised not to be out as late as this.’
I look up at Peter.
‘Synd,’ he says. That’s a shame. He presses my hand before releasing me. ‘But I’ll see you again soon, I hope.’
TWENTY-THREE
June 1886
The evening sunshine gleams on the pearls in my hand. The sheen on them glows. Should I sell them or shouldn’t I? I kept them when we were hungry. Is it right to sell them now to buy painting things? I hold them up again and admire the creamy lustre. They are all that’s left of my mother’s youth. A rush of sadness sweeps over me. I wonder what she would want me to do. She didn’t sell them. Still undecided, I slip them into my pocket.
Mikkel is waiting for me outside the hotel.
‘I don’t have long,’ I warn him as soon as I reach him. ‘I must be back before Madame needs to go to bed.’
Mikkel nods. ‘Let’s hope the martens don’t keep us waiting then,’ he says with a smile.
Swiftly, we walk down Søndergade into Vesterby. Mikkel takes me to an empty house, half tumbled down. We’re not far from the Jakobsens’ here.
‘Be very quiet now,’ Mikkel warns me. He eases open the broken door and we creep inside. The walls are buckling and I can see the sky through holes in the thatch. It smells damp and musty. Mikkel sits down on a rickety chair by the window, and points to another for me.
‘Now what?’ I whisper.
‘We wait. To see if the martens appear. It might be too light for them.’
Mikkel sits quite still, his eyes on the window. I’m not good at staying still. I soon feel restless. For something to do, I begin to sketch Mikkel’s profile. He soon notices what I’m doing and grins.
‘I told you I’m going to Frederikshavn for a couple of days tomorrow, didn’t I?’ he asks quietly after a while.
‘Yes. And I wanted to ask you to do something for me.’ I draw the pearls from my pocket, weigh them in my hand one last time, and then hand them to Mikkel. ‘Would you be able to sell these for me?’
It’s hard to see them go, so I resume sketching to take my mind off them.
Mikkel lifts the pearls to the light and whistles under his breath.
‘Where did you get something like this?’ he asks.
‘They were my mother’s. She came from a wealthy family. This necklace is the only thing she had left from that time.’
Mikkel considers the pearls. ‘No,’ he says at last. ‘They’re valuable. I shouldn’t think anyone in Skagen has anything so fine. Not even your Madame. I don’t want to be arrested on suspicion of theft.’
‘Would you be?’ I ask, surprised.
‘I imagine so. Where would a fifteen-year-old boy come by such a thing? Besides, if they were your mother’s, you should keep them.’
‘I know, I know.’ My pencil is still moving busily on the page. Mikkel catches hold of my hand to stop me drawing. He turns my hand palm up and drops the pearls back into it.
‘Keep them safe.’
‘I’ve finally worked myself up to letting them go, and now you’re giving them back,’ I say in an annoyed whisper.
Mik
kel smiles. ‘There you are, you see. You’ve had doubts about it too.’
‘I never even saw my mother wear them. I want to buy paints. I want to learn to paint so very much.’
‘You sound wistful,’ Mikkel says. ‘Do you remember the time I asked you if you had a dream, and you didn’t really know what I meant? Well, you have one now, don’t you?’
‘I suppose I have.’
‘But not impossible like mine,’ Mikkel adds bitterly. ‘I’m sure we’ll manage to get you paints somehow. Only, don’t you need someone to teach you?’
‘I don’t know. Who would I ask?’
I sigh, and we sit in silence for a while. I start sketching again, but stop when I hear a scratching in the roof.
‘The martens!’ says Mikkel, his face lighting up. ‘We’re in luck.’ We both look out of the window. At first there’s nothing to see. Then a long red-brown shape flows down the wall and hops up onto the broken bench outside our window. At first glance it looks like a cat. But the body is too long, and the head the wrong shape. A second, smaller marten appears. He sits up on his back legs and grows very tall. He has a white patch of fur on his throat and chest. He’s staring right at us. I hold my breath, willing him not to take fright. He gazes at us for a long moment and then dives under the bench. I lean forward and see his long body flatten as it slides under the wood. The two martens begin to play, jumping up and down from the bench, chasing one another and wrestling. They even stand up on their hind legs and look as though they’re dancing together. We’re both smiling as we watch.
I begin to sketch. ‘It’s hard to draw them,’ I whisper to Mikkel. ‘They never stay still.’
‘They’re legesye. Playful. Have you seen them before, in England?’
‘Never,’ I say, continuing to draw. ‘Grimsby was industrial. They were building all around, and there was an iron foundry right behind us pumping out smoke from morning till night. No place for wild creatures.’
‘You never speak about it,’ says Mikkel curiously. ‘Why?’
It used to be easy to keep my secrets. That was before I had friends. Now my past is restless inside me, wanting to burst out. If I start talking, one thing will lead to another, and I might tell it all. With an effort I repress it.
‘Nothing much to tell,’ I shrug. Mikkel is silent. When I glance at him, there’s a hurt look in his eyes. It makes me feel bad.
The martens suddenly stop playing, and disappear from sight. We both sit back, disappointed. I continue my sketches.
‘What did you draw in England?’ Mikkel asks.
‘Oh, vases with flowers, fruit, that sort of thing. We didn’t go out much, you see. And I used to draw my mother over and over.’ I smile sadly at the memory.
‘So where are the pictures?’ Mikkel is nothing if not persistent.
‘I threw most of them away before I left. A lot of them weren’t very good. But I kept the ones of my mother. They’re in my trunk.’
‘Then why did you tell Anna Ancher in the spring that you had nothing to show?’
I wince uncomfortably, and concentrate hard on drawing. I could tell him I forgot about them, but he wouldn’t believe me. Impulsively, I decide on the truth.
‘I find it hard to look at them. Most of the time I’m busy, and I don’t think about my mother. But when I get the pictures out, they make me cry. I miss her so much.’
Mikkel reaches over and squeezes my shoulder briefly. He doesn’t say anything. I suddenly feel much better. Hannah is right. I need to overcome my habit of keeping everything secret.
I put a few final touches to the last sketch. Mikkel holds out his hand for the book.
‘May I?’
He flicks through. First the stone martens in various poses. He smiles as he looks at them. Then the picture of himself: ‘Hey, do I really look like that?’ Then he goes further back. There are some of the sand dunes and the sea, ships in the distance. There is one of a wreck, lying forlornly half in the water, waves crashing over it. I’m proud of that one. Right at the beginning there’s one of Jakob mending fishing nets, and another of Lise picking wild flowers.
‘These are good. Really good.’
‘Thank you. But I’m not satisfied, you see. In Grimsby everything seemed drab and grey. I suppose any big town is like that. But here, everywhere I look, I see beauty and colour and light. I can’t show that with a pencil. I see the artists capturing it all so beautifully in oils. I want to try.’
Mikkel nods. I think he understands. ‘Can I borrow this for a few days?’ he asks unexpectedly.
‘Why? I was going to do some more work on you and the martens,’ I say hesitantly.
‘No need. I’ll give it back to you on Sunday, I promise.’
‘All right then,’ I agree reluctantly. ‘And now I really must get back.’
When I lock the pearls away again in my trunk late that night, I’m not sure whether I’m glad or sorry that I still have them. Hannah is in bed, leaning on one elbow, watching me.
‘Did you see the martens?’ she asks.
‘Yes. They were beautiful. Funny too. Have you ever seen them?’
‘No, never. How was Mikkel?’ There’s a slightly strained note in Hannah’s voice, and I give her a quick glance, wondering if she’s a little jealous.
‘He was well. He sends his regards to you. You should tell him you’d like to see the martens: I’m sure he’d take you.’ I blow out the candle and climb into bed beside Hannah. I hear her sigh with tiredness as she stretches out.
‘He’s going away for a few days, isn’t he?’ asks Hannah in the semi-darkness.
‘Yes, will you miss him?’ I ask. When Hannah doesn’t reply, I ask quietly: ‘Do you care for him very much, Hannah?’
There’s a moment’s silence, and I think she’s not going to reply. Then she whispers: ‘I love him. More than I can say.’ I can see her eyes shining in the darkness.
She rolls over to face me, leaning up on her elbow again. Her face is in shadow now.
‘Did you guess?’ she asks softly.
‘Yes. I’ve suspected as much since Christmas.’
‘But you won’t tell him, will you?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘Marianne?’ Hannah whispers again.
‘Yes?’
‘I know you care for Peter. So why won’t you admit it?’
I hug myself under the sheets, and let my thoughts dwell on Peter. His eyes, his smile.
‘Yes, I love him,’ I whisper at last. ‘So much so that it scares me.’ I shiver. There’s something both frightening and delicious about exchanging secrets in the darkness like this.
‘I knew it,’ says Hannah, triumphantly. She lies back on her pillow, sighing with pleasure.
‘You won’t tell either, will you?’ I ask anxiously.
‘No, I promise.’
I snuggle down pleasurably into my sheets. Thoughts of Mikkel and Peter gradually mingle and blur with images of the martens and paintings as sleep overcomes me.
The next afternoon, when I go to clear the glasses from the studio, Monsieur Perroy is there alone. It’s most unusual for him to work longer than the others. He’s started a new painting. It’s of a different woman, his first model having left the hotel. There was a great deal of whispering about the two of them before she left. Madame smashed a vase in her room one afternoon she was in such a rage.
‘Ah, Marianne!’ Perroy greets me enthusiastically. I suspect he’s bored, working alone. There’s a half empty bottle of snaps beside him. I wonder if he’s drunk all of it himself. He lifts his tiny glass in a silent toast, and then tilts his head back and empties it.
‘Put the tray down and stay and talk to me!’ Perroy orders. I hesitate. I dislike being alone with him.
‘They’ll be wondering where I am,’ I object.
‘Pshaw!’ he exclaims. ‘I employ you, do I not? It is I who pay you!’
‘Not yet,’ I say boldly. He waves this away impatiently.
; ‘A mere trifle. You will be paid, trust me.’ I watch him as he turns back to his canvas, cleans his brush and mixes the colours on the palette: blues, greens, white, and yellow.
‘And so, Marianne, do you still wish to paint?’ Perroy asks softly, without looking at me.
‘Yes,’ I reply simply.
‘Come here then,’ he says. I don’t know what he means, so I don’t move.
He turns towards me, holding out a clean paintbrush, and beckons.
Step by step I’m drawn closer. As I reach out for the brush, he pulls it out of reach. For a moment I think he’s mocking me again, but he says: ‘Come closer.’
I take another step and then another. Now I’m between him and the canvas. Perroy puts one hand on my shoulder and turns me to face the picture.
‘Why don’t you help me paint the sky?’ he suggests. ‘This huge northern sky.’
I take the brush, and look longingly at the paints and the canvas.
‘I’m frightened to spoil it,’ I say hesitantly.
‘Mistakes can be rubbed out,’ he murmurs, holding up a rag. His breath is tickling my ear. ‘Try now. What colour is the sky?’
I dip my brush into the blue and touch it to the canvas. The colour sits there, a small raised blob.
‘And does that look right?’ asks the voice in my ear.
‘No, it looks all wrong,’ I answer, perplexed.
‘And why do you think that is, ma petite?’ I shiver slightly at his closeness, from a mixture of excitement and fear. I edge away an inch or two.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is the sky blue?’ Monsieur asks. ‘Just blue?’
‘No, not always.’ I think a little. ‘You see white clouds, grey clouds, yellow-black thunder clouds. It can be deep summer blue, or pale winter blue. Rain-washed, or sunbaked.’ I visualize all the different skies as I describe them. ‘Pinks, reds, and oranges at sunrise and sunset,’ I continue.
‘Bien, it’s enough,’ he stops me. ‘You have looked, I grant you. But this is the important thing. Even a blue sky is not simply one colour. When you are painting, you need to mix colours to find shades. You also paint different colours side by side to give depth.’
Between Two Seas Page 16
