The three of us are lifted out and carried onto the sand one by one. One man asks me briefly what happened, and I explain as best I can. In return, he tells me how Lise raised the alarm for us.
Once they’ve hauled the boats up onto the beach, two men set off with Peter, carrying him home. I want to go with him, but I don’t know what sort of reception I’d get from his family. Jesper is led off by another man, and I’m left alone on the beach with Christensen. The last man in the world I want to be with.
Weak and trembling, I turn and begin to walk towards the hotel.
‘Marianne!’ calls Christensen. I ignore him, but he follows me. ‘Wait! Are you well enough to go by yourself? I’m sorry I scolded you … ’
I turn on him. ‘Leave me alone, I hate you,’ I say fiercely.
‘You don’t understand. Marianne, I must speak with you once more.’
‘I don’t want to hear anything you have to say!’ I spit the words out, glaring at him. This time he flinches and takes a step back.
I turn and stumble away from him as fast as I can. All the way back to the hotel, I’m aware of him following at a distance, but he doesn’t attempt to speak to me again.
TWENTY-NINE
August 1886
It’s been a long day. I wanted to make up the time I missed yesterday. Fru Brøndum said I didn’t have to. When I insisted on being allowed to work, she gave me light duties such as setting tables and blanching almonds. She praised me for my bravery. Everyone is making far too much fuss about what I did. Anyone would have done the same.
A note was brought to me by an errand boy an hour ago. Sitting on my bed, I break the seal and spread the paper open on my lap. Although I’ve learned spoken Danish, and can read some of my hymn book, written Danish is still a struggle for me. I need to spend some time over it before I’m sure I understand it all:
My dearest Marianne,
Peter has a concussion and must remain quietly in bed for several days at least. The doctor has good hopes that he will make a complete recovery.
It is thanks to you, Marianne, that he is here for us to nurse. Words cannot express our gratitude. We hope that you are none the worse for your exposure to the storm.
With all good wishes,
Annette Hansen
Impulsively, I decide to run over there at once. I hope they won’t mind. It’s only early evening after all. I quickly wash my face and hands and change my dress. I run all the way to Peter’s house, stopping only to pluck a bunch of rosebay willowherb on the way. The tall pink flowers grow in patches around the houses at this time of year, their fluffy seeds blowing in the wind.
The back door is open, a couple of hens scratching in the sand outside. I slow down in order to catch my breath, and then walk in through the workroom. Peter’s father is sitting on a stool, mending the nets. His face lights up when he sees me. He gets to his feet, calling for his wife. Annette comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She embraces me warmly.
‘Dear girl,’ she murmurs. Her coldness of the last month is apparently in the past, and I’m more than happy.
‘Christensen told us what happened,’ she continues. ‘You saved Peter’s life.’
‘It wasn’t just me.’ The mention of Christensen has unsettled me. What has he been saying about me? ‘If Lise Jakobsen hadn’t run for help, we might never have reached the beach,’ I explain.
‘She’s a good girl too,’ Annette agrees. ‘Come in and sit down, my dear. Can I get you anything? A glass of ale? Or a cup of coffee?’
I shake my head. ‘No, thank you. You don’t want to be bothered with visitors. I just came to hear how Peter is. And to bring these.’ I offer her the bunch of wild flowers.
‘Tak!’ says Annette, and begins hunting distractedly for a vase or a pot to stand them in. ‘Sorry if I’m not quite myself,’ she says, emerging from a cupboard. ‘It’s been a shock, you understand.’ She stands still a moment, her hand to her head. I take the vase from her and pour some water into it. Then I put the flowers in, trying to arrange them so they sit prettily.
‘We all know, of course,’ she continues, watching me, ‘that while the sea provides our living, it can also take our husbands, brothers, and sons from us at any time. And when they carried Peter in yesterday afternoon, I thought at first …
‘He was limp and so very white. But they assured me he was only unconscious. My husband went straight for the doctor. He has a huge bruise on the back of his head. That’s what caused the harm. Luckily it’s summer, so he wasn’t exposed to severe cold in the water.’
‘The bruise must be from when the boat overturned,’ I explain.
‘Come and have a glimpse of the patient,’ Annette begs. ‘Then please sit down and tell me exactly how it all happened.’
Peter is very pale, lying on his back, breathing heavily. His head is bandaged, and it gives me a fright to see him like that. I long to sit by him and talk to him, hold his hand, but his mother ushers me anxiously back out again.
‘He needs rest,’ she whispers. I understand that while I’m forgiven, while they are grateful to me, she doesn’t want me too close to Peter. Perhaps she still believes the rumours about me.
We sit and talk while dusk creeps into the corners of the house. The days are already drawing in. It’s difficult to relive the events of yesterday, and embarrassing to be treated like a heroine. I try to play down my own part in the rescue, but Peter’s parents have heard a glowing report from Christensen. It seems strangely unlike him to speak well of me. I mistrust his motives.
It’s late when I return to the hotel. I feel happier than I’ve felt for a long while, optimistic that Peter will recover. My happiness is further increased by the sight of an easel, oils, and a bundle of brushes in the corner of our attic room. Someone has carried up Perroy’s things for me. I run my hands over them longingly, before pulling on my nightgown and climbing into bed. Hannah is already fast asleep beside me.
It’s my last day in the hotel today. My things are packed and ready to go to Hannah’s house where I’m to stay through the winter months. I’m leaving in the morning.
In the middle of the afternoon, Hr Brøndum calls me down to the office and pays me the last of my wages. It’s not a large sum, as most of my money was to have come from the Perroys. But together with the money I earned sewing for Annette, it should see me through the winter.
I’m about to leave the office, when Hr Brøndum asks me to sit down again.
‘There’s a visitor here for you, Marianne. He’s asked to see you in private, so I’ve shown him into the far sitting room. Will you go to him now?’
‘A visitor? For me?’
I can’t imagine who would come and see me at the hotel. As I follow Hr Brøndum through the first two sitting rooms, I run through all the possibilities in my mind.
In the last sitting room, standing looking out of one of the windows, hands clasped behind him, is Christensen. As we enter, he turns. He nods his thanks to Brøndum, who withdraws, pulling the door shut behind him.
‘You,’ I state baldly, not bothering to conceal the dislike I feel.
‘Please.’ Christensen holds up a hand briefly in a supplicating gesture. ‘Allow me to explain. Take a seat.’
I hesitate a moment and then sit down on the very edge of an upright chair near the door. I’m as far away from him as possible without actually leaving the room. Christensen watches me and shakes his head a little. He looks sad.
‘I’ve made you hate me,’ he says heavily. ‘It’s hardly surprising.’ He pauses, and sits down, but then stands up again. ‘I don’t know where to start,’ he says, his eyes on me. ‘Perhaps I should tell you, first of all, that I read your mother’s letter.’ His voice shakes. I wonder what was in the letter. ‘I realize I have a great deal of explaining to do, Marianne. I do not think what I have to tell you will make you like me any better. Where to begin? I suppose it began the day when my son came home and told me a young English girl had arrived
in Skagen, with the name of Marianne Shaw on her trunk.’
Christensen stops and shakes his head again: ‘No. It starts further back than that. Much further back. With a shipwreck, in fact. And yet that’s not the right place to start either.’
Christensen sits down again, and stares at his hands, clasping and unclasping them. I stare at him in surprise. He is so far from his usual stern, self-contained self that I can scarcely recognize him. His hair is windblown, his face pale, with dark shadows beneath his eyes. He’s wearing his Sunday best, though it’s a weekday, but he looks as though he’s dressed all by guess. Everything is slightly creased and crooked.
‘When you came to see me last Sunday,’ he begins, ‘you were honest and courageous enough to speak of the relationship that … exists between us.’
There’s a pause while he looks out of the window. The only sound I can hear is the faint buzz of a fly against the windowpane.
After a few moments, Christensen puts his head in his hands and gives a small moan. Then he stands up abruptly and paces the room. ‘I need to go back to that shipwreck I mentioned after all. We were two brothers. Lars and myself. My name is Per. We ran away from home together. Did you know that much?’ I nod, and he continues. ‘Our father was a stern man. Prosperous by Skagen standards, but miserly. He worked us hard, beat us often, and gave little reward. We were sure we could do better elsewhere. So we left.’
He pauses. How closely he’s describing himself when he speaks of his father. I wonder whether he’s aware of it.
‘We were young and foolish. We soon found, of course, that we could only get work doing what we’d learned: fishing. And there was no family standing by to make sure we were paid fairly. We got as far as Ribe before we found work on the freight ships which sailed to and fro to England back then. Ribe is right down in the south of Jutland in case you don’t know. It’s all changed now. Esbjerg is the biggest harbour, but that’s by the by.
‘It was on a trip to England that we ran aground. The tides and the sandbanks of the Humber estuary can be treacherous, as I’m sure you know. We were caught in a summer storm. My brother and I were sleeping below deck when the ship ran into a sandbank. We felt the tremendous lurch, the groaning and shrieking of the boat. Water began rushing in at once. We struggled up on deck to find the crew had already taken the lifeboat and left us.’
Christensen pauses in his narrative, and paces the room a few times. He picks up a napkin from the table and begins twisting it in his hands. He seems agitated. I wait for him to continue his tale, curious to hear what he has to say.
‘There are two occasions in my life when I acted neither honourably nor bravely,’ he continues. ‘And both occurred during that ill-fated England trip. I’ve worked hard throughout my life since, to atone. I’ve been stern and severe with others, but hardest of all upon myself. But I’ve never told anyone the truth as I’m about to tell you, Marianne.
‘The ship was sinking fast, listing heavily to one side and taking in water. We had only one life ring between us. My brother went below in search of the spare life-jackets we knew were stored in the hold. But while he was down there, the ship, with a great screech and groan, began to break up. Huge waves broke across the stern, pouring water over us. The ship was slipping down off the sandbank into the deeper water, and I knew she was lost.’
Christensen looks wild-eyed as he tells me this, and I realize he’s reliving the experience he has kept a secret for so long. Despite myself, I’ve become involved. I ask breathlessly: ‘What did you do?’
‘At that moment I had a choice,’ he tells me, and walks to one of the windows to look out. I wonder whether he’s seeing the garden outside or the storm of long ago. ‘I could have gone down and tried to help my brother out. Or I could have waited for him. Either would have been braver than what I did do. Taking the life ring, I jumped into the sea and struck out for shore.’ Christensen glances briefly at me, perhaps trying to gauge my reaction. I remain silent and he sighs.
‘I’ve gone over that moment so many times. If only I’d waited a little longer, if only I’d gone down for him. But I didn’t. As a member of the lifeboat crew I have helped save dozens of lives since then. But it doesn’t matter how many people I save: it will never be enough. Because I left my brother to drown.’
‘But … how can he have drowned? That doesn’t make any sense.’ I’m bewildered suddenly. ‘You left my father to drown?’
‘No,’ he says quickly. ‘Let me explain a little further. I barely survived the swim myself. It was summer, so the sea wasn’t cold. But I was caught by a current or the tide, I never knew which, and swept helplessly for miles. The wind was strong, and the waves huge. I often couldn’t even see the shore, and when I tried to swim towards it I made little progress. I have a vague memory of seeing the beach before me at last, and of being swept onto the sand by the surf. I was beyond exhaustion.
‘The rest I know because I was told rather than because I can remember it. I was found unconscious on the beach by a gentleman who was out for an early morning stroll on the sands. He had me carried home to be nursed. His name was Edward Shaw. Your grandfather, in fact.’
‘You were?’ I gasp. I know this part of the story from my mother, but it doesn’t match. ‘No, you can’t have been. It was Lars.’
Christensen shakes his head sadly and continues.
‘His body was never found. The bodies of the rest of the crew were however. They were less lucky than me. Their lifeboat overturned and they were all drowned. I have always seen it as a judgement on them for abandoning us.
‘I was in a fever for several days. When I came to myself, I found I’d been identified as Lars Christensen from the only document they had found on me that was still legible. I could have corrected them, of course. I should have done. But I was weak after the fever. I had no strength and little English for explanations. And it gave me some comfort at the time to be called by my brother’s name. Later, of course, I hid behind the name.’ He pauses for a long moment. ‘I’m afraid I’m the man your mother knew as Lars. I am your father.’
‘It can’t be true,’ I whisper, appalled. Whatever I had expected to hear from him, it wasn’t this. How can this possibly be the man my mother loved so devotedly all these years? My overriding emotion is one of sick disgust. ‘You lied to me,’ I accuse him. ‘And you lied to my mother.’
Christensen sits down opposite me. He scans my face searchingly, but I don’t want to look at him. ‘I did lie, Marianne. I was a coward,’ he admits. ‘God will punish me for it.’
‘So you’ve known all this time? And said nothing? Treated me like … ’ It’s my turn to jump to my feet. I, too, walk to the window. My eyes look out, but my gaze is inward, seeing the scenes he’s described, trying to fit all the information together. And it does fit, I realize reluctantly. Abruptly I turn back to face him. ‘You have more to explain,’ I say harshly. ‘You promised my mother you’d return. Why didn’t you?’
Christensen buries his face in his hands again, his fingers clutching at his hair.
‘I meant to,’ he cries in a muffled voice. ‘God be my witness, I intended to return.’ He pauses, and then raises his head. ‘Your grandfather threw me out of the house. Did your mother tell you that? I would have married her there and then. I wanted nothing more. But he refused. A great many hard words were said. He blamed me for engaging her affections.’
‘He didn’t know she was with child though, did he?’ My tone is hard and bitter.
‘How could he have done? I didn’t know myself.’
‘But you must have realized it was possible.’
‘I didn’t think … I was very young, Marianne.’
‘My mother was even younger,’ I say angrily. ‘You promised her you’d come back, you promised to write, and you never did. She had to cope with the consequences. And still she loved you. All her life. She trusted you’d come for her as you promised. She even sent me looking for you after she died. Looking for the wrong
man, as it turns out.’ I’m furious, shaking with rage. All those years of hardship and loneliness are his fault. He did it to us.
Christensen—I can’t think of him as my father—is weeping now. Tears are trickling down his weatherbeaten cheeks into his beard. They don’t move me in the least.
‘When I reached Esbjerg,’ he continues, his voice unsteady, ‘there was a letter from my mother. It had been waiting for some time. She wrote that my father had died. She begged me to return. So I did. With my older brother dead, I was suddenly the heir to everything. The house, the boat, the land my father had owned.’
‘So why didn’t you write to my mother then?’
‘I meant to. From day to day, I put it off. In the end I thought perhaps she would have forgotten me, living in her grand house in Mablethorpe. I thought I might just have been a passing fancy for her … ’
‘As she was for you?’ I demand, horrified.
‘I didn’t say that,’ Christensen countered swiftly.
‘You didn’t need to. I see it all now. Meanwhile my mother was turned out of the house for expecting your child and spent the rest of her life in a shabby tenement room in Grimsby, working for her living. I never even saw this grand house you’re talking about. Meanwhile, you just happened to make a very advantageous marriage here yourself, didn’t you?’ I don’t try to hide my bitterness and anger. On the contrary, I take pleasure in lashing him with my words. He deserves it all. He looks both shocked and embarrassed. I look at him, bowed and tearstained, and wonder how I could ever have found him frightening.
‘Did you ever really love my mother?’ I ask him. ‘Even for a moment?’
Between Two Seas Page 21
