Between Two Seas

by Marie-Louise Jensen

  ‘Of course I loved her. I’ve had a lifetime to regret my decision. But it was too late. All too late.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ I say. There’s a long silence. He makes no attempt to convince me. ‘Shall I tell you something of my mother’s life after you left?’ I ask. He turns anxious eyes on me. I suspect he’d rather not know, but I tell him anyway.

  ‘Her father gave her an hour to leave the house when he discovered her condition. She was only able to take one bag and one trunk with her and was forbidden ever to communicate with her family again. The coachman had orders to drive her to a destination of her choice and leave her there. She only had money because her mother managed to disobey her husband and give her some before she left.

  ‘I don’t know where she went first, friendless and ashamed as she was, but I know that she ended up at Hope House in Grimsby. I don’t suppose you know it, do you? No, of course not. You could have no reason to go to such a place. It’s a house of Christian charity. They rescue “fallen women” and try to turn them to a better way of life. That’s where I was born. In a house full of prostitutes.’

  Christensen is silent. I can see a dawning horror in his face. It’s clear he never considered this possibility. I feel a savage pleasure in his unhappiness.

  ‘I don’t know how mother managed in the first years, but in all the years I can remember, we moved from one sordid tenement building to another. We were reviled and despised. An unmarried mother and her illegitimate child. We made our living from sewing, which I learned as soon as I could hold a needle. We had no friends, we went nowhere. While you lived here in comfort, honoured and respected, my mother was called a whore, and grew sick in the smoke and dirt of Grimsby. You broke her heart.’

  ‘You are breaking mine now,’ Christensen replies hoarsely. He’s no longer crying his tears of self-pity. He’s pale and still.

  ‘Good.’ The word hangs in the air between us for a moment. The room is vibrating with my pent-up anger.

  ‘When I first saw you on the beach that day,’ he says quietly, ‘I had the chance to begin to repair the damage I had done.’

  ‘Did you know who I was, even then?’

  He nods.

  ‘How could I not? For a moment I thought it was Esther standing before me. The years vanished in a flash. Then I saw your fair hair, your surprised look. I had heard your name. I suspected who you must be.’

  ‘But you said nothing.’

  ‘Another wrong decision. I denied the truth to myself. And I was afraid. I had built my life on my guilt. Buried it deep in reckless bravery and a reputation for stern morals. How would that look if the truth were known? I asked myself. For a time I believed you were waiting to expose me. Every day I awoke with a dread of what the day might hold. If someone spoke under their breath, I believed they must be discussing me. I thought I was standing in a trap that might snap shut at any minute. But gradually I came to realize you didn’t know. I decided you had to be discouraged from settling here. Then the truth could remain hidden. I could continue my life as before. And having once started down that route, it was hard to turn back. I saw you as a threat. In so doing I managed to forget you were my daughter. Esther’s daughter. Can you forgive me, Marianne?’

  ‘Forgive you?’ I ask, astonished. ‘My life was empty when I came here. The only good thing in it, my mother, had been taken from me. Then even my hope of finding my father was dashed. But despite this, I found some happiness. For the first time in my life, I found friends. You tried to part us. I found acceptance. But you spread lies about me. I found a place I love, and you tried to have me taken away. And then, just like that, you want me to forgive you?’

  ‘I’m truly sorry,’ he says humbly.

  ‘Words,’ I say scornfully. ‘They are so easy. You’ll have to show me you’re sorry before we can talk about forgiveness.’ I pause, still feeling angry. Something at the back of my mind is bothering me. I realize what it is: ‘You weren’t sorry when I came to speak to you last Sunday,’ I remind him.

  ‘I was taken by surprise. Later, when I had time to reflect, I admired your courage. I’ve watched you all year, Marianne. I’ve seen you grow in confidence and make a life for yourself. Heard you learn Danish. I saw your drawings when Mikkel brought your sketchbook home. I detested the part I played last Sunday, even as I did it. After you left, I couldn’t sit still. I was so ashamed. And then I finally plucked up the courage to read your mother’s letter. Dear God … I’ve never known such shame as her gentle words of reproach brought me.’ A dry sob escapes him, as though torn from his chest. ‘Poor Esther. She trusted me and I abandoned her. I have not acted honourably, Marianne. I am a scoundrel, a blaggard, a deserter … all the names you can think of: none of them are too harsh for what I did to her. But I never truly knew it till I read her letter.

  ‘I had barely had time to take it all in when they came to tell me you had rowed out to sea in the storm. The realization that I might have lost you too was truly appalling. I had had no chance to repair the dreadful harm I had done. No chance even to try and explain. On the way to the beach, I promised God that if He let me find you alive, I would make amends. So tell me, Marianne. What can I do to prove to you that I’m sorry for what I’ve done? How can I help you? You need money perhaps. A new start somewhere?’

  So he still wants to be rid of me. I glare at him in disgust. ‘I wouldn’t touch an øre of your filthy money. I want nothing from you.’

  ‘What can I do then?’ he pleads.

  I’m surprised at the depth of my loathing for him. I wonder whether I’ll ever be able to overcome it. I think he wants me to feel sorry for him, but I don’t. I had somehow expected that if I ever found my father I would love him. How wrong I was.

  ‘You can do something for someone else,’ I say at last. An idea is taking shape in my mind. I like it very much indeed.

  ‘Someone else? Who?’ asks Christensen, sounding surprised.

  ‘Mikkel,’ I tell him. My half-brother, I realize suddenly. For the first time in this conversation, a wave of pleasure sweeps over me. A brother to be proud of, I think.

  ‘He wants to study. He’s not suited to fishing. You know that better than I do. He’d be wasted. I want you to let him go. More than that. I want you to support him. Stop persecuting him. He’s the cleverest person I ever met. You should be proud of your son.’

  Christensen looks at me, and at first he’s scowling. This isn’t at all what he’d expected. Then, with an effort, he smiles and agrees. ‘Very well. I’ll try and do as you ask.’

  ‘Then we have nothing more to discuss,’ I say, and stand up. My legs are unsteady under me, and I feel light-headed. I want to be alone to think.

  ‘One more thing,’ I hear him say. I stop, my hand on the door handle. ‘I would prefer it … that is, I can’t see there’s any need for anyone to know what we’ve spoken about today. If you remember, I promised you confidentiality.’

  ‘Yes, you did. I did not.’ I stand for a moment, thinking, and then I shake my head. ‘No. My parentage has been a source of secrecy and shame all my life. The time for that is over. I don’t want to live out my life with people and keep such a secret from them. It would be living a lie.’

  Christensen bows his head, as if accepting the inevitable.

  I leave him and go up to my room in the attic. I sit on my bed and stare at my trunk without seeing it until Hannah joins me.

  ‘Marianne? Are you all right?’ She takes my hand. ‘You’re cold. What did Hr Christensen want? You were with him for so long. Everyone’s been wondering.’

  ‘He came to tell me he’s my father.’ I’m surprised how easy it is to say. Hannah looks utterly confused, as though she hasn’t heard me right.

  ‘What do you mean, your father? He can’t be.’

  ‘It’s rather a long story.’ Slowly, with pauses and explanations, I begin to recount the essential points of the tale. It seems to gain in shape and substance as I talk. It becomes real. It’s my h
istory. My narrative is punctuated by cries of wonder and sympathy from Hannah. I tell her everything except the bargain about Mikkel. Time enough for her to hear of that if it happens.

  THIRTY

  It’s warm and pleasant on the bench outside Hannah’s mother’s house. I’m making the most of the mild weather to sit outdoors and sew a grey flannel dress for Lise. It’ll keep her warm through the winter. She’s my near neighbour now. It’s taken me a few days to grow used to being so much alone again. I’ll be glad when Hannah finishes work for the season too.

  Peter is recovering. I haven’t seen him, but I’ve heard from others how he’s doing. And folded neatly on the table inside is a pile of work for Annette. I intend to start on that when I’ve finished Lise’s dress.

  I’m just finishing a hem, when Mikkel appears. He runs towards me with a look of great excitement on his face. I put the sewing aside, and wait eagerly to hear what he has to say.

  ‘God morgen, Marianne!’ he says merrily, shaking hands and taking a seat next to me in the sun.

  ‘You look very pleased with yourself,’ I remark. It’s a week since I spoke to Christensen, and I’ve been expecting every day to hear something from Mikkel. He laughs, and it’s good to hear him so happy.

  ‘Yes, I’ve had some good news. I can hardly believe it myself yet.’ Mikkel shakes his head in wonder. ‘My father’s arranged for me to resume my studies with Mogens. And as soon as I can get a place at a school, he’s promised to pay for me to go. I can hardly believe it. He even said he would consider allowing me to go to university afterwards, if I work hard. I’m going to get away, see some more of the world. I’m going to study, Marianne!’

  ‘I’m so pleased for you!’ I say warmly. ‘Are you very happy?’

  ‘Yes, of course I am. I’ll be even happier presently, when I’ve had a chance to take it in. I always thought father was so hard and uncaring, especially towards me. And recently he’s been worse than ever. I can’t understand what’s brought about such a change.’

  ‘Did he seem different?’ I ask cautiously. ‘Apart from this sudden decision?’

  ‘No,’ says Mikkel, shaking his head. ‘Not really. Perhaps less harsh. It was more what he was saying that was different.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘I have something to tell you too,’ I say, suddenly a little shy. I don’t know how he’ll feel about hearing I’m his sister. ‘You might not like it,’ I warn him.

  Slowly, haltingly, I retell my story, glossing over the parts that show his father in too bad a light. Mikkel listens in growing astonishment. He doesn’t interrupt.

  ‘My father?’ he demands at last, bemused. ‘My father had an illegitimate child? And he abandoned you and your mother? But you should hear what he says about men who do such things.’

  ‘I think that was his guilt speaking. Though it seems to be the case that neither he nor my mother knew she was expecting a child when he left.’

  ‘So … you’re really my sister?’ Mikkel asks.

  ‘Half-sister, yes.’ I grin at him, as he sits there lost in wonder. After a moment he grins back.

  ‘And you really didn’t know? All this time?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, I think I must have been stupid not to guess. Now that I know, it seems so obvious. And yet, how could I have worked it out? I had the wrong name. I thought my father was dead. It did confuse me that your father seemed to hate me so. But I drew all the wrong conclusions. I realized that you might be my cousin.’

  ‘But you didn’t say.’

  ‘I was ashamed to. At first I was afraid you’d turn your back on an illegitimate child. My birth has brought me so much trouble and shame in my life.’

  ‘So that’s why you never talked about your life in England.’ Mikkel moves closer and gives me a hug. ‘Hej, søster,’ he says. ‘You’re my friend. I wouldn’t have cared. Do I care about Hannah’s birth?’

  I don’t want to cry, but I can’t quite stop the tears from filling my eyes. I brush them away quickly, and Mikkel gives me another hug.

  ‘No, I know you don’t. If my father had been anyone else, I might have told you at some point,’ I say.

  He sits in silence for a few minutes, and I can see he’s thinking it all over.

  ‘My father must have married very soon afterwards, because there’s not much difference in our ages.’

  ‘Yes, I’m glad my mother never knew how quickly she was forgotten.’

  Mikkel grins ruefully. ‘I’ll tell you what: I don’t think I’ll ever be as much in awe of father again.’ Then he asks in a would-be casual voice: ‘Does Hannah know?’

  ‘Yes, I told her as soon as I knew. Have you told her your news yet?’

  ‘No. I promised to fetch her this afternoon when she finishes at Brøndum’s and help her carry her things home. I think she’ll be pleased for me, don’t you?’ He doesn’t meet my eyes as he says this.

  ‘She’ll miss you when you go,’ I tell him truthfully.

  When Mikkel brings Hannah back, she’s pale and strained. She is bravely trying to be pleased for Mikkel and to be cheerful, but as soon as he leaves, she goes inside and throws herself on the bed, weeping unrestrainedly. I hold her, stroke her hair, and whisper words of comfort.

  ‘He’s not going immediately, Hannah. And besides, you know that if Mikkel was kept here against his will, he’d become bitter and frustrated. That wouldn’t do either of you any good in the long run. Let him go, and he may come back.’

  ‘With a wife and five children,’ sobs Hannah. She’s inconsolable. I haven’t the courage to tell her I’m to blame. I just hug her closer, tears of sympathy in my own eyes.

  ‘Hannah, I do understand how you’re feeling,’ I tell her. ‘Really I do. I’ve lost Peter too. I pushed him away with my stubbornness, my pig-headed determination to paint at any cost.’ Hannah catches her breath on a sob, and squeezes my hand.

  ‘Don’t you think you’ll make it up now that Perroy has gone?’ she asks.

  I shake my head sadly. A stray tear makes its way down my face. ‘I really don’t think so,’ I say quietly. ‘I’ve heard nothing from him.’

  ‘But you saved his life!’ cries Hannah indignantly, her eyes red-rimmed and swimming with tears.

  ‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean I win him. I’m not the prince in a fairy tale. And there’s my background to consider. He didn’t know about that before. No. It’s all in the past. I expect nothing.’

  ‘Do you regret it?’ asks Hannah.

  I hesitate. ‘I don’t regret learning to paint. But perhaps I wish I’d been more cautious. I certainly wish things had been different.’

  ‘At least you have your painting. I have nothing.’ Hannah begins to sob afresh, and I hold her tight once more.

  I stay with Hannah until her mother returns. Leaving her in safe hands, I gather up my brush, palette, and my easel, and walk down to the beach. I feel shaken by Hannah’s distress. It has also reminded me of my own loss. I hope to find some calm and peace in my work.

  I’ve been studying the gulls: herring gulls, black-headed gulls, and arctic terns. I have a number of sketches. Today I want to try painting them. The late afternoon sunshine is just right.

  It’s beautiful on the beach. The sun is sparkling on the sea, as it often does at this hour. The sky above seems infinitely huge. I remember the enclosed room in Grimsby, the smoke and the noise, and take a deep breath of the pure, clear air. How I wish my mother were here to see and enjoy it all.

  The beauty around me calms and soothes. I try to soak up the feeling of the light and the colour and the warmth of the sun to sustain me through the long, dark winter when it comes.

  I paint steadily, slowly, losing myself in my attempt to capture the birds and the sea. It’s very difficult, and I don’t get on well. But I love it nonetheless. Unlike my sewing and embroidery, which are merely work, this is a deep pleasure. It’s a part of me.

  The sun sinks slowly behind me, altering the light. The sparkle fades from the sea
and, reluctantly, I put down my brush. I can do no more today. Wiping the paint from my hands with a rag, I turn to look inland at the sun setting behind me. Before I can really take in the gold and orange of the sky, I realize, with a small shock, there’s someone sitting quite close by, watching me.

  ‘God aften, Peter,’ I greet him. I’m surprised and delighted by his presence. ‘I didn’t know you were there.’

  He gets to his feet and walks towards me. ‘I saw you, and I wanted to speak to you. I could see how occupied you were, so I waited. How is it going?’ He indicates my painting. I shrug.

  ‘I’m making progress. But I have so much still to learn. Anna Ancher has kindly offered to continue teaching me through the winter. I can’t believe how lucky I am.’

  He smiles at me. I can see he’s still not completely well. He’s pale under his tan, and doesn’t yet move with his usual strength and confidence.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m recovering, but too slowly for my liking. I’m not made for idleness. I’m going to try a few hours work tomorrow. Do you have time for a walk with me now? Have you finished painting?’

  ‘Yes, I have. A walk would be lovely.’ Leaving the easel and palette where they are, we walk down to the water’s edge and head south.

  ‘I must thank you for saving my life,’ Peter says.

  I smile. ‘Please, don’t,’ I beg. I feel a moment’s disappointment. That’s all he wants, I think. Just to thank me. Then he’ll go.

  ‘You were very brave,’ he says softly.

  ‘So everyone keeps telling me. I didn’t feel brave. I was scared,’ I admit.

  ‘That’s what bravery is. Do you think when the lifeboat goes out in a storm, that the men aboard are not afraid? Myself included.’ He pauses, and we walk in silence for a while. When he speaks again there’s constraint in his voice.

  ‘I also want to apologize. For what I said at midsummer. I was worried for you. But I was also jealous and hurt, and it made me unkind. I know there was nothing between you and that Frenchman. I’m sorry that I ever believed there could be. I see how important your painting is to you and I’m ashamed that I tried to interfere.’ He picks up a pebble from the water’s edge and throws it. It skips twice before disappearing with a small splash. We walk on. When he speaks next, his tone is lighter.