Between Two Seas Page 2

  Her bright eyes are on me again, shining in her lined face. She means it kindly, I know, but I’m not used to anyone speaking to me like this. I feel resentment welling up inside me at this criticism of my mother. No one but me knows how hard my mother found it to live here among these people who despised her. I press my lips together and shake my head.

  ‘No. It’s better I go.’

  I’ve looked into many ways of crossing to Denmark. I tried the larger ships first, which take passengers across the North Sea from Grimsby. The Danish company DFDS has a ferry called the Esbjerg. There are also a number of freight ships sailing regularly to Esbjerg. But none of these are within my means, as I also need money to travel to Skagen once I get to Denmark. I have a tattered map of the country on the wall and I can see the journey from Esbjerg to Skagen will be a long one.

  I have been forced to go from one Danish fishing cutter to another in the harbour and beg a passage. Some of the men speak no English, and of those who do, most shake their heads at once and turn away when they understand what I want.

  ‘We don’t take women or children,’ they tell me.

  ‘Please!’ I begged one gruff, bearded fisherman. ‘I have no other way of crossing.’

  ‘No. Not possible.’ He waved me away, ending the conversation abruptly.

  ‘I need to go to my father,’ I pleaded with a kindly-looking captain only yesterday.

  ‘Write him to come and fetch you,’ he advised me, a strong Danish accent on his words. ‘You are too young for coming alone on a boat like this.’

  I walked home, defeated.

  How can I write to my father?

  He doesn’t even know I exist.

  I can see the light has begun to change now: my stitching is tinted with the gold of late afternoon sunshine. I lay it aside, unfinished. It’s time to go down to the harbour; the fishing boats will be in. I feel the familiar lurch of dread in my stomach.

  ‘I need to go out,’ I tell Mrs Forbes.

  She doesn’t ask where I’m going. I always go to the harbour at this hour, but discussing it might reopen the argument.

  ‘You’re welcome to stay here and sew a while,’ I tell her.

  ‘That’s all right, my dear, I got to get the evening meal on for the men.’ Mrs Forbes’s husband and son both work intermittently at the docks. She heaves herself out of her chair, and goes to the door, with a cheerful farewell.

  As soon as she’s gone, I brush my long hair, repinning it in a bun at the back of my head. It is a style my mother persuaded me to adopt a few months ago instead of my plaits. She said it made me look more grown-up, and that I would need that if I were to manage alone. My hair is golden. Like my father’s, mother told me. She herself had lovely soft brown hair. Apart from our colouring, people always said we looked very alike. I remember her standing here where I am now, brushing her hair. I miss her so much it hurts.

  I put my sunbonnet on and tie the strings under my chin. I look longingly at my cloak, hanging on its hook. I love to hide myself in it, but the day is much too hot. I sigh, and go down the stairs, out into the street. As I cross Freeman Street, the horse-drawn tram rattles by along Cleethorpes Road. I head in the opposite direction down towards the docks.

  The streets are busy at this time of day, with trams and carts going to and fro from the harbour, and street sellers calling out their wares. There are some boys tormenting a dog at the corner, pulling its tail and throwing stones at it. I’m glad when a shopkeeper comes out and chases them off.

  I’ve always hated going alone to the harbour. Sometimes my mother used to send me to buy fish. I would always hurry through the streets, my head down, avoiding the gaze of strangers. As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to dread it more, for now men sometimes call out or even try to speak to me. I always wrap my cloak more closely about me and hurry on my way, my face burning.

  Mother bought fish direct from the boats as they brought their catch into harbour; it was cheaper and fresher that way. But I’m no hand at bargaining with the fishermen: I struggle even to understand their broad speech. When I pluck up courage to approach them at all, I can barely speak above a whisper. Mother always shook her head when she saw what small fish I had accepted. But she sent me often. I believe she thought I would learn the skill, as she had done. I never did.

  And now, after her death, it is not the price of a couple of fish I’m negotiating, but the cost of a passage to Denmark. And it is deeply painful to have to ask.

  The harbour, like the town, has grown out of recognition, even in my short lifetime. I walk along the quayside, searching the rows and rows of Grimsby fishing smacks, hunting for the boats that are flying the Danish flag. I have always liked that the Danish flag is simply the reverse of an English flag: a white cross on a red background. It’s a link between the two halves of me.

  At last I spot the flag on two blue-painted fishing cutters, smaller than the local smacks. I stand for a moment at a distance, watching the men on board, trying to summon up the courage to speak to them.

  There are gulls on the quay, searching among the bundles of nets for pieces of fish. I watch one large gull tug a fish head from the net with its strong beak. It launches itself into the air. Two other gulls follow it screeching, and I watch them wheel and swoop in the clear blue sky.

  I take a deep breath and approach the nearest boat. There is only one man on deck, sitting bent over his nets, mending them.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say, but he doesn’t even glance in my direction. Putting my hands on the side of the boat, I lean forward.

  ‘Good afternoon!’ I call out. The man, wizened and weather beaten, turns to look at me. His eyes are pale blue and rheumy.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ I ask him.

  He shakes his head, but sits staring at me.

  Do I continue speaking to him, or do I go away at once?

  ‘I wish to go to Denmark,’ I explain after a few moments’ embarrassed silence. He puts one hand behind his ear.

  ‘Hvad?’ he asks.

  He’s forcing me to shout my business to half the fishing harbour. I can feel heat rising in my face.

  ‘I wish,’ I point at myself, ‘to go to Denmark.’ I make a wave movement with my hand, intended to signify a sea voyage, and point out to sea, to where I imagine Denmark lies. I feel so foolish. The old man stares at me a moment longer, and then shrugs, and turns back to his nets.

  I take a step back and look over at the second boat; she has the name Ebba painted on the prow. To my mortification, there is a man standing smoking his pipe and watching me. He has obviously overheard everything. Should I walk up to him and repeat the ridiculous mime, or should I flee at once and spare myself the humiliation? But he’s already beckoning me.

  ‘You want to sail to Denmark?’ he asks. ‘How many people?’

  ‘Only myself,’ I reply. His sandy brows lift in surprise. I see him purse his lips, his bushy beard twitching as he does so.

  ‘You travel alone?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  He is silent a moment, looking suspicious. I wait for questions, but none come. He doesn’t even ask my age.

  ‘We sail to Esbjerg the day after tomorrow,’ he tells me unexpectedly. ‘If you can be ready you can come.’

  ‘How much?’ I ask anxiously. He names a price. It is more than I want to pay, but less than anything I’ve been offered so far. I should demur, and offer less, I am sure he expects it. But it is fish all over again, and after only a brief hesitation, I accept his terms.

  He smiles and offers to shake hands on his bargain. ‘Captain Larsen,’ he introduces himself.

  Now there’s no turning back. I am almost elated as I hurry back through the streets to share the news with Mrs Forbes. At the same time I am deeply afraid: at that price, I’ll have no money to return.

  THREE

  I take a last look around at the empty room, which has been my home for the last five years. Even by the grey light of the early dawn, it looks forlorn an
d shabby. I have folded the borrowed blankets I slept in for Mrs Forbes to collect later.

  My trunk is already stowed on board the Ebba; I paid a porter to carry it down to the harbour for me yesterday evening. It has my name, Marianne Shaw, and my destination, Skagen, printed on the side. The things I will need during the journey are packed into the same carpet bag my mother left her home with some seventeen years ago.

  I pick up the bag, gently close the door, and begin to creep down the staircase. But Mrs Forbes must have been awake and waiting for me, because as soon as the floorboards creak, she emerges from her rooms. She’s wrapped in a faded pink dressing gown and has her hair twisted into rags. I can’t repress a small smile.

  ‘Goodbye, my dear,’ she whispers, offering an embrace. I put my bag down and hug her tightly. She smells of tallow and cabbage.

  ‘Thank you again for everything you’ve done for me. I’ll write to let you know that I’ve arrived safely,’ I offer as we let one another go. To my surprise, she hangs her head and doesn’t reply. I am confused for a moment and then I understand. She can’t read, and she’s ashamed.

  I’m grateful to my mother, who though she couldn’t afford to send me to school, passed on to me as much of her own fine education as shortage of time and money allowed.

  ‘I shall send you a picture, dear Mrs Forbes,’ I promise instead. Her face brightens.

  ‘That would be a kindness, bless you,’ she says. ‘And here’s a little something for your journey,’ she adds, pushing a parcel neatly wrapped in brown paper into my hands. Then, without giving me a chance to look at it, she hugs me again.

  ‘Off you go then. I wish you good fortune, and I hope you find your father,’ she says briskly, and gives me a little push. There are tears in her eyes.

  I want to tell her I’ll miss her, but the words won’t come. I pick up my bag again, and go to the front door. I linger a moment, looking back at her, and then step out into the street.

  There are quite a number of people in town, even at this early hour. Everyone seems to be in a hurry. I cross the road, picking my way between the piles of horse droppings, and narrowly avoid a laden cart drawn by two scrawny-looking horses. Their load is fish by the smell of it.

  It takes me only a few minutes to walk along Cleethorpes Road, past the Albert Memorial, to the docks, the route I have walked so many times before. I can’t quite believe that this is the last time I’ll walk it. I ought to feel sad, but my fear of the journey blots out all other feelings.

  On board the Ebba the crew is busy readying her for the trip. Captain Larsen hails me as I approach. A younger man with the same sandy hair as the captain helps me climb onto the boat and takes my bag. He is a skinny, slight young man with an unremarkable face.

  ‘I am Jens,’ he says. He seems friendly. ‘I show you the cabin,’ he tells me, in strongly-accented English. ‘You need to stay there until we are coming out of the harbour—not get in the way.’

  So there and then I look back at Grimsby, and bid England a hasty and silent farewell. All my memories are here on these shores, but my hopes for the future lie across the North Sea.

  I follow Jens across the sloping wooden deck to a small hatch, and watch him climb down a ladder. Wrapping my skirt tightly about my ankles, I struggle down after him.

  I have never been aboard a boat before. I had no idea how dark and cramped it would be below deck. Or how strong the stench of fish and slop buckets would be. The prospect of sharing this space with four men for several days and nights appears suddenly indecent. I blush to think I proposed it. The sleeping quarters are merely low bunks tucked into odd spaces around the living area, which in itself consists only of a table with benches.

  Jens shows me that he has hung a blanket before my bunk, so that I have some degree of privacy. He has hung another blanket across the corner where the slop bucket serves for a lavatory. But a blanket offers no protection from sounds or smells.

  ‘I need to help now.’ Jens points up on deck and then disappears up the ladder again. By the sound of it they are losing no time in casting off from the quay. Ropes grate against the side of the ship and thud as they land on the deck. As the men thunder about above me, calling to each other in Danish, I sit down and open the package Mrs Forbes gave me. There’s a seed cake and some home-baked biscuits inside. She’s kind. I shall save them. I’m too nervous to swallow even a mouthful this morning.

  The boat sways as we leave the quayside. I feel strange almost at once: light-headed. As we leave the harbour and head out to sea, I have a shock. I was entirely unprepared for the effect of the motion of the boat. It is a bright, clear day with a brisk wind, not stormy. But as the boat begins to plunge in the swell, my head begins to ache. It becomes more difficult to sit up. It doesn’t take long before I crawl into my cramped bunk and curl up. The relief is only temporary.

  I’m shivering and suffering cold sweats. At every lurch or roll the boat makes, my mouth fills with saliva as fast as I can swallow it. My stomach begins to heave. I hear Jens quietly placing a bucket by my bunk. I’m vilely ill. Time passes in a haze of endurance and sickness. I notice at one point that the bucket has been swilled clean with seawater. Jens makes no comment. I’m too ill and too embarrassed to thank him, but I shall never, ever forget his kindness.

  The men come in and out of the cabin, sometimes to sleep, sometimes to slice bread, fry fish, and smoke their pipes. The smell is unbearable. At night I drift in and out of sleep, but never for long.

  When daylight comes, the boat seems to move less. Jens tells me we’ve arrived at the fishing grounds, that the nets are now out, and invites me on deck. At first I decline, not daring to rise from my bunk.

  ‘The fresh air will help,’ he insists.

  It takes courage to leave the bunk. The walk across the swaying cabin and the climb up the ladder are almost my undoing. Once on deck, however, the clean sea air revives me. It helps to see the waves as well as feel them. With Jens’s help I find a seat on some coils of rope just before the main mast. Captain Larsen greets me with a cheerful ‘Good morning!’ and then returns to checking his nets. Jens is attentive, however. He goes below, and then returns a few minutes later with a mug of tea and food for me. I refuse the fish hurriedly, but accept the rest. As I sit nibbling the bread and sipping the tea, I’m surprised how much better I feel.

  Occasionally I catch a baleful stare from the first mate, Johannes. He’s as shrivelled as a prune and has a sour face. I can hear him muttering to himself.

  Worse than this are the stares of the man Torben. He’s unkempt and filthy, with broken front teeth. I feel his eyes on me and it makes me uncomfortable. It’s not dislike he shows, more a penetrating curiosity. He comes over and tries to speak to me. The only English words I can catch are ‘fish’ and ‘gin’. I shake my head at him and turn away. I can’t bear the stench of spirits and unwashed body that hangs around him like a cloud.

  It’s cold in the sea breeze, so after a while I go back down to my bunk. Torben is standing in the middle of the cabin watching me. The living quarters are very cramped but Torben makes no effort to move out of my way at all. I have to push past him in my rush to lie down before sickness overcomes me again.

  The air in the cabin is fetid and stinking. As soon as I’m thoroughly warm again, I decide to go back outside. I check that Torben is not in the cabin before I crawl out of my bunk. To my horror, he is at the top of the ladder as I climb up. He takes hold of me round the waist to help me up. I pull away from him and go to my place on deck. Only a moment later, I make the mistake of looking in his direction. It gives him the opportunity to leer at me. Repulsive. He makes me feel unclean.

  I try to put him out of my mind and concentrate on breathing the bracing air. To distract myself, I think about my father. I wonder how easy it will be to find him. Whether he will be pleased to see me.

  My mother often spoke of him. When I was little, he was always my favourite bedtime story. I know that he returned to Denmark before I
was born. My grandfather, who was one of the Mablethorpe gentry, didn’t approve of him as a prospective husband. But he and my mother promised to love one another always. He went back to Skagen to earn enough money to come and take her away.

  This, of course, was before my grandfather disowned her. By the time her condition was discovered, my father was long gone.

  It’s a terrible thing to be with child when you’re not married. You could say I ruined her life. Poor mother. I’ll never let that happen to me.

  My mother always told me what a good man my father was. I learned, while still very young, not to ask why he never returned as he’d promised. Such a question would signal the end of our happy story time, and drive the smiles from my mother’s face.

  I hope my existence won’t come as an unpleasant shock to him; I prefer to think that he’ll be happy to know me and to help me. But I wonder how he will explain why he never came back.

  FOUR

  The wind has increased considerably while I have been sitting on deck. Dark, ominous clouds are rolling across the sky towards us. All four men are busy, working silently, glancing at the sky. I’m chilled to the bone and beginning to feel seasick once more. I urgently need to lie down. I stumble along the deck towards the hatch, clinging to the steering house in order to keep my balance.

  When I’m at the bottom of the ladder, a shadow falls on me. I look up and see boots appear at the top of it. A particularly violent roll forces me to cling to the table halfway across the cabin to my bunk. And it’s here that Torben catches me, his arms tight about my chest, squeezing my ribs, his breath on my cheek, stinking of fish and spirits.

  I cry out and try to thrust him away. I’m surprised how strong he is. He pulls me round to face him and for a moment I see his filthy, rotten teeth and cracked lips close to me before he clamps his mouth down upon mine so that I cannot make a sound. I twist my head and cry out, but he forces his mouth over mine again, poking his tongue into my mouth like a slimy raw fish. He has my arms pinned tightly to my sides, and I can’t make a sound. But I can move my legs, and I bring my right knee up sharply, and feel it thud into his groin. It was an instinctive move and for a moment it seems to have worked. He releases me and bends over with a groan. But as I start to back away, retching with disgust, he straightens up. Now his face is contorted with pain and rage, his lips curling back from his brown teeth. A wave of terror washes over me. He grabs me by the hair, yanking me towards him, and this time I scream, as loudly as I can.