Between Two Seas Page 6

  Outside almost every house there are fishing nets and fish hanging out to dry. Mostly plaice, by the look of them. There are also midden heaps, piled with rotting refuse and fish scraps.

  That’s what stinks.

  Children in rags run barefoot in the dunes and around the houses. Outside some houses, old people are mending nets. They stop to watch as we pass. Some wave and call out greetings.

  This is no prosperous town. It’s barren and windswept. These people are poor. Miserably poor.

  I look ahead, for the taller houses, the harbour. Nothing.

  What is this place I have come to?

  ‘Ça n’est pas Skagen?’ I ask bewildered.

  Ancher lifts his brows in surprise.

  ‘Mais oui, bien sûr!’ he exclaims. ‘This part is called Vesterby. In a few moments we’ll get to Østerby.’

  Østerby, when we reach it, has one or two pretty stone houses painted yellow with red-tiled roofs. But here, too, there are mainly black-tarred wooden shacks. We pull up outside the one large, red-brick building in the place. It looks very new and fine, especially compared to the buildings around it. The men both jump down, and Peter turns to lift me down too. He treats me as though I were a lady.

  I am reeling with shock at my surroundings, but I manage to thank him: ‘Tak!’

  Our eyes meet and he smiles again, but Ancher is speaking to me:

  ‘Where do you need to go?’

  I look around me. And that’s when I realize.

  Having finally arrived, I have no idea what to do next.

  ELEVEN

  Skagen, September 1885

  I’m silent a moment. Panic wells up in me.

  ‘I … I am not quite sure,’ I say. I look at the large modern red-brick building behind Ancher. Brøndums Hotel is written on the sign. It looks new. It also looks as though even one night would cost more than the few coins I have left.

  At this moment I long to find my father more than I ever have done. In this place, he is the one person who can make everything all right. I’m so close now. But I don’t want to blurt out my reason for coming here.

  ‘I have a letter to deliver,’ I tell Ancher. ‘Then … I suppose I need to find somewhere to stay.’ I lift my chin defiantly. ‘Somewhere … cheap.’

  ‘Who is the message for?’ he asks.

  ‘Lars Christensen.’ I almost whisper the name. The moment has finally come when I may find him. I’m breathless with anxiety.

  ‘Lars Christensen?’ asks Ancher looking surprised. ‘Are you sure the name is Lars?’

  ‘Yes, quite sure,’ I say, feeling far less confident than I sound.

  ‘I think you’d better come inside for a few moments,’ he says. ‘We’ll ask Fru Brøndum. She knows everyone here.’

  He pays the driver, and then goes into the inn. Peter is hovering near me, waiting to say goodbye. I shake his hand, and make myself meet his eyes for an instant.

  Ancher rings a bell and after a moment a woman emerges from what looks like the kitchens, carefully wiping her hands on a towel. She’s neat and tidy with a strong stern face, which relaxes into a smile when she sees Ancher. She smiles at him. She obviously knows him. They speak Danish together, and I hear my father’s name spoken. The sound of his name, spoken by Danes, makes everything feel real. I’m going to meet him at last.

  The woman wrinkles her brow. She shakes her head as she speaks. I’m desperate to know what she is saying. I look from one to the other in doubt and confusion. Time seems to slow to a crawl. There’s a silence. I become aware of a ticking of a large clock on the wall to my right.

  ‘He would be about … thirty-five years old?’ Ancher asks at last.

  About two or three years older than my mother was.

  ‘Yes, does she know him?’

  ‘Could there be some mistake with the name?’ His face is serious.

  ‘No.’ I shake my head firmly. ‘Why?’

  My mouth is dry, and my hands are damp. He must be here. He must.

  ‘There was a Lars Christensen here in Skagen. He went to sea when he was seventeen, after an argument with his father.’

  ‘Did he not come back?’ I ask anxiously. ‘Is he living somewhere else?’

  There’s a pause. They both look at me. My face grows hot from a mixture of anxiety and embarrassment. At last Ancher speaks:

  ‘If it’s the same man, he was drowned a year later. On a ship coming back to Denmark. It was wrecked. There’s no one else of that name here.’

  I think he’s stopped speaking, or my ears have stopped working. The small sounds around me intensify and then blur. I try to speak. I want to pretend to shrug it off, tell them it doesn’t matter. I don’t want them to see how important this is to me. But it seems my voice isn’t working either.

  They are staring at me, the two of them, from miles away, down a long dark tunnel. The hallway is starting to spin. At first it moves slowly, and then faster and faster, and I’m falling, falling, and it’s such a long way down.

  The sun is shining across me. Dust motes are swirling in the ray of sunlight. I’m lying on a blue sofa in a room I’ve never seen before. A beautiful room with blue walls, hung with paintings. There’s a vase of flowers beside me. I’m confused. Have I been asleep? I can’t think how I come to be here.

  I struggle into a sitting position. Hands push me back down, someone is speaking to me, but I can’t understand them. A cool cloth is laid on my brow. It feels good. My head is spinning sickeningly.

  I lie still a moment, my eyes closed. It’s coming back to me now.

  My father is dead. They told me that my father is dead. That means I’ve come all this way for nothing. I’ve travelled for days and days and spent all of my mother’s savings.

  That explains why he never came back. Why my mother never heard from him. He was drowned on his way home. I was fatherless before I was born. We should have guessed.

  What shall I do now? I’m an orphan.

  I open my eyes again. There’s a lady in a fine yellow dress and a servant standing by me. Both their faces show kindness and concern. I’m not used to being a centre of attention. I turn my face into the back of the sofa, tears of disappointment and humiliation stinging my eyes and closing my throat.

  I wish they would go away.

  ‘Marianne?’

  There it is again. That strange way of saying my name.

  The lady in the yellow dress is speaking. She has a silver anchor on a chain around her neck. I stare at it, mesmerized. She takes my hand, and hers is soft and warm. I become aware that I’m as cold as ice, and I shiver.

  ‘You fainted,’ she tells me in French. ‘Are you all right now?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. I’m so sorry … ’

  This time as I sit up no one stops me. The maid stands near me holding the cool flannel. I attempt to smile at her. She puts a tiny glass to my lips and tilts it. I take a sip but then cough and splutter. It’s fiery and bitter.

  ‘No, please, could I have some water?’

  ‘Vand,’ I hear and someone gives me a glass. I gulp it down. I’ve had nothing to drink since early this morning.

  I want to go now. I want to escape from these kind people.

  ‘Please don’t fuss!’ I say, and then I flush with embarrassment in case I’m being rude and ungrateful. ‘I mean … I don’t want to cause you so much trouble.’

  I sit holding my head in my hands. Someone has taken my boots off. My stockings have holes in and are bloodstained from my blisters. I feel a rush of shame that these people have seen them, and tuck them back into my muddy skirt. I’m dirty and unkempt to be sitting in such a fine room. I might mark their sofa.

  ‘My name is Anna Ancher,’ says the lady. ‘You’ve already met my husband Michael. Is there anything we can do to help you? Do you have friends or family here?’

  I shake my head and take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. I had no plans beyond finding my father. I’m embarrassed by this fine lady taking care of me.
I need to accept her help however.

  ‘I need a place to stay,’ I tell her. ‘And to find work.’ I flush and speak low. ‘I have almost no money left.’

  ‘This Lars Christensen,’ she asks, ‘was he … ?’

  ‘No!’ I interrupt too quickly. I realize I don’t know what she was going to say. I continue anyway: ‘I was just asked to bring him a letter. I didn’t know him.’

  ‘No, of course not. I understand he died many years ago.’

  I bite my lip, hoping they won’t make the connection. It seems so blindingly obvious to me, I can’t believe they don’t guess at once.

  ‘He has family here,’ she continues. ‘Wouldn’t you like to speak to them? Give them the letter?’

  Michael Ancher steps forward.

  ‘Marianne?’ he says. ‘You’ve already met Lars Christensen’s brother. We stopped on the beach to speak to him. Do you remember?’

  I remember all right. I feel a sickening, sinking sensation in my stomach. That man. The one they said was strict and judgemental. He was my uncle. God help me.

  ‘He’s a stern man, but a just one. Much respected. Can he help you? I can go and fetch him if you like,’ Ancher offers, his voice gentle and kind.

  ‘No!’ I cry vehemently. I control myself with an effort and repeat more calmly, ‘No, really. Please.’

  I imagine myself standing before that man. Giving him my mother’s precious letter. Trying to explain my circumstances to him. I imagine his look of disgust. No. I can’t do it.

  ‘If Lars Christensen is dead, then the letter is of no interest to anyone else. Truly, it is not important.’ I feel hot and ashamed as I speak. These people are so kind. But I would rather get up now and walk all the way back down the beach to Ålbæk than face that fierce-eyed fisherman. He would despise me. And quite possibly not even believe me.

  If only I had not run out of money. As I remember this, despair numbs me.

  The two women are speaking to one another in their own language. Then Anna Ancher turns to me again.

  ‘You say you’re looking for work. What do you do?’ she asks.

  ‘I sew,’ I tell her. ‘And embroider. But I’ll do anything. I want to earn my keep.’

  ‘There’s a cheaper inn where you could stay. Or … ’ She hesitates.

  I know I can’t afford more than one night at an inn, no matter how modest, so I’m desperate to hear the alternative.

  ‘Or … ?’ I ask.

  ‘There’s a family who need help. The woman has had a baby. Now she’s sick, and can’t manage.’

  Hope is rising in me. Questions bubble up, but before I can ask any of them, the lady lifts a warning finger.

  ‘They are very poor. And they can’t pay you. But you can stay there a while, I think.’

  It’s a lifeline. I don’t hesitate.

  ‘If they’ll have me, I should be more than happy to help in any way I can,’ I reply at once.

  TWELVE

  The smell of the midden heaps is so bad that I walk with my cloak drawn across my face, hurrying to keep up with the girl who is taking me to my new home.

  She’s called Hannah, and she works at the hotel. She looks about my age. I understand she’s a neighbour of the woman who needs my help. She speaks only Danish, so we can’t understand one other, but she talks anyway, and smiles at me frequently as we walk. She looks friendly.

  Hannah leads me along countless small paths among the dunes to the southern part of the town. I feel completely lost. We stop at the craziest, most tumbledown shack of the lot. I have a general impression of a building gone to seed. It is tarred black like the others, but not freshly done. The thatch on the roof looks as though it’s coming apart.

  A little girl in rags is sitting on the doorstep. She has grubby bare feet, tangled brown hair, and blank, incurious eyes. Her nose is running, green and slimy, right down to her upper lip. Why doesn’t her mother give her a good wash? Then I think perhaps that will be my job. I shudder slightly.

  My companion speaks to her, and then steps past her over the threshold. I follow her in onto sandy cobbles. There’s a small kitchen area ahead of us, open to the thatch above. It’s very basic, with no floor, just sand. Dirty pans and crockery lie strewn on the surfaces. There’s a strong fish smell. I feel nausea rising in me. I swallow hard, trying not to breathe too deeply. Above the kitchen, there’s an open half-loft full of fishing nets and tools.

  We step up to the right onto a wooden floor and go into the main room of the house. It’s as small as our room in Grimsby. The windows are dirt encrusted.

  There are two double beds built into the end wall. In one lies a woman, seemingly asleep. There’s a smell of sickness in the room. I remember it from when my mother was ill, and it brings a rush of memories with it.

  On my left there is a stove with a cradle pushed under it. A table and chairs stand against the opposite wall. There’s not much else, and I wonder where I will sleep. Hannah is trying to rouse the woman in the bed.

  ‘Lene!’ she is calling, shaking her by the shoulder. After a minute or two, the woman sits up and stares around her. Her gaze is unfocused, even more blank than her daughter’s. She doesn’t seem to listen as Hannah talks to her. She’s telling her my name.

  I don’t notice the baby next to Lene until it wakes up and starts bawling. Its mother ignores it completely, so Hannah picks it up. A look of disgust comes over her face, and she at once lays the screaming bundle down on the floor and begins to unwrap it. I recoil as I see it’s soiled itself, and has obviously been in that state for some time. There is a thick yellow-brown crust on its skin and clothes. I stand by stupidly as Hannah undresses the baby. From time to time, she speaks to me in Danish. She seems to be explaining how to do this. Am I supposed to change it? I’ve never even held one in my life. I look indignantly at the mother, but she’s lying on her back, gazing blankly at the ceiling as though the baby is nothing to do with her.

  ‘Vand,’ says Hannah, and points outside. I put down my bag and go outdoors. There is an open well at some distance from the house. It’s right next to the midden heap, and I must pick my way through rubbish, fish innards, and human waste to draw the water.

  It’s revolting. Don’t they have a privy?

  I look around, but I can’t see one.

  I lower the bucket on its rope and half fill it with water, and then take it back into the house so that the baby can be washed. Once it’s clean, its raw, red bottom bound up in a fresh napkin, Hannah pushes and pulls the mother into a sitting position, and helps her put her baby to the breast. I look away, embarrassed. Abruptly, the wails and shrieks give way to sucking and grunting noises.

  Is this where I have to live? Did I come all this way to be surrounded by such squalor and hopelessness? Better by far I had stayed in Grimsby.

  No. I pull myself together, and take a breath of the stinking air.

  This is just for now. Until I can find work or leave Skagen altogether. Meanwhile, no one here knows anything about me. It’s a chance for a new start.

  THIRTEEN

  I wake up at first light itching all over. When I try to roll over I get an elbow in my back.

  Then I remember.

  I’ve been sleeping in a pull-out bed with three girls. It’s like sleeping in a drawer. The bedding is smelly and as I begin to scratch, I realize I’m covered in bites. Bed bugs. I look at the little girl next to me, asleep and sucking her thumb. She’s incredibly dirty and her hair is crawling with lice. Even in the grey light of dawn, I can see them moving.

  As quietly as I can, I get up, slip on my dress and pick up my shawl. No one stirs. Lene and her husband Søren are sleeping in one double bed, both snoring, the two eldest sons in another. The baby’s asleep in his crib.

  I open the door almost noiselessly and creep out barefoot into the dunes. The sand is damp from last night’s rain, and sticks to the soles of my feet. I decide to explore and quickly find myself down on the beach. I thought I’d never want to see it
again, but it’s beautiful in the early morning light. Where the sun is rising over the sea, the sky is flushed with pink and orange, but the beach is bathed in a light blue, so pale it is almost turquoise. Away from the houses, the air is as fresh as can be.

  There are groups of fishermen working hard in the sea already. They wave to me as I go by. My host, Søren Jakobsen, isn’t among them, of course. He came in drunk and quarrelsome late last night, after I’d gone to bed.

  I walk for a while, thinking about my situation. I can’t bear to go on living in that dirty house with a mad woman, a drunk, and a horde of louse-ridden brats. Our rooms in Grimsby were poor, but never squalid. We kept them spotlessly clean. But what alternatives do I have? With less than one krone in my pocket, not many.

  Especially now that my father …

  My throat constricts when I remember that he’s dead. I’ll never meet him now. I clench my fists and grit my teeth to stop myself from crying. I don’t want to go back with red swollen eyes.

  I’ve come all this way for nothing.

  I left Grimsby to escape loneliness and poverty. And I’ve ended up in an isolated huddle of tumbledown shacks where almost everyone is poor. It stinks, and they don’t even have privies. Everyone just goes out to the nearest sand dune.

  Now I have no money left either. In Grimsby that sum of money would have been a buffer against poverty. Now I am as good as destitute. Dependent on other people’s goodwill. How naive and stupid I’ve been.

  Should I go to that man they say is my uncle and make myself known to him? It is possible he might help me. I shudder at the thought. I can’t face the shame of it. I would prefer to make my own way, no matter how hard it is.

  If I at least had money I could leave here. Although … where would I go? There is nowhere in the whole world where I belong. No one anywhere needs me or wants me.

  I stop walking and just stand, despair weighing down my limbs. The enormity of what I’ve done crashes in on me. For a moment I feel completely without hope. I don’t belong anywhere.