Between Two Seas (11 page)

We’re quite close to the boats before Mikkel slows down and hesitates.

‘Oh no, it’s
far
—my father,’ he mutters under his breath. But it’s too late to turn back. A tall man with a severe face, intimidating behind his huge beard, has spotted Mikkel.

‘That’s your father?’ I recognize him at once and realize I should have made the connection before. It’s my father’s brother. I have so far successfully avoided him during the weeks since I arrived. But if he is Mikkel’s father … that makes Mikkel my cousin. My friend is my cousin, I think, and a twinge of excitement mingles with the fear I feel as the man approaches us.

Mikkel’s father is splashing towards us through the waves, the water running off his thigh-length boots and oilskin jacket. When he speaks to Mikkel, it sounds more like a reprimand than a greeting, from the tone of his voice.

Mikkel is suddenly a different person: younger. He stands red-faced and drooping before the tall sturdy man. His father is the epitome of health and strength, a vivid contrast with his studious, delicate-skinned son.

I’m glad I didn’t go to him for help, I think, watching Christensen verbally flaying his son. There is no hint of kindness or humour about him, and he takes no account at all of my presence.

Finally Mikkel speaks:

‘
Far, det er Marianne
,’ he says and I realize he’s introducing me. I wonder whether I have to shake hands or simply curtsy to this terrifying man, but then his father looks at me for the first time, and I forget all about greeting him.

He freezes, and I watch, puzzled, as the colour slowly drains from his face. He’s rigid, motionless, and his eyes don’t waver from my face.

‘
Far?
’ asks Mikkel. It takes a moment for his father to respond. As though there’s a delay between Mikkel speaking and the sound reaching him. His father clutches at his chest, takes a deep, shuddering breath, and turns abruptly away. He doesn’t speak. With a final backward glance at me, he stomps off back towards his boat.

I stand still, staring at him, until I feel Mikkel take my hand and tug me away.

T
he wind is shrieking around the house, whistling through every crack. It gives me no rest. The noise is in my head until I think I’ll go mad with it. The wind brings sand in with it, trickling through the gaps between the planks. Every day I sweep it up, every day more comes in. The last two days Søren and his sons had to climb out of a window in order to dig us out, so much sand had blown against the door in the night. I’m no longer surprised by the thought of a church buried in this sand.

It is pitch dark in the house tonight. I lie shivering under the blankets, and for once I don’t mind Lise cuddling up beside me, her head against my shoulder, her hand tucked into mine. At least I’m sure she’s louse-free these days.

I hear a cry in the night. At first I take no notice. It is faint and quickly carried away in the wind. But then I hear it again, closer. More voices take up the cry. I can hear the word they’re all calling:

‘
Skibsbrud!
’ Shipwreck!

I sit up in my bed, my heart beating fast. Out there in the howling wind and huge waves, people are in danger on the sea.

Lise stirs, but puts her thumb in her mouth and goes back to sleep.

There’s a hammering at the door.

‘Søren!’ calls a voice.

Søren gives a loud, grunting snore and rolls over in bed. He has his head in his hands and he’s muttering curses under his breath.

The knock at the door comes again, louder, more insistent.

‘Søren!
Skibsbrud!
’

The house seems to come to life all at once. I sit still while Søren swings himself out of bed, snatching at his clothes as he stumbles towards the door. Jakob and Morten, his sons, jump out of bed at the same time. There’s a confused babble of voices, and the door bangs open, letting in a blast of cold night air. The baby wakes and begins to wail.

Once the men have left the house, I get up myself. I tuck our blanket around Lise, and lift the crying baby out of his crib. He’s wet and I change him quickly before tucking him up with his mother. His cries fall silent as soon as he finds her milk. Lise and her sisters sleep on, undisturbed.

Lighting a tallow candle from the banked-up fire in the kitchen, I pull on clothes and wrap myself in my shawl. I’m wide-awake now, and sit down on a chair by the window, tucking my feet up off the cold floor. I imagine the stranded ship, pounded by the sea, her crew terrified and helpless. I feel restless, wishing there was something I could do.

A few moments later there’s another knock at the door.

‘Marianne,’ someone calls.

It’s my neighbour, Hannah, standing out there in the wind.

‘Bring a couple of blankets and come with me,’ she urges me in Danish. I’ve learned enough by now that I can understand most everyday things.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask her.

‘To watch—and help if we can,’ she replies briefly.

Despite the wind and the cold, I don’t hesitate for a moment. Eagerly, I pull several blankets from the bed and follow Hannah out into the darkness. The wind is fierce and the sand is stinging like the night I was on the beach. Hannah is heading towards the west coast, bent forward against the westerly wind, her shawl wrapped around her head and shoulders.

We have little breath for talking as we walk. We head further north than the time I came here with Mikkel. As soon as we come out onto the beach we’re hit by the full blast of the wind, but it’s coming off the sea, so there’s no sand in it now. The moon breaks through a patch of cloud, revealing a terrible sight.

The sea is a furious black monster. Huge waves curl and thunder onto the beach. Some distance out, a wooden sailing ship is lying, listing over to one side. The waves are breaking against her and right over her. Her sails are down, torn and flapping uselessly. For a moment I can make out tiny black figures clinging to the sides, and then the moon darkens and only the outline of the ship remains.

I gasp and Hannah puts an arm around my shoulder.

‘It’s caught between the sandbanks,’ she says. ‘The most dangerous place of all. We must pray the lifeboats will be here soon.’

‘Lifeboats?’ I’m only confused for a moment. Of course they must have lifeboats here.

‘They use the biggest fishing boats,’ Hannah explains. ‘There’s one kept just up the beach from here and another at Højen.’

‘Højen?’ I ask.

‘It’s the part of Skagen that’s on this coast,’ Hannah explains.

We are not the only people on the beach. Men, women, and children are standing around us, eyes riveted on the ship in distress out there in the waves. More people are arriving all the time, like silent shadows. One shadow approaches me in the dark:

‘Marianne,’ he says, and offers his hand. It’s so dark that I recognize him by his voice only. It’s Peter. I wonder how he knew me. As I put my hand into his, he clasps both hands around mine for a few moments.

‘
Du fryser
,’ he tells me. You’re cold. ‘It’s good you’ve brought blankets.’ His voice is approving. ‘They will need them.’

He nods to the ship. I look out to sea again, in time to see a huge wave break over the prow. I can hear cries of distress even over the thunder of the surf. ‘Meanwhile, make sure you stay warm.’ Peter takes the blankets from my arms and shakes them out. They flap wildly, but he holds them fast, and wraps them around my shoulders. I’m glad it’s dark, so he can’t see my flush of pleasure. I can see his eyes shining in the moonlight as he looks at me, but his face is in shadow, and I can’t make out his expression.

‘How long until the lifeboat arrives?’ Hannah asks him.

‘It’s here now,’ he tells her.

Abruptly, Peter leaves my side. I turn around.

‘Look!’ I say to Hannah in astonishment.

Four … no … six strong horses are emerging from a gap in the dunes behind us. They snort and strain in their harness, pulling a huge wooden rowing boat that has been lashed to a wooden frame with wheels. Men in oilskins and sou’westers are helping to lead the horses, shouting their encouragement to them. Others are pushing from behind. I see Peter take a place at the side of the boat and throw his weight into pushing it the final stretch through the soft dunes and down onto the firm beach. The horses are whinnying and shying with fear at the sight and sound of the waves.

‘Those are Christensen’s horses,’ Hannah tells me. ‘He’s a brave lifeboat man. No storm is too fierce for him. But Kruse is the captain of the Skagen lifeboat. He and his crew have saved many lives. They will tonight, too, you wait and see.’

Christensen again. I feel an impulse to turn away and leave. I master it. He won’t see me in the dark.

‘Come on,’ says Hannah. ‘Let’s follow. But take care not to get in the way.’

The moon is out again now, illuminating the scene. There’s one man obviously in charge of directing the operation. ‘That’s Hr Kruse,’ Hannah explains. ‘And the man leading the horses is Hr Christensen.’

I screw up my eyes in the darkness and see that it’s Mikkel’s father.

‘I’ve met him already,’ I say, and move to stand slightly behind Hannah.

‘And you don’t like him?’ she asks.

‘No. I don’t. He terrifies me,’ I admit.

‘I know what you mean,’ Hannah agrees. ‘He’s a harsh man. Strict with others and strict with himself too. But I’ve never heard harm of him.’

Hannah’s eyes are on the lifeboat as she speaks. They are selecting the crew, choosing the strongest men.

I can make out Peter in the darkness, jostling to be chosen, but the crew of ten is complete now. He falls back, and Mikkel’s father himself takes the final place. I haven’t seen Mikkel tonight. I wonder if he is out there in the darkness somewhere, watching as I am. I like to think of him as my cousin, though I don’t dare tell him that we are related. It would involve explanations I don’t wish to give.

They launch the boat with some difficulty. No sooner is she in the water than the Højen boat is pulled up the beach to help. I look out to sea, eager for a glimpse of the boat. I spot her after a few minutes, by the lantern held aloft at her prow by the man on lookout. There’s another man at the stern, steering and calling instructions. The other eight are pulling strongly on the oars.

‘She’s made scarcely any progress. Why?’ I ask Hannah, pointing to the boat. I have to shout to be heard above the waves this close to the water.

‘She can’t stay on course,’ Hannah shouts back. ‘Look at how the wind and waves push her aside.’

She’s right. I can see her being swept this way and that in the swell.

‘The sandbanks make the waves break all the way out,’ Hannah explains. ‘The boat has to get through them all.’

It’s tiring shouting to each other, and we fall silent. We stand for what feels like hours, sometimes with our arms around each other for warmth. Sometimes we walk up and down to relieve our aching legs. But always we watch the lifeboats.

Suddenly Hannah cries, startling me, ‘Look! The lifeboats are turning back!’

‘Turning back?’ I cry in horror. ‘But they didn’t get to the ship.’

It seems the people on board the ship have realized it too. We can hear them screaming and crying over the roaring of the sea. It’s a sound to move the hardest of hearts.

Those who were left behind on the beach crowd around the boats as they are pulled in, plying the crew with
snaps
, the strong local drink, and warm clothing.

‘They’re exhausted,’ Hannah calls to me.

‘So what happens now?’ I ask.

‘They choose a fresh crew.’

What would it be like to be stranded out there in that raging sea, watching the lifeboats turning back?

‘They must be so afraid out there. I know I would be,’ I tell Hannah.

She nods, her face serious.

First the Højen boat is filled again. There seems to be no shortage of volunteers. I can see Søren’s eldest son, Jakob, but they don’t take him. He’s too young. There is no sign of Søren himself.

Now they are selecting the new crew for the Skagen boat. The last man they take is smaller and less broad than the others.

‘Is that Peter?’ I ask Hannah appalled.

She goes closer to the boat, and then returns.

‘Yes,’ is all she says, but she takes my hand.

I’m proud and terrified all at once. He’s too young to go out there into that danger. But he’s strong. That’s why they’ve taken him. I’ve seen him row his father’s boat.

They begin to push the boat out into the surf, only to be driven back by a wave that knocks several men off their feet. On the second attempt they launch her successfully, the crew jumping over the sides to take their places, the other men falling back to watch. She’s afloat now, the men pulling powerfully on their oars.

The boat is lifted up and back on the crest of a wave, the breaker curling around her. I hold my breath, wondering if she’ll be overturned, but then she plunges down the far side of the wave. We can see her stern for a moment and then she disappears from view, until the next wave lifts her.

I clutch the blankets tight around me and shiver with fear. I’m truly a part of the crowd on the beach now; we all have a friend or a relative out there. I care passionately for the safety of the boat, as they do. I glance around me in the darkness. Everyone’s eyes are on the boats. Some people are muttering prayers. I’m tensed, fists clenched, scarcely breathing.

After a while it becomes clear that both boats are making better progress than before. Perhaps the crews are stronger, or the storm is easing. One boat reaches the stricken ship. I can hear people around me shouting that they’ve got the lines across. A cheer goes up around us.

People on board are climbing the rigging to secure the line high up on the main mast. The lifeboats are heading in towards the beach again to bring the other end to the shore.

Peter’s boat is almost in when it happens.

A huge wave roars in to the shore. We watch, helpless, as it catches the lifeboat crosswise, flipping her over. The men tip out, like pennies from a purse, tumbling into the surf.