Between Two Seas (15 page)

‘Don’t tease Marianne, mother,’ he says quietly.

I was right. He has been listening.

He catches my eye and smiles. My heart turns over. There’s a happy glow spreading through me. Sitting here in this warm, candlelit room, with the prospect of work before me, and of coming and going in this house, I feel a thrill of delight. I look around me, drinking in the prettiness and daintiness of everything. The house itself is not so very different to where I live. But it’s cared for. The walls are hung with shelves of china, instead of stinking fishing nets. The furniture is all freshly painted, with small white painted daisies adorning it. There’s a picture of King Christian on the wall. I’ve become used to everything being functional, damaged, and shabby. The room feels spacious too, and I realize it’s because there are no beds in here: they have separate bedrooms.

‘Marianne?’ Annette recalls my attention gently. ‘Do you accept? Would you like to bring some of your work here tomorrow for me to look at?’

‘
Ja. Ja, tak!
’ Yes, thank you. I accept warmly, ashamed at my slowness. ‘I was looking at your room. It’s so pretty.’ I can see at once I’ve said the right thing. She looks pleased.

‘Good. That’s settled then. Can you find your own way here, do you think? If Peter takes you home now?’

‘Yes, of course,’ I assure her, delighted at the thought of coming here again tomorrow. Annette twists the rest of the biscuits in a small piece of paper and presses them into my hand as I leave. ‘For the Jakobsen children,’ she says. I thank her and tuck them into my pocket.

Peter smiles as his mother tells him everything is settled. I shake her by the hand and take my leave. Peter wraps my shawl around me, and as we step out into the dark, he draws my hand through the crook of his arm again. I feel proud and happy to be walking through the town with Peter like this.

The short winter day is already over. The snow gleams in the darkness, lighting our way, and the sky is full of glittering stars.

‘It gets dark so early here,’ I remark.

‘In the winter it does. But then in the summer it’s light almost all the time.’

I take a deep breath of the clean pure air, and the cold is invigorating. The thought of summer is unimaginable at this moment.

When we reach Jakobsens’, my heart sinks a little at the thought of going back into that noise and squalor. We stop, standing close to one another in the dark.

‘I expect I’ll see you tomorrow when you come to see my mother,’ Peter says. ‘There’s no fishing to be done in this weather.’ He hesitates a moment, and then draws a small package from his pocket. ‘I have a small gift for you,’ he says. ‘It’s nothing much,’ he adds hurriedly. ‘I was going to give it to you on Christmas Day, but you seemed upset.’ He holds it out to me. My hands are clumsy with the cold as I unwrap it. There’s a length of very fine ribbon and a paper twist of liquorice sweets from Brøndum’s store.

‘The ribbon’s blue, to match your eyes,’ he tells me softly.

‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’ I’m surprised and touched by his thoughtfulness. I offer my hand. Peter takes it, but instead of shaking it, he just holds it in both his.

‘You’re welcome,’ he says, but he doesn’t let go. I stand still, hardly daring to breathe. His hands are warm, despite the cold air. Our breath steams into the icy night, swirling and mingling. Peter moves a little closer, and my heart begins to hammer painfully in my chest.

But Lise opens the door behind me and puts her head out.

‘Marianne!’ she cries joyfully, wrapping her arms around my legs, which is as high as she can reach.

The spell is broken. Peter releases my hand, wishes me goodnight, and disappears into the darkness.

I
had hoped it might be Peter when I heard the knock on the door this afternoon. But I should have known better. Since the thaw came at the end of January he’s been out fishing every day. He’s rarely home now when I go to Annette’s. I only see him on Sundays, when he often walks me home from church. But having been trapped in the house for a week by heavy rain and flooding, I was pleased to have any visitor. The sight of Mikkel at the door was a welcome one.

The floodwater’s up to my knees now and it’s bitterly cold. My feet are so numb that I can no longer feel whether it’s sand or grass underfoot.

‘We’re nearly there,’ Mikkel encourages me. ‘The boat is just round here.’

It’s all very well for him. He’s borrowed his father’s thigh-length fishing boots.

‘Will it get any deeper?’ I ask, struggling to keep my dress dry. I’m also carrying a parcel of finished embroidery for Annette.

‘Just a little. Why don’t you let me carry your parcel for you?’

Reluctantly I hand it over, and hitch my skirt right up above my knees. It’s been raining non-stop for the last week. Not merely raining, either. Pouring out of the sky as though it will never stop, finding every leak in our ill-thatched roof, and splashing into the wooden pails I’ve set to catch the drips. I even have to get up in the night to empty them. Today is almost the first pause we’ve had, and the sky is threatening even now.

‘There’s the boat,’ says Mikkel pointing.

But I’m looking at the flooded town, which I haven’t seen until now.

‘All the paths have been turned into waterways,’ I exclaim. ‘Does this happen often?’

It seems to me everyone is taking it very calmly. They are merely getting out their small boats and rowing where they usually walk.

‘We often have a week or so under water each year,’ Mikkel tells me.

Getting into a small boat is much harder than I expected. As soon as I try and put any weight on the side, it tips wildly towards me.

Mikkel is laughing, and it’s catching.

‘Wait!’ he orders, and wades around the boat in order to hold down the far side.

‘You can climb in now—but remember: it’s a boat, not a tree!’

As if I’ve ever climbed a tree.

I try to get in elegantly, but end up in a mad scramble, getting my skirt wet after all and stubbing my toes.

‘Ouch!’ I hold my bruised, numb toes in one hand and cling to the side with the other, waiting for the rocking to stop.

Mikkel hands me my precious parcel and unties the rope. He then hops neatly in.

‘How do you do that so easily?’ I ask, jealous.

‘I’ve had lots of practice, of course,’ Mikkel answers with a shrug. Boats are a part of his life.

‘I shall obviously have to try this a few more times,’ I remark ruefully.

Sitting facing me, Mikkel pushes the oars into the water, fitting them into the rowlocks. With a few deft pulls, he steers us out into deeper water and towards the main street. I watch him rowing and decide it looks quite easy. He’s pulling strongly on the oars now.

‘I’m glad you came,’ I say. ‘I was so bored. Yesterday I even ran out of sewing to do. It’s kind of you to take me to Annette’s.’

‘You’re welcome. I thought you might be getting tired of Lene’s company by now.’

We grin at each other, and then come round a half submerged sand dune into the main street.

‘Oh!’ I cry in surprise. ‘So that’s why so many of these houses have little bridges in front of them.’

I had simply accepted the bridges as an architectural feature of Skagen, but now I can see that each house is built slightly raised, and the bridges link the submerged road with the houses. Many of the bridges have small craft tied to them, and a number of people are rowing up or down the street, or pushing their boats along with a long pole.

‘Our very own Venice!’ Mikkel tells me, and there’s a note of pride in his voice I’ve rarely heard there before.

‘
God dag, Mikkel
,’ calls a man I don’t know from another small craft.

Mikkel merely nods to him and seems a little out of breath.

‘Would you like me to take a turn?’ I ask.

He pauses and looks at me. There’s a smile lurking in his eyes.

‘Have you ever rowed?’

‘Well, no. But I’ve watched. And you can teach me how. I’m much stronger than when I first came here.’

It’s true and Mikkel knows it, but the smile in his eyes has deepened.

‘Maybe on the way back,’ Mikkel says, and there’s a teasing note in his voice. ‘You wouldn’t like to get your sewing wet before you’ve delivered it.’

I bite my lip and look away. I won’t give him the angry reaction he’s hoping for. No one ever teased me before I met Mikkel, and it hasn’t been easy to learn how to respond. I try to think of something to say to regain my dignity, but nothing comes to mind.

We are passing Mikkel’s house now. It’s built on higher ground, and the floodwater hasn’t quite reached it.

‘Did your father build the house?’ I ask.

Today, Mikkel is more communicative than usual.

‘No, my grandfather built it. My father’s father. But my mother is from a well-to-do farming family south of here. So when they were married, my father extended the house.’

‘And is your grandfather still alive?’

‘No, he died before I was born. In fact I think it was his death that brought my father back to Skagen.’

‘Back? From where?’

I’m curious about my uncle, and even more curious to hear something about my father.

‘Father doesn’t talk about it,’ is Mikkel’s reply, as he pulls hard on the oars again to get out of the way of another boat.

‘Never? But surely you must know something of where he went? I mean, why did he leave Skagen? I didn’t think many people did.’

Mikkel rests his oars a moment, and looks straight at me. He’s glowing with the exercise and his eyes are very bright.

‘You’re asking a lot of questions.’

‘I’m interested. You don’t talk much about your family.’

‘You don’t talk about yours at all,’ he retorts.

I sit back and look down at my feet. ‘Sorry,’ I say.

‘It’s all right,’ he sighs. ‘My father had arguments with his father, I think. They didn’t get on. So he and his brother ran away together. They worked on various boats, and saw a bit of the world.’ Mikkel pauses, and then bursts into speech again. ‘So he can’t really tell me I must spend all my life here, can he? I mean, he didn’t. He went away.’

I want to shake the information out of Mikkel. He just mentioned my father and now he’s off on a different tack.

I’ve known Mikkel for half a year and I can see he doesn’t fit in here. He knows everyone, and is well liked, but nevertheless, he’s an outsider. His interests and his intellect divide him from those around him. He loves the place; the heath land, the wildlife, the coast, but there’s no suitable companionship here for him. I suppose he seeks my friendship because I, too, am different.

‘Are you sure it wouldn’t be worth speaking to him again?’ I ask.

Mikkel shakes his head impatiently.

‘He’ll never listen. He doesn’t understand.’

I nod sympathetically. We’ve talked about this before.

‘Perhaps he even went to Copenhagen himself,’ I suggest, and I feel like a louse, trying to extract information from my friend in this way.

Mikkel is staring out at the water, his eyes unfocused, allowing the boat to drift. He doesn’t answer me.

‘So what happened to his brother?’ I ask.

Mikkel looks at me blankly.

‘You said your father went away with his brother.’

‘Oh. He drowned. Crossing back from England, I think,’ Mikkel says vaguely. It’s obviously not a subject that interests him much.

‘Was your father with him in England?’

‘No idea. He’s never mentioned going to England. Why are you so interested in my family history all of a sudden?’

We’re as close to Peter’s house as we can get now, and Mikkel is busy shipping his oars and climbing out.

Because you’re my cousin, but I can’t tell you, I think silently. But I just smile and say, ‘Because you’re my friend, that’s why.’ And as I climb out into the icy water, I pause and give his shoulder a friendly squeeze.

Mikkel grins, pleased, and puts his free arm around my shoulders and gives me a quick hug in return.

Together we turn towards the house, and I see both Annette and Peter standing at the door. I’m slightly embarrassed when I realize they’ve been watching us. Annette smiles and calls out:

‘Come in, come in and warm yourselves!’ She throws the door wide open.

Peter, on the other hand, stands stiff and unsmiling. His handshake is formal and cold. The shock goes right through me, leaving my hands tingling unpleasantly. What can be wrong? I’m so bad at reading and understanding people’s behaviour. I haven’t had enough practice.

We’ve come in through the outer workroom today, so Annette leads us past the nets hanging partly mended and the salting vat, three quarters full of fish. There are chickens clucking softly in a pen in one corner. I hesitate before following Annette through into the kitchen but Peter has gone back to mending his nets and doesn’t even glance at me again. Reluctantly, I leave him.

The kettle is singing over a bright fire. It’s a welcome and cheerful sight. A contrast to the greyness of the weather outside the house.

‘You’ll want some coffee to warm you up. Go through and take a seat by the stove.’

Mikkel and I both go through into the living room and sit as close to the stove as we can get. It radiates heat, and I can hear the cheerful crackle of the flames inside.

My toes are thawing, tingling painfully in the warmth, when Annette comes in with coffee for us. I can feel my cheeks beginning to glow.

‘I brought the aprons and handkerchiefs back,’ I tell Annette. ‘They’ve been ready for two days but I didn’t know how to get here to give them to you and fetch more work. Mikkel very kindly offered to bring me in his boat.’

Annette smiles approvingly at Mikkel. ‘If I had known you’d have these done so quickly, I’d have sent Peter by with some more.’

How I wish she had known.

She’s unpacking the work I’ve done. As always, I’m nervous, holding my breath as she examines them.

‘Beautifully done, Marianne. You can be proud of yourself.’

I let my breath go in a sigh of relief.