Between Two Seas (26 page)

We’re both watching the boat, now far out in the surf, when a huge jagged flash of lightning reaches down out of the sky towards it. There’s a huge bang, followed so immediately by a crack of thunder that it sounds almost like an echo. We both jump, and scream with fright. When I recover, and search for Peter’s boat, I can see only an upturned hull. I dash the rain out of my eyes and look again.

‘Oh, what’s happened? Did the lightning strike the boat?’ I stare through the rain and murky light, desperate to see some sign of Peter, but I can see nothing except the hull, bobbing in the swell.

‘We must get help.’ I begin to run up the beach, pulling Lise with me. ‘Come on!’ The wind is driving the raindrops straight into my face and tearing at my wet hair. I can hardly see where I’m going. I almost fall over another small rowing boat. The next flash lights it up, upturned on the sand, its oars neatly stowed beneath it. It’s clear to me at once what I must do.

First I kneel down beside Lise again. Taking her by both shoulders, I shout to her urgently, fighting to be heard above the waves and wind.

‘Listen to me. I need your help. Peter’s in danger and I can’t leave him. Do you understand?’

She nods.

‘Good. This is what I need you to do.’ I smooth back her hair that the rain has plastered to her face. ‘Run to the nearest house. Bang on the door until someone answers. You have to find grown-ups. Tell them Peter Hansen’s in trouble. And that Marianne is trying to help. Can you do that?’

‘Yes.’ Lise nods bravely. ‘Will you be safe, Marianne?’

‘I will be,’ I promise. ‘As long as you fetch help.’

But I’m not as sure as I try to sound. I’m shaking as I pull the small boat down to the sea and push it into the waves. The strong offshore wind helps me. With my usual inelegant scramble, I haul myself into the boat and fit the oars into the rowlocks. I’ve never rowed on the open sea before, and this is a really bad time to start.

I fight with the waves as they try to push me off course, but the wind helps me onwards in uneven jumps. The water is slapping against the sides of the boat. The effort steadies my nerves. It’s better to be doing something than standing helplessly on the beach.

Every few strokes, I look anxiously over my shoulder to check I’m on course for Peter’s upturned boat. It’s still there, rocking. Eventually I reach it. I hear a weak shout over the noise of the wind. A pale skinny arm waves to me from the far side of the upturned boat. As my own craft bumps into the hull, I ship my oars and grab hold of it. Hand over hand, I pull myself around.

‘Peter?’ I cry.

‘
Her er han!
’ Here he is, calls a faint voice. The two boats are bumping and knocking against one another in the turbulent sea. I hang on grimly, leaning over the side of my own boat, pulling it around Peter’s, until I see the boy. He’s clinging to the edge of the boat with one hand, trying to hold on to Peter’s limp body with the other arm. He’s not managing to keep Peter’s head out of the waves, which wash right over him from time to time. His eyes are closed, and he’s as pale as death.

‘Is he alive?’ I gasp, anguished.

‘I don’t know,’ splutters the boy. ‘Help!’

I reach down into the water and take hold of Peter under his arms. I try to pull him up into the boat, but he’s far too heavy for me. I can’t do more than lift him a short way, rocking the boat precariously.

‘Help me!’ I order the boy. He tries to push Peter, but it doesn’t make any difference. He just disappears under the water himself.

‘I can’t,’ he gasps, coming up again. His skin has a bluish tinge, he looks exhausted.

‘Can you climb in?’ I ask. He pulls himself around to the opposite side and tries. He’s so weak it takes him two or three goes to get over the side. As the boat lurches, I cling desperately to Peter.

The boy is skinny and small, he can’t be more than ten years old. He’s also completely naked. He sits in the boat, shivering in the wind and the rain. The lightning and thunder continue around us.

‘What are you doing out here?’ I demand angrily.

‘It was a stupid bet,’ he says, shamefaced. ‘I went out further than I meant to. I didn’t see the storm coming up behind me. He came out to get me,’ he says, pointing at Peter. ‘Is he all right?’

‘I don’t know. Help me get him in.’ He leans over the side of the boat next to me and takes hold of Peter as well. Together we pull with all our strength. The boat tips, slopping water over the side. Even between us, we can’t pull Peter high enough to get him aboard. We just bang him against the edge of the boat.

I can feel hot tears of fear and frustration running down my face, mingling with the rain and the salt seawater. ‘I’m sorry, Peter,’ I say, as I hold him tight. Every lurch bruises my ribs as I lean out over the edge of the boat, but I hang on. I slip one hand inside Peter’s shirt, to where I think his heart should be. His skin is cold and slippery like a corpse. But as I hold my hand against his chest, I think I can feel a faint heartbeat. It gives me hope.

‘What’s your name?’ I shout to the boy.

‘Jesper,’ he shouts back.

‘Look towards the beach, Jesper. Can you see anyone?’ He stares inland, shielding his eyes against the lashing rain.

‘I’m not sure,’ he shouts at last.

‘Then you’ll have to row us in. I can’t let go of Peter.’

Shivering, Jesper reaches for the oars and fits them into the rowlocks. He pulls feebly on them, but he’s rowing against the wind now and we don’t make any progress.

‘Row harder!’ I yell.

‘I’m too tired,’ he pleads.

My arms are aching, I’m chilled and bruised and terrified for Peter. I’ve no patience left, and lose my temper completely.

‘None of us would be here if it wasn’t for your stupidity,’ I shout. ‘Do you want him to die for rescuing you? It’s up to you to get us back to the beach!’

In reply, he sets his teeth and pulls with all his might, fighting the wind. The waves are with us at least. Now I can feel the boat moving. I hang on to Peter, my arms numb, and murmur words of encouragement that he can’t hear. ‘We’ll soon be safe, you’re going to be all right,’ I tell him. ‘Just don’t die, please don’t die. We’re nearly there.’

The rain lessens gradually, and it’s no longer quite so dark. All of a sudden, Jesper ships the oars, and turns around.

‘Here! Over here!’ he yells, waving his arms.

A boat emerges out of the rain, four men on board. Strong hands take Peter from me and haul him out of the waves. Jesper too, is lifted across and wrapped in a blanket and an oilskin. One of the men reaches out for me. With a shock, I recognize Christensen. Instinctively, I push him away.

‘Don’t you touch me!’ I shout at him furiously.

‘What do you think you’re doing out here?’ he cries in a hoarse voice. ‘You could have got yourself killed!’

‘What do you care if I drown?’ I yell.

‘
Så så
,’ says a soothing voice, and another man puts Christensen out of his way and helps me across into the bigger boat.

‘You’ve had a fright, but there’s no need for heated words or blame,’ he says kindly, wrapping me in a blanket. Christensen secures the small rowing boat so it can be towed ashore. A man is pouring
snaps
into Peter’s mouth. He chokes and stirs, but doesn’t recover consciousness. He’s so pale.

‘He’s alive,’ I hear someone say. They lay him down in the bottom of the boat. I can’t bear to see his head against the boards. I scramble across to him, lifting his heavy head and cradling it in my lap. As the men row with strong strokes towards the beach, I stroke Peter’s wet hair out of his face, and allow a small measure of relief to wash over me. He’s alive, surely that means he’ll be all right. The rain has almost stopped now, and the storm is heading out to sea. We reach the beach in no time.

The three of us are lifted out and carried onto the sand one by one. One man asks me briefly what happened, and I explain as best I can. In return, he tells me how Lise raised the alarm for us.

Once they’ve hauled the boats up onto the beach, two men set off with Peter, carrying him home. I want to go with him, but I don’t know what sort of reception I’d get from his family. Jesper is led off by another man, and I’m left alone on the beach with Christensen. The last man in the world I want to be with.

Weak and trembling, I turn and begin to walk towards the hotel.

‘Marianne!’ calls Christensen. I ignore him, but he follows me. ‘Wait! Are you well enough to go by yourself? I’m sorry I scolded you … ’

I turn on him. ‘Leave me alone, I hate you,’ I say fiercely.

‘You don’t understand. Marianne, I must speak with you once more.’

‘I don’t want to hear anything you have to say!’ I spit the words out, glaring at him. This time he flinches and takes a step back.

I turn and stumble away from him as fast as I can. All the way back to the hotel, I’m aware of him following at a distance, but he doesn’t attempt to speak to me again.

I
t’s been a long day. I wanted to make up the time I missed yesterday. Fru Brøndum said I didn’t have to. When I insisted on being allowed to work, she gave me light duties such as setting tables and blanching almonds. She praised me for my bravery. Everyone is making far too much fuss about what I did. Anyone would have done the same.

A note was brought to me by an errand boy an hour ago. Sitting on my bed, I break the seal and spread the paper open on my lap. Although I’ve learned spoken Danish, and can read some of my hymn book, written Danish is still a struggle for me. I need to spend some time over it before I’m sure I understand it all:

My dearest Marianne,

Peter has a concussion and must remain quietly in bed for several days at least. The doctor has good hopes that he will make a complete recovery.

It is thanks to you, Marianne, that he is here for us to nurse. Words cannot express our gratitude. We hope that you are none the worse for your exposure to the storm.

With all good wishes,

Annette Hansen

Impulsively, I decide to run over there at once. I hope they won’t mind. It’s only early evening after all. I quickly wash my face and hands and change my dress. I run all the way to Peter’s house, stopping only to pluck a bunch of rosebay willowherb on the way. The tall pink flowers grow in patches around the houses at this time of year, their fluffy seeds blowing in the wind.

The back door is open, a couple of hens scratching in the sand outside. I slow down in order to catch my breath, and then walk in through the workroom. Peter’s father is sitting on a stool, mending the nets. His face lights up when he sees me. He gets to his feet, calling for his wife. Annette comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She embraces me warmly.

‘Dear girl,’ she murmurs. Her coldness of the last month is apparently in the past, and I’m more than happy.

‘Christensen told us what happened,’ she continues. ‘You saved Peter’s life.’

‘It wasn’t just me.’ The mention of Christensen has unsettled me. What has he been saying about me? ‘If Lise Jakobsen hadn’t run for help, we might never have reached the beach,’ I explain.

‘She’s a good girl too,’ Annette agrees. ‘Come in and sit down, my dear. Can I get you anything? A glass of ale? Or a cup of coffee?’

I shake my head. ‘No, thank you. You don’t want to be bothered with visitors. I just came to hear how Peter is. And to bring these.’ I offer her the bunch of wild flowers.

‘
Tak!
’ says Annette, and begins hunting distractedly for a vase or a pot to stand them in. ‘Sorry if I’m not quite myself,’ she says, emerging from a cupboard. ‘It’s been a shock, you understand.’ She stands still a moment, her hand to her head. I take the vase from her and pour some water into it. Then I put the flowers in, trying to arrange them so they sit prettily.

‘We all know, of course,’ she continues, watching me, ‘that while the sea provides our living, it can also take our husbands, brothers, and sons from us at any time. And when they carried Peter in yesterday afternoon, I thought at first …

‘He was limp and so very white. But they assured me he was only unconscious. My husband went straight for the doctor. He has a huge bruise on the back of his head. That’s what caused the harm. Luckily it’s summer, so he wasn’t exposed to severe cold in the water.’

‘The bruise must be from when the boat overturned,’ I explain.

‘Come and have a glimpse of the patient,’ Annette begs. ‘Then please sit down and tell me exactly how it all happened.’

Peter is very pale, lying on his back, breathing heavily. His head is bandaged, and it gives me a fright to see him like that. I long to sit by him and talk to him, hold his hand, but his mother ushers me anxiously back out again.

‘He needs rest,’ she whispers. I understand that while I’m forgiven, while they are grateful to me, she doesn’t want me too close to Peter. Perhaps she still believes the rumours about me.

We sit and talk while dusk creeps into the corners of the house. The days are already drawing in. It’s difficult to relive the events of yesterday, and embarrassing to be treated like a heroine. I try to play down my own part in the rescue, but Peter’s parents have heard a glowing report from Christensen. It seems strangely unlike him to speak well of me. I mistrust his motives.

It’s late when I return to the hotel. I feel happier than I’ve felt for a long while, optimistic that Peter will recover. My happiness is further increased by the sight of an easel, oils, and a bundle of brushes in the corner of our attic room. Someone has carried up Perroy’s things for me. I run my hands over them longingly, before pulling on my nightgown and climbing into bed. Hannah is already fast asleep beside me.

It’s my last day in the hotel today. My things are packed and ready to go to Hannah’s house where I’m to stay through the winter months. I’m leaving in the morning.

In the middle of the afternoon, Hr Brøndum calls me down to the office and pays me the last of my wages. It’s not a large sum, as most of my money was to have come from the Perroys. But together with the money I earned sewing for Annette, it should see me through the winter.