Between Two Seas (4 page)

When any of the men come down into the cabin, to eat or to take a short rest, they are drenched and exhausted. Even Jens has no word for me, only an anxious smile. They are battling for our survival. Each time one of them unbattens the hatch to come down into the cabin, water pours in with them, and then lies swishing back and forth on the floor. I can hear it in the darkness, and it makes me think of the whole sea trying to tear the ship apart. Terror sits like a hard knot in my stomach.

I listen to the sound of the men’s boots above me, and the shrieking of the wind, and I long for it to end. I can’t sleep for the many hours that the storm rages, only lie and wait.

At last it seems to lessen. The boat begins to move more purposefully again. Exhausted, I fall asleep.

When I wake, the hatch is open and light is streaming into the cabin. The creaking of the ship sounds friendly once more. Two sounds tell me all is well: on deck, someone is singing; and closer at hand, there are steady, rhythmic snores.

I sit up cautiously and climb out of my bunk. The captain is stretched out, fully dressed, in his bunk, asleep.

The singing stops, and Jens climbs down the ladder. He gives me a tired grin and says, ‘The storm is over now.’

Weakened beyond belief by seasickness and lack of food, I drag myself across the cabin. When Jens sees me trying to climb the ladder, he comes to help me up onto the deck. The sea is an angry boiling grey, the sky overcast. To my great joy, there’s land on the horizon.

‘It’s
Tyskland
,’ says Jens. ‘Germany.’ I must look startled, because he laughs. ‘We come too far south in the storm,’ he explains. ‘But we’ll be soon in Esbjerg now.’

As I look at the land, I feel a deep excitement rise unexpectedly within me. I had never left Grimsby and here I am looking at Germany. I imagine all the people there, living their lives, speaking their language.

‘Is it very different to England?’ I ask Jens. He is still standing next to me.

‘Germany?’ he asks. ‘I never went there.’

‘What about Denmark?’

He smiles at me. ‘Yes, quite different.’

I think how much I’ve grown to like his face these last few days. When I first saw him, I thought he was quite ugly. Skinny, with sandy hair and pale freckled skin. But now I find his face familiar and friendly. I find myself smiling warmly back at him.

‘Why go you to Denmark?’ he asks.

I feel myself closing up at once. I’m not going to share my story. I’m afraid of seeing him turn away from me in disgust. That’s what most people do when they discover I’m illegitimate. A whore’s brat, they call me. But I’ve seen whores with their painted faces and their shameless, flaunting ways. My mother was nothing like them. She was a lady.

A half-truth can do no harm.

‘I’m going to see my father,’ I say. ‘He came back to Denmark, and he doesn’t know my mother has died.’

Jens looks slightly puzzled. I don’t want to give further explanations, so I hurriedly add: ‘He lives in Skagen.’

‘Skagen?’ Jens whistles. He pronounces the name
Skayen
. ‘You have a long woyage. Someone is meeting you?’

I can’t help smiling at his mistake, though I wish I spoke his language half as well as he speaks mine.

‘No. I don’t know yet how I’ll travel.’

Jens looks at me, and I think I see some admiration in his eyes. For the first time, I’m slightly less afraid of my journey. I feel instead a little like an intrepid explorer, setting out alone to undiscovered corners of the world.

‘There’s a train,’ he tells me. ‘From Esbjerg. But I think it cost a lot of money.’

I’m about to ask him more, but Jens is watching his father loudly reprimanding Torben for some ill-done piece of work. Torben has been sullen since the incident in the cabin. Jens scowls as he watches him. He leans towards me and speaks in a lowered voice.

‘It’s the first time he fishes with us,’ he tells me. ‘My father says the last. He’s lazy, and not a good fisher.’

I want to thank Jens for continuing to shield me from Torben, but I don’t know how, and I can feel myself blushing as I try to find the words. Even as I draw breath to begin, he moves away from me to help his father with the sail.

I lean back against the mast, wrapping my cloak more closely about me, and take a deep breath of the fresh air. It fills me with courage.

I
don’t know what I expected Denmark to look like. Beautiful and magical perhaps, as it does in my dreams. But at first sight it’s not so very different to Grimsby. There are sand flats outside the harbour with wading birds and seagulls. As we come closer, I see the houses look unfamiliar. They are lower, and mainly thatched.

What strikes me as most different is an indefinable change in the quality of the light. It is stronger, bluer, and the sky looks bigger somehow. I tell myself I’m being fanciful, but the impression remains.

Captain Larsen hands me off the ship and onto the quayside. My legs tremble beneath me as I stand on solid ground at last, waiting for Torben to carry my trunk off the
Ebba.
The boat looks battered by the storm: her paintwork has suffered and her mainsail is torn.

Torben dumps the trunk ungraciously at my feet and climbs back on board without so much as looking at me.

I’m glad to see the last of him.

‘Where shall you go?’ the captain asks me brusquely.

I’ve been wondering the same thing myself.

This is a busy harbour, much like Grimsby. There is a huge amount of building work being done. I’ve seen them extending the docks in Grimsby over the years, and the same thing is happening here.

This part is the fishing harbour, and mainly filled with boats similar to the
Ebba
. In the distance I can see freight ships being unloaded, and I can hear the clang of metal on metal, drowning the nearer sound of the seagulls. I’m aware that I’m in a country where I don’t speak the language. I feel small and alone, but don’t want to show it.

‘I need to find an inn,’ I tell him firmly. ‘Can you recommend one? Not too expensive … ’ I add self-consciously.

The captain calls out something to Jens who is helping the other men unload the crates of fish packed in ice, and then he nods in my direction.

‘My son will show you,’ he says.

Jens steps off the boat, lifts my trunk onto his shoulder, and begins to walk along the quayside. I pick up my carpet bag and turn to follow him. To my horror, what I had thought was firm ground beneath my feet suddenly sways and lurches and I stagger. The three men on board the
Ebba
laugh. Jens turns to see what the joke is and grins to see me attempt another unsteady step.

‘It strange on the land again,’ he says. ‘You soon be used to it.’

I struggle after him, swaying on my feet. I’ve barely eaten for days and the effort of walking is making me shake. I look around me at the buildings, the boats, and the people, and it all seems so real, so solid. I can smell fish and machinery. Gulls are fighting over discarded fish heads on the quayside, just as they do at home. I can feel a sense of disappointment nagging at me. Surely it should all be far more beautiful than this?

I have to hurry to keep up with Jens.

‘Is my trunk not too heavy for you?’ I ask anxiously.

‘No,’ he assures me. ‘It’s not far.’ And indeed, as we turn a corner, there’s a small inn on our right. It’s a low building, just one storey, with big wooden beams in the walls, and the stonework painted red. Jens places my trunk carefully just inside the doorway, and then turns to face me. We look at each other uncertainly for a moment, and then he wipes his hand on his trousers and offers it. I shake it. When he leaves I’ll be alone again.

‘You’ll be all right?’ he asks.

I nod, trying to recapture the feeling of bravery I experienced earlier.

‘Thank you. For everything,’ I stammer.

‘You’re welcome!’ He winks, grins, and saunters off.

A large, motherly-looking landlady has appeared beside me, looking a question.

‘Do you speak English?’ I ask tentatively.

‘
Nej
,’ she replies, shaking her head. It’s a bad start.

‘I need a room for the night,’ I try again.

The warmth is fading from the afternoon sun, and I’m exhausted. She speaks to me in Danish again, and then disappears, returning a few moments later with a thin, stooped man I take to be her husband.

‘English?’ he asks. ‘Room?’

‘Yes,’ I agree gratefully. I’m relieved, but in fact his English is very limited and we struggle to understand one another. Neither will he accept my English money, directing me to the bank to exchange it for Danish
kroner
. Of course, I should have expected that. But what I need more than anything in the world right now is to lie down on a bed that will remain still beneath me.

‘Tomorrow,’ I beg.

He nods.

‘
I morgen
,’ he agrees. ‘Tomorrow.’

At last he picks up my trunk and carries it into a small bedchamber at the back of the house. It is sparsely and simply furnished with a bed, a chest, and a washstand, but light and clean. A wonderful contrast to the boat. The landlady brings me a jug of water and a candle. I can relax for the first time in days. I take a deep breath and let it go in a sigh of pleasure.

I drink a little water, then wash my face and hands, and lie down on the bed. I listen to the noises of the inn and, further away, the harbour, so different to the sounds at sea. In only a few moments the sounds fade and I fall into the first real sleep I’ve had since I left England.

When I open my eyes it’s early morning.

The inn is bustling with noise and activity. There are noises from the kitchen. Breakfast being prepared perhaps. It sounds comfortingly ordinary. But then I hear someone speak Danish. I’m in a foreign country now. Nervous butterflies flutter in my stomach. My father’s language. It is a strange thought that it may become a familiar language to me. I know how hard it is to learn a language: my mother taught me a little French.

I lie in bed for a while, savouring the stillness after the days and nights on board the
Ebba.
I stretch and yawn luxuriously in the clean sheets. I’m so comfortable I’m soon in danger of falling asleep again.

‘I need to move on,’ I say out loud to myself, and I sit up. I can’t waste this day; I don’t have the money for many nights lodging. In any case I’m eager to get to Skagen. I feel better for my sleep, but I can see in the looking glass that my eyes still have dark shadows etched beneath them.

Timidly, I seek the landlord. He speaks to me at great length in a mixture of Danish and English, and I understand perhaps a quarter of what he says. I keep smiling. I ask him about the bank and the train station and get some directions which I am not clear about: ‘You goes up the
bakken.
Up,
ja
. Until you get to
by
. Many
huse
. Yes, then you turning to right to find bank.’

I’ll just head for the town and ask again.

Meanwhile his wife fusses about kindly, setting breakfast before me. She gives me weak ale, to which I’m not accustomed. We drank tea at home. The bread is dark and bitter, like nothing I’ve ever tasted. I don’t like it at all. I hope they have proper bread here as well as this sort.

Once I’ve eaten what I can, I thank the landlady and she teaches me the word in Danish.
Tak
.

‘
Tak!
’ I imitate. She smiles, and pats me on the cheek.

It’s my first word of Danish and it will be useful. I’m still weak and shaken from the sea crossing, but the ground is firm beneath my feet now, and I’m able to walk up the hill to the town.

I
shiver as I climb down from the train into the smoke and steam on the platform: the temperature has dropped at the end of the day and I’m stiff and cold. A porter hurries forward to take my trunk. I’ll have to pay him. More money gone.

Large signs announce that this is Frederikshavn, the last station on the line north. I am only some thirty miles south of Skagen now. Nearly there!

I have travelled up from Esbjerg in just one long day. The train was comfortable and swift, and I enjoyed the journey. But it was an expensive luxury. I only have five Danish kroner and a few øre left. The coins are wrapped in a handkerchief, carefully tucked into my pocket. I’ve counted them over and over again.

As we walk up the platform, I look for a railway official. When I see one in his dark suit and cap, he is surrounded by passengers. I must wait my turn to speak to him while the porter taps his wooden clogs impatiently. I feel flustered. Queuing is not much respected here, it seems, and I am left standing stupidly as other passengers push past me to speak to him.

‘Excuse me!’ I say at last, when there is a moment’s pause. ‘I need to go to Skagen.’ I’ve written the name on a piece of paper. He says something and gestures, but of course I don’t understand. I’m so tired I can’t think of a way to explain. In the end he shrugs and turns away as someone else claims his attention. My heart sinks.

‘Problems always look smaller in the morning,’ my mother used to say. I settle for miming to the porter that I need to find somewhere to sleep, somewhere cheap.

As I follow him out of the station I can smell the sea and the fish from the harbour. We are right by it here; I can see cranes and warehouses on the quay, and here too, they are extending the harbour.

We pick our way through a maze of narrow, filthy alleys. Either side of us are hovels and drinking houses, from which men emerge from time to time, reeling with the effects of drink. Outside one, two men are attempting to fight, but are almost too drunk to stand upright. They slip and stagger among the refuse that’s lying in the street. We give them a wide berth. I’ve never been out this late, though I’ve heard the sounds of drunken men often enough.