Between Two Seas (6 page)

The sand is soft and yielding underfoot. It’s pleasant at first. There are seashells everywhere. I stoop to look at them, picking up a few of the prettiest and putting them in my bag. I soon stop. There are so many of them, and each time I bend down, the wind blows sand in my face. It’s swirling in fierce clouds across the beach.

I can’t see many ships on the sea. The waves are white topped and I wonder whether the shipping has sought shelter.

I haven’t walked far before I come across a wreck. The rusting remains of an iron hull lies on its side, half in, half out of the water. The waves hush against the metal and the wind howls through the broken hull.

As I walk, I come across more and more wrecks. Some show above the waves, others are right up on the beach. The skeletons of wooden hulls lie exposed to the elements, their planking long since removed or rotted away. The beach gradually comes to feel as forlorn as a graveyard to me. All those journeys ended in terror and perhaps death. The thought lowers my spirits and makes walking harder.

My legs begin to ache, and the sand that has found its way inside my boots is rubbing my toes. I’m already growing tired, and there must still be a long way to go. I stop and empty my boots and try walking on the firmer sand right by the water’s edge. It’s easier, and this helps me summon up reserves of strength.

All at once, I come to a place where I can’t walk on. The sand is soggy and wet, and when I step out into it, I quickly sink up to my ankles. I hurriedly draw back. Shifting my bag into the other hand, and pulling my shawl over my face, I turn into the wind. It scours sand across my forehead and into my eyes and whips my hair in my face. I trudge towards the dunes. Every now and then, I venture too close to the patch of bog or whatever it is, and sink a little, before struggling out.

I claw my way up the dunes, gasping for breath under my shawl. They’re steep, and the sand keeps sliding away from under me. At the top, I’m up out of the drifting sand, but the wind is stronger than ever. It tugs at my clothes, screams in my ears and numbs my senses.

I’m exhausted now. I scan the land, desperately looking for some signs of human habitation. Perhaps a barn or a house I could shelter in. I’m ready to give up the journey for today.

But there’s nothing.

Just rolling dunes with waving grasses, patches of heath and pools of water as far as the eye can see.

Disappointed, I make my way slowly along the top of the dunes for some distance before I venture back down to the beach. The sand is normal again now, and I make my way to the water’s edge. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. The wind is like a solid wall, pushing against me.

Time crawls by while I struggle northwards. Eventually I sink down onto the sand, exhausted, my back to the wind. I hug my bag, and quickly begin to shiver. I wonder what the man at the inn meant when he described the beach today as
farlig
. At first I thought it might mean tiring. Now I’m beginning to wonder whether he meant dangerous.

I consider going back there and offering to work for a night’s lodging. But it would be as far to walk back as to go on. I have to reach Skagen.

I struggle to my feet and pick up my bag. It feels as though it’s filled with rocks. As I turn and try to walk, the wind slams into my chest, knocking the breath out of me for a second. I’m stiff and aching all over. I can feel tears of self-pity streaking my face. The wind chills them, so that they run cold and gritty down my face.

I force myself to take another step. And another. How far is it? I feel as though I simply can’t go on. Sobs make my chest heave, but I can’t hear myself crying over the gale. The daylight is beginning to fade.

A dark shape rears up in front of me, lessening the force of the wind. Another wreck. It gives me an idea. It would be shelter of sorts if I could climb inside it. But there is too little left of this wreck to offer decent shelter.

I push myself to keep going, perhaps to find a more complete wreck. I lose all sense of time. Perhaps five minutes or perhaps five hours later I come to a stream. The water flows, brown and peaty, from the dunes. I unlace my boots, my back to the gale, and sling them around my neck. Gathering my skirts tightly in my free hand, I step down into the water. The unexpected cold makes me gasp. The sand has a slightly slimy feel underfoot, and I wade across as quickly as I can. As I step out of the water on the far side, sand whips around my legs, burning them.

I can see another wreck ahead. Without bothering to put my boots back on, I fight my way towards it. I’m breathless and exhausted when I reach the shelter it offers. I can breathe! I hear myself panting and gasping for air in the relative quiet.

This is a steam ship, a massive iron monster. It’s lying on its side, twisted and broken, the sand drifted into huge silver mounds around it. I’m almost hysterical with relief, as I throw myself down on the sand in the lee of the hull. I rub my face with my hands: it feels numb. But even here it is too windy. It’s also getting dark, and I’ve never been out alone at night. The thought terrifies me.

I walk around the vast bulk of the wreck, looking for a more sheltered spot. At the end that faces the sea, where the propeller must once have been, there’s a gaping hole. The metal has been torn wide open, leaving a jagged entrance to the hull.

I peer inside. It looks sheltered and reasonably dry. But it’s dark. And it stinks of rotting seaweed and rusted metal. I stand, trying to gather the courage to go in. Who knows what may be inside?

Holding my breath, trying not to touch anything, I crawl in. It’s warmer in here. I can hear the wind still screaming and scraping sand against the outside of the hull. Gradually as I get used to being in the ship, I begin to relax a little. I can wait out the storm, tucked away in here. The relief is still intense. For a short time, I became afraid I might die out there on the beach.

Darkness falls. It’s so black inside the wreck that I feel blind. I sit shivering, whether most from cold or fear, I’m not sure. My eyes are stinging with tiredness.

Every now and then the hull groans and creaks in the wind. Every sound echoes around it. I sweat with fear. I can’t stop imagining the drowned crew. They walk, grey and rotting, out of the sea towards me. Seawater streams off their ragged clothes. There is seaweed tangled in their hair. Their eye sockets are blank and empty, their hands reach out blindly towards me.

Shivering uncontrollably, I stuff the end of the cloak into my mouth and bite down on it hard to stop myself from screaming. I wait, breathless, for their hands to find me. Minutes draw out into hours. Sometimes I think I can feel their ghostly hands on me, their rotting breath against my cheek. My whole body is rigid and shaking. Don’t be stupid, think about something else. I can’t say it out loud in case it draws the ghosts to me. I do try, but no other thoughts can keep my fears at bay for long.

Not until the first grey light of dawn signals the start of a new day, do I begin to relax. This has been one of the longest nights of my life.

I must have fallen asleep after all. I’m twisted uncomfortably, my head on my bag. As I sit up, I’m stiff and aching all over. Bright sunshine is pouring in through the hole in the hull.

I crawl out onto the beach and blink in the bright light. The wind has almost gone. The sand is still, and the sky is a clear, clear blue. I’m dazzled for a moment. And then I smile at the beach, beautiful in the morning sunlight. Holding out my arms, I spin around, laughing with joy and relief, and then fall onto the sand, smoothing it with my hands. I’m still alive. I’ve done it. Now I can do the rest as well.

I’m starving. When did I last eat? I can’t remember. A day ago perhaps.

I pull my parcel of food out of my bag and fall upon the bitter dark bread, the juicy yellow plums, and even the raw pickled fish. I would normally push it aside and leave it. It’s slimy and tastes of vinegar, but I’m so hungry I don’t care.

Sand has got into the food; I can feel it crunching between my teeth, gritty and salty. Nonetheless, I eat every last crumb. Now I’m thirsty, but I don’t have a drink. Time to move on.

M
y feet are hurting. I stop and remove my boots and peel my stockings off painfully. I have blisters all over my feet and toes, and they are weeping and bleeding. I hitch up my skirt and step into the shallow waves. The salt water stings. My breathing is ragged as I grit my teeth.

I walk up and down, swishing my feet in the beautifully clear water. There are a few brown jellyfish floating in the small waves, but I take care to stay away from them. After a while my feet stop hurting and feel better.

I walk on barefoot. Now I’m leaving footprints and toe prints in the soft sand instead of boot prints. I turn and walk backwards a few paces to see the prints appear.

When I come to a stream, I walk inland a little, and then lie down on the dune grasses and scoop water into my mouth with my hands. It tastes earthy, but it’s cool and refreshing. I drink and drink until my thirst is quenched.

I climb onto a tall sand dune to get a view inland. Only rolling dunes as far as the eye can see. I sit down and slide back down the dune, the sand cascading around me. I dig my hands into the pale gold, and trickle the grains through my fingers. It reminds me of when I was little, when mother took a day off work and we walked to the beach. Those are happy memories, and I smile to myself.

Quite by chance I look behind me. There is movement. I scrunch up my eyes, trying to make out what it is. I can feel my heart beating faster, whether with hope or fear I hardly know. It looks like a horse and cart, but I can’t be sure. I keep looking back as I walk. I feel as if I’ve been alone for months.

I can see it properly now. Definitely an open cart, like the one I rode in yesterday. It has huge wheels, and I can see the driver sitting straight, holding a long whip. He’s driving it with two wheels in the sea and two on the beach. Why? Oh, of course. The sand is so soft. I’ve discovered for myself it’s easiest to walk right on the water’s edge.

Hurriedly, I force my sore feet back into my boots, and then walk on, full of hope.

They’re catching me up now. There are two men, besides the driver, and I can hear them speaking Danish. I slow down, limping more than I need to, hoping for a lift. Surely they will stop?

The cart draws alongside me and begins to pass me. Disappointment courses through me, and without quite meaning to, I look up reproachfully at them.

One man catches my eye. Immediately he calls to the driver:

‘
Holdt!
’

The cart pulls up just ahead of me. Now that they’ve stopped, I’m suddenly shy, but both the passengers are smiling down at me in the friendliest way. They are smartly dressed. One is an adult with a full beard, twinkling eyes, and smile creases. The other is a young man, just a few years older than me, I would guess.

The older man speaks to me.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘I don’t speak Danish.’

His face falls.

‘
Engelsk?
’ he asks. ‘
Nej. Mais français? Ça va mieux!
’

‘
Vous parlez français?
’ I am astonished. In the remote north of Denmark, I suddenly meet someone who speaks French. How strange.

‘
Mais oui!
’ He’s grinning now. ‘
Nous allons à Skagen. Voulez vous venir avec nous?
’

He’s offering me a lift. I nearly jump for joy. I beam up at him and accept at once. My French is only passable. I’ve only ever spoken it with my mother. How I complained when she insisted I learned it. ‘What use will French ever be to me?’ I used to groan. ‘We can’t afford to travel to Lincoln, let alone France.’ Now I have my answer.

The two men are letting down the tailboard at the back of the cart so that I can climb in. The older man reaches down for my bag, the younger man reaches down and grasps my hand. He pulls me up. I scramble into the cart, catching my skirt and landing on the wooden bench with a bump. At once the cart lurches forward again, tilting slightly with the slope of the beach.

The older man holds out his hand to me. He’s expecting to shake hands:

‘Hr Ancher,’ he introduces himself. I wonder whether Hr means mister. It doesn’t sound like a name. He has smooth well-kept hands. The young man’s are hard and callused.

‘Peter Hansen,’ he says. He has an open handsome face, sun-bleached fair hair, and eyes like the sea.

‘I’m Marianne,’ I tell them, and then to my surprise, I spot something, lying under the front seat of the cart.

‘Oh! My trunk!’ I can see my name on it. It’s so good to see it again.

‘Ah! It’s yours?’ asks Hr Ancher in French. ‘The woman at the inn asked us to bring it.’

Everything is going right now, and my spirits soar. I’m curious though, about how this man comes to speak French.

‘
Comment parlez vous français?
’ I ask.

‘
Je suis artiste
,’ he tells me. ‘
J’étudiais en Paris
.’

‘You’re an artist?’ I lean forward, fascinated, a hundred questions rising up in me. ‘And you live in Skagen?’

He nods.

‘
Et vous?
’ I turn to Peter, but he blushes and looks to his companion.

I can see I’ve said the wrong thing. I feel bad. Ancher explains that Peter fishes with his father for a living and doesn’t speak French.

I give Peter a shy smile. He’s the one I would most like to speak to, but he’s shut out of the conversation. I know the feeling all too well.

‘We don’t get many English visitors,’ Ancher says, looking at me expectantly. ‘Especially at this time of the year.’

He is very kind and charming, but I’m not going to tell him the reason for my journey.

‘What do you paint?’ I ask, determined to deflect attention from myself. He takes the change of subject without a blink.

‘Many things,’ he tells me. ‘The beach, the sun going down, my wife and my daughter. Most often I paint the local people. Many artists come to Skagen in the summer for the light,’ he explains. ‘I’m just on my way back from accompanying several friends to the train.’ He speaks fast and fluent French, and I struggle to follow it. ‘You are not an artist?’ he asks.