Between Two Seas (7 page)

This time I really wonder whether I’ve misunderstood.

‘No, of course not!’

I can’t believe he would even ask. I can draw, of course, but can a woman be an artist? I can’t imagine it.

The cart suddenly lurches down into one of the streams that slice through the beach. We all hold on as the cart slithers and bumps through the water. The sand is obviously very soft and the horses strain. Finally we stop altogether. Our turn to be stuck.

The driver slaps the reins and shouts, but the horses can’t move on. He kicks off his clogs and jumps down into the stream to lead them, but that doesn’t work either. Ancher begins to remove his shoes and stockings and roll up his trousers, and Peter kicks off his clogs. I bend down to unlace my boots, but Peter stops me with an uplifted hand, shaking his head at me.

I hestitate, confused.

He jumps down into the stream and then lifts up his arms and beckons me. With a shock, I realize he intends to carry me.

‘I can walk!’ I protest, shaking my head.

‘
Il vous porte
,’ says Ancher with a grin.

My heart is beating very fast. I don’t want to be carried. Or do I? Peter is waiting, smiling at me. My heart beats faster still. I sit down on the edge of the cart, at the back, where the flap is down. Peter puts one arm around my waist and slips the other under my knees, and scoops me up. For a moment, I panic. I fear he’ll drop me, and put my arms around his neck, holding on. He hasn’t started walking yet. He’s still smiling at me, but his face is so close now. I can see how long his lashes are and how smooth and unblemished his skin is. I meet his eyes fleetingly and feel myself blushing.

He begins to walk, splashing energetically through the stream, carrying me as though I weigh nothing. I realize he’s not going to drop me and relax slightly. I can smell the clean linen of his shirt, and the sun on his skin. Just for a second I close my eyes. I feel a bit dizzy.

Then it’s over.

I’m standing on the far bank, and Peter is wading back to help push the cart. It seems to be an everyday event in this part of the world, getting stuck. They treat the problem with the same good humour that the peat-cart men did … was it only yesterday? I’ve lost track of time.

While they free the cart, I attempt to smooth my dress and my impossibly windblown hair. It’s coming unpinned, and is stiff with salt. I dread to think what kind of appearance I must present. My skin is taut and dry from exposure to the wind. My lips are chapped and sore. I wish I could tidy myself more.

Soon we’re under way again.

I can feel Peter’s eyes on me as the cart bumps along. After a while I look back at him to show I’ve noticed. To my surprise, he still doesn’t look away. Instead he smiles warmly, his eyes lighting up as he does so. It’s an open gaze, curious and friendly. I try to smile back, but colour floods my face and I look away.

Not much further north we come to a wreck so huge that it blocks most of the beach. To my astonishment, I see they’ve cut an archway in it. The whole cart drives in through the missing section of the iron hull.

‘Why are there so many wrecks here?’ I ask Hr Ancher. I don’t know the French word for wrecks, so I say something like ‘broken ships’. He seems to catch my meaning.

‘This is a dangerous stretch of coastline,’ he explains. ‘Strong winds and hidden sandbars.’ Ancher points and gestures with his hands, making a pantomime out of the explanation. I notice Peter grinning as he watches.

I look inland, at the towering dunes that edge the beach, cutting off any view of the land.

‘And how far does the sand go?’ I ask, pointing inland. I’ve been wondering about this, having seen nothing but dunes rolling into the distance.

‘Here? All the way to the other coast,’ Ancher tells me. ‘The sand blows and shifts with every storm. And there are patches of soft sand everywhere. Whole coaches drawn by four horses have been swallowed up by them. That’s why they can’t build a road or a railway. Do you see the white building there?’ He points inland and I see a white tower with a red roof.

‘It was a church. The sand buried it. That’s just the top of the tower you can see there above the sand.’

I wonder if I’ve understood him correctly.

‘
Une église entière?
Did they not try to dig it out?’ I can’t remember the word to dig, so I mime it. I’m awestruck at the idea of a whole church buried under sand.

‘Many times,’ Ancher nods. ‘But the sand keeps coming. They’ve built a new church in Skagen now. They painted the tower of this one white to warn the ships. A landmark.’

I look down the beach. From here I can see the remains of two wrecked ships.

‘It doesn’t seem to work.’ I can’t keep the dryness out of my voice.

My visions of my father living in a neat farmhouse fade. This isn’t farming land. But then I knew my father’s family fished, and that they owned their own boat. Perhaps Skagen is a flourishing fishing community, with a harbour like Esbjerg or Frederikshavn.

The next building we see is a windmill. Its thatch is as grey as the sky, and its sails are still. There are boats pulled up onto the beach here and there, and I can see a number of men, and women too, wading, hauling on fishing nets. Some are wearing oilskins, others are clad in waterlogged woollen sweaters. The nets are secured around their waists with ropes, held in place with strips of wood. There’s a rowing boat further out, and the men are shouting what sound like instructions to one another. I’ve never seen fishing from the beach before, and watch with interest. It looks hard work.

One of the fishermen hails the cart, and Ancher calls to the driver to stop. The fisherman walks unhurriedly to the cart. He’s wearing tall boots and oilskins even though it’s a warm day. I watch him curiously, noting the lined and weathered face, his stiff, upright bearing. His huge beard is fair but streaked with grey. The man looks stern, intimidating. He doesn’t smile as he greets Ancher, neither does he offer his hand. When he speaks, his voice is deep and booming. The voice of a man accustomed to command. He reminds me of the preacher in Grimsby who treated me so scornfully. I feel fearful of this man and turn away a little, pulling my sunbonnet forward to hide my face.

Peter catches my eye and smiles. I smile back shyly and he begins to speak. Of course, I don’t understand a word he says. He starts pointing to the people who are fishing, and talks some more. I just keep smiling at him, embarrassed, each time he pauses. What am I supposed to say in return? I say nothing.

At length, Ancher and the fisherman finish their conversation and the cart lurches forward once more.

‘
Dav
, Peter!’ I hear the fisherman greet Peter belatedly. I keep my face averted so he can’t see me. He makes me nervous.

Ancher watches him as we move on. ‘That man is one of our important townspeople. He’s our … ’ Ancher mentions a word I don’t understand. I must look puzzled, because he tries to explain. It sounds as if the fisherman also holds some official post, but I still don’t really follow. But I understand when Ancher says, ‘He’s a stern man, that one. And strict. He’s more judgemental than the parson himself if anyone has done wrong.’

Yes, that’s how he looked to me, I think to myself.

The cart turns inland and ploughs across the soft sand of the beach and up onto a sandy track on the inland side of the dunes. The horses are wading in sand up over their hooves. There are houses now, either side of us, straggling along the coast. For the most part, they are tarred wooden shacks thatched with dune grass; some have the craziest shapes. Some are obviously upside-down boats built into dwellings or sheds. I can make a guess, now, where the wood from the wrecked ships went to.

Suddenly the air no longer smells of the sea. I pull my cloak up over my face and choke down my nausea. The town smells like a combination of the privy back home and the inside of a fishing boat. Only ten times worse.

A sudden gust of wind blows across us, bringing a squall of rain. It takes the smell away momentarily.

Outside almost every house there are fishing nets and fish hanging out to dry. Mostly plaice, by the look of them. There are also midden heaps, piled with rotting refuse and fish scraps.

That’s what stinks.

Children in rags run barefoot in the dunes and around the houses. Outside some houses, old people are mending nets. They stop to watch as we pass. Some wave and call out greetings.

This is no prosperous town. It’s barren and windswept. These people are poor. Miserably poor.

I look ahead, for the taller houses, the harbour. Nothing.

What is this place I have come to?

‘
Ça n’est pas Skagen?
’ I ask bewildered.

Ancher lifts his brows in surprise.

‘
Mais oui, bien sûr!
’ he exclaims. ‘This part is called Vesterby. In a few moments we’ll get to Østerby.’

Østerby, when we reach it, has one or two pretty stone houses painted yellow with red-tiled roofs. But here, too, there are mainly black-tarred wooden shacks. We pull up outside the one large, red-brick building in the place. It looks very new and fine, especially compared to the buildings around it. The men both jump down, and Peter turns to lift me down too. He treats me as though I were a lady.

I am reeling with shock at my surroundings, but I manage to thank him: ‘
Tak!
’

Our eyes meet and he smiles again, but Ancher is speaking to me:

‘Where do you need to go?’

I look around me. And that’s when I realize.

Having finally arrived, I have no idea what to do next.

I
’m silent a moment. Panic wells up in me.

‘I … I am not quite sure,’ I say. I look at the large modern red-brick building behind Ancher.
Brøndums Hotel
is written on the sign. It looks new. It also looks as though even one night would cost more than the few coins I have left.

At this moment I long to find my father more than I ever have done. In this place, he is the one person who can make everything all right. I’m so close now. But I don’t want to blurt out my reason for coming here.

‘I have a letter to deliver,’ I tell Ancher. ‘Then … I suppose I need to find somewhere to stay.’ I lift my chin defiantly. ‘Somewhere … cheap.’

‘Who is the message for?’ he asks.

‘Lars Christensen.’ I almost whisper the name. The moment has finally come when I may find him. I’m breathless with anxiety.

‘Lars Christensen?’ asks Ancher looking surprised. ‘Are you sure the name is Lars?’

‘Yes, quite sure,’ I say, feeling far less confident than I sound.

‘I think you’d better come inside for a few moments,’ he says. ‘We’ll ask Fru Brøndum. She knows everyone here.’

He pays the driver, and then goes into the inn. Peter is hovering near me, waiting to say goodbye. I shake his hand, and make myself meet his eyes for an instant.

Ancher rings a bell and after a moment a woman emerges from what looks like the kitchens, carefully wiping her hands on a towel. She’s neat and tidy with a strong stern face, which relaxes into a smile when she sees Ancher. She smiles at him. She obviously knows him. They speak Danish together, and I hear my father’s name spoken. The sound of his name, spoken by Danes, makes everything feel real. I’m going to meet him at last.

The woman wrinkles her brow. She shakes her head as she speaks. I’m desperate to know what she is saying. I look from one to the other in doubt and confusion. Time seems to slow to a crawl. There’s a silence. I become aware of a ticking of a large clock on the wall to my right.

‘He would be about … thirty-five years old?’ Ancher asks at last.

About two or three years older than my mother was.

‘Yes, does she know him?’

‘Could there be some mistake with the name?’ His face is serious.

‘No.’ I shake my head firmly. ‘Why?’

My mouth is dry, and my hands are damp. He must be here. He must.

‘There was a Lars Christensen here in Skagen. He went to sea when he was seventeen, after an argument with his father.’

‘Did he not come back?’ I ask anxiously. ‘Is he living somewhere else?’

There’s a pause. They both look at me. My face grows hot from a mixture of anxiety and embarrassment. At last Ancher speaks:

‘If it’s the same man, he was drowned a year later. On a ship coming back to Denmark. It was wrecked. There’s no one else of that name here.’

I think he’s stopped speaking, or my ears have stopped working. The small sounds around me intensify and then blur. I try to speak. I want to pretend to shrug it off, tell them it doesn’t matter. I don’t want them to see how important this is to me. But it seems my voice isn’t working either.

They are staring at me, the two of them, from miles away, down a long dark tunnel. The hallway is starting to spin. At first it moves slowly, and then faster and faster, and I’m falling, falling, and it’s such a long way down.

The sun is shining across me. Dust motes are swirling in the ray of sunlight. I’m lying on a blue sofa in a room I’ve never seen before. A beautiful room with blue walls, hung with paintings. There’s a vase of flowers beside me. I’m confused. Have I been asleep? I can’t think how I come to be here.

I struggle into a sitting position. Hands push me back down, someone is speaking to me, but I can’t understand them. A cool cloth is laid on my brow. It feels good. My head is spinning sickeningly.

I lie still a moment, my eyes closed. It’s coming back to me now.

My father is dead. They told me that my father is dead. That means I’ve come all this way for nothing. I’ve travelled for days and days and spent all of my mother’s savings.

That explains why he never came back. Why my mother never heard from him. He was drowned on his way home. I was fatherless before I was born. We should have guessed.

What shall I do now? I’m an orphan.

I open my eyes again. There’s a lady in a fine yellow dress and a servant standing by me. Both their faces show kindness and concern. I’m not used to being a centre of attention. I turn my face into the back of the sofa, tears of disappointment and humiliation stinging my eyes and closing my throat.