Between Two Seas (10 page)

Mikkel looks around in surprise. I’ve seen him several times since I came, but he hasn’t been inside the house since that first day.

‘This looks different.’

I see his eyes rest briefly on the vase of wild flowers I put on the table this morning. It’s true. I’ve scrubbed the house and washed the bedding and curtains until my hands are raw and chapped. I’m sure I would make poor work of any fine embroidery with them at the moment.

‘It looks much better,’ he says. I feel proud for a moment, remembering the dark and dingy hovel I came to. The family doesn’t seem to even notice, but the neighbours, especially Hannah, have commented on the change. I feel I have earned the right to be here and eat their food. Fish, fish, and more fish.

I wish someone could talk Søren into repairing the house instead of drinking every day after fishing. I can’t cure the leaky roof or the broken door.

‘I see she’s no better though,’ Mikkel says in a lower voice, nodding towards Lene. ‘She washed herself? No, of course not. You did it.’

‘Yes. Though she does respond to the baby crying sometimes now.’

‘That’s good. Do you have time for a walk?’ he asks. It’s what I’ve been hoping he’ll say, and in answer I unhook my shawl from the back of the living room door. The weather has grown colder now.

Mikkel is looking at Lise’s slate.

‘Is this yours?’ His tone is admiring.

‘Do you like it?’ I ask, surprised. No one but my mother and Lise ever looked at my drawings before. It didn’t occur to me they might be good.

‘Yes! It’s … very good. It’s
kunst
. Art. Where did you learn drawing?’

‘From my mother. She said … ’ I hesitate, embarrassed. What she actually said was, ‘Every lady should be able to draw’, but I can’t very well repeat that, poor as I am. ‘She said drawing was important,’ I say instead. ‘Shall we go?’

Mikkel takes another look at the picture and then shoulders his bag again. As we leave the house, we head in a completely different direction to usual.

‘
Hvor skal vi hen?
’ Where are we going? I ask him, and immediately blush. It’s a phrase he taught me the second time we met, and I practise it every time, but I still feel self-conscious speaking his language to him.

‘
Nordstranden
,’ Mikkel tells me, and I must look blank because he laughs and translates for me: the west coast.

‘But
nordstranden
sounds like north beach,’ I object, confused.

‘Yes, that’s right, you are learning Danish fast,’ says Mikkel with a smile.

‘But why is it called that if it’s on the west coast? It makes no sense.’

‘It does if you look at a map. The beach up here faces north,’ Mikkel explains. ‘And by the way, I have a picnic,’ he adds with a backward nod at his bag.

I haven’t yet been across to the other coast, apart from the top of Denmark, but I assume it’s not much different.

‘Is it far?’ I ask.

He laughs and shakes his head.

‘Much fishing is done over there,’ he tells me.

We follow a track across the dunes, which turns into windswept heath land. The purple blossoms of the heather, beginning to brown in places now, are a startling contrast to the deep blue of the autumn sky.

We pass a woman in a grey woollen dress pushing a heavy, flat wheelbarrow full of fish back towards Skagen. I recognize her as one of our neighbours, and we greet each other briefly as we pass.

‘That looks hard work,’ I observe to Mikkel as the woman pushes the barrow through the soft sand.

‘It is.’

‘So how is it that you don’t fish with your father?’ I ask. I’ve been wondering about this since I first met him. The other lads his age all seem to be out working, while Mikkel wanders the heath with collecting jars and binoculars.

Instead of answering, he grabs my sleeve and pulls me down into the heather beside him.

‘Look!’ he whispers.

At first I don’t know what he wants to show me, but then I see some water ahead of us with huge white birds swimming in it.

‘
Sangsvane
, song swans. They’ve come down from Iceland,’ he tells me. ‘Soon they’ll move further south. They stop here for the water. They have this year’s babies with them.’

I look at Mikkel rather than at the birds. He’s completely absorbed.

‘You like birds?’ I ask.

‘Birds, flowers, all of it,’ he tells me. ‘The nature. It make my father very angry.’

Mikkel stands up again, and pulls me to my feet. The swans take fright. With a huge splashing and flapping of their powerful wings, they rise into the air and fly over our heads. Each wing-beat whooshes in the air above us.

Mikkel watches them until they’re out of sight. Then he looks at me. After a moment he holds out his hands.

‘You’ve seen my hands?’

They are raw and red today, the skin flaking in patches.

I run my fingertips along the dry skin of one hand for a moment, to show my sympathy, but Mikkel snatches it back. He turns away and walks on.

‘I can’t work with the other men,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘I can’t work in the water with the nets. It tear my skin and start infections.’ His voice sounds tight and angry and his English isn’t as good as usual, but it isn’t the right time to correct it.

‘I can row a little, but not strong enough to be any use. I sometimes can’t breathe too. I used to try and work but my father got angry at me. All the time, angry.’ Mikkel pauses, and clears his throat. I realize he’s fighting tears. I wish I’d never asked the question. ‘I’m lucky, my father don’t really need me. He has a boat, and make a lot of money. Anyway, I don’t want to fish.’

He stops walking, looks at me directly again, and tells me:

‘I’m going to go to the university one day. In
København
. Copenhagen. I’m going to be a scientist.’

There’s a faraway look in his eyes.

But then he sighs, and his eyes snap back into focus.

‘It’s just a dream. That’s for rich people. Fishermen’s sons aren’t going to the university.’

Mikkel looks so sad as he says this that I want to comfort him. Feeling very daring, I take his hand and give it a gentle squeeze. Then I let it go again, embarrassed.

Mikkel seems to shake himself, and we walk on.

‘So what is your dream?’ he asks me.

‘My dream?’ I’m at a loss for what to say.

‘Yes. You must have one. Why did you come to Skagen?’

It’s the first time I’ve been asked. Everyone has simply seemed to accept that I’m here, blown in like a seed on the wind. At first I didn’t have the language to tell them anything, and now that I do, they’ve lost interest.

I scrabble frantically in my mind for something to tell him. Something that won’t make him turn away from me. He’s the first friend my own age I ever had. He’s just told me a deep secret. So it is hard now to tell him nothing in return. Even worse to lie to him.

‘It was a mistake really. My mother died in July,’ I tell him. ‘She sent me here, because I had no one in England. She knew someone here she thought might take me in.’

‘But they didn’t?’ Mikkel asks. ‘Who was it?’ He sends me a curious sideways glance as we walk.

‘No, it turned out they died, a long time ago.’

I hope he isn’t going to ask me how my mother knew them or ask again who it is, but his mind has moved on:

‘What about your father? Couldn’t he look after you? Or other family?’

‘My father died before I was born,’ I tell him truthfully. ‘And I never met any of my grandparents.’ It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. It feels more real now I’ve spoken the words. The loneliness that it implies surrounds me, presses in on me.

‘That is very sad … ’ He pauses. ‘But still. You must have a dream,’ Mikkel urges.

I can hear he feels I’ve cheated him. I’m not really telling him anything important. That’s what friends do, isn’t it? They tell each other secret, important things.

But Mikkel has a proper family and a fine home. They go to church every Sunday and I gather his father is someone important in the town, besides his work as a fisherman. A magistrate or some such thing. I can’t bring myself to confide in him. To tell him I’m illegitimate. He might despise me. Worse, he might tell others. I couldn’t bear the children of Skagen throwing stones at me. Or dried fish perhaps.

Then I think of something I can tell him. Something true.

‘I’ve always dreamed of having friends,’ I tell him. I’m out of breath by now because we’re scrambling up a steep sand dune. ‘My life in England was … very isolated. And, apart from my mother and an old lady, you’re my first friend.’

There’s just time for Mikkel to smile at me. I see he’s surprised, but pleased, and then we reach the top of the sand dune. The view of the west coast bursts upon me, and wipes the conversation from my mind.

This coast couldn’t be more completely different from the east. It is grander by far. I’ve grown used to a narrow strip of soft, pale sand, full of hardy plants, and a friendly sea with small rippling waves. But here the sand is a smooth, rich gold, with patches of pebbles; a vast flat expanse fading into the distance in both directions. It looks untouched. As if no one has ever set foot here.

Beyond the sand, the blue-green sea heaves and roars, and sends big breakers curling and crashing onto the sand. It’s huge, open, and fierce. A mixture of awe and delight sends a shiver through me, making my fingers and toes tingle, and the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

I become aware that Mikkel is standing beside me, waiting for my reaction.

‘It’s beautiful … ’ I’m drinking in the size and scale of the beach, soaking up the blues, greens, and golds that are almost dazzling in the autumn sunshine.

‘It’s big, like the coast near Grimsby,’ I tell him. My mother took me to the beach, occasionally. ‘This is wilder somehow. More colourful. Is the tide in at the moment?’

‘Tide? There’s not really any tide here,’ Mikkel tells me, surprising me. ‘Is there in England?’

‘Yes, the sea goes out a long way. So far you can hardly see it.’

‘Shall we run down?’ asks Mikkel, pointing down the steep slope at our feet. As soon as I agree, he grabs my hand and pulls me over the edge. We half run, half slide, bringing an avalanche of sand down with us. After a few steps, I let go of Mikkel’s hand and throw myself down. I roll the rest of the way down, losing any sense of what is up and down, sky and beach merging into a tumbling rush of colours, sand spraying around me. I sit up at the foot of the dune. I’m exhilarated and giddy. Drunk on space and light and beauty.

Mikkel slides down more carefully.

‘You’re a crazy girl,’ he says, shaking his head, but he’s smiling.

I’ve got sand all over my clothes and in my hair, but I don’t care. I feel like running along the beach shouting. I only brush the worst of it off and then we race across the beach all the way to the sea. We meander along the water’s edge, speaking mainly English, but sometimes I try out Danish words or phrases I’ve learned.

‘
Det er flot
,’ I say experimentally. It’s beautiful.

‘
Ja, det er det
,’ Mikkel agrees.

‘So many of the sounds in Danish are so hard.’

‘You’ll get used to them. You’re doing very well,’ Mikkel praises me.

After a while we’re both hungry. We sit in the dunes to eat the food Mikkel has brought. As he unpacks it and I see what it is, my mouth starts to water. Soft white bread, with cheese. Crisp, juicy apples. Fresh milk to drink. I eat the bread hungrily and savour the creamy taste of the milk.

Mikkel watches, surprised, as I begin on my second piece of bread.

‘Don’t they feed you at Jakobsen’s?’ he asks.

‘No,’ I say with my mouth full. Once I’ve managed to swallow, I tell him, ‘I feed them. The woman who lives nearby, Hannah’s mother, has shown me what to cook, but … ’

‘But … ?’ Mikkel prompts.

‘Do
you
like fish pie with cods’ heads sticking out of it? Watching you while you eat?’ The words, held back all these days, tumble out of me. I’m being ungrateful, but I can’t stop myself.

‘It’s very good,’ says Mikkel solemnly, but his eyes quiz me from behind his spectacles.

‘Then what about baked seagull? Surely you don’t eat that?’ I demand, wrinkling my face in disgust.

‘It’s my favourite,’ Mikkel assures me. I must look appalled, because he bursts out laughing.

‘You don’t like our Skagen food?’

‘No, I don’t. Just fish, fish, fish all the time. Dried fish, salted fish, fish heads and fishy seagulls. And just for a treat that bitter bread. I know why it’s so bitter now. It’s made with sour dough instead of yeast. The smell makes me feel sick.’

I stop, realizing I’m close to tears. The food is nearly the worst thing about being here. As bad as not speaking the language, as bad as the lice. Though not as dreadful as Søren coming home drunk at night and hitting Lene.

‘
Så, så
,’ says Mikkel soothingly, gripping my shoulder for a moment. ‘They are poor, the Jakobsens. They don’t have a cow like we do. We’re too far north to grow
hvede
… wheat? Most families here only get it when there’s a … What do you call it? A ship break?’

‘A wreck.’
Skibsbrud
is one of the words I’ve learned already.

‘Yes. Then the
strandfoged
, he’s the man who is in charge of the wrecks, holds a big auction.’

‘People can’t just take things from the wrecks then?’ I ask.

‘Oh no. They do sometimes, of course, but they are punished if they are caught.’ Mikkel stares out to sea, a frown on his face. ‘My father says we should all be rich here. There is so much fish in the sea. But we got no harbour. So we can’t have big boats. And no train or road, so we can’t sell the fish we catch.’

As we’ve been talking, two small boats have come into view. Some of the men on board are pulling on the oars, heading for the beach. Others are hauling at nets.

‘Shall we see who it is?’ suggests Mikkel, beginning to pack up the remains of our feast.

‘I’ll let you take the rest home,’ he adds with a grin. ‘You can have it for supper. Perhaps the little one— Lise—would like some too.’