Between Two Seas (22 page)

As we leave the church, Mikkel looks around from his family pew near the front of the church and catches my eye. We haven’t walked far before he comes running along Søndergade after us, sand spraying up behind him.

‘Marianne! Hannah!’ he cries, panting. We wait until he catches us up.

‘I told Mother I was about to be sick,’ he tells us with a grin. ‘She practically ordered me out of the church. Shall we bathe?’

‘That’s a good idea,’ says Hannah.

‘I’m not sure that bathing will do me as much good as church. Spiritually, that is,’ I say piously to Hannah. She laughs, but turns at once to Mikkel.

‘You tell her, Mikkel,’ she urges. ‘Tell her she must stay away from that dreadful Frenchman.’

‘I’ve heard some gossip,’ Mikkel admits. ‘It sounds as if you did ask someone to teach you to paint after all. I’m not sure it was a wise choice.’

‘I didn’t ask,’ I contradict. ‘He offered. Is it all over the town?’ I can’t get used to this small community where everyone knows everything almost before it’s happened.

Mikkel nods. ‘I even heard my father discussing it with someone.’

My heart sinks, but I’m also angry. What business is it of theirs?

‘I’m doing nothing to be ashamed of,’ I say finally. But a slight flush rises to my cheeks all the same.

‘Tell her, Mikkel,’ Hannah urges. But Mikkel shakes his head.

‘Marianne wants to learn to paint. It’s important to her. I don’t think she should let a bit of idle gossip stand in her way.’ He turns to me. ‘Just ignore the talk,’ he says. ‘People will soon get tired of it and find something new to whisper about. But take care around that Frenchman. Keep the studio door open or something.’ He grins at me. I feel much better at once. As though a burden has been lifted from me. I beam at him. Hannah looks disappointed though. She expected Mikkel to support her. But Mikkel understands what it is to long to do something and have people stand in the way. He would brave anything to study science.

When we reach the sea, the water is crystal clear, and inviting. The sunlight is shimmering on the seabed. We kick off our shoes and paddle a little. The water is cold on my hot feet. I watch as Hannah and Mikkel strip down to their underwear and plunge into the shallow waves, shrieking with cold and excitement. They are unembarrassed to be wearing so little. The Skagen children bathe completely naked, even the older ones. I was shocked at first, but I’m quite used to it now. It seems natural.

‘Come on in, Marianne!’ Hannah cries.

‘I can’t swim,’ I plead.

‘Then it’s about time you learned!’ she cries. ‘It’s not deep unless you go way out. It’s very safe. Not like the west coast.’

I’m torn between the appeal of the cool water and my reluctance to undress. It’s one thing to approve of nakedness in others, and quite another to try it myself. Eventually the lure of the water wins. I bravely peel my dress and petticoat off my hot skin till I’m wearing only drawers and a shift, then I wade in. I’ve never been in the sea further than to my ankles before. It’s deliciously cool on my sun-heated skin. I stand hugging my arms to my chest, trying to gather the courage to get right in.

‘Get right under, come on,’ urges Mikkel. Hannah threatens to splash me and I hurriedly crouch down, gasping at the cold.

‘It hasn’t had time to warm up yet this year,’ says Hannah. ‘You’ll get used to it.’

‘Try to float on your back,’ says Mikkel. ‘We won’t let you sink.’ I lie back, looking up at the sky, feeling the cold on my back and my head. Suddenly I panic and try to sit up. I go under, swallowing salt water. Hannah pulls me up again, spluttering and choking.

‘Try again,’ she says.

I try over and over again. I try to float, I try to swim a few strokes, but all I seem to be good at is swallowing the water.

‘Enough,’ I gasp at last, having been hauled back to a sandbank by Mikkel for about the fifth time. My eyes are stinging from the salt, and I’m starting to feel sick. ‘I’ll try again another day. You two have a swim.’

They don’t argue. I expect they’ve had enough too. They swim north along the coast, one fair and one dark head, side by side. They’re talking as they swim. I wade up onto a sandbank where the water only comes to my ankles, and enjoy the warmth of the sun. I’m still coughing up seawater.

Shading my eyes, I look out at the ships. One sailing ship is close in to the coast, it seems to me. I watch her idly for a few moments. I notice some bright flashes from the mid-deck. They’re dazzling. As they continue at regular intervals, I wonder if she’s signalling.

I run along the sandbank to Mikkel and Hannah.

‘Look at the ship!’ I cry. ‘Is she in trouble?’ They turn to look, and then Mikkel looks inland, scanning the beach.

‘She is signalling, but I don’t think it’s a distress signal,’ he says. ‘I think they have a passenger to drop off. Look!’

Two fishermen are launching a small rowing boat from the beach. We watch them as they row out towards the ship.

‘It must be an important passenger to stop the whole ship,’ remarks Hannah. ‘Shall we go and watch?’

We wade back towards the beach, and pull on our clothes. My underwear is wet, and my skin sticky with salt, making my dress cling in all the wrong places.

The rowing boat has grounded on the sand now, as close in as they can get her. The two fishermen jump out, and carry their passenger to shore between them. Not a drop of salt water lands on his expensive-looking suit or his smart leather shoes.

‘It’s Christian Krogh,’ whispers Mikkel. ‘He’s Norwegian: a writer and a painter.’

The boat is hauled onto the beach, and the valises unloaded. Krogh slips the fishermen several coins each. I see their dour faces light up as they cheerfully shoulder the luggage and follow him up to Østerby, presumably to the hotel.

‘I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry,’ says Hannah. ‘Shall we go back and see what there is for lunch?’

‘That sounds like a good idea,’ I agree. I look at Mikkel, and can’t help but smile. He looks the picture of health, his face tanned, his hair still wet from the swim. ‘You’re going to have some trouble persuading your parents you were unwell,’ I tease.

He grins. ‘I’ll think of something,’ he promises. ‘I don’t want to pretend to be too ill, or I won’t be allowed out to watch the bonfire later.’

‘I can’t wait! See you this evening,’ Hannah calls to Mikkel merrily. ‘I’m so excited about tonight,’ she confides as we make our way through the dunes. ‘It’s my favourite night of the year.’

‘Remind me what you call today?’ I ask.

‘It’s
Sankthans
. The midsummer festival. Just wait until later!’

T
he bonfire has been built of old, broken fish boxes and driftwood. It’s on the beach just down from the
vippefyr
, the old lighthouse that’s no longer in use. To my surprise, there’s an effigy of a woman tied to a stake in the middle of it. She’s made of old stuffed clothes and has a paper head.

‘What’s she for?’ I ask Hannah.

‘She’s the witch. We always burn a witch at midsummer. In the old days it would have been a real one,’ says Hannah gleefully.

‘How grisly.’ I shudder. ‘You can be quite bloodthirsty at times.’

Hannah laughs.

‘It’s a bit like burning the Guy on November the Fifth in England,’ I add. Hannah looks as though she might be going to ask about this when we see someone hold up a burning torch.

‘They’re lighting it now,’ Hannah says, excitedly. From where we are standing in the crowd, I can see someone thrust a burning branch into the pile of wood. We watch, delighted, as first the smoke curls, and then the flames begin to spread. It’s eleven o’clock in the evening, and only just dusk. The sky is glowing a deep blue and the wind has dropped. It’s cool now, and we’ll be glad of the warmth of the fire when it gets going.

‘Look! The witch has caught,’ cries Hannah, clapping her hands. The crackle and hiss of the flames mingles with the talk and laughter around us. I watch the flames run up the witch’s back and engulf her paper head. I shiver at the thought of what it must have been like to watch a real woman burn alive at the stake.

As the witch burns, voices around me begin singing. More join them, until only I am silent. I’ve never heard the song before. I look around at the people, their faces reflecting the flames. I see tears gleaming in some people’s eyes as they sing. They’re singing about how much they love their country. I love it too. I love the open sky and the clear air. I love the warmth of the people I’ve met. I’ve found my home. Hannah takes my hand and smiles at me, almost as if she can hear my thoughts.

We edge a little closer to the fire as the song ends. As it burns lower, a group of men play their fiddles, and couples start to dance in the sand. The artists have donated barrels of mead to be drunk tonight, so many of the adults soon grow merry. Hannah and I stand watching the fire burn.

‘Look, Hannah,’ I say. ‘Hr Krøyer is sketching the scene!’

‘He’s not the only one,’ says Hannah, and she points out two more shadowy figures, sketchbook in hand, drawing. ‘They’ve been drawing since we arrived. Do you wish you’d brought your sketchbook too?’

‘I should have done.’ I look around at the fire-lit scene and imagine drawing it. Like so much else, the colours would be important. My mind turns to Perroy’s palette, as I wonder which paints I’d select. When Mikkel joins us and begins to speak to Hannah, I wander across to look over the artists’ shoulders. It’s the same scene each time, but viewed quite differently from different angles and by different eyes.

‘Marianne?’ The voice behind me makes me jump. I feel a rush of delight and I know who it is before I turn around.

‘
God aften
, Peter,’ I say. I offer him my hand, and he shakes it but doesn’t smile.

‘Can we talk?’ he asks.

‘Of course,’ I say. My heart beats a little faster as he leads me apart from the crowd, down to the water’s edge. The waves are not much more than gentle ripples tonight, lapping almost silently on the shore. The moon has laid a silvery path across the sea. The sounds of the midsummer merriment fade slowly behind us as we walk. I steal a couple of curious sideways glances at Peter, wondering what it is he wants to speak to me privately about. His face is grave.

‘I don’t know quite how to say this,’ he begins at last. ‘But please bear in mind that I’m speaking to you as a friend, with your own interests at heart.’

I nod, but this is a bad start.

‘There’s been a great deal of talk about you recently, Marianne,’ Peter says at last. ‘I’ve heard gossip that has surprised me.’

My heart plummets. It’s the last thing I want to hear.

‘Gossip?’ I ask, cautiously. I feel anger as well as disappointment at his words. I know what he’s going to say before he says it.

‘About you and that French artist.’ Peter spits the words out as though they burn his mouth. ‘That you’re meeting him in secret. Some even say … ’

‘Say what?’ I demand angrily. ‘You might as well tell me the worst.’

‘That you’re lovers.’ Peter almost whispers the words. He looks drawn and sad in the darkness.

‘Do they?’ I reply icily. I want to defend myself and explain. But my pride is in the way and keeps me silent. I’m shaking with hurt and anger. How can Peter believe such stories?

He reaches out and takes my hand. ‘Tell me it’s not true, Marianne?’ he begs.

‘Do you need to ask?’ My voice is stony. ‘This place is just like England,’ I snarl suddenly. ‘Full of malicious gossip.’

‘Malicious?’ Peter shakes his head, puzzled. ‘No, I don’t think so. Your friends are worried for you. You’re very young, and that man is an experienced flirt, and worse. He’s taking advantage of your innocence.’

I’m slightly mollified. We walk on, my hand still in his, and it’s comforting.

‘But you believe the stories,’ I persist.

‘Why would there be such rumours?’ Peter asks. ‘You’ve been seen late at night together on the beach.’

‘That’s a lie,’ I cry, angry again, and I snatch my hand away. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve only painted with him in the studio. Who’s been saying such things?’

Peter turns to face me. ‘So you admit you’ve been meeting him alone?’ he asks.

‘To paint! In the middle of the afternoon. Nothing more,’ I insist. I’m close to tears. I never realized before how important Peter’s good opinion is to me.

Peter is silent for a moment, watching me. ‘I believe you,’ he says at last. ‘But it would be better if you had nothing more to do with him. Will you promise me to make sure you are never alone with him again?’

‘Don’t ask me to make a promise like that!’ I beg, distressed.

‘Listen, Marianne,’ he says. ‘This may be innocence on your part, but it’s not on his, I can assure you.’ This sounds uncomfortably like what Hannah said. I don’t want to hear it, so I turn away. Peter follows. ‘Everyone knows about him and that married woman he was painting,’ he continues. ‘Why do you think she and her husband left Skagen in such a hurry? Everyone knew she was his whore.’

The word, even in Danish, triggers a reckless rage in me. That’s the word they used about my mother. And it was a lie.

‘He’ll ruin your life, Marianne.’

‘I’m not such a fool. I won’t let him.’ I stamp my foot in frustration, but then take a deep breath to try and calm myself again. ‘I have to learn to paint,’ I explain, and my voice only shakes a very little. ‘Perroy says I have talent, Peter. He says I could make a living from painting. Don’t you see … ?’

‘There must be some other way to learn,’ Peter argues reasonably.

‘No,’ I reply flatly. ‘Not for me there isn’t.’

‘Marianne,’ says Peter in a different voice. He’s changed tack. His voice is coaxing now. He’s taken my hand again, drawing me towards him. ‘Is learning to paint more important than everything else?’

He’s close now, like when we danced together. I can feel the warmth of his arms about me and his breath on my hair. My senses are swimming, my anger forgotten. I think he might be about to kiss me and I want him to so much. Peter puts one hand under my chin, pushing it up, until we are looking into each other’s eyes.