Read Online Between Two Seas by Marie-Louise Jensen - Free Book Online
Authors: Marie-Louise Jensen
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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
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
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