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.’
We’re quite close to the boats before Mikkel slows down and hesitates.
‘Oh no, it’s far —my father,’ he mutters under his breath. But it’s too late to turn back. A tall man with a severe face, intimidating behind his huge beard, has spotted Mikkel.
‘That’s your father?’ I recognize him at once and realize I should have made the connection before. It’s my father’s brother. I have so far successfully avoided him during the weeks since I arrived. But if he is Mikkel’s father … that makes Mikkel my cousin. My friend is my cousin, I think, and a twinge of excitement mingles with the fear I feel as the man approaches us.
Mikkel’s father is splashing towards us through the waves, the water running off his thigh-length boots and oilskin jacket. When he speaks to Mikkel, it sounds more like a reprimand than a greeting, from the tone of his voice.
Mikkel is suddenly a different person: younger. He stands red-faced and drooping before the tall sturdy man. His father is the epitome of health and strength, a vivid contrast with his studious, delicate-skinned son.
I’m glad I didn’t go to him for help, I think, watching Christensen verbally flaying his son. There is no hint of kindness or humour about him, and he takes no account at all of my presence.
Finally Mikkel speaks:
‘ Far, det er Marianne ,’ he says and I realize he’s introducing me. I wonder whether I have to shake hands or simply curtsy to this terrifying man, but then his father looks at me for the first time, and I forget all about greeting him.
He freezes, and I watch, puzzled, as the colour slowly drains from his face. He’s rigid, motionless, and his eyes don’t waver from my face.
‘ Far? ’ asks Mikkel. It takes a moment for his father to respond. As though there’s a delay between Mikkel speaking and the sound reaching him. His father clutches at his chest, takes a deep, shuddering breath, and turns abruptly away. He doesn’t speak. With a final backward glance at me, he stomps off back towards his boat.
I stand still, staring at him, until I feel Mikkel take my hand and tug me away.
FIFTEEN
November 1885
T he wind is shrieking around the house, whistling through every crack. It gives me no rest. The noise is in my head until I think I’ll go mad with it. The wind brings sand in with it, trickling through the gaps between the planks. Every day I sweep it up, every day more comes in. The last two days Søren and his sons had to climb out of a window in order to dig us out, so much sand had blown against the door in the
‘ 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.’
We’re quite close to the boats before Mikkel slows down and hesitates.
‘Oh no, it’s far —my father,’ he mutters under his breath. But it’s too late to turn back. A tall man with a severe face, intimidating behind his huge beard, has spotted Mikkel.
‘That’s your father?’ I recognize him at once and realize I should have made the connection before. It’s my father’s brother. I have so far successfully avoided him during the weeks since I arrived. But if he is Mikkel’s father … that makes Mikkel my cousin. My friend is my cousin, I think, and a twinge of excitement mingles with the fear I feel as the man approaches us.
Mikkel’s father is splashing towards us through the waves, the water running off his thigh-length boots and oilskin jacket. When he speaks to Mikkel, it sounds more like a reprimand than a greeting, from the tone of his voice.
Mikkel is suddenly a different person: younger. He stands red-faced and drooping before the tall sturdy man. His father is the epitome of health and strength, a vivid contrast with his studious, delicate-skinned son.
I’m glad I didn’t go to him for help, I think, watching Christensen verbally flaying his son. There is no hint of kindness or humour about him, and he takes no account at all of my presence.
Finally Mikkel speaks:
‘ Far, det er Marianne ,’ he says and I realize he’s introducing me. I wonder whether I have to shake hands or simply curtsy to this terrifying man, but then his father looks at me for the first time, and I forget all about greeting him.
He freezes, and I watch, puzzled, as the colour slowly drains from his face. He’s rigid, motionless, and his eyes don’t waver from my face.
‘ Far? ’ asks Mikkel. It takes a moment for his father to respond. As though there’s a delay between Mikkel speaking and the sound reaching him. His father clutches at his chest, takes a deep, shuddering breath, and turns abruptly away. He doesn’t speak. With a final backward glance at me, he stomps off back towards his boat.
I stand still, staring at him, until I feel Mikkel take my hand and tug me away.
FIFTEEN
November 1885
T he wind is shrieking around the house, whistling through every crack. It gives me no rest. The noise is in my head until I think I’ll go mad with it. The wind brings sand in with it, trickling through the gaps between the planks. Every day I sweep it up, every day more comes in. The last two days Søren and his sons had to climb out of a window in order to dig us out, so much sand had blown against the door in the
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