Free Between Two Seas by Marie-Louise Jensen

stay,’ I tell her. ‘And to find work.’ I flush and speak low. ‘I have almost no money left.’
    ‘This Lars Christensen,’ she asks, ‘was he … ?’
    ‘No!’ I interrupt too quickly. I realize I don’t know what she was going to say. I continue anyway: ‘I was just asked to bring him a letter. I didn’t know him.’
    ‘No, of course not. I understand he died many years ago.’
    I bite my lip, hoping they won’t make the connection. It seems so blindingly obvious to me, I can’t believe they don’t guess at once.
    ‘He has family here,’ she continues. ‘Wouldn’t you like to speak to them? Give them the letter?’
    Michael Ancher steps forward.
    ‘Marianne?’ he says. ‘You’ve already met Lars Christensen’s brother. We stopped on the beach to speak to him. Do you remember?’
    I remember all right. I feel a sickening, sinking sensation in my stomach. That man. The one they said was strict and judgemental. He was my uncle. God help me.
    ‘He’s a stern man, but a just one. Much respected. Can he help you? I can go and fetch him if you like,’ Ancher offers, his voice gentle and kind.
    ‘No!’ I cry vehemently. I control myself with an effort and repeat more calmly, ‘No, really. Please.’
    I imagine myself standing before that man. Giving him my mother’s precious letter. Trying to explain my circumstances to him. I imagine his look of disgust. No. I can’t do it.
    ‘If Lars Christensen is dead, then the letter is of no interest to anyone else. Truly, it is not important.’ I feel hot and ashamed as I speak. These people are so kind. But I would rather get up now and walk all the way back down the beach to Ålbæk than face that fierce-eyed fisherman. He would despise me. And quite possibly not even believe me.
    If only I had not run out of money. As I remember this, despair numbs me.
    The two women are speaking to one another in their own language. Then Anna Ancher turns to me again.
    ‘You say you’re looking for work. What do you do?’ she asks.
    ‘I sew,’ I tell her. ‘And embroider. But I’ll do anything. I want to earn my keep.’
    ‘There’s a cheaper inn where you could stay. Or … ’ She hesitates.
    I know I can’t afford more than one night at an inn, no matter how modest, so I’m desperate to hear the alternative.
    ‘Or … ?’ I ask.
    ‘There’s a family who need help. The woman has had a baby. Now she’s sick, and can’t manage.’
    Hope is rising in me. Questions bubble up, but before I can ask any of them, the lady lifts a warning finger.
    ‘They are very poor. And they can’t pay you. But you can stay there a while, I think.’
    It’s a lifeline. I don’t hesitate.
    ‘If they’ll have me, I should be more than happy to help in any way I can,’ I reply at once.

TWELVE
     
    T he smell of the midden heaps is so bad that I walk with my cloak drawn across my face, hurrying to keep up with the girl who is taking me to my new home.
    She’s called Hannah, and she works at the hotel. She looks about my age. I understand she’s a neighbour of the woman who needs my help. She speaks only Danish, so we can’t understand one other, but she talks anyway, and smiles at me frequently as we walk. She looks friendly.
    Hannah leads me along countless small paths among the dunes to the southern part of the town. I feel completely lost. We stop at the craziest, most tumbledown shack of the lot. I have a general impression of a building gone to seed. It is tarred black like the others, but not freshly done. The thatch on the roof looks as though it’s coming apart.
    A little girl in rags is sitting on the doorstep. She has grubby bare feet, tangled brown hair, and blank, incurious eyes. Her nose is running, green and slimy, right down to her upper lip. Why doesn’t her mother give her a good wash? Then I think perhaps that will be my job. I shudder slightly.
    My companion speaks to her, and then steps past her over the threshold. I follow her in onto sandy