Read Between Two Seas for Free Online Page B

cobblestones and out into the road.
    The land looks very flat as we take the road northwards out of the town. We’re following the coast, and I can see right down to the sea on my right-hand side, and in across farmland on my left. It is a patchwork of well-tended fields dotted with small farmhouses.
    I wonder again what Skagen will look like. My mother repeated the tales my father had told her about it. Wooden houses, golden beaches, blue, blue skies, and the merry life everyone led there. He had described to her how the seas were so full of fish, one only needed to throw in a net to be sure of a good catch. Midsummer festivals, where fires were lit on the beach. In the confinement of our dark room in Grimsby, in the smoky streets where we saw the sky only in snatches, I dreamed of open blue skies and beaches and grasses waving on sand dunes.
    I’m so nearly there now. I’m quite sure that Skagen will be beautiful. I can’t wait to be there. I seem to have been travelling for a lifetime.
    We pass a low stone-built farm. It is built on a pattern I’ve seen many times on my journey: three sides of a rectangle. The central building is the house; the two side buildings are barns. The courtyard, enclosed on three sides, is orderly and well tended. The buildings are all whitewashed, and there are red flowers in window boxes. A dog basks in the sunshine in front of the door, too lazy to get up and bark at the cart as it passes. I wonder if my father lives in a house like this. I imagine myself in such pleasant surroundings, and my heart misses a beat.
    We round a corner, and move out of a small stunted patch of trees all bent by the wind, onto a long, straight stretch of road. I catch my breath at the openness of the landscape. The sky seems endless, low above my head, like a vast blue roof. It’s breathtaking.
    It’s not long before the road deteriorates. It becomes a deeply rutted track, swimming in muddy water. The cart slips and slides, often tilting at such steep angles that I have to cling to the seat in order not to be thrown out. It’s exhausting. My dress, already travel-stained, becomes splashed with mud. Every now and then we sink into a deeper patch and the horse strains in his harness. Then we lurch and splash forward again.
    We meet other carts coming south. They are faring no better than us; the ones that are laden are struggling more. We come to one cart which is stuck, one wheel deep in a rut. Some men have already stopped to help push it out, and my driver halts too. Handing the reins to me without a word, he climbs down and wades through the mud to help. He and the other men push from behind while the owner encourages his horse forward.
    My horse is easy to hold, though I’ve never done it before. I think he’s glad of the rest. On a better road, it would be fun to try and drive him.
    There’s a lot of good-natured shouting and laughter among the men as they push, and when the cart eventually pulls free, a great cheer goes up. The horse stands sweating and blowing, his legs plastered with mud.
    My driver returns, muddied, but in a visibly brighter mood. He even gives me a broad grin. Then we’re slipping and slithering from one puddle to the next, our progress painfully slow. I wish I could ask how far it is. It’s frustrating not speaking Danish. I need to learn it as soon as I can.
    I’ve met so many friendly people on my journey, and haven’t been able to speak to them. Perhaps they wouldn’t have been so friendly if they’d known my background. I wonder what the Danish word for bastard is. I hope I never find out.
    The wind is strengthening. The weather is still clear and bright, but the temperature is dropping. The road is getting worse, if that’s possible. There are several deep streams with no bridges. The driver simply urges the horse straight into them, so that the cart plunges in, water splashing up on either side, spraying us both.
    It’s well past noon when we pull up at a large