Between Two Seas
the men.’ Mrs Forbes’s husband and son both work intermittently at the docks. She heaves herself out of her chair, and goes to the door, with a cheerful farewell.
    As soon as she’s gone, I brush my long hair, repinning it in a bun at the back of my head. It is a style my mother persuaded me to adopt a few months ago instead of my plaits. She said it made me look more grown-up, and that I would need that if I were to manage alone. My hair is golden. Like my father’s, mother told me. She herself had lovely soft brown hair. Apart from our colouring, people always said we looked very alike. I remember her standing here where I am now, brushing her hair. I miss her so much it hurts.
    I put my sunbonnet on and tie the strings under my chin. I look longingly at my cloak, hanging on its hook. I love to hide myself in it, but the day is much too hot. I sigh, and go down the stairs, out into the street. As I cross Freeman Street, the horse-drawn tram rattles by along Cleethorpes Road. I head in the opposite direction down towards the docks.
    The streets are busy at this time of day, with trams and carts going to and fro from the harbour, and street sellers calling out their wares. There are some boys tormenting a dog at the corner, pulling its tail and throwing stones at it. I’m glad when a shopkeeper comes out and chases them off.
    I’ve always hated going alone to the harbour. Sometimes my mother used to send me to buy fish. I would always hurry through the streets, my head down, avoiding the gaze of strangers. As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to dread it more, for now men sometimes call out or even try to speak to me. I always wrap my cloak more closely about me and hurry on my way, my face burning.
    Mother bought fish direct from the boats as they brought their catch into harbour; it was cheaper and fresher that way. But I’m no hand at bargaining with the fishermen: I struggle even to understand their broad speech. When I pluck up courage to approach them at all, I can barely speak above a whisper. Mother always shook her head when she saw what small fish I had accepted. But she sent me often. I believe she thought I would learn the skill, as she had done. I never did.
    And now, after her death, it is not the price of a couple of fish I’m negotiating, but the cost of a passage to Denmark. And it is deeply painful to have to ask.
    The harbour, like the town, has grown out of recognition, even in my short lifetime. I walk along the quayside, searching the rows and rows of Grimsby fishing smacks, hunting for the boats that are flying the Danish flag. I have always liked that the Danish flag is simply the reverse of an English flag: a white cross on a red background. It’s a link between the two halves of me.
    At last I spot the flag on two blue-painted fishing cutters, smaller than the local smacks. I stand for a moment at a distance, watching the men on board, trying to summon up the courage to speak to them.
    There are gulls on the quay, searching among the bundles of nets for pieces of fish. I watch one large gull tug a fish head from the net with its strong beak. It launches itself into the air. Two other gulls follow it screeching, and I watch them wheel and swoop in the clear blue sky.
    I take a deep breath and approach the nearest boat. There is only one man on deck, sitting bent over his nets, mending them.
    ‘Excuse me,’ I say, but he doesn’t even glance in my direction. Putting my hands on the side of the boat, I lean forward.
    ‘Good afternoon!’ I call out. The man, wizened and weather beaten, turns to look at me. His eyes are pale blue and rheumy.
    ‘Do you speak English?’ I ask him.
    He shakes his head, but sits staring at me.
    Do I continue speaking to him, or do I go away at once?
    ‘I wish to go to Denmark,’ I explain after a few moments’ embarrassed silence. He puts one hand behind his ear.
    ‘ Hvad? ’ he asks.
    He’s forcing me to shout my business to half the fishing harbour. I

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