Some of you may remember that two or three years ago, I wrote a post about writing stories on the back of postcards, the story being inspired by the picture on the front. This one was a bit of a cheat, because it came from a photograph I'd taken on a visit to Helsingør (Elsinore) in Denmark, and so I didn't write it on the back, and so it's probably a little bit longer than the postcard stories. I loved Helsingør, and I particularly loved this little street...
A Winter’s Night In Helsingør
The
winter nights were long in Helsingør, and the
wind from the sea whistled down the narrow alley ways. But in the little house
with the timbered front and the small-paned windows, the fire on the hearth was
warm, and its light flickered on the face of the grandmother as she sat on the
old oak settle, made comfortable with cushions stuffed with goose feathers. On
one side of her was her grandson, Henrik, and on the other was little Maya. It
was the best time of the day for them; they had eaten fried fish and potatoes,
and they were feeling warm and full and just a little bit sleepy.
“So,” said the Grandmother. “You
want a story, do you? Well, let me see what I can do.”
“Tell us about a troll!” said Henrik, his
eyes shining. “A really fierce and nasty one!”
“Oh, no!” said Maya. “I don’t want to have
bad dreams!”
Grandmother hugged her. “What kind of a story
would you like then, my little cherub?”
Maya thought.
“She’s silly!” said Henrik, a little sulkily.
“See, she can’t think of anything.”
“Yes I can! Just a minute now… a princess!
Tell us a story about a princess!”
Henrik groaned. But Grandmother’s face
softened, and her eyes turned a little misty.
“Ah!” she said. “Well, I can’t think right
now of a story about a princess. But I can tell you one about a prince. A real
one!”
That was good enough for both of them. They
snuggled in close, and Grandmother began her tale.
“It was long, long ago, in this very town. I
was just a girl then, and your grandfather and I hadn’t been married very long.
He was a fisherman, of course, just like your father is, with his own boat,
earning a good living.” She raised her head and listened for a moment. They all
heard the wind howling outside, and the rain splattering on the windows. “But
you know how bad the storms can be, and how cruel the sea. I came from a farm,
and every time your Grandfather went out to sea on a bad night, my heart was in
my mouth until he came safely home again.
“Well, it was a winter’s night, very like
this one. I had expected Erik back the day before, and when he didn’t come, I
was beside myself with worry. I tried to sleep, but all I could hear was the howling
of the wind and the relentless racket of the rain. It never let up, and I
couldn’t stop thinking of that little boat, tossing about on the waves. In the
end, I’d had enough. I got up, wrapped myself in a warm shawl and my thick
cloak, and went down to the quayside, flitting through the streets like a
ghost. There was a little bit of light from the moon behind the clouds, and one
or two windows had candles in them. I remember thinking that everyone should
put a candle in their window, and then the town would be a beacon of light to
bring Erik safely home.
“When I got down to the harbour, at first it
seemed as if there was no-one else there. Nothing but the boats at anchor
creaking restlessly, as if they wanted to be on the move. They were great
ships, some of them, from as far away as England and Russia – just like now,
they all have to pass through the sound and pay their dues to the King in his
castle.
“But then, the moon suddenly broke through
the clouds, and I saw a man standing gazing out to sea. He was dressed in a
long black cloak, and he stood as still as a statue. In fact for a minute, I
thought that’s what he was, until I saw his hair blowing back from his face in
the wind.
“Oh dear, his face! It was so pale –
white as chalk. I don’t mind admitting, I felt frightened then – I thought
perhaps he was a ghost – a real one!”
“I’m not sure I like this story,”
whispered Maya.
“I do!” said Henrik.
Grandmother laughed, and hugged Maya.
“It’s all right. He wasn’t a ghost. He was a young man, and a handsome one
too.”
“Oh,” said Henrik, disappointed.
The rain on the window sounded like
fingers tapping, and Grandmother’s face went misty again as she remembered that
winter’s night so long ago.
“He looked sad,” she whispered. “So
sad. I couldn’t bear it. For a moment I stopped thinking about your grandfather
and I went across to the man and put my hand on his arm.
“What is it?” I said. “Is there
anything I can help you with?”
“I don’t think he’d noticed I was
there. He looked down at me as if he was trying to work out who I could be. And
then he smiled. It was such a sweet smile, but it was full of sadness. Even, I’d
say, despair. I’d never seen an expression like it, and I hope I never will
again.”
Henrik and Maya looked at each
other. Neither of them felt too sure about the way this story was going.
Grandmother sighed. “He said – and
I’ve never forgotten his words – he said: “No-one can help me with what I have
to do. No-one can help me with what I have to be. But I thank you for trying.”
“And then, he asked why I was there,
and I told him about Erik. And we stood together and looked out to sea. We
talked a little, and then suddenly he cried out, “There’s a light! Out there –
do you see?”
“And he was right, there was a
light, and as the boat came nearer, I saw that it was Erik’s. He was safe! I
was so happy, I hugged the stranger and danced him round, and when I let him
go, he smiled that sweet smile again and
said, “I had better go. Your Erik might be jealous.” He turned to go, but then
he came back again and slipped a ring off his finger. “Here,” he said. “Take
this. Perhaps it will help you. And if Erik wants to know where it came from,
tell him that Prince Hamlet gave it to you, and that I hope it will bring you
more happiness than all the riches of Denmark have given me.” Then he bent and
kissed my cheek, and he was gone.”
“Prince Hamlet!” breathed Henrik.
The Grandmother nodded, touching his cheek
gently. “Yes. It was him. And it was thanks to his ring that we have this
beautiful house, with glass in the windows and rugs on the floor.”
She gazed sadly into the fire. “If only I
could have helped him, as he helped me. I’ve never forgotten how sad he seemed.”
Maya hugged her grandmother. “Do you think
Father will be home soon?” she whispered. Grandmother kissed the top of her
head. “I’m sure of it,” she said.
