Serendipity

Serendipity

“Morgens, Mike! Wie geht es?“

„Sehr gut, Don! Aber …?“

There wasn’t much likely to throw Mike Freeman, not even his boss breezing into the office on a Monday morning and addressing him in a foreign language. Mike waited patiently, certain he had Don’s measure in this department. As usual, he was right.

“Just checking, Mike! I know you speak several languages: fancy a road trip? German would probably be a plus, but it’s more of a ‘next door neighbour’ job, and I’m not expecting you to be fluent in Danish …….?”

“Next door? Don, the Mancs are our next door neighbours, they don’t even speak English ..!”

All was well with the world: the sun shone, the MD of Cains Brewery had found a reason to insult the residents of Liverpool’s deadliest rivals, and business was looking very promising.

“ … so I thought, if someone who can ‘talk the talk’ as well as ‘walking the walk’ was over there to handle the deal, …”

“ … it could make all the difference. Yes, I understand that, Don. What sort of time scale are we working with?”

“Pretty tight, Mike: a few weeks at most. Bjørn Bryggeri are about the same size as us, they sell quality cask ales over a similar geographical area. They want to expand, but they don’t want to be gobbled up by either of the two market leader names, Carlsberg and Tuborg.”

“You mean, like becoming a part of Allied Brewers?”

“Pretty close: and as you know, once that happens it all starts to taste the same and the prices start to rocket because they’ve no competition.”

By the end of the day, Mike Freeman had spoken to Søren Hansen at the Bryggeri, booked an Open ticket leaving in just over two weeks and searched the Internet for any ‘crash courses’ in conversational Danish. To his surprise, the only listing was c/o pastor Jan Molle at the Nordic church, which was a close neighbour to the Cains Brewery on Park Road. His final phone call of the day was to his wife, Kathy.

“ … so I thought I’d drop in and say hello explain what I need – I might even ask for a trial lesson (or at least a book list) if he has time, ‘cause that’s one thing I won’t have a lot of!”

**

“Mr. Freeman? Mike Freeman?”

A tall, slim twenty-something in a crisp dazzle-white shirt and khaki shorts didn’t hesitate in identifying Mike as he stepped off the København-Hamburg express at Nykøbing Falster. Mike hadn’t thought himself overdressed – at least, not until he stepped off the air-conditioned plane in Kastrup airport and straight into 30̊̊ C of summer heat. He was glad he’d left his tie in his pocket: wearing it would have strangled him. Even the lightweight summer blazer was too much.

Søren relieved him of his luggage and at the same time shook him firmly by the hand.

“It’s Friday, an ideal day to visit the Bryggeri! By tradition we always finish early on Fridays, but I know a lot of people will be waiting to meet you – it’s only a few minutes from here in the car!”

A welcome party of young girls with Danish flags and bunches of fresh-cut flowers were waiting at the gate and followed the car round to the car park. Early finish or not, it looked pretty full to Mike. Søren noticed his glance and said:

“I told you not many people would be leaving early today!”

Mike hesitated before rising.

“I still feel over-dressed! Any chance I can leave my jacket in the car with my luggage?”

“Good idea!” Søren nodded, “We’ll take a short cut to the meeting …….”

He used a key to open an unremarkable blank door and led Mike down a short corridor to a cafeteria/canteen r meeting room. Full of overalled workers sitting, waiting. As they entered everyone stood, raising bottles they had in front of them on tables and cheered. Slightly embarrassed, Mile raised his arm to return the salute. This was clearly the right thing to do, as the cheers grew louder before everyone took their seats once more.

Søren spoke a very short, rapid sentence in Danish, and Mike was surprised how much if it he understood. He them switched smoothly, almost in mid-breath and introduced Mike in English, The room was silent: he didn’t need a microphone to make himself heard.

“Thank you all for staying this afternoon and using some of your Fyraften free time to welcome Mike Freeman, who is here from England to discuss the possible merging of our two independent breweries. I’ve told him our working language is mostly English, but he says he is looking forward to learning Danish while he’s here!”

This was clearly good grounds for another round of cheers, and encouraged Mike to stand and say a few words himself. With one final glance at a ‘crib card’ concealed (he hoped) n the palm of his hand he stated in slow, careful Danish:

“I too wish to thank you for giving me some of your weekend. I will do all I can to learn your language as well as they way you brew beer and I hope to make lots of new friends.”          

He nodded to Søren as he sat, to a third round of generous and unfeigned cheers.

“Well done: that was long enough to show you mean it, and every word perfect!”

A tray of drinks appeared from nowhere: an impressive range of labels were on display.

“We don’t serve alcohol at Fyraften meetings because everyone still needs to drive home! Everything here is soft drinks, even including the one with a beer label: if you look close, it says 0% abv, but it tastes just like a real beer should!” said an elderly man sitting close to Søren. Naturally, Mike had to try and was pleasantly surprised to realise that the claim was justified.

“Claus is our cooper” Søren explained, “possibly one of the last half dozen tradesmen in Danmark who still build barrels. He’s also Father of the Chapel – spokesman for the Trade Union, I think you’d call it in English?” 

Mike took extra care to greet Claus as he thought befit the Senior Hand’s status, then begged excused to wander the meeting room, soft drink bottle in hand, to introduce himself to as many as he could manage.

As the meeting started to thin out, Søren appeared at Mike’s elbow.

“Bet you’re ready for a shower and a change of clothes? I’ve told the chauffeur to drive us to a company house we keep available for visitors - and I’m sure there are some cold, real beers waiting in the fridge!”

Nowhere is far from anywhere in a town the size of Nykøbing Falster and the company BMW was soon turning into a road which was a pleasant mixture of semis and detached houses. Mike glanced up at the nameplate bolted high on the wall of the end house:  it read. Grønnegade.

”This is it!” Søren said as they pulled up outside number 44. Mike turned to him, rooted to his seat and with a dumbfounded expression on his face.

“44 Green Lane? You won’t believe this, Søren: that’s my address in Liverpool, too!” 

“I kid you not, Kathy! The only difference: in Denmark the house number follows the name of the street!”

”Dad, d’you think it could be a … a sign – or something?”

”Sign?” Tom scoffed “Sign you’re mental, Vikki! You fell in love with the ‘fairy castle’ (as you called it) soon as you saw the photo of a spiral staircase!”

”Enough!” Mike intervened, before the ‘three-years-older-than-you’ syndrome became a problem. It wasn’t particularly loud, nor was there a concealed “or else” but over the intervening miles it had exactly the right effect. Tom even had the grace to apologise to Vikki without being specifically reminded of his Big Bro obligations.

“Here’s the thing” Mike continued, in a calm ‘business’ voice few had ever managed to interrupt, “Yes, there are three bedrooms in both houses, but you can’t really compare them. I rattle round like a dry pea in a not-specially-big Danish house, and the laptop video doesn’t do the garden any favours – it’s massive!”

“How about coming over for a fortnight? I’m going to be working a lot of the time but we’ll be able to have some holiday time as well. I need some more time to work out the best way forward, and I miss you all, already!”

“Can we do that – in a company property?” Kathy asked. Mike nodded,

“At the moment Bjørnen are paying the lease on the house, as you’d expect. Søren says that it won’t be a problem because if (or when!) I accept the job, we’ll start paying rent and it’s actually an “expense” taken off the company books …”

By Friday, barely a week after Mike’s arrival, he was waiting with Søren at the end of Platform 1 of Nykøbing F’s railway station. The Hamburg Flyer, predictably, was precisely on time. Kathy Freeman and two excited children alighted with minimal hand baggage while two man-mountains in Bjørnen overalls retrieved half a dozen large suitcases from the porter supervising the luggage wagon.

The only real difference compared with Mike’s reception was the company limo, chosen to transport the extra luggage (including some much-needed changes of clothing for Mike).

Nowhere is very far from anywhere else in Nykøbing F. The journey to the company house was, if anything, shorter than the drive to the Brewery. Despite being relatively narrow, Gronnegade was comfortably wide enough for the limo to negotiate smoothly. Inevitably it attracted some attention from neighbours, who had been ‘alerted’ to Something Happening by the sudden appearance of a Welcome Committee of Bjørnen ladies bearing the traditional gifts of fresh cut flowers and homebaked treats. Vikki sped through the open door and began to rush up and down the modern steel spiral staircase, shrieking with delight. Tom ran into the garden, eyes as big as the fabled millstones as he surveyed the vastness. Including five mature and fully loaded plum trees against the rear wall and row after row of well-ordered fruit and vegetables occupying the full length of the garden but considerably less than half its width.

”Dad! I bet we could grow all our own food, just like that family on the telly? AND there’s room for me to practice my bowling …!” Tom was hopelessly addicted to cricket.

“I don’t even know if they play cricket in Denmark, son …”

Søren shook his head and grinned.

“As a matter of fact, Mike, the Bryggeri sponsors the local team ….!”

***

It was that impossible-to-reconstruct magical Scandinavian moment of not-quite-twilight (will it ever be night) when the cloudless summer sky is as dark as it’s likely to become. The ladies of the Welcome committee had organised all the washing up. Piii – yer-ne, they had insisted Kathy should practice calling them. She was relieved to discover they were calling themselves “The Girls”

Mike and Kathy were alone for possibly the first time that day, enjoying cups of well-brewed Danish coffee out in the garden. Mike put his arm round Kathy’s waist and drew breath to remark on the peaceful night.

The silence was shattered by a terrified, rising scream coming unquestionably from the back bedroom, where Vikki slept. Mike’s cup shattered on the path: in three strides he was at the rear door, flying up the stairwell four at a time. The scream continued: how long could a little girl scream without pausing for breath? Mike wondered. Tom’s bedroom door began to inch open …

“Stay!” Mike snarled, as if addressing a disobedient hound, Tom froze: he’d never seen his father come this close to losing his temper. Magically, Mike’s hand found the door latch: and Vikki’s door slammed back against the wall as he burst in. Vikki was upright in the middle of the room, mouth open, eyes closed, She fell silent as he scooped her tenderly into his arms.

“It’s alright, darling, I’m here! Nothing can hurt you …”   a succession of mumbled words and phrases until Vikki melted from a stiff skeleton to become a warm, living child.

“There was a man, Daddy,” she said. “I was tired after the party, but too excited to sleep. I turned on my bedside light and I saw him climb in through the window…!”

Vikki’s window was a large square shape, flush-fitted on the rear wall of the house. There was no balcony or rail anyone could cling on to.

“He didn’t seem to see me: he ran across the room without a sound, even though he was wearing big, heavy boots. He ran through the door …”

“Sweetheart, the door was closed when I …”

“No, Daddy, I mean it, he ran through the door: he didn’t open it!”.

“That’s right, Dad: I saw him, too!” Tom piped up, “He sort of … floated across the stairwell as if the spiral wasn’t there, and disappeared through the hall window ,,, and I was scared but I heard you running so I shut my door again.”

“Did you get a look at him, Tom? Can either of you describe him?”

Vikki shook her head: she seemed close to another bout of tears. Tom took a deep breath and closed his eyes, concentrating.

“Vikki mentioned boots. I thought he was wearing some sort of uniform. He was carrying something over one shoulder and he was wearing a … a funny-shaped hat, or helmet …”

Tom’s eyes were still closed: slowly, his hands drew a square-shaped box in the air, the shape which had given England’s enemies in the last war the unflattering nickname “squareheads”. though Mike was reasonably certain Tom wouldn’t have known this.

“Bedtime, both of you!” he insisted, then appeared to weaken:

“Tom, if you want you can take your sleeping bag and be Night Watch in Vikki’s room?”

Tom’s eyes lit up: he was bursting with pride as he ran to get his sleeping bag. Less than five minutes later, as Kathy opened two bottles of lemonade in the kitchen, deep rhythmic snores drifted down the stairwell.

“I tell you, Mike, if you want to know any history on the house, you’re asking the wrong person! You should really be talking to Claus, our cooper. He’s lived and worked in Nykøbing since the war, there’s no living person knows more about the town than him!”

“Polish – English – and a German mystery! I’ll need you with me to translate if I …”

“My pleasure, Mike! I’ve telephoned, he’s happy to meet us today …”

“I think I should say, ‘Tak for sidst’ Claus” Mike offered. He learned very quickly that “thank you for our last meeting” was the correct formal manner of greeting anyone. The sparkle in Claus’ aged eyes confirmed he’d earned approval from the Father of the Chapel

Claus led them to worn, comfortable garden furniture and gestured they sit. To save time, Søren summarised what had happened the previous evening. Claus listened in silence and nodded as the end of the tale while he filled his pipe.

“Because there is nobody else left, now, who might be affected, I can say this much. I … refused to make life ‘easy’ for the Germans when they came marching into Denmark. And you are right: Grønnegade 44 was used as their HQ, and many of their leaders were in and out, every day.”

“There were stories of a young soldier - nobody could confirm his name – who hid in a bedroom and tried to escape, run away, desert … choose your own word!  He was shot as he ran up the street: the Germans kept everything hidden, discreet. Does this sound a possible explanation?”

Claus reached into a cabinet next to his chair and produced three sparkling clean crystal glasses and an ancient leather sac. He poured from it into each glass.

“It may be a futile gesture, and far too late for the young man or his family, but at very least we can honour the unknown soldier himself, and hope his soul may find peace.”

Three glasses were raised and the home-burnt akvavit toast laid to rest the unquiet spirit. Mike was certain that mire than one Contract had just been sealed.

2733 words

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