ROCK

And, as always, the next day the sun rises again. The water lies in the bay, perfectly still, as if slightly ashamed.

Waves? Us? No, of course not.

Storm? whispers the wind terribly quietly. No, no, that wasn’t me. It brushes Lampie’s face, like a hand stroking her cheek.

Mother? She is confused for a moment. Mother? Am I dead?

In her head she hears her mother laughing softly. No, my sweet child. You’re not dead.

Oh. Lampie is almost sad. Really?

Really. It’s not your time yet. Don’t you hear the seagulls? Don’t you smell the water? You’re still here.

Lampie smells the salty water and hears the cries of the gulls. She feels the little stones sticking into her back and feels how wet her dress is. She opens her eyes a little and, through her lashes, she sees the lighthouse, high against the clouds. She does not know how she got here, but she remembers everything else.

I was too late, Mother.

Yes, my sweet child. You were too late.

Is Father really angry?

Yes, he’s really angry.

With me.

Yes, with you too. And me. And himself.

But there was nothing I could do about it! Lampie yells at the clouds. I tried so, so hard. I really did!

I know you did, her mother says. You were very brave.

But not brave enough.

Exactly brave enough. Only my child could be that brave. Come on now, go inside. You’ll get poorly in those wet clothes.

Yes, poorly, says Lampie. She closes her eyes again, just for a moment. Very sick and then dead and then I’ll be with you.

She sees her mother shaking her head. That’s not what’s going to happen. On your feet, my sweet child.

 

Lampie sighs and scrambles to her feet. She is stiff and cold and she can feel bruises all over. She climbs onto the doorstep and opens the door.

“Father?” The room is dark and the floor is scattered with the contents of cupboards and drawers. The stove door is open and her father’s chair is lying on its back among the socks, the peas, the ash. She does not see her father though, just crumpled sheets in the bed.

She walks to the stairs, crunching and slipping. “Father? Are you there?”

Has he climbed all the way up the stairs? With his leg?

*

At the top, Augustus is looking out to sea, with his hands on the balustrade, which is red from the rust and white from the seagulls’ droppings. Lampie walks over to stand beside him. Neither of them speaks; the mild breeze blows through their hair.

Down below, leaning on the rock in the middle of the bay, there is a ship. It is clinging to the rock like a sick child to its mother. The bow is splintered, the masts are broken and pointing in all directions. The sails hang limply, flapping in the wind. Planks and barrels and pieces of ship are floating all around. From the other side, from the harbour, comes the sound of shouting, and men in small boats are sailing back and forth.

Lampie feels herself turning ice cold. She bites her lip. This is her fault. This happened because of her.

 

She looks up at her father, at his greying red hair blowing in the wind, at the stubble on his chin. His eyes, too, are red-rimmed. Has he been awake all night? She tries to sniff his breath without him noticing, but all she can smell is salt and rust. He is furious with her, and she can understand why. Maybe he will never say another word to her, not for the rest of his life.

But then Augustus speaks.

“Listen to me,” he says. His voice sounds creaky, as if he has not spoken for a very long time. “And remember this well. I was up all night, repairing the lens. The mechanism, I mean.”

“Why? Was it broken?” asks Lampie. “There was nothing wrong with it yesterday.”

Her father grabs her arm and squeezes, hard. “There’s no need to go and look!” he says. “Just listen. Listen and repeat after me. My father…”

“Ow… um… my father,” says Lampie.

“Was up all night…”

“Was up all night…”

“Repairing the lens.”

“Repairing the lens. And who do I have to say that to?”

“To anyone who asks. And I didn’t get it fixed until this morning, but by then it was too late.”

“Oh, I see,” says Lampie. “But…”

“Repeat the words.”

“And you didn’t get it fixed, um… until this morning, and…”

“But by then it was too late.”

“But by then it was too late. But that’s not true. It wasn’t broken, so that’s lying, isn’t it? And… Ow!”

Her father glowers at her. “So what do you want me to say? That my child, this child here, forgot to fetch the matches, so all this is her fault?”

“No,” squeaks Lampie.

“Well, then. So you know what you need to say, don’t you?”

Lampie nods and her father lets go of her arm. “I, um…” she says. “So should I say that I helped and, um… passed you the screwdrivers and pliers and whatnot?”

“Whatever you like,” says Augustus. “Suit yourself.”

“Oh, and we can make our hands black, so that it’ll look like we…”

Her father grabs her shoulder and gives her a good shake. “This is not a joke!”

“I didn’t say it was,” whispers Lampie. She looks at her hands on the railing, at the shattered ship. Did any sailors drown?

“Well, can you remember that?”

“Yes, Father.”

“So repeat the words one more time.”

“Um… my father, er… worked all night to repair the light, um, the lens, because it was broken and it wasn’t fixed until, um…”

“This morning.”

“This morning. But by then it was too late.”

“Right, and that’s what we have to say.”

Her father’s hand is still gripping her shoulder; it hurts a bit, but she does not mention it. She hopes this is his way of saying that he is glad she did not drown and that she is safely home again. And that it does not matter if she forgets something now and then. Everyone forgets things sometimes, eh? Including him. And that it is not her fault.

And maybe Augustus really does want to say all that.

But he remains silent.