Lampie looks around the kitchen. It is big and dark and really quite dirty. She found it by coming through the only door that was a little bit open.
No one is here, no monster, no Martha, no one at all. There is a fire giving off a little warmth, and the ceiling is low, with rough black beams. She can see a lot of dishes that need washing, on the table, on the draining board, even piled up on the floor. She could wash them and tidy up. That is the idea, isn’t it? Should she just begin? Or should she wait? The sooner she starts, the sooner the seven years will be over.
She waits a while, standing first on one leg, and then on the other. Nothing happens. No one comes.
Lampie puts her pillowcase on a chair, picks up a cup from the table and walks over to the sink. Her eyes are already looking for a tap, a kettle, a bucket, when behind her the floor creaks and Martha comes in. They both jump, and Lampie drops the cup. The handle breaks off and the rest rolls across the room, stopping at Martha’s feet.
“Oh, oh, I’m so sorry!” Lampie bites her knuckle. It is as if she can hear Miss Amalia complaining away: What a terrible impression you must be making! “I, I just wanted to do the washing-up and…”
The woman looks at Lampie as if she had completely forgotten about her.
Martha has, in fact, done exactly that. She paces up and down, muttering away to herself. There is suddenly a child in her kitchen. As if today hadn’t brought enough trouble. A night of howls, burnt food, no one daring to go into the room upstairs. Including Martha herself, now that Joseph is no longer here. What on earth is she going to do without him? And now there is a child, this pale child with her black-and-blue cheek and her pillowcase.
“Shall I wash up, miss?” she asks. The very thought of it!
“This is not a good time! I’ll explain everything to you, but not now. Not this afternoon. This afternoon we have to… We have to…” Martha wants to sit down, but she doesn’t do that, and maybe she’d like to cry too, but she doesn’t do that either. She would rather be angry.
“Yes, child? Why are you still standing here? Get out of my kitchen. Go to your room. Go on!” She gives Lampie a push towards the door.
“I don’t know where my room is, Mrs… Um…”
“Martha! Martha’s my name!”
“Martha.”
“Oh… no. Of course you don’t.” Martha points angrily at the door. “Up the stairs, second door on the left, no, the third, take that one, the bed’s made up. Now, off with you. We have to… I need to get changed. Why are you still standing there?”
The long wooden staircase creaks, and so does the third door on the left. Lampie stands in her room and looks all around. It’s chilly and it smells a bit like mould. There is a chair, a table, a wardrobe.
So this is where she has to live. All on her own. For seven years. She shakes her head. She can think the thought, but she still does not understand it.
A window without a curtain looks out over the garden. She sees a large overgrown flight of steps and, beyond that, an explosion of hedges, bushes and gnarled trees, stretching their branches in every direction. Lampie can only make out a little bit of the sky. No distance, no sea. It starts raining, gently at first and then harder.
But there is also a bed, with a bedstead of gleaming copper and a soft white bedspread. So much softer and whiter than at home. Lampie runs her hand over it and turns back the cover. For the first time since she arrived, she smiles a little. So clean! Spotless!
“I’ll wash my feet,” she whispers to the bed. “So that I won’t get you all dirty.”
When she hears some noise outside, Lampie runs to the window. Resting her elbows on the window ledge, she looks down. Two men are leaving the building, carrying a black coffin. A small thin one in a big coat is carrying the front end: the man who just opened the gate. The back end is carried by a big, burly boy. The rain rattles on the coffin; the two men are soon soaked through.
Then Martha comes outside too. She has put up an umbrella and wrapped herself in a black scarf. She is gesturing angrily at the two men. Go on! Get moving! Off you go!
The little procession sets off, across the terrace and down the steps. The difference in their heights means that the men have to carry the coffin at an angle. Martha hobbles after them, trying to keep the umbrella over the head of the boy at the back, but her arm is far too short.
The other man almost drops the coffin and Lampie hears Martha shriek: “You idiot! Be careful!”
As she runs to the front of the coffin to help them to carry it, she drops her umbrella into the grass and the boy steps on it. Slowly plodding, the three of them disappear behind a hedge.
Lampie waits, but they do not return. The umbrella is still lying there in the grass. It gets darker and darker, and finally night falls.
She does not know how they light the lamps here. She cannot see any matches. The house is absolutely silent.
No one brings her anything to eat.