It is as if no time has passed at all: Lampie is once again walking along the path between the hedges, with Miss Amalia’s cool hand on the back of her neck. There they are again, together on the doorstep of the Black House and, again, there is the sound of barking and shouting from the corridor, before footsteps approach the door and a surprised Martha, her hair oddly flattened from her afternoon nap, opens up. Lampie can see that she is thinking the same thing too: again?
“You obviously have absolutely no idea,” Miss Amalia says, immediately launching into a lecture, “what is going on behind your back.” She pushes Lampie past Martha and into the house.
“I was asleep,” says Martha. “I have a nap at around this time every afternoon.”
“As Emilia clearly knows very well. Is this the kitchen? Good.”
Martha follows the two of them. “What is going on? Lampie?”
Lampie suddenly feels ashamed. She likes Martha. She should just have stayed here.
“Emilia was attempting to break out,” declares Miss Amalia. “At least I assume it was not her Wednesday afternoon off. And she clearly had not finished her work.” She looks around the kitchen, where the dishes are still unwashed, the table has not yet been cleared, and the smell of wet dog fills the air.
Martha picks up a cup, but then does nothing with it. “If she leaves, she leaves,” she says. “This house is not a prison.”
“Maybe not…” says Miss Amalia. “But you are responsible for this girl. I shall have to report this, you know.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, really. I’m afraid, when the time comes, I shall also have to inform the admiral himself.”
“Fine. Go ahead.”
Lampie tries to catch Martha’s eye and to signal some sort of “I’m sorry”, but Martha is not looking at her.
“And now I’ll tell you what I actually came here for…” Miss Amalia slides a plate and some cups aside and places a brown parcel on the table. “I should just take them away with me, Emilia, because you don’t deserve them. But I’m not that kind of woman. Now go on – open it up!”
When Lampie does not move, Miss Amalia tears off the paper herself. Inside the parcel, Lampie sees a pile of dark-brown checked material. With white collars and buttons.
Martha looks furious. “Oh, there’s no need. Really. I’d already made a start on something myself.”
Miss Amalia takes a dress from the pile and holds it up to Lampie’s shoulders. It looks far too big.
“We can all make a start,” she says, her smile remaining perfectly friendly. “But what counts in life is actually finishing, is it not?”
Lampie had noticed that Martha was sewing something in the evenings, but she did not know that it was for her. How kind! Lampie has never had a new dress before. But now she has a whole stack of them. She strokes the dark-brown fabric, which is rather itchy.
Miss Amalia pushes her hand away. “Don’t make them all dirty. Come on, off with that dress.” Her smile grows even wider. “We’re all girls together. I’m sure the housekeeper won’t mind.”
Martha does not smile back.
Miss Amalia hangs Lampie’s dress, with the blood and rust stains, over the back of a chair and pulls a new one over her head. The dress is hard and stiff. Lampie is drowning in the dark material.
Martha takes hold of one of the sleeves, which is so long that it is dangling inches beneath her hand, and grins. “She could fit into this twice over.”
“Nonsense.” Miss Amalia takes the other sleeve and folds the cuff over. “Anyway, a girl of her age will grow into it in no time at all. At least, she will if she’s being fed properly.”
“You have no need to worry about that,” says Martha, pulling the sleeve even longer. “She’s just small for her age.”
“She certainly is.”
Lampie looks left and right at the two women, who are both holding a sleeve of her dress and looking at her as if she is a calf at the market.
“I can still picture her in the hallway when we first came.” Miss Amalia suddenly laughs. “She was so terrified of the monster!”
Lampie gasps and feels Martha stiffen beside her.
“So how did that turn out, Emilia?”
“Um…” mumbles Lampie. “Well…”
Martha lets go of the sleeve and turns to the sink.
Miss Amalia straightens the dress. It almost reaches Lampie’s ankles. “Very nice, even though I do say so myself. Well? There aren’t any monsters, are there? Admit it.”
“I, um…” begins Lampie.
Martha slams the kettle onto the stove. “Coffee. I’m going to make coffee.”
“Isn’t that a job for Emilia?”
“I make my own coffee,” says Martha, with her back towards the woman. “Lampie, show the lady out, will you?”
“So kind of you to offer,” says Miss Amalia. “But I never drink coffee.” She takes one last look around the messy kitchen. “So now you have no need for concern about Emilia’s clothing. Which will give you more time for… other necessary tasks. I’ll be sure to visit again. Good day to you.”
Martha mutters something that does not sound very much like “good day” at all.
Lampie realizes that walking is not very easy in her new dress. The heavy fabric wraps around her legs and the sleeves have slipped back down and are swishing to and fro as she walks.
Halfway down the corridor, Miss Amalia stops.
“However…” she says, “in spite of…” She waves her hand around, at the cracked tiles and the cobwebs in the corners. “I still think I’ve found a good place for you. Of course you were only at school for a very short time. But long enough to see that it wasn’t really for you, hm? Eh? Writing. Reading.”
“Oh,” says Lampie. “But that was because… I had to leave because my mother…”
“Learning is not for every child. That is just the way of the world.”
Lampie stands a little straighter. “But someone in the house wants to teach me how to do all that. How to read and write, and everything.” It popped out before she even realized, and she really hopes Miss Amalia is not going to say, “Oh, yes? And who might that be?”
But Miss Amalia’s laughter fills the entire corridor. “Oh, Emilia! Don’t get ideas above your station! It’ll only end in disappointment.” Then she turns on her heels and walks to the front door.
Lampie is so angry that she can see spots before her eyes. She wants to run down the long corridor and kick the schoolteacher’s legs, as hard as she can, but it is as if the stiff, stifling dress is holding her back. It probably would not be a good idea anyway. So she stays where she is and just glares at the tall woman, who by now is almost at the front door, still shaking her head at the girl’s impertinence – and then Lampie remembers something. Something much more important.
“Wait!” As quickly as she can in her dark-brown straitjacket, she runs after Miss Amalia. “My father!” she calls. “How is?… Where is?… Do you know how my father is?” Now she could almost kick herself. That was the first thing she had wanted to ask. The only thing.
Miss Amalia pauses on the doormat. “Oh,” she says. “Really? You want me to tell you that now?”
“Yes,” pants Lampie. “Yes, I do.”