Her head heavy with thoughts, Lampie walks back to the kitchen, with the dress chafing her legs. She does not think she has ever disliked anything quite so much as the schoolteacher and her gift. What she really wants to do now is to run upstairs. She wants to look out the window, whether that boy likes it or not. But first she has to face Martha. Who must be angry with her.
Martha is sitting at the dirty kitchen table with her coffee. When she sees Lampie, she shakes her head, but then she starts to laugh. Really loud.
“My goodness, child, what an awful dress that is. You look like a nun. Please, just take the thing off!”
She throws Lampie’s old dress to her. “Another couple of evenings and you’ll have a new one from me. I’m sure madam will have all kinds of comments to make, but let her.”
Relieved, Lampie drops the heavy dark dress onto the floor and pulls her dirty, soft, old one back over her head. Then she looks at Martha.
“I wasn’t really trying to run away,” she says shyly. “Or, well, um… I don’t know, it was all suddenly so… I’m sorry.”
“No need.” Martha pushes a cup over to her and pours some milk into it. “I’d leave too if I could. But that’s not an option.”
“Isn’t it?” asks Lampie.
“With Lenny? Where would we go?” She looks at the girl. “Is it so bad upstairs? Does he?… What does he do?”
“Oh, nothing,” says Lampie. “It’s actually fine. Mostly.”
“What if I, um… took a turn going up there now and then?”
“No need.” Lampie thinks it is kind of Martha to offer though. She knows just how much the housekeeper does not want to go upstairs.
“Fine. Would you just go and call Lenny?” says Martha. “He’s been shaking in the pantry for an hour.”
Lampie opens the door and the dogs storm in, barking, with a scared-looking Lenny peering after them.
“She’s gone now, Lenny. You can come on in.” The boy lumbers into the room, nervously sits down at the table and picks up his scissors.
“I’m going to pop upstairs,” says Lampie when they have finished eating.
“What? Now?” asks Martha.
“Yes,” says Lampie. “Just for a minute.”
She thunders up the stairs, barely even knocks on the door and doesn’t wait for an answer before running into the room, heading straight behind the curtain and looking out.
It is twilight, and the darkness is slowly creeping up out of the sea. The mouth of the night – that is what her mother always used to call it. As she is looking, there, in the distance, a light goes on. It grows brighter and slowly starts to turn. That is where he is, she knows that now. He is not allowed to leave. He might not have enough food and he certainly does not have anything to drink. Perhaps he is cursing everyone, her most of all, but that light – it is her father. He was the one who lit it.
“What are you doing?” The voice that comes from under the bed is grumpy and sleepy, as if she has just woken him up. “I told you that you’re not allowed to look out of that window. But you’re still doing it anyway. And where were you today? I haven’t had my bath. Don’t you know what happens if I don’t—”
“Tomorrow,” says Lampie. She stays behind the curtain for a little longer, watching. “First thing tomorrow morning. I promise.”
“But it always has to be—”
“And do you know something, Fish?”
“Edward.”
“Do you know what you’re going to do after that?”
“What?”
Lampie jumps off the window sill. There he is, lying on the floor, half under the bed, the thin white little creature with the head that is too big. She can’t help but smile.
“What?” he says again, angrily.
“You’re going to teach me how to read.” She nods because she is suddenly absolutely certain about it. “How to read and write.”